February’s first weekend produced a flurry of gestures that were quickly read as progress. A deeply flawed amnesty law was approved in the first round without even being seen, high-profile prisoners were released after months of disappearance, and the tone of official politics softened, at least on the surface. What emerged, however, was not a clearer transition but a clearer struggle over authorship, over who gets to define what this process is, and what it is allowed to become.
What the weekend revealed is that Venezuela’s transition is not being negotiated in a single place or under a single logic. It is being contested simultaneously across different arenas, each operating on its own incentives, timelines, and definitions of success.
The least visible of these battles is unfolding inside the governing coalition itself. Here, the question is not democracy versus repression but something more technical, and more cynical, how much openness can be performed without relinquishing control over coercion, adjudication, and resources.
Seen from this angle, the weekend’s choreography makes sense. Political prisoners were not simply released, their freedom was folded into a legislative ritual authored by the same political actors responsible for their detention, complete with announced deadlines, speeches heavy with the language of forgiveness, and even calls for applause. This was not the state binding itself, but an attempt to convert discretion into legitimacy.
Political prisoners in Venezuela could have been freed at any moment by executive decision. By embedding their release in a process the government controls, the regime preserved its core advantage, the ability to decide not just when to give, but what the giving means. The Guanipa episode made that logic explicit. A release could function as a signal, and its reversal or legal redefinition could function as discipline. Freedom, in this model, is not a right restored but a condition granted. Arbitrariness is not eliminated, it is rebranded.
If political prisoners are released into silence, surveillance, or renewed legal jeopardy, as we have already seen, then the transition exists largely on paper.
The later revelation that the families Jorge Rodríguez met outside Zona 7 were staged only reinforces the point. Real families introduce uncertainty, anger, memory, demands that do not respect sequencing. Staged ones deliver predictability and allow reconciliation to be performed rather than negotiated. That choice suggests a lack of confidence. A government secure in its legitimacy would not need to simulate social consent at the moment consent matters most.
A second battle is unfolding far from Caracas, inside Washington. It is not a fight over tactics so much as over objectives.
Recent reporting and congressional testimony suggest growing tension over what the Venezuela file is supposed to deliver. Is the goal stabilization, the appearance of calm streets, predictable governance, reduced migration pressure, reopened markets, or is it a democratic transition, with all the uncertainty and volatility that implies.
Those two goals are often rhetorically conflated. In practice, they can diverge.
Secretary of State Marco Rubio’s testimony is revealing here. By emphasizing that the United States will pay attention not only to the release of political prisoners but to how they are treated after, whether they return to political life, whether they speak freely, whether they are harassed or re-detained, Rubio shifted the metric from gestures to behavior over time. That distinction matters. Releasing prisoners is a signal, allowing them to act politically afterwards is a concession.
The regime’s strategy appears aimed at satisfying the former while containing the latter. Speed becomes an asset. If the appearance of a transition advances quickly enough, attention fades, diplomatic costs accumulate, and renewed pressure begins to look disruptive rather than principled.
But stabilization without a genuine transfer of political authority is a fragile equilibrium. It depends on discretionary power remaining benevolent, conditional freedoms remaining honored, and social legitimacy remaining dormant. The events of this weekend, reversible releases, staged consent, selective recognition, suggest none of those conditions can be safely assumed.
This is where the US debate becomes consequential. A Venezuela that is calmer but still politically closed begins to resemble not a democratic transition but a familiar Pinochet-style authoritarian compromise, technocratic opening, crony capitalism, and political repression wrapped in legal form. Whether that outcome is treated as acceptable stabilization or failed transition remains an open question in Washington.
A transition conducted under regime terms prioritizes closure over accountability and order over pluralism. One conducted under society’s terms is slower, messier, and harder to manage, but it is also the only path to durable stability.
The third battle is the most visible and the most familiar. It is the struggle inside Venezuela itself over whether this moment produces a real political opening or merely a rearrangement of control.
Here, the opposition’s internal divide matters. One faction, already seated in the National Assembly, is pursuing legitimacy from the top down. Its wager is that institutional participation, procedural wins, and international recognition will eventually cascade downward to society.
Another current rests on the opposite theory, that legitimacy flows from society upward, and that institutions rebuilt without social consent remain hollow. It is no accident that this current is not attacked head-on but bracketed out of the official narrative. It is easier to exclude than to incorporate.
The treatment of released prisoners will be the clearest test of which logic prevails. If those freed are able to speak, organize, and contest power without fear, then something real is shifting. If they are released into silence, surveillance, or renewed legal jeopardy, as we have already seen, then the transition exists largely on paper.
What the February weekend demonstrated is not that Venezuela is transitioning, but that the fight over who gets to define that transition has intensified.
Inside chavismo, the battle is over how much can be conceded without surrender. In Washington, it is over whether stability is an acceptable substitute for democracy. Inside Venezuela, it is over whether political life will be genuinely reopened or carefully contained.
These battles are related, but they are not the same. They may not even resolve on the same timeline.
A transition conducted under regime terms prioritizes closure over accountability and order over pluralism. One conducted under society’s terms is slower, messier, and harder to manage, but it is also the only path to durable stability. The events of this weekend, far from settling that question, have made it unavoidable.