maria

On Sunday night, tens of thousands of Hungarians packed the banks of the Danube waving flags, crying of joy, popping bottles. Celebrating something that political analysts had spent years telling them was almost impossible: the electoral defeat of Viktor Orbán, the autocrat whose ploys and manipulations made him a uniquely disturbing force in the European Union. After 16 years in power, Hungary’s self-proclaimed architect of “illiberal democracy” conceded defeat within hours of the polls closing.

His rival, Péter Magyar (the equivalent of Pedro Veneco), had won 137 seats in a 199-seat parliament, a two-thirds supermajority that gave him not just a government, but the ability to rewrite the very constitution Orbán had rigged to protect himself. This appears to be the plan.

Venezuelans watching from afar could be forgiven for feeling two things at once: genuine joy, and a familiar, creeping doubt. 

Sure, but that’s Hungary.

The doubt is understandable. It’s also, at this particular moment in Venezuelan history, worth interrogating.

To understand whether Hungary provides a useful lesson, we need to venture farther than our diasporic links, like La Danubio, Catherine Fulop and Shirley Varnagy. You first need a category distinction that political scientists call the difference between a closed authoritarian regime and a competitive one. A closed autocracy doesn’t bother with the pretense of real elections. Or when it does, it simply invents the results. Especially after July 2024, Venezuela had become exactly this: we all know what happened. Politically, there was no game to play unless you played by the regime’s rules. The game was a charade. 

Orbán’s Hungary was something different, more insidious. Similar to what Chávez did to the institutions in the 2000s, while using hyper-ideological and reactionary rhetoric. The European Parliament had classified it as a “hybrid regime of electoral autocracy.” Orbán bent every institution he could reach: the judiciary, the media, the electoral rules themselves.

The scene on the Danube on Sunday night was a piece of great news in a political era that doesn’t offer many of them. The scenes in Budapest matter to us. But it shouldn’t be mistaken for a mirror.

He gerrymandered the system to favor the largest single party, confident that party would always be his. But he never quite crossed the line into fabricating vote counts, à la Maduro or Lukashenko. The game was still real, even if the playing field was tilted.

That distinction is now relevant because Venezuela’s political reality has shifted in ways that were unimaginable five months ago. The current regime Delcy Rodríguez leads is not identical to that of 2024 and 2025. Under US pressure, a few hundred political prisoners have been released and an amnesty law was approved in February. albeit with mixed results (more than 500 political prisoners are still behind bars, and amnesty has been formally denied to high-profile politicians and NGO leaders like Javier Tarazona). Overall, we see gestures that try to transmit magnanimity, but are moves meant to look like compliance while chavismo waits for Washington’s attention to wander.

But here’s the thing: even performative openings create real cracks, and the cracks are showing. In February alone, Venezuela has recorded dozens of protests, an exponential increase compared to the same month in 2025. Workers and students have taken to the streets of Caracas four times this year demanding salary increases, openly calling on the Rodríguez siblings to answer for their pleas. Last weekend in Valencia, in a football game between Carabobo and Universidad Central (a game which has enough backdrop to make a book about it), football fans directed chants against the son of Alexander Granko Arteaga (who plays for UCV): “¡Dónde están que no se ven, los enchufados de la UCV,” loud enough so it could be hear transmission (that would translate roughly to “nowhere to be seen, the UCV cronies are nowhere to be seen”). In 2025, that chant would have landed them in jail. That was exactly the outcome in the last domestic football final.

Waiting for the opportunity

Venezuela is still not a democracy. But the differences remain significant: a regime slowly, reluctantly slipping out of its authoritarian fortress, coming to terms with the fact that it will eventually have to face a reckoning at the ballot box. That’s what happened to Orbán. He controlled the courts, the media, the electoral geometry, and still got swept out because of the accumulated weight of economic failure, corruption, and sheer exhaustion that eventually overwhelmed the machinery he had built.

The lesson is not that rigged systems are beatable through optimism. It is that rigged systems have structural limits, and that opposition alliances which survive long enough, and build broad enough coalitions, tend to be standing when those limits are reached. In our case, we’ve seen all possible iterations of what an opposition can be. In 2024, the Maria Corina-led movement became the most formidable electoral force the country has seen in a while. That should have been our Orbán down moment. Nonetheless, the inertia we have seen since the beginning of the year is too good to let it slip away.

Political scientist Yascha Mounk, writing about Magyar’s victory, made an interesting observation that some might believe applies to Venezuelan democratic forces: the Hungarian opposition ousted Orbán on its fourth try, after years of humiliation, internal divisions and strategic errors. Patience, he argues, is its own form of political discipline.

This is Mounk’s post-populist dilemma, live, and a miniature preview of what a potential democratic government in Caracas would have in front of itself.

Again, the Venezuelan opposition doesn’t need that lesson. It already learned it, the hard way, and on a harder playing field. In 2015, it won a supermajority in the Asamblea and watched its powers get neutered one by one. In July 2024, it beat Maduro overwhelmingly and proved its victory with the official tally sheets. Edmundo González Urrutia did not become president because the movement backing him lacked organization, or coalition-building, or the kind of credible leadership that Magyar built from scratch since leaving Orban’s party two years ago. González Urrutia failed to take power because the regime decided that electoral results were optional.

The question was never whether the Venezuelan opposition could win an election. They already did in a way that should clarify the terrain for future opportunities. The actas and the popular support are powerful symbols that should endure. The question is whether they can repeat that performance, seizing the minimal opening they have in front of them whatever the broader circumstances. Then yes, the patience Mounk mentions is relevant.

The post-autocracy trap

Mounk is right to poop the party a little bit with a warning he calls the “post-populist dilemma.” Even with his supermajority, Magyar inherits a State that Orbán hollowed out and refilled with loyalists. He has two options: either fire them and bring about an anti-Fidesz purge; or leave them in place and be sabotaged from within. In his first week in power, Magyar is showing he wants to go for the first option. He has already called for the resignation of several key ministers of the Orban regime.

Venezuela would face this dilemma on steroids. Chavismo has had 27 years to embed itself across nearly everything. Rodríguez herself operates within a questionable agency on security forces (a certain someone remains interior minister and vice president for security). Any future Venezuelan government elected under competitive conditions would inherit an institutional landscape far more captured and complex than anything Magyar faces in Budapest.

This is not a reason for despair, but it does require confronting an uncomfortable asymmetry. When Magyar navigated Hungary’s post-populist transition, he did so with the EU at his back, a bloc that had spent years dangling billions in frozen funds as an incentive for democratic reform, and whose membership gave Hungarian voters a concrete, tangible alternative to Orbán’s model. Venezuela’s external anchor is the Trump administration, which has been explicit about its priorities: oil first, stability second, elections somewhere further down the list. Rubio’s three-phase roadmap (stabilization, economic recovery, reconciliation and transition) is not an explicit democratic transition plan. It is a business plan with democracy on the side.

Preparation, then, means the opposition must be the one holding the democratic line demanding verifiable electoral conditions, refusing to let institutional reform become a performance to please DC, and cementing a coalition broad enough that can translate the popular inertia and mood towards a margin so big it can’t be tweaked. The EU didn’t save Hungary. Hungarians did. The lesson travels.

Magyar won because Hungarians were organized, patient and ready when the moment arrived. Venezuelans have already proven they can do the same.

Magyar isn’t waiting. Within 72 hours of his victory, he demanded that Hungary’s president resign immediately, and sent the same message to the heads of the Supreme Court, the Constitutional Court, the State Audit Office and the media authority calling them “puppets who have been in power for the past 16 years.” On Wednesday morning, in his first radio interview in over a year and a half, he told the State broadcaster its news operation would be shut down and relaunched as a true public service. Some are already calling it a witch hunt. Others call it the bare minimum required to transform the country.

This is Mounk’s post-populist dilemma, live, and a miniature preview of what a potential democratic government in Caracas would have in front of itself. If Magyar, armed with a two-thirds supermajority and the EU at his back, is already navigating accusations of overreach on day three, imagine what a Venezuelan opposition government would face trying to dismantle 27 years of institutional occupation in the police, intelligence agencies, the military, the public media, the judiciary. The task ahead is massive, and solving the dilemma probably requires an orderly phase-out agreed before the next presidential vote.

The scene on the Danube on Sunday night was a piece of great news in a political era that doesn’t offer many of them. The scenes in Budapest matter to us. But it shouldn’t be mistaken for a mirror.

Venezuela is not Hungary. Delcy is not Orbán, she is arguably more pragmatic, but also more constrained. Orbán was a standalone autocrat who built his system around his own political survival. Rodríguez governs by a permanent balancing act: between Washington’s demands, the military high command, the hardline faction and other peripheral actors. The competitive opening, if it comes, will be narrower, more fragile and more dangerous than anything Magyar navigated.

These are reasons to take the Hungarian lesson seriously without taking it literally. Magyar won because Hungarians were organized, patient and ready when the moment arrived. Venezuelans have already proven they can do the same. The question now is simpler, and harder: when the moment comes again, can the popular will (and not just the results) be allowed to stand?

There is a familiar critique of María Corina Machado. That she is too rigid, not particularly interested in adjusting to the diplomatic realities surrounding Venezuela’s political crisis, and not especially inclined toward compromise.

The argument is straightforward. Moments like this are supposed to require flexibility, negotiation, and a willingness to adapt. From that perspective, her style can seem poorly suited to the situation.

But that reading is at best incomplete. It assumes a level of intransigence that is not always reflected in how she has actually operated, particularly in her dealings with international actors. More importantly, it assumes that Venezuela is going through a conventional political transition, one where the main challenge is to manage an orderly redistribution of power.

That is not quite what is happening.

Because in deeper national crises, the issue is not only how power changes hands, but whether the country still sees itself as a functioning political community. And in those moments, the tension is not simply between rigidity and pragmatism, but between adaptation and the risk of political dilution.

This is not a new tension. During World War II, Charles de Gaulle was widely seen by his allies as arrogant, inflexible, and almost impossible to work with. Franklin D. Roosevelt dismissed him as a prima donna who “thinks he is France.” Winston Churchill, more begrudgingly, called him “the heaviest cross I have to bear,” and both struggled with what they saw as his refusal to behave like the leader of a defeated country.

Preserving the idea of France as a nation, even in defeat, required a certain political stubbornness, one that inevitably generated friction with allies focused on managing the war.

Between them, Churchill and FDR sketched a portrait of a man too rigid, too proud, too self-appointed to be useful, and yet too symbolically indispensable to ignore.

De Gaulle, after all, had no real army at the outset, no territory, and no state apparatus behind him. Yet he insisted on speaking, and acting, as if France still existed as a sovereign political force.

From the outside, that posture often looked unreasonable, even counterproductive. From the French perspective, it was something else. De Gaulle understood that if the leader who claimed to represent France began to behave primarily as a dependent actor, the country itself risked being seen that way. Preserving the idea of France as a nation, even in defeat, required a certain political stubbornness, one that inevitably generated friction with allies focused on managing the war. At the same time, De Gaulle was careful to express gratitude for the support France depended on, even as he resisted being defined by it. The challenge was not to reject alliances, but to avoid being politically reduced by them. It was precisely that balance, difficult and often uncomfortable, that later allowed him to reappear not just as a political figure, but as the embodiment of France’s return.

There is a long tradition in political history of what the French call l’homme providentiel, the idea that, in moments of acute national crisis, certain figures come to embody more than a political program. They are read, sometimes reluctantly, as necessary to the resolution of the crisis itself. Charles de Gaulle was often described in those terms, not because he sought to cultivate that image, but because the collapse of the French state created a vacuum that only a figure with that kind of symbolic authority could fill.

In a very different context, María Corina Machado’s role in this most recent chapter of Venezuela’s history has taken on a similar tone. Not as a conventional political leader, but as a figure onto whom broader expectations about national recovery have been projected. That does not resolve the practical challenges of the moment, but it does complicate the assumption that she can simply be treated as another actor within the process.

More recently, Volodymyr Zelenskyy has faced a similar tension. Ukraine’s survival depends heavily on Western support, particularly from the United States, yet his relationship with Washington, especially under Donald Trump, has often been marked by visible strain. At times, Zelensky has had to absorb public criticism, adjust his tone, and even appear deferential in ways that, from the outside, can look uncomfortable. But that is only part of the picture. He has also been careful to consistently express gratitude for American support, acknowledging that it has been essential in sustaining Ukraine’s defense, even as he continues to press for more assistance and assert Ukraine’s strategic value. The result is not a simple posture of defiance or submission, but something more complex. A constant negotiation between dependence and dignity.

Machado is operating within that same tension. Venezuela’s political crisis is often framed as a negotiation problem, one that can be managed through calibrated concessions, international mediation, and gradual normalization. But that framing misses something more fundamental. For a large part of the country, the issue is not simply how power is redistributed, but whether the outcome reflects the democratic mandate that has already been expressed. In that context, a leadership style that appears inflexible from the outside may in fact be responding to a different constraint altogether, the need to sustain the idea that Venezuela has not accepted its political condition as final.

Political processes can be negotiated, structured, and even externally supported, but they cannot fully stabilize without a sense that they reflect the will of the society they claim to reorder.

If there is a lesson in De Gaulle’s trajectory, it is not simply that difficult leaders can prove indispensable, but that political arrangements built around figures who lack legitimacy tend to remain fragile. Over time, systems that attempt to bypass the actors who embody a country’s political mandate often find themselves circling back to them, not out of preference, but out of necessity.

Something of that dynamic is beginning to surface in Venezuela. The events of early January created a sense, however fleeting, that a political opening might finally take shape. That expectation has not materialized in a way that is broadly felt, and the gap between anticipation and outcome is beginning to generate visible frustration. What is emerging instead is a more ambiguous configuration, a transition that gestures toward change without fully convincing that it has arrived.

In that context, the question is not whether María Corina Machado is a comfortable actor within the process, but whether a process that unfolds without her can secure broad social buy-in. The instinct to view her primarily as a destabilizing force risks missing a more basic point. In moments like this, the leaders who carry political legitimacy are often the ones systems struggle to accommodate, even as they become increasingly difficult to exclude. Winston Churchill, who had once found De Gaulle exasperating, would later acknowledge as much: “Here was a man who, though not elected, though not even accepted by all Frenchmen, nevertheless represented France… He was the spirit of France.”

That may be the uncomfortable reality of moments like this. Political processes can be negotiated, structured, and even externally supported, but they cannot fully stabilize without a sense that they reflect the will of the society they claim to reorder. The difficulty is that the figures who embody that will are rarely the easiest to incorporate.

They are, more often than not, the ones who insist on speaking as if the country they represent has not yet accepted its condition as final.