Model

A strange quirk at San Quentin state prison is that most of those incarcerated behind its towering walls are unable to see the San Francisco Bay that literally laps at the shore a few yards away.

That changed recently with the completion of new buildings — holding among other accouterments a self-serve kitchen, a library, a cafe and a film studio — and third-floor classrooms that look out over that beautiful blue expanse, long a symbol of freedom and possibility.

In the new San Quentin Rehabilitation Center, along with learning job skills and earning degrees, incarcerated men can do their own laundry, make their own meals, and interact with guards as mentors and colleagues of sorts, once a taboo kind of relationship in the us-and-them world of incarceration.

“You want to clothes wash? You wash them,” said Gov. Gavin Newsom, debuting the new facilities, including laundry machines, for reporters last week. “You want to get something to eat. You can do it, whenever.”

“All of a sudden, it’s like you’re starting to make decisions for yourself,” he said. “It’s called life.”

Listen closely, and one can almost hear President Trump’s brain exploding with glee and outrage as his favorite Democratic foil seemingly coddles criminals. A cafe? C’mon. Bring on the midterms!

March 2024 of the East Block of San Quentin’s former death row.

(Robert Gauthier/Los Angeles Times)

But what Newsom has done inside California’s most notorious prison, once home to the largest death row in the Western Hemisphere, is nothing short of a remarkable shift of thinking, culture and implementation around what it means to take away someone’s freedom — and eventually give it back. Adapted from European models, it’s a vision of incarceration that is meant to deal with the reality that 95% of people who go to prison are eventually released. That’s more than 30,000 people each year in California alone.

“What kind of neighbors do you want them to be?” Newsom asked. “Are they coming back broken? Are they coming back better? Are they coming back more enlivened, more capable? Are they coming back into prison over and over?”

When it comes to reforming criminals, “success looks like more and more people gravitating to their own journey, their own personal reform,” Newsom said, sounding more like a lifestyle influencer than a presidential contender. “It’s not forced on you, because then it’s fake, man. If it’s coerced, I don’t buy it.”

Of course, coming back better should be the goal — because better people commit fewer crimes, and that benefits us all. But coming back over and over has become the norm.

Traditional incarceration, a lock-’em-up and watch-them-suffer approach, has dramatically failed not only our communities and public safety writ large, but also inmates and even those who guard them.

Incarcerated people come out of prison too often in California (and across the country) with addictions and emotional troubles still firmly in place, and no job or educational skills to help them muddle through a crime-free life. That means they often commit more crimes, create more victims and cycle back into this failed, expensive, tough-on-crime system.

Still, it’s a favorite trope of Trump, and the justification for both his immigration roundups and his deployment of National Guard troops in Democratic cities, that policies such as Newsom’s are weak on crime and have led to the decline of American society.

This narrative of fear and grievance goes back decades, recycled every election by the so-called law-and-order party because it’s effective — voters crave safety, especially in a chaotic world. And locking people up seems safe, at least until we let them go again.

But, as Chance Andes, the warden of San Quentin, pointed out last week, “Humanity is safety,” and treating incarcerated people like, well, people, actually makes them want to behave better.

Here’s where the tough-on-crime folks will begin composing their angry emails. Why are we paying for killers to have a view? Why should I care if a rapist has a good book to read? Our budget is bleeding red, why are tax dollars being used for prison lattes? (To be fair, I do not know whether they actually have lattes.)

But consider this: The prison guards back Newsom.

“Done right, it improves working conditions for our officers and strengthens public safety,” said Steve Adney, executive vice president of the California Correctional Peace Officers Assn., the union that represents guards, of the California model, as Newsom calls his vision.

Faced with high rates of suicide and other ills such as addiction, corrections officers have long been concerned about the stress and violence of their jobs. A few years ago, some union members traveled to Norway to see prisons there. I tagged along.

A correctional officer at Halden prison in Norway checks out the ice cream freezer in the grocery store inside the facility.

(Javad Parsa/For The Times)

The American officers were shocked to see Norwegian prisoners access kitchen knives and power tools, but even more shocked that the guards had built relationships with these criminals that allowed them to do their jobs with far less fear.

Rather than jailers, these corrections officers were more like social workers or guides to a better way of living. Of course, the corrections officers aren’t dumb. That only works with vetted inmates, such as those at San Quentin, who have proved they want to change.

But when you have officers and incarcerated people who are able to coexist with respect and maybe a dash of kindness, you get a different outcome for both sides.

“If we are capable of building this at San Quentin, then we are capable of making the workplace safe for every officer who walks in the gates,” said CCPOA President Neil Flood, a startling statement in favor of radical reform from a law enforcement officer.

But in a moment when most Democrats with ambitions for national office (or even an eye on replacing Newsom) are backing away from criminal justice reform, it would be naive to think the California model won’t be used to bludgeon Newsom in a presidential race, and provide further fuel to the dumpster-fire narrative about the state.

Soon — before the midterms — many expect Congress to move forward on Trump’s expressed desire for a crime bill that would empower police with even greater immunity for wrongdoing, create longer sentences for crimes including those involving drugs and further erode criminal justice reform in the name of public safety.

Trump is going hard in the opposite direction, toward more punishment, always the easier and more understandable route for voters fed up with crime (even though crime rates have been declining since President Biden was in office).

The California model is “a political liability in this environment,” said Tinisch Hollins, a victims advocate who worked on the San Quentin transition and heads Californians for Safety and Justice.

But she retains faith that “the majority of people don’t believe that shoving everyone into prison is how we resolve the problem.”

Newsom deserves credit for standing by that position, when simply backing away and dropping the California model would have been the simpler and safer route — it’s complicated and messy and oh-so-easy to make it sound dumb.

I refer you back to the cafe. If construction had been cut at San Quentin, the budget cited as the reason, no one would have noticed and few would have complained.

Instead, sounding a bit like Trump, Newsom said he “threatened the hell out of them if they didn’t get it done before I was gone.”

“This is not left or right,” he said. “This is just being smart and pragmatic and you know, I just … I believe people are not the worst thing they’ve done.”

Politically at least, San Quentin is a legacy for Newsom now, the best or worst thing he’s done on crime, depending on your personal views of second chances.

But it is undeniably a vision of public safety starkly at odds with Trump, one Newsom will carry into his next political fight — where it is certain to cause him some pain.

MUSE frontman Matt Bellamy has found some solace following his split from model Elle Evans, his wife of six years.

I’m told he has been spending time with sex therapist Gaia Polloni — who he dated for nine years in the Noughties.

A source said: “Matt and Gaia are still good mates and they’ve been spending time together following his split from Elle.

“It’s been a hard time for him, naturally, as it would be after the end of any marriage.

“Gaia has always been a great sounding board. Matt is focused on healing and moving forwards into co-parenting with Elle.”

Matt was seen in Notting Hill, West London, last week without his wedding ring and walking next to Italian Gaia.

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They first started dating in 2001 and Matt popped the question six years later.

But in 2009, the relationship broke down and they called off their engagement.

After the break-up, Matt told an Italian magazine he would “do anything” to fix their relationship.

He went on to write Muse’s track Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever) for Gaia a year on from their split.

We revealed at the weekend that Elle and Matt had called time on their marriage.

They actually split in October.

A pal said: “Their relationship is very amicable. They are now focused on co-parenting their children and still get on very well.”

Matt had been splitting his time between London and LA – where Matt’s son from his relationship with Kate Hudson lives.

Now he is expected to spend more time in the UK, after admitting he wanted to come home.

LEONARDO DiCaprio treated his model girlfriend to a private pre-Bafta shopping trip.

The Hollywood legend, 51, and Vittoria Ceretti, 27, were given exclusive late-night access to the Princes Arcade shopping district in London’s Mayfair on Saturday.

Bosses made the special arrangement so the couple could browse independent designer store Segun Adelaja away from fans.

It is a fancy independent designer store where shirts start at £140.

Leo attended last night’s Baftas with his 83-year-old mum Irmelin Indenbirken.

At one point he lost her on the busy red carpet — and refused to go inside until he found her.

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An onlooker said: “Leo got cut off from his mum.

“He asked his team, ‘Where is my mum?

“‘Is she OK?’.

“She’d hurt her leg.

“So he waited to help get her up the stairs.

“It was really sweet.”

Feb. 20 (Asia Today) — Motif Technology’s consortium has been selected in an additional call to join South Korea’s government-backed effort to build an “independent” artificial intelligence foundation model, as officials said a second evaluation in August will continue to weigh whether teams meet the project’s originality standard.

The Ministry of Science and ICT said Motif was chosen for its experience designing models with its own architecture and for achieving performance it said could compete with leading global systems despite operating in a limited data environment.

The Motif consortium includes the company, startup More, Seoul National University’s industry-academia cooperation foundation and the Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology.

The group plans to build an inference-focused large language model with 300 billion parameters and later expand work into vision-language models and vision-language-action models, the ministry said.

Motif will develop its model from this month through July and then compete in an August stage evaluation against LG AI Research, Upstage and SK Telecom. The ministry said it will extend the development timeline for the existing three teams by one month, setting the deadline at the end of July, and will provide Motif with support comparable to the other teams, including 768 graphics processing units and data.

The August stage evaluation will narrow the field to three teams and will include the originality requirement, officials said. Two teams are to be selected for final support by the end of the year.

Kim Kyung-man, director of the ministry’s AI policy office, said the four teams will discuss how to apply the originality assessment and that more detailed criteria will be developed with input from industry and academia.

The project drew attention last month after Naver Cloud failed to meet the originality requirement in an initial evaluation and NC AI was eliminated after scoring lowest on other criteria, raising questions in some quarters about the program’s momentum.

The ministry said the project’s priority is building a domestic AI ecosystem through teams capable of developing an independent foundation model.

— Reported by Asia Today; translated by UPI

© Asia Today. Unauthorized reproduction or redistribution prohibited.

Original Korean report: https://www.asiatoday.co.kr/kn/view.php?key=20260220010006171

Voting is fundamental to democracy, but here in the U.S. people don’t vote very much. In December, Miami held a runoff election for mayor, and all of 37,000 voters turned out. This was 2,000 fewer people than voted in comparable off-cycle elections in Apizaco, a small city in the mountains of central Mexico. It was no blip: The median turnout in U.S. city elections is 26% of the voting age population. In Mexico, by contrast, turnout rarely dips below 50%, and unglamorous small-town elections attract higher numbers, often more than 70% of the citizenry.

Nevertheless, the United States disdains Mexico as a pale shadow of its own democracy. Mexican elections are written off as corrupt, violent and unrepresentative. This was part-true for much of the last century, when versions of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional ruled without interruption for 71 years. Mexicans were “oriented” to vote by party managers, fined if they didn’t, violently dissuaded from voting for dissidents, disenfranchised with stuffed ballot boxes. Impressive turnouts were coerced. Even today, decades after the arrival of a competitive democracy, the violence persists. Thirty-four candidates were murdered in the 2024 elections.

Yet Mexicans also vote in impressive numbers because they have always cared profoundly about representative politics, and particularly at a local level. Many of those large turnouts in authoritarian Mexico were crowds of everyday people struggling to elect legitimate authorities in the teeth of a rigged system. Those struggles meant that sometimes they won.

Historical outcomes are revealing. More than 200 years of elections in Mexico have given results significantly more diverse and representative than those of the United States. In 2024 Mexicans elected the first female president in North American history, climate scientist Claudia Sheinbaum. In 1829 Mexicans elected the first Black president in North American history, mule driver Vicente Guerrero. In 1856 they elected lawyer Benito Juárez as the only Indigenous president in North American history.

The United States was born committed to rule by freely elected representatives. “We the people” is a good start to a piece of political writing and a good start to a country. When the French sociologist Aléxis de Tocqueville visited New England in the 1820s he was struck by how the citizens of small towns argued out their differences and came up with solutions together. The federal republic was a scaling up of those habits. The sum of those people’s beliefs, institutions and bloody-mindedness, Tocqueville wrote, was democracy in America.

The peoples of the United Mexican States, founded in 1824 after gaining independence from Spain, shared those ambitions. Mexico was likewise a federal republic, its rulers elected, its powers divided among executive, legislature and judiciary. As in the U.S., the female half of the population was excluded. But Mexico’s founders were ahead of ours in one sine qua non of genuine democracy: racial equality. In the Federalist Papers, Alexander Hamilton claimed that “to all general purposes we have uniformly been one people; each individual citizen everywhere enjoying the same national rights, privileges, and protection.” That was a self-evident untruth, because Black and Indigenous peoples were not included.

In Mexico, people of color had some standing from the founding onward. Mexican history has its own wrenching tragedies of race: the slavery of West Africans, the ethnocides of the North, the systematic impoverishment of peoples like the Maya of Chiapas, a eugenic hunger for white migration. But from the colonial outset Black people were acknowledged to be fully human, their enslavers’ abuses punished, their lynching unknown. Many Indigenous peoples preserved their language, lands and governments over centuries. Asians joined them; the first Japanese ambassador arrived in 1614. Mexico was the world’s first great melting pot.

So the founders of the United Mexican States made no formal distinction among the multitudes they contained. Their leaders in the War of Independence abolished slavery. Their post-independence congress mandated “the equality of civil rights to all free inhabitants of the empire, whatever their origin.” The 1824 Constitution extended the vote to every adult male. All would be free, all equal under law and all voters with a stake in the outcome.

In 1917 Mexicans passed the most progressive constitution in the world following their own revolution. It mandated an eight-hour working day, a minimum wage, equal salaries for men and women, and paid maternity leave. While women didn’t get the vote until the 1950s, they exercised notable power behind the scenes; even the most conservative parties had female organizers and supporters. Progressive social policies inspired leaders across the hemisphere, including Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Three core beliefs inspire Mexicans to vote. They believe that face-to-face freedom, embedded in the power and autonomy of the municipio libre, the free county, is sacrosanct. And they believe that to preserve communal freedom, whether from federal abuse or oligarchs, requires two things, sufragio efectivo y no reelección; in historian John Womack’s translation, “a real vote and no boss rule.”

Historically enough Mexicans — of all political stripes, from conservatives to anarchists — cared about those three beliefs to fight in elections tooth and nail.

Alongside the belief that voting is a duty comes clear-eyed rejection of boss rule. While Mexican Mayor Daleys are historically ubiquitous — they sparked the Mexican Revolution — there are none of the national dynasties that beset U.S. politics. The great dictator Porfirio Díaz left his ambitious nephew struggling to make army captain for eighteen years. Dynastic power befits monarchies, not democracies, and Mexicans know it.

Neither do Mexican politicians enjoy the unfettered power of their American counterparts to buy elections. Parties are publicly funded, under a system designed to promote fairness. Each party gets a certain amount from the state: 30% of that amount is the same for all, the remaining 70% proportional to their success in the previous elections. Private donations are transparent, regulated and capped at a very low level, on paper at least. The system unduly favors incumbents, and illegal, off-books funding is rife. Yet the need for sizable contributions to be covert keeps election results out of the hands of the likes of Elon Musk. A national watchdog and a diverse and competent press ensure it.

Sheinbaum spent $18 million winning her presidential election. In losing New York City’s mayoral election, Andrew Cuomo spent three times as much. A single oligarch, Michael Bloomberg, chipped in $13 million. Mexican elections are sometimes bought and sold, but never with the obscene unconcern prevalent in the U.S. since the Supreme Court’s Citizens United ruling.

Republics that endure rely on egalitarian beliefs, hard-nosed pragmatism, unwritten rules of decency and written rules of institutions — and unrelenting struggle against all who break those rules. Democracy relies on people of all races being recognized as fully human and guaranteed access to the ballot. It then relies on those people turning up to vote whenever given the chance. Mexicans have repeatedly demonstrated how deeply they know that across their history, against sometimes heavy odds. Their government documents come stamped with the revolutionary slogan sufragio efectivo y no reelección, a real vote and no boss rule, as a reminder. We could use one ourselves.

Paul Gillingham, a professor of history at Northwestern University, is the author of “Mexico: A 500-Year History.”

STEFON Diggs was spotted with a stunning model friend on the Super Bowl field as his girlfriend Cardi B was missing from the action after their suspected split.

Instagram model Pree – who is reportedly a longtime close companion of the New England Patriots’ wide receiver – was busy posting from her perch at the Super Bowl before Stefon‘s big loss to the Seattle Seahawks. 

In a video obtained by blogger Tasha K, Pree can be seen on the Levi  Stadium field hours before the game on Sunday. 

Stefon, the father of six kids with six different women, was seen standing just yards away in the brief video. 

Last night, Pree shared pics from her prime seat watching the game.

She also reposted an official Patriots post about Stefon.

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In another link to Cardi, Pree also reportedly dated her ex-husband, rapper Offset, in the past.

Meanwhile, Cardi was missing from her man’s side – despite briefly appearing in Bad Bunny’s halftime show dancing in the background.

SPLIT RUMORS

Word that Cardi and Stefon may have split quickly rippled through social media, as fans noticed they had unfollowed each other over the weekend.

Cardi fueled the flames with her strange interview behavior as well.

When asked by an ESPN reporter if she had a message for Stefon ahead of the matchup against the Seattle Seahawks, Cardi simply said, “Good luck,” before turning on her heels and walking away.

Until last night, the WAP rapper had been riding hard for the NFL star on her social media, and cheering along with Pats fans both pre- and post-big games. 

As The U.S. Sun exclusively reported, she even dropped over a million dollars on preparations to give Stefon a big celebration this weekend.

“She’s incredibly excited and fully locked in,” a source familiar with the plans said. “This isn’t just about attending the game — it’s about showing up for her man in the biggest way possible and celebrating with everyone they love.”

Cardi and Stefon welcomed their first child together, a baby boy, in November.

STEFON’S LEGAL TROUBLES

Meanwhile, the New England Patriots wide receiver is currently facing a felony charge of strangulation and a misdemeanor charge of assault following an alleged incident last December.

Stefon has denied the accusations through his attorney, David Meier.

While the arraignment was originally slated for January, it was pushed back to allow Stefon to participate in the postseason.

Stefon is now scheduled to appear at the Dedham District Court in Massachusetts this Friday, February 13, 2026, at 9:00 am, where he is expected to enter a formal plea.

During this hearing, the judge will determine the conditions of his release, which may include bail, travel restrictions, or a no-contact order.

The allegations stem from a December 16 police report filed by a woman employed as Stefon’s personal chef.

According to Dedham police, the woman was initially “emotional and hesitant” to identify him due to his high public profile.

Court documents allege that Stefon entered her unlocked bedroom and confronted her over a financial dispute regarding unpaid wages.

The situation reportedly escalated, with Stefon allegedly striking her across the face and attempting to choke her with the crook of his elbow when she tried to push him away.

Photograph by unknown author. “Trabajadores petroleros,” Fernando Irazábal Collection. Compiled by Archivo Fotografía Urbana.

On January 29, Venezuela experienced a legislative tectonic shift regarding the future of its hydrocarbon sector. The National Assembly approved a new petroleum law that effectively breaks with the post-1976 tradition of rigid state control, opening participation across the full value chain to private oil companies. 

This is not the first experiment with private participation since nationalization, but it is the clearest attempt since the 1990s Apertura to normalize it as the governing framework of the sector. The legislation, approved with striking speed and opacity, has elicited mixed reactions, ranging from denunciations of lost sovereignty and surrender to foreign interests to support for a first step that still requires major fixes. Despite these divergences, one thing is clear: the return of private companies to Venezuela’s oil sector inevitably revives parallels with the concessionary system under which the industry was born and flourished between 1914 and 1976, a mirror of what Venezuela’s energy sector could become in the twenty-first century.

The 1943 and 2026 hydrocarbons laws

The iconic 1943 bill enacted by President Isaías Medina Angarita (1941–1945) regulated Venezuela’s privately run oil industry until the 1976 nationalization. It became the institutional template of the concessionary era: a rules-and-taxes state overseeing a privately operated industry. Together with related legislation, it established the famous 50/50 profit-sharing arrangement with the state, later tightened by reforms. Yet within the 1943 framework, the rentier state largely confined itself to setting the rules and collecting taxes and rents, while private companies assumed the capital risks. There was no government monopoly over day-to-day operations.

In spirit, the 2026 law reintroduces comparable conditions for private capital. Petroleum companies can now either hold operational control in joint ventures with the state or carry out activities independently through government contracts. The 1943 and 2026 frameworks also embrace flexible royalty schemes that prioritize business viability over rigid tax burdens. Differences, of course, abound. To mention a few, the 2026 version concentrates discretionary power in the executive branch regarding royalties, opens the possibility of international arbitration outside the country, simplifies the tax burden into a 15% integrated hydrocarbons tax, and diminishes the National Assembly’s authority over oil business.

The Venezolanization pioneered by firms like the Creole Petroleum Corporation, Royal Dutch Shell, Mene Grande Oil Company, and many others also became an exercise in social integration.

Divergences aside, both pieces of legislation share the same underlying imperative: attracting capital and technology. The 1976 and 2001 hydrocarbons laws, by contrast, were designed precisely to limit private initiative. But investment alone will not do all the work. Human capital is also desperately needed to lead a reborn hydrocarbon sector, and here the concessions model offers valuable lessons.

The Venezolanization of the industry

An underappreciated dimension of that era was human capital development. Over decades, foreign firms trained Venezuelans across the corporate hierarchy—in technical, managerial, and executive roles—so that by the mid-1970s expatriates were a small fraction of the workforce and Venezuelans increasingly ran the day-to-day business. This created a pipeline of local talent able to inherit operational responsibility and manage the 1976 transition to state control with unusual continuity.

This history is not nostalgia for a bygone era, but a lesson worth highlighting. Venezuela’s oil collapse in this century is inseparable from the degradation of corporate culture and human capital, deepened by the politicization of the industry. It triggered a professional brain drain and the hollowing out of operational efficiency. Multinationals like Chevron, and others that may follow, should explicitly lean on a “Venezolanization 2.0” that engages local talent still in the country and encourages the return of a diaspora of Venezuelan managers and engineers now abroad. Insulating the sector from partisan hiring and purging is essential if these cadres are to operate with full competence.

The Venezolanization pioneered by firms like the Creole Petroleum Corporation, Royal Dutch Shell, Mene Grande Oil Company, and many others also became an exercise in social integration. Many American expatriates, like Creole’s CEO Arthur T. Proudfit, embraced the social milieu of the country that welcomed them, often learning the language and speaking it fluently; his daughter even married a local businessman. In exchange, Venezuelans trained abroad and working for these firms absorbed US professional values and traditions. This cultural exchange helped forge durable bonds between both countries and contributed to the successful presence of foreign capital in Venezuela. And these corporations did not stop at their payrolls. They understood that long-term success in the hydrocarbon sector extended beyond employees to the surrounding communities of the oil fields, and beyond.

Social license

Creole, Shell, and Mene Grande undertook significant investments in the country. In the oilfields, they negotiated lucrative labor contracts with unions. They also financed hospitals, university campuses, and other infrastructure projects. These firms even joined the state in ventures like the Venezuelan Basic Economy Corporation to fund agro-industrial projects aimed at diversifying the economy, while supporting rural communities through initiatives such as the American International Association. They left an indelible imprint on everyday life, from how Venezuelans shopped through market chains like CADA, to culture through documentaries, corporate magazines, and even TV news programs like Observador Creole.

More importantly, they built alliances with domestic capitalists like Eugenio Mendoza to address social problems. Creole and Venezuelan business leaders, for instance, institutionalized private-sector social action through organizations like the Dividendo Voluntario para la Comunidad (DVC), founded in 1964 to mobilize corporate contributions toward community projects. This nonprofit continues to exist today, fulfilling the original goal of social action bequeathed by American and Venezuelan businessmen more than sixty years ago. Creole also created the Creole Development Corporation, a financial arm designed to provide seed capital for local entrepreneurial activity. This was hardly a frictionless era, but it shows how legitimacy was treated as a condition of stability.

Contributions to health, schools, and infrastructure would also ease the state’s burden and allow it to focus on critical nation-building emergencies.

This largesse reached widely, but it was not mere corporate charity. To avoid jeopardizing their operations and invite nationalist backlash, companies engaged with surrounding communities and invested in their future. That is a lesson new capital arriving in Venezuela should pursue. There is even generational memory favorable to the presence of these firms in oil communities. 

Leveraging that legacy could open renewed opportunities for local professional growth while strengthening bonds between communities and multinationals. Contributions to health, schools, and infrastructure would also ease the state’s burden and allow it to focus on critical nation-building emergencies: democratizing institutions, reconstructing the economy, and addressing the public services and humanitarian needs the population faces.

A spiritual return to the concessions system?

The new hydrocarbons law pushes Venezuela’s oil industry in a new direction, and it functions as a first step in the right path. However, there is room for significant improvement. 

Moreover, key questions remain unanswered. For instance, what will be the fate of PDVSA? Any plan that fails to address the resurrection of its operational capabilities undermines the development of an efficient sector. Only the re-democratization of the country can properly confront the deeper failings reflected in the current legislation. Many industry experts have already proposed an alternative framework that would solve several of the bill’s core problems by establishing clear rules, transparency mechanisms, and a dedicated government agency entrusted with regulating the hydrocarbon sector.

The spirit of the concessionary model walks once more around Venezuela’s refineries, port terminals, and petroleum wells. It is too soon to tell whether foreign capital will return with the same excitement it brought more than a century ago, or whether the scale of investments and engagement with surrounding communities will match that of its predecessors. The sector can either become a platform for institutional rebuilding and professionalization, or another discretionary channel for rents and corruption. 

Democracy, check and balances, and clear rules can turn the 2026 hydrocarbons law (and its potential future modifications) into enduring principles for the remainder of the century. If so, the oil industry might unlock a new period of prosperity. Much remains to be done to materialize that future, but what is undeniable is that a new era begins.