sovereignty

Venezuela’s recent Hydrocarbon Law reform has sparked fierce debates about its short- and long-term implications. In this essay, Blas Regnault, an energy policy analyst and researcher, offers an in-depth analysis of the new legislative framework, from the significant changes to the state’s governance over its natural resources to his perspective on a sovereign recovery of the oil industry.

The recent hydrocarbon reform: an overview

It is important to distinguish between two closely connected but analytically separate developments: first, US oversight of Venezuelan oil revenues after Maduro’s kidnapping; and secondly, the new Hydrocarbon Law itself. The first is an externally imposed mechanism that conditions oil sales, revenue collection, transport, and the distribution of oil proceeds to US interests. The second is a domestic legal reform whose constitutionality and political legitimacy have been widely questioned.

It remains unclear whether the new law is fully operative in practice, or whether it is only being applied selectively while its fiscal substance is displaced by the US revenue-control mechanism. ^{But the outcome is largely the same: a loss of fiscal automaticity and a form of fiscal sovereignty under tutelage in relation to Venezuelan oil income.}

In other words, the crisis of governance in the Venezuelan oil sector, together with its chronic lack of transparency since 2017, now culminates in a profound loss of sovereign control over all three dimensions of the business: its rentier dimension, belonging to the nation; its fiscal dimension, belonging to the state; and its shareholder dimension, linked to the role of the state oil company PDVSA as principal participant in extraction and commercialisation.

Therefore, the new law is not simply a technical reform. It is not merely about updating contracts, modernising procedures, or making the sector more attractive to investors. The deeper issue is that the reform changes the way the nation is compensated for the use of the subsoil and therefore alters the very governance of the sector. What is at stake is the relationship between sovereignty, ownership of the subsoil, and public income.

It is true that, on paper, the law formally preserves state ownership over the resource. But the business models it opens weaken the practical substance of that ownership. And that is the crucial point. Ownership is not a decorative legal formula. Ownership means that the state, acting on behalf of the nation, has the right to decide whether the resource remains underground or is extracted; and if it is extracted, under what conditions, with what public charge, and for whose benefit. The recent reform softens the link between ownership and the nation’s participation as owner of the subsoil, turning something that was once grounded in a general rule into something negotiable, adjustable, and highly discretionary.

A useful way of understanding the economic and social significance of the reform is to distinguish the different streams of public income historically associated with oil in Venezuela. Under the former hydrocarbon law, the nation participated in the oil business through three distinct channels: as owner, as tax authority, and as shareholder. The first channel, corresponding to ownership, was royalty. The second was taxation, arising from the state’s fiscal authority over the activity. The third was dividends, arising when the state participated through PDVSA and therefore received income in its capacity as stakeholder rather than as landlord or tax authority.

This distinction matters because the oil business has historically involved different claimants competing over the fruits of extraction. In a sector marked by extraordinary profitability and strategic importance, the owner of the rent, the fiscal authority, and the capitalist operator all seek to maximize their share of the value generated. In the Venezuelan framework that prevailed before 2026, those three roles were clearly present: the nation as owner of the subsoil, the state as fiscal authority, and the operator as capitalist actor. The new law alters the balance between them.

Royalty

The royalty is where the change is most revealing. As already noted, royalty is the clearest expression of ownership. It is paid upfront. It does not depend on profit. It is charged before taxes are assessed and before the remaining income covers the factors of production; that is, wages, interest, profits, and the other claimants on the project. In other words, royalty is not part of the production costs. If the oil price is 100 dollars per barrel and the agreed royalty rate is 30 per cent, the owner receives 30 dollars per barrel straight away. That is the proprietorial logic in its purest form.This has long been a battleground in the global oil industry. The dispute over rent has historically taken place between the operating companies, whether private national oil companies acting as operators, and the owner of the resource, that is, the landlord. Depending on the property-rights regime, that owner may be a private individual, as in parts of Texas, or the state, as in Venezuela and in most oil-exporting countries. Whether in Texas, Alaska, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Norway, the United Kingdom, Nigeria, or Venezuela, the property-rights regime has been the principal legal instrument through which the owner secures a share of the rent. It is a legitimate exercise of sovereignty, recognised by all parties involved in the global oil business.

And yet the new law, in practical terms, empties out that proprietorial logic by turning royalty into a negotiable variable within a range of zero to 30 per cent, something highly unusual in the global oil business. The potential scale of the loss becomes immediately clear once one thinks in terms of export volumes. At an oil price of 86 dollars per barrel, a 1 per cent royalty leaves the nation with less than one dollar per barrel, whereas a 30 per cent royalty yields 25.8 dollars. If Venezuela exports 800,000 barrels per day, that means roughly 688,000 dollars per day under a 1 per cent royalty, compared with 20.64 million dollars per day under a 30 per cent royalty. This is a dramatic compression of the owner’s income. It shows that a high oil price cannot compensate for the hollowing out of the royalty. Put simply, under the new law, higher oil prices will no longer automatically translate into greater income for the nation if royalties are arbitrarily lowered to the benefit of transnational capital. This is not a marginal fiscal concession; it is a radical compression of the nation’s proprietorial income. 

Taxes

Turning to taxes, under the previous legal framework, the fiscal regime included not only taxes on profits, but also local and municipal taxes on oil activity, together with other parafiscal charges and special contributions linked to extraordinary profits. These different channels gave the public side several routes through which to capture value from extraction. Under the new law, much of that architecture is displaced and compressed into an integrated tax on gross income that will also be set in a discretionary fashion up to a fixed ceiling. According to supporters of the reform, this new framework is designed to ensure the project’s “economic equilibrium.” But the political significance of that shift is considerable. What was previously structured through several distinct legal claims can now be more easily absorbed into a flexible package, negotiated project by project. In that sense, this is not simply simplification; it is a substantial thinning of the fiscal claim. Once the fiscal architecture becomes thinner, the public claim over oil value becomes weaker, more flexible, and ultimately more negotiable.

Table 2 illustrates the magnitude of the change using the March 16, 2026, marker Merey 16 price. Under the previous regime, taxes and parafiscal charges alone could amount to about $31 per barrel, or 36 percent of the barrel price. Under the post-reform interim scenario, that could fall to about $17.6 per barrel, or 20.5 percent.

Dividends

Finally, there are dividends arising from state equity participation, and these too must be distinguished from both royalty and taxation. Dividends are not paid because the nation owns the subsoil, nor are they collected because the state exercises fiscal authority over the activity. They arise because the state participates in the business as shareholder and therefore receives part of the profits in its capacity as investor. In other words, dividends represent the state’s participation in the profits of the business itself. But that income is not necessarily available for immediate public use in the same way as royalty or taxation. Part of it may be retained within the company, used for reinvestment, capital expenditure, debt service, or the wider financial needs of the enterprise. So, unlike royalty, which expresses ownership, or tax, which expresses fiscal authority, dividends are tied to the corporate logic of the business. Depending on the ownership structure, this channel of participation may range, illustratively, from zero to 60 per cent of distributable profits.

International jurisdiction of potential oil litigation

There is also an important jurisdictional dimension. By reducing the fiscal share captured by the state and by placing greater weight on contractual flexibility, the reform moves the sector towards a framework that is more exposed to international arbitration. At the same time, the sanctions and licensing regime has become part of a broader architecture of control over the oil business: control over access to the fields, control over marketing channels, and control over financial access to revenues. So, this is not merely a domestic fiscal reform. It is also part of a broader reordering of the legal and financial chain through which Venezuelan oil is governed.

Key takeaways

Supporters of the new law argue that it delivers increased flexibility, greater operability, improved investment prospects, and greater bankability. And that is not a trivial argument. In a country that has experienced production collapse, sanctions, institutional erosion, and a loss of market share, it is understandable that policymakers would seek a framework that appears more attractive to capital. In that sense, the reform may indeed reduce perceived risk and make projects easier to finance. It may also simplify part of the gross take and make negotiations easier. In that sense, the reform should not be caricatured. But it also entails the abandonment of each of the nation’s and the state’s historic roles in the sector, undermining the institutional fabric that once gave the oil economy a degree of stability and rationality.

For that reason, the disadvantages of the reform ultimately outweigh its potential benefits. What is lost is fiscal automaticity. That means the nation is no longer guaranteed a stable share by rule, but must now negotiate it, justify it, or recover it through more uncertain channels. Put differently, the reform replaces payment-by-rule with payment-by-negotiation on a case-by-case basis. In practical terms, each contract will generate its own conditions over each of the principal sources of public income arising from oil activity.

What is also lost is the clarity of a system in which the state charges because it owns the resource, not because the project happens to be commercially convenient. Once royalties become variable and fiscal terms are subordinated to the “economic equilibrium” of the project, the centre of gravity shifts. The guiding principle is no longer the nation as sovereign owner; it becomes the financial viability for the investor/operator. That is a profound political change presented as technical pragmatism.

In summary: the 2026 reform does not abolish formal ownership, but it hollows it out in practice. It replaces a more proprietorial fiscal logic with a more contractualized and discretionary one. That may attract investment, but it also weakens the automatic link between national ownership and national income. Whatever mechanism one chooses to emphasize, the result is much the same: 

• The nation no longer receives royalty by rule, but under externally conditioned arrangements. What is presented as flexibility is a retreat from ownership. 
• The state compresses its fiscal participation at every level. 
• The state oil company weakens its position as an investor. 

Once that happens, the central question is no longer simply, “How much is the state collecting?” but rather “Who decides, under what rules, with what traceability, and with what accountability?”

The historical context of Venezuela’s oil legislation

Venezuela’s oil history is not just a history of contracts or companies; it is a history of how the nation has tried to define its authority over the subsoil. Venezuela did not begin from the same position as many oil-exporting countries in West Asia or North Africa. It was already an independent republic when it developed its mining and hydrocarbons legislation. That matters, because it means Venezuela built a national jurisdictional framework around state ownership of mines and deposits, rather than inheriting a colonial concessionary order imposed from outside. That distinction is central.

From the early twentieth century onwards, successive legal frameworks progressively consolidated the republic’s sovereign claim over oil-bearing land. In other words, Venezuelan oil law was historically moving towards a more explicit assertion of the nation’s right to charge for the extraction of its natural wealth. This is one reason Venezuela mattered so much internationally: not only because it was a major producer, but because it became a reference point for fiscal regimes and sovereign oil governance, including later in the wider OPEC environment. In that sense, Venezuela’s experience was historically complete in a way that few other oil-producing countries were.

Nevertheless, there is a paradox surrounding the 1975-1976 nationalization of the oil industry. On paper, it ought to have marked the culmination of national control, but it did not deepen sovereignty. In practice, it helped produce a shift towards a more internationalized governance structure. The Ministry, as representative of the owner-nation, was gradually displaced by state oil company PDVSA, and PDVSA increasingly operated under a logic of global business rather than one of public sovereign rule. So instead of the owner-state speaking directly, the national oil company became the intermediary, and that had long-term consequences. Put differently, PDVSA, together with international oil capital, gained ground in the long struggle to reduce the landlord’s direct grip over rent.

This is where the historical relationship with Western transnational corporations becomes more nuanced than a simple story of foreign domination versus nationalist resistance. The issue is not merely the presence of Western companies, but the governance structures they operate under. Venezuela moved from a more classic proprietorial regime towards a more cessionary one, and later, especially in the late 1980s and 1990s, towards more liberal or non-proprietorial arrangements. The oil opening (“Apertura Petrolera”) of the 1990s is especially important here, because it reduced the fiscal burden and shifted the framework in a way that centralized the operator’s conditions. That was already a major break.

The Chávez years brought a partial reversal. The restoration of the property right was not merely ideological posturing; it was a restoration of a more classical fiscal logic, in which the sovereign character of the state take was reaffirmed. But that restoration took place amid other contradictions, including the politicization of PDVSA and the accumulation of debt. So even that phase did not resolve the deeper institutional tensions.

The 2026 reform, then, does not emerge from nowhere. It is a new chapter of a long historical movement: from national jurisdiction, to nationalization, to cessionary governance, to the oil opening, to partial reassertion, to crisis and collapse, and now to a new form of contractualization from a position of weakness. Venezuela’s oil history has been a struggle not simply over who owns the oil, but over who governs the terms on which ownership is exercised. The present reform is the latest chapter in that struggle, but it is a particularly radical one because it comes after institutional erosion and under a global order that is far more contractual, litigious, and externally structured than the one Venezuela faced in the mid-twentieth century.

Oil in the present geopolitical battle

The current geopolitical context of the US-Israeli aggression against Iran should, in principle, strengthen Venezuela’s bargaining position. When West Asia becomes more unstable, supply security rises as a strategic concern, and oil regains immediate geopolitical urgency, countries with large reserves and an established production history become more valuable. 

Venezuela has occupied that position before. Venezuelan oil played an important strategic role for the Allies during the Second World War, for example. Today, renewed disruption around Iran and the Strait of Hormuz has again tightened the market and raised the geopolitical value of accessible barrels.

That is precisely why the current outcome appears so paradoxical. If global conditions improve Venezuela’s leverage, one would expect the country to negotiate from a stronger position and to demand a larger participation. One would expect a legal framework that captures more rent, not less; that uses geopolitical scarcity to reinforce state take, not to dilute it. But the current reform, alongside the sequence of deals with foreign conglomerates, and combined with US control over revenues, seem to move in the opposite direction.

This leads to the second point: the geopolitical issue is not only price or supply. It is also about control. What is emerging is a form of sovereignty under tutelage. Venezuela may formally remain the owner of the resource, but effective control over commercialization, revenue channels, and external validation appears increasingly conditioned from outside. Whether one calls that tutelage, external supervision, or subordinated reintegration, the takeaway is the same: sovereignty over the resource is no longer identical to sovereignty over the business. Recent US licenses illustrate the point very clearly. Washington has opened the door to renewed oil transactions with PDVSA, but under Treasury oversight and with proceeds channelled into US-administered accounts. That is not normal sovereign control over national oil income.

This is where the distinction between the origin and the destination of rent becomes especially useful. Even before we ask what is done with oil income socially or politically, we first need to know how that income is generated: through what pricing, what discounts, what fiscal structure, and through which payment channels. If that first level is opaque, then both the origin and the destination of rent become politically indeterminate. In other words, the problem is not only that the country may receive less revenue. The problem is that the country may not even be able to clearly verify what it is owed, how, and why. That is a much deeper sovereignty problem.

As a result, a geopolitical context that would, in theory, favor Venezuela, sees the country re-entering global markets with weakened sovereignty, under a framework of greater flexibility for operators and less certainty for the nation. That is why the debate is no longer only about production volumes or export flows. The real debate is about the jurisdictional and political order that now governs Venezuelan oil: who authorizes, who commercializes, who arbitrates disputes, who tracks the proceeds, and who answers to the country.

What does a sovereign recovery look like?

Moving from critique to programme is difficult, and the first honest thing to say is that no one can predict the exact path ahead. Venezuela is emerging from collapse, sanctions, loss of market share, institutional erosion, and a deep social crisis. Any recovery scenario, therefore, is bound to be politically fraught. But one thing is clear: if the country does not rebuild the public intelligibility of oil income, then any so-called recovery may simply reproduce opacity, distrust, inequality, and social tension.

A sovereign recovery does not mean autarky. It does not mean excluding foreign firms, nor does it mean mechanically returning to an earlier model. It means something more precise: restoring the link between ownership, public rule, and accountable income capture. In other words, if the nation owns the resource, then the nation must be able to know, verify, and govern how value is extracted from it. That means transparency over net prices, discounts, taxes, royalties, exemptions, payment channels, and the destination of funds. Without that, there can be no recovery in any meaningful sovereign sense. It would simply be resumed extraction.

A sovereign recovery also requires stripping away some of the ideological confusion that usually surrounds debates on natural resources. As Bernard Mommer argued more than twenty years ago, the governance of natural resources is, in many ways, a more elementary question than the conventional left-right divide suggests. In the case of oil and minerals, the deeper divide is above versus below. It is the tension between those who live and work on the surface (the nation, society, the public realm) and those who make their living from the subsoil.

That is why the question of ownership comes before the question of distribution, that is, before the question of what is done with the income generated by oil activity. Only after establishing the governance over the resource and the rules over its extraction does the familiar left-right question properly arise: how that income is used, whether for social spending, public services, etc., or private accumulation. 

The first step, then, is transparency. Not as a slogan, but as an institutional obligation. Who is selling? At what net price? Under what discounts? With what deductions? Paid where? Audited by whom? These are not minor administrative questions. They are the very mechanics of sovereignty in an extractive economy. If the country cannot answer them, then the state is no longer exercising full command over its principal source of income.

The second step is to move away from excessive discretion and back towards intelligible general rules. Contracts will always matter in oil. But there is a difference between contracts operating within a strong public framework and contracts effectively replacing public rule. Once everything becomes negotiable in the name of investment or “economic equilibrium,” the public realm shrinks and the executive realm expands. That is politically dangerous in any country, but especially in one where oil historically underpinned a broader social pact.

The third step is to reconnect oil income with social legitimacy. This is not an abstract issue. It is whether oil wealth translates to salaries, living standards, public services, social protection, and some minimum sense of collective benefit. If the country enters a new extractive cycle in which more oil is produced but public income remains narrow, opaque, or externally conditioned, then social tensions are likely to intensify rather than diminish. That is why a sovereign recovery cannot be measured by production figures alone. It must be judged by whether the nation regains an intelligible and legitimate claim over the income stream.

In simple terms, the average Venezuelan citizen is aware of fluctuations in crude prices because they know they affect the national budget. Oil income is widely and legitimately perceived as income belonging to the nation, and therefore as something that ought to support public services and collective welfare. Even when that income is later misused (through corruption, clientelism, or mismanagement) the underlying perception remains: oil revenue belongs to all Venezuelans.

That is also why the current situation can be described as one of sovereignty under tutelage. The country may still be sovereign in formal terms, yet it operates under external supervision in practical terms. Unless that gap is closed, the language of recovery will remain politically fragile.

Blas Regnault is an oil market analyst and researcher based in The Hague, whose work explores how oil prices move across time and what they tell us about the global economy. Drawing on years of experience in central banking, energy research, and international consulting, he brings together political economy, business cycles, production costs, and petroleum governance in a way that is both rigorous and accessible.

He has spent much of his career studying the deeper forces behind oil price trends and fluctuations, always with an eye on the institutional and geopolitical realities of the global petroleum market. Later this year, he will publish his book, Political Economy of Oil Prices: Trends and Business Cycles in the Global Petroleum Market, with Routledge.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Venezuelanalysis editorial staff.

Venezuela’s January 2026 hydrocarbons law reform marks a major shift in the country’s oil sector. It establishes a more flexible fiscal regime in the name of “international competitiveness,” while expanding the private sector role in extraction, operations, and dispute resolution mechanisms.

The reform follows years of US sanctions on Venezuela’s oil industry and coincides with new US licenses allowing Western conglomerates to move into Venezuela’s energy sector.

Join Blas Regnault, energy policy analyst and consultant focused on oil geopolitics, alongside Venezuelanalysis editors Ricardo Vaz and Lucas Koerner, as they break down the reform, its economic and political context, and what it means for control over strategic resources and national sovereignty.

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Venezuela’s oil policy has not merely been a set of technical regulations, but rather a battleground where national sovereignty has been defined in the face of Western imperialist interests. In this sense, the 20th century in Venezuela began with cannons trained on its shores. The naval blockade by England, Germany, and Italy in 1902 was the result of demands to collect debts incurred since the War of Independence and throughout the nineteenth century to build the oligarchic and fragmented republic that emerged in defiance of the Bolivarian project of unity. 

Unable to pay the creditors, Venezuelan President Cipriano Castro refused to hand over the country’s resources and territory, which is why he is considered the first nationalist president to be overthrown by the imperial powers of the time. In response to the foreign pressure exerted through the blockade, his proclamation was published in national newspapers: “The insolent foreign boot has desecrated the sacred soil of the homeland!” Castro embodied a defiance that the powers would not forgive.

However, the real tragedy was not the external attack, but the internal betrayal. Juan Vicente Gómez, who was also the president’s close friend, was not only the instigator of the 1908 coup d’état, but also the architect of the first major economic model of submission. Under his government, Venezuela was transformed overnight from an agrarian economy into an oil-producing enclave.

The concessions granted starting in 1922 through laws and decrees were not commercial agreements; they were acts of surrender of territorial and economic sovereignty to Standard Oil and Royal Dutch Shell, shaping the new geometry of power and the emergence of a new way of being and doing politics: what anthropologist Rodolfo Quintero called “the oil culture” had been born, a society whose elite looked more to the north than to the Venezuelan hinterland plains.

Venezuelan historian Oscar Battaglini provides an in-depth analysis of the inner workings of this new economic and political culture. 

…imperialism organizes (acting directly as in the days of old colonialism) a strong and truly centralized state at the head of which appear, in the role of mere ‘native overseers,’ the remnants of the old oligarchy: large landowners, agro-exporters and importers, and usurious bankers … The state that emerges … its primary mission was to maintain the cruelest and most open repression, the stability of the established oil order; which amounted to guaranteeing the oil companies consistently high profits, and to the dominant domestic sectors, the appropriation … of oil tax revenue… 

Following Gómez’s death in 1935, his own Minister of War and the Navy, Eleazar López Contreras, was tasked with serving as the transitional bridge from a highly repressive, personalist system of government to one that appeared to be freer. With oil reserves beneath his feet and an active US presence in the ports of Lake Maracaibo, López walked a tightrope. The various political and popular sectors, already consolidated though silenced, launched a fierce resistance: oil workers, students, political parties, and activists who until then had operated underground, women, and impoverished peasants entered political life with a bang. 

The expansion of oil wells, coupled with the events of World War II and the rise of fascism, laid the groundwork for the consolidation of an economic model that compromised national sovereignty, established interventionism as a mechanism of “negotiation,” and undermined political development through the persecution of any expression that might threaten the interests of the highly lucrative oil business.

From the 1943 Law to the Puntofijo Pact: The institutionalization of dependence

The government of Isaías Medina Angarita represented a significant political opening and steered the oil industry toward national interests. During his administration (1941–1945), the first fair legislation regarding the management of oil revenues was drafted, as well as the first plan for the development of a productive economy that aimed to overcome the rentier model that had already taken root during the Gómez era. With the 1943 hydrocarbon law, further strengthened by the 1942 Income Tax Act, the Venezuelan state was granted a 60% share of oil revenues – a development that did not favor the US oil companies, accustomed to reaping up to 75% of oil earnings. This law, combined with the 1945 agrarian reform law, set the stage for an intervention that prevented the democratic and sovereign transition to another presidential term and precipitated what some have called “the October Revolution” and others a “coup d’état” against these measures, which affected the regime of land ownership and control over Venezuela’s fossil fuel resources. 

After the coup, and during the “Adeco triennium” (1945–1948) led by Rómulo Bentancourt, even though the 1943 law was not repealed, a sort of relaxation was applied, known as the “fifty-fifty” arrangement, which consisted of guaranteeing oil companies a 50% revenue share, avoiding the tax levy, and thereby preventing subsequent increases in rent. At this point, it is worth noting that this process did not affect only economic aspects; rather, the oil enclave also became consolidated, which, as in any colonization process, includes cultural elements, in this case, the establishment of an “(North) American way of life” in the oil fields and their surroundings. 

Encampment-cities were created to operate as islands of foreign modernity, segregated from the national reality, where local management began to adopt the mindset and interests of the parent companies. A clear example of this was Judibana, in Falcón State, near the Amuay refinery. Judibana is an urban complex designed around 1948 by the Creole Petroleum Corporation, which at that time included schools, clubs, a commissary, and an isolated, self-contained internal dynamic. During the 2002 oil lockout, it served as an enclave for the anti-nationalist oil class. 

Later, the Marcos Pérez Jiménez dictatorship (1953–1958) proclaimed the “dream of progress” through the transformation of the landscape and a policy of monumental public works that reflected the “almighty” nature of oil and served as a physical manifestation of state power. Following his overthrow in 1958, the Pact of Punto Fijo emerged, giving rise to what many scholars call “pacted democracy.” Although it was presented as the stabilization of the political system, authors suggest that it was a mechanism for excluding popular forces and shielding transnational interests.

Rómulo Betancourt, leader of the Acción Democrática party – also known as the “Father of Venezuelan Democracy” – served as the first president under the Pact of Punto Fijo. Despite the nationalist rhetoric in his youth, he established a model during his administration (1959–1964) in which oil revenues were used to pacify social conflict without altering the structure of property ownership. “Submission” here became more sophisticated: it was not the direct surrender of land, but rather subordination to US foreign policy. The commercial and financial bourgeoisie abandoned any industrialization plans to become a parasitic class living off state revenue.

Under the Punto Fijo governments (1958–1998) Venezuela was viewed as a “laboratory” for the implementation of social democratic policies that served as a counterweight to the influence of the Cuban Revolution (1959) – characterized by its strong anti-imperialist stance – thereby consolidating the structural hegemony of the US market, which by 1997 received nearly 70% of the country’s oil exports. 

Neoliberalism and the “denationalization” of the 1990s

After a lengthy process of drafting legislation and negotiations, on January 1, 1976, the national flag was raised at the Zumaque No. 1 oil well. With this symbolic and legal act, Petróleos de Venezuela S.A. (PDVSA) was born as the company tasked with planning, coordinating, and supervising the industry, marking the beginning of a phase in which the state assumed not only income but also the total operative control of the country’s oil resources.

Bernard Mommer, an expert on the subject, offers a sharp critique that distinguishes between nationalization – whose objective was supposed to be the political and economic control of oil in the interest of national sovereignty – and statization, which entailed the creation of a state-owned corporation (PDVSA) that, over time, began to operate according to a private corporate logic, distancing itself from the needs of the national government and the objective of this ostensibly sovereign strategy. In this regard, Mommer argues that, following nationalization, the industry remained under imperialist control. PDVSA inherited the organizational structure and culture of the former concessionaires (Shell, Exxon, Mobil), which created a “state within a state.”

The neoliberal shift of the 1980s and 1990s marked the moment when submission was cloaked in the technical language of the Washington Consensus. The Oil Opening (Apertura Petrolera) was the ultimate expression of this process: an initiative in which PDVSA operated according to transnational logic, minimizing benefits for the country and paving the way for full privatization. It was more a matter of “denationalization,” where the state ceased to act as a demanding owner and instead became a promoter of foreign investment, sacrificing tax revenue, drastically reducing royalties (from 16.6% to 1% in some cases), and ceding operational control.

Denationalization policies were not limited to the oil sector. Telephone services (CANTV) and airlines (Viasa) were privatized, and attempts were made to privatize basic industries such as iron and aluminum. In this process, PDVSA’s management began to distance itself from the guidelines of the Ministry of Energy and Mines to become an entity managed by neoliberal international interests.

El Carmonazo: A failed attempt to return to the past

With Hugo Chávez’s rise to power in 1998, an effort was made to reverse this process of denationalization through the 2001 Organic Hydrocarbons Law. This law raised royalties to 30% and required the state to hold a majority stake (51%) in any joint venture. It restored the Ministry of Energy’s control over PDVSA.

The reaction of traditional sectors such as the CTV (Venezuelan Workers’ Confederation) and FEDECAMARAS business lobby, allied with the church and military sectors, was the call for an oil strike and the coup d’état (the Carmonazo) carried out on April 11, 2002 – a direct response by PDVSA’s managers and the neocolonial oligarchy to protect the contracts and the vision of the Oil Opening. The short-lived Carmona coup regime’s decree sought to repeal these laws to return Venezuela to the management model of the 1990s: a “privatized” PDVSA and a state with no control over its principal source of wealth.

The “Carmona Decree” was the purest expression of the neocolonial oligarchic mentality. In less than 24 hours, the public authorities were dissolved and the name “Bolivarian Republic” was removed, symbolically reverting to the “Republic of Venezuela” controlled by the elite. The main objective was to halt the Land Law and the Hydrocarbons Law, returning control of revenue to the PDVSA management aligned with external interests.

From the blockade of 1902 to the coup of 2002, the common denominator has been a Venezuelan elite that perceives sovereignty as an obstacle to its business interests. Submission is not just a political stance, but a class identity that confuses progress with mimicking the imperial core.

The history of this century in Venezuela demonstrates that the struggle for nationalization is not just about oil, but about a people’s ability to decide their own destiny without the tutelage of the insolent foreign boot.

Rosanna Álvarez holds an MSc in History of Republican Venezuela from the Central University of Venezuela (UCV). She is a researcher at the Centro de Estudios Simón Bolívar and Fundación Hugo Chávez, as well as a writer at the Libertador 8 Estrellas magazine. She is the author of Venezuela vista e imaginada. Un recorrido visual por nuestra historia and host of the Bolívar Nuestro show on Radio del Sur.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Venezuelanalysis editorial staff.

Carlos Mendoza Potellá is an economist and university professor with vast experience and expertise regarding the Venezuelan oil industry. In this exclusive interview with Venezuelanalysis, Mendoza Potellá offers his analysis on the recent reform of the Hydrocarbon Law, the longstanding influence of Western conglomerates over Venezuela’s energy sector, and the struggle for sovereignty.

In late January, the Venezuelan National Assembly approved a reform of the Hydrocarbon Law. What are your views on the new law?

In broad terms, it is the relinquishing of our condition as a sovereign nation, plain and simple. We are not a nation anymore. We are a territory with some delegate administrators implementing decisions made abroad. Who decides? Emperor Trump, who has his proconsul Marco Rubio.

The approved law meets the maximum demands that the Venezuelan right and the oil conglomerates have been making for at least the last 25 years. The 2002 coup against Chávez was to impose something like this, the return to the old concession model. It is the fulfillment of all the dreams of the old “meritocratic” leadership of [state oil company PDVSA], the people who did everything to minimize the fiscal contributions to the country, whether that meant buying 37 refineries abroad or other disasters that wrecked the country.

The reform is a victory for international oil capital, alongside a discourse that hands over the destiny of the industry to major corporations and diminishes national participation as some unproductive “rentierism.”

The Venezuelan oil industry has gone through various stages, with varying degrees of influence from major transnational corporations, whether that is the period prior to the formal nationalization in 1976 or the Oil Liberalization (Apertura Petrolera) of the 1990s. How do we situate the new law within that context?

I believe this is a step backward beyond the apertura or the pre-nationalization period –perhaps it’s a return to 1832! In 1829, Simón Bolívar issued a decree transferring the Spanish crown’s mining rights to Gran Colombia. This, in turn, was based on old medieval law, essentially establishing that mines were the property of the sovereign, the king. In fact, that is where the term “royalty” comes from –as a tribute to the king. And in 1832, when Venezuela separated from Gran Colombia, that decree ratified the nation’s ownership of its mines. 

Obviously, oil didn’t emerge until 30 or 40 years later, but by 1866 concessions were already being granted. For a time, people spoke of “material that comes from the subsoil,” even though everyone already knew it was oil.

Our first boom was with asphalt. In 1883, Guzmán Blanco granted the Lago Guanoco concession to his buddy Horacio Hamilton, who later transferred it to the New York & Bermúdez Company, a subsidiary of the US firm General Asphalt. The asphalt boom lasted 50 years, and with it, streets and highways were built all over the United States.

But the example of New York & Bermúdez is significant because when Cipriano Castro came to power in 1899, he found out that the company had not paid taxes and attempted to collect them. What did the corporation do? It financed the so-called Revolución Libertadora led by Manuel Antonio Matos, a banker from La Victoria, which was ultimately defeated after two bloody battles. It was the first instance of foreign hydrocarbon interests seeking to control national politics. And it was always linked to the United States.

In the 1920s, then-dictator Juan Vicente Gómez tasked his minister, Gumersindo Torres, with drafting a hydrocarbons law, but the foreign companies did not like it. And Gómez told them, “Well, then, write the law yourselves!” Later, in 1936, the López Contreras administration drafted a very good law, but since it wasn’t retroactive, the companies did not mind because they already had their concessions granted.

When do we start seeing the first steps toward Venezuelan oil nationalism?

It was precisely in 1941 that Medina Angarita took office and commissioned a massive dossier on all the concessions in the country, informing the US government that Venezuela was aware of the importance of its oil. This was during World War II, and the oil companies were haunted by the specter of the 1938 Mexican nationalization under the government of Lázaro Cárdenas.

What was [Franklin D.] Roosevelt’s response? He sent a delegation from the State Department, not to intercede on behalf of the oil companies, but to convince them to accept Medina’s reform, because Venezuelan oil was vital to the war effort. The law passed in 1943 was quite progressive. Its first article stated that hydrocarbons are a matter of national public interest, and as such, concessions were granted for a maximum term of 40 years. Eighty percent of the concessions were granted at that time, to expire in 1983.

Venezuelan production grew through the 1970s, but as the end of the concessions approached, the transnational corporations began implementing policies to somewhat ease the hostility toward foreign investment.

Thus, a policy of “Venezuelanization” of the industry’s management was put into effect. That is why, when the so-called nationalization took place (1976), companies such as Shell and Creole, a subsidiary of Standard Oil-Exxon, had Venezuelans serving as president or vice president. These executives later assumed leadership of the newly created national companies. Their passports were Venezuelan, but their hearts belonged to foreign corporations!

Historically, how was the relationship between foreign corporations and Venezuelan authorities? And how did they respond to the 1976 nationalization?

The corporations grew accustomed to the idea of an industry tailored to their interests. I mentioned how they were the ones who drafted the first Hydrocarbons Law. Oversight bodies, such as the Technical Office of Hydrocarbons, were constantly undermined in their efforts to regulate oil activities. And so the companies could extract oil without paying royalties, violate technical standards for field exploitation, or export gasoline instead of fuel oil.

The 1970s were a turbulent time for the oil sector, marked by geopolitical tensions and the 1973 crisis in the Arab countries. In 1973, James Akins, the Nixon administration’s Director of Energy at the State Department, wrote an article in Foreign Affairs titled “The Oil Crisis; This Time the Wolf Is Here.” He argued that Venezuela could be key to reducing dependence on the Middle East, and that in the face of growing oil nationalism, it was necessary to cede some ground and consider other models of participation, while maintaining control over critical areas such as refining and commercialization.

Put differently, it was possible to offer some token concessions to the nationalist aspirations of oil-producing countries like Venezuela. And that rhetoric spread to the transnational corporations. The president of Shell said at the time, “Venezuela is going to have to take action regarding its oil industry,” while the head of Creole spoke of “the Venezuelans’ oil”!

There were growing signs of how the nationalization would take shape and how the transnationals were restructuring. A good example is the Venezuelan Petroleum Corporation (CVP), created in 1960. Juan Pablo Pérez Alfonzo, whom I consider a visionary and a deeply nationalist figure, had conceived it as a company that would develop until the time came for the state to take over production. But the governments did not let it grow; they did not assign concessions it was entitled to, and by the time of nationalization, the CVP was simply one more operator among 13 or 14. 

In contrast, [Petróleos de Venezuela, SA] PDVSA, created with the nationalization, did have a very clear vision from the start. I remember hearing senior PDVSA executives talking among themselves, discussing how one came from the “Exxon culture,” which was more vertical, and the other from the “Shell culture,” which was more horizontal. And these were the managers! They were the leaders of the Venezuelan oil industry, which had very little “Venezuelan” about it. What we are seeing now is the reconstitution of all these things.

Circling back to the current reform, we have seen that sovereignty is a central issue. How is it affected on different fronts?

For me, a fundamental issue is the return of concessions. Because that means going back decades, handing control back to transnational conglomerates. With taxes and royalties, the problem is not whether the rate is 30% or 15%; that flexibility existed in the past. But now it is the transnational corporations that tell the government what their operating costs are and how much goes to the Venezuelan state. There is no oversight body to verify this; instead, the company says, “I need you to lower royalties to this level” for the project to be profitable.

The return of international arbitration is also a brutal setback, because it means that disputes are not settled in Venezuelan courts, but in other bodies that have a history of defending corporate interests. There is no role left for the Public Solicitor’s Office (Procuradoría General), which is essentially the nation’s attorney. 

For months we were told we were ready to confront imperialism, but the truth is that everything is being imposed on us. Even the National Assembly is castrating itself. It has enacted a law stating that oil projects no longer require the parliament’s approval; they need only be notified. And on top of all that, there is also the constitutional issue. The reform conflicts with Articles 1, 12, 150, 151, and several others of the Constitution. But this is not merely a constitutional violation; it is a total surrender. A surrender of sovereignty that calls into question our status as a republic.

One of the issues under debate is the distinction between a country that owns oil and a country that produces oil. How should we understand the difference?

Of course, that’s fundamental. A country that owns oil simply collects royalties, and it does so according to its political capabilities. At the moment, Venezuela’s capabilities are limited, because the military cannot confront the enemy, and allies like Russia and China have not shown themselves willing to take any risks. So, there is little room to impose conditions on the US.

But this is a country that has grown used to the multinational corporations having free rein over its oil sector. Unfortunately, there are many people, within the industry itself, who believe that “the foreign conglomerates developed this and therefore have a right to these privileges.” Curiously, that is the same rhetoric Trump uses! 

This struggle for sovereignty is fundamental in oil-producing countries. We have seen this with the countries of the Middle East, which try to assert themselves but remain highly dependent on the United States. Obviously, they have the advantage of not being as close as we are. But in my opinion, historically we have lacked nationalism on this issue.

One of the arguments in favor of reforming the Hydrocarbon Law was the need to attract investment to so-called “green fields,” on the grounds that when the previous law was passed in 2001, there were many mature fields ready for development and this is no longer the case. However, major corporations have not shown much enthusiasm. What is your reading on this?

Those are fantasies about oilfields that have always been unviable; it is the obsession with the Orinoco Oil Belt. Humberto Calderón Berti, minister of mines in the 1980s and a major proponent of PDVSA’s internationalization, was already talking about green fields back then. By the way, Calderón Berti is now talking about the possibility of fracking in Lake Maracaibo, which would make the lake’s environmental disaster even worse.

The idea that an avalanche of investment is coming is an illusion, and the oil companies themselves know it. Trump talks about investments of $100 billion, but transnational corporations like ExxonMobil use the word “uninvestable.” With market volatility, no one is thinking about investing in oil with extremely high production costs. There is a study that concludes that increasing production to 2.6 million barrels per day based on the Orinoco Belt would require US $90 billion in investments and $122 billion in operating expenses over the next 10 years to drill 13,000 new wells! In other words, it is completely unfeasible.

On top of that, OPEC’s forecasts for oil demand over the coming decades aren’t particularly ambitious. (1)

So who stands to benefit from this new landscape? On the one hand, small “rogue” companies that can take on a well here and there. But above all, the conglomerates that are already here, like Chevron, which know the lay of the land and can expand their operations or make their current operations more profitable. The same goes for Eni and Repsol, which have some crown jewels, like the offshore Perla natural gas field. The corporations that come will be betting mostly on conventional fields, not the Orinoco Belt.

It is very commonplace to hear about US refineries in the Gulf of Mexico that are built to receive Venezuelan crude. That is true, but it is not oil from the Orinoco Belt! It is oil from the Oriente (East) and Occidente (West) oil-producing regions.

Let us stay for a moment on the Orinoco Oil Belt, since that is where the talk of the “largest oil reserves on the planet” centers, as well as the prospects for a massive increase in production. What are the myths and realities surrounding these deposits?

The Orinoco Belt is a geological miracle. Eighty million years ago, 10–15 percent of all life that existed on the planet was fossilized north of the Orinoco River. It is something to cry out to the heavens. But that is not exploitable oil. It is extra-heavy crude, a sticky mess that needs to be upgraded. First it must be converted into liquid petroleum so it can flow through pipelines, and then taken to be refined and turned into gasoline. 

In the 1970s, the United States saw the energy crisis coming and asked, “When conventional oil runs out, where can we find oil around the world?” In three places: the Soviet Union, Canada, and Venezuela. And where in Venezuela? In the Orinoco Oil Belt. Pérez Alfonzo spoke of the belt as “something for the future,” but the United States wanted to accelerate exploitation and sent a delegation in 1971 to convince President Rafael Caldera to begin the process. In fact, the name was changed from “Tar Belt” to “Oil Belt” to make it more attractive.

The US Geological Survey estimates that there are 513 billion barrels of “technically recoverable” oil. But that is absurd, because there is no capacity. What makes a reserve recoverable has to do with economic ability, the market, and the available technology. Nevertheless, the Orinoco Belt has been at the center of grandiose projections over the past few decades, alongside the highly lucrative business of certifying reserves.

The oil reform took place in a specific context, following years of economic sanctions that have left PDVSA in a very difficult situation. What would be an alternative path? How can the industry recover without surrendering sovereignty?

There are no magic solutions, obviously. We are facing imperialism in the Trump era; we see all its destructive potential. It is a phase where the US, paradoxically, recognizes its weakness and is entrenching itself in its “backyard.” But we must be aware that the industry’s current course is one of total capitulation.

Whether we can recover, whether it is possible or not, we must think about it rigorously, in a sovereign manner. And above all, we must have a serious plan; we cannot be dreaming of 5 or 6 million barrels a day.

There are 17,000 conventional oil wells, with the capacity to produce, abandoned around the country. Of the 35,000 wells in Venezuela, only half are currently producing. The others require investment, though not particularly large ones. And what kind of oil will these wells produce? Crude grades ranging from 20 to 30 degrees. But we need a plan, to examine wells one by one. These are wells that will produce 20, 50, or 100 barrels a day, but it is light and medium crude—the “classic” Venezuelan oil.

So, from a nationalist perspective, what does the future hold for Venezuela’s oil industry? 

The future is to build a post-oil Venezuela. This was already being discussed by theorists such as Francisco Mieres and Pérez Alfonzo in the 1970s. Then, in recent years, many began talking about a post-oil or post-rentier country, but mostly to cover up their incompetence and inability to maintain production levels.

There is no magic solution, and the oil industry will have to play an important role. But the current situation is dire. We are in a new phase of absolute political dependence. It’s not just about oil, or that the US controls revenues, imposes concessions, and so on. It is that the country has lost the ability to make its own decisions.

There are also expectations of the people, who to a large extent have become accustomed to the idea that their oil will last forever. That creates the illusion that things can improve very quickly. The path will be slow, but it has to start with regaining sovereignty.

Note

(1) The interview was conducted before the launch of the US-Israeli war against Iran.

GCC states, UN rights chief Volker Turk warn of grave repercussions amid war on Iran.

Gulf states’ representatives have told the United Nations Human Rights Council that Iranian attacks on their territories amount to a gross violation of state sovereignty, as the UN’s rights chief warned that the Middle East is nearing an “unmitigated catastrophe” as the US-Israel war on Iran approaches the one-month mark.

Saudi Arabia’s representative to the UN, Abdulmohsen Majed bin Khothaila, condemned Iranian attacks during ⁠an emergency meeting called by Gulf states in Geneva on Wednesday, saying the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) member states were being attacked despite not being involved in the conflict.

“[Iranian attacks] violate the UN Charter and international law. We must call things by their name,” Majed bin Khothaila said.

“To target a neighbour is a violation of the principles of good neighbourly relations. To target a mediator betrays all efforts aimed at peace and undermines any constructive initiative. To target states that are not party to the hostilities amounts to unacceptable and unjustifiable attacks that cannot be passed over in silence.”

Qatar’s representative to the UN, Hend bint Abd al-Rahman al-Muftah, said Iran’s attacks had “grave repercussions” that were “not only affecting peace and security in the world, but also human rights”.

“These attacks amount to a great source of concern for us, and we can no longer remain silent,” she added.

“To attack the electricity and desalination plants also involves serious environmental consequences and undermines rights that should be guaranteed by human rights provisions.”

The Qatari representative also noted that the de facto closure of the Strait of Hormuz was “a source of great concern, given the dire consequences it can have on the economy and supply routes”.

Kuwait’s ambassador, Naser Abdullah Alhayen, told the council that the Gulf was “seeing an existential threat to international and regional ⁠security”.

“This aggressive approach is undermining international law and sovereignty,” Alhayen added.

The UN’s rights chief, Volker Turk, warned that the war has created an “extremely dangerous and unpredictable” situation that is pushing the Middle East towards an “unmitigated catastrophe”.

“The only guaranteed way to prevent this is to end the conflict, and I urge all states, and particularly those with influence, to do everything in their power to achieve this,” he said.

Al Jazeera’s Zein Basravi, reporting from Dubai, said the “GCC countries are looking for a seat at the table” at negotiations between the United States and Iran.

“As Iran is going to look for guarantees going forward from the US and Israel, Gulf states will be looking for guarantees from Iran,” he said.

Basravi added that while the volume of incoming attacks in Gulf countries seemed to be going down in recent days, a small attack from Iran “can still create the same level of disruption since the beginning of the war”.