terms

February’s first weekend produced a flurry of gestures that were quickly read as progress. A deeply flawed amnesty law was approved in the first round without even being seen, high-profile prisoners were released after months of disappearance, and the tone of official politics softened, at least on the surface. What emerged, however, was not a clearer transition but a clearer struggle over authorship, over who gets to define what this process is, and what it is allowed to become.

What the weekend revealed is that Venezuela’s transition is not being negotiated in a single place or under a single logic. It is being contested simultaneously across different arenas, each operating on its own incentives, timelines, and definitions of success.

The least visible of these battles is unfolding inside the governing coalition itself. Here, the question is not democracy versus repression but something more technical, and more cynical, how much openness can be performed without relinquishing control over coercion, adjudication, and resources.

Seen from this angle, the weekend’s choreography makes sense. Political prisoners were not simply released, their freedom was folded into a legislative ritual authored by the same political actors responsible for their detention, complete with announced deadlines, speeches heavy with the language of forgiveness, and even calls for applause. This was not the state binding itself, but an attempt to convert discretion into legitimacy.

Political prisoners in Venezuela could have been freed at any moment by executive decision. By embedding their release in a process the government controls, the regime preserved its core advantage, the ability to decide not just when to give, but what the giving means. The Guanipa episode made that logic explicit. A release could function as a signal, and its reversal or legal redefinition could function as discipline. Freedom, in this model, is not a right restored but a condition granted. Arbitrariness is not eliminated, it is rebranded.

If political prisoners are released into silence, surveillance, or renewed legal jeopardy, as we have already seen, then the transition exists largely on paper.

The later revelation that the families Jorge Rodríguez met outside Zona 7 were staged only reinforces the point. Real families introduce uncertainty, anger, memory, demands that do not respect sequencing. Staged ones deliver predictability and allow reconciliation to be performed rather than negotiated. That choice suggests a lack of confidence. A government secure in its legitimacy would not need to simulate social consent at the moment consent matters most.

A second battle is unfolding far from Caracas, inside Washington. It is not a fight over tactics so much as over objectives.

Recent reporting and congressional testimony suggest growing tension over what the Venezuela file is supposed to deliver. Is the goal stabilization, the appearance of calm streets, predictable governance, reduced migration pressure, reopened markets, or is it a democratic transition, with all the uncertainty and volatility that implies.

Those two goals are often rhetorically conflated. In practice, they can diverge.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio’s testimony is revealing here. By emphasizing that the United States will pay attention not only to the release of political prisoners but to how they are treated after, whether they return to political life, whether they speak freely, whether they are harassed or re-detained, Rubio shifted the metric from gestures to behavior over time. That distinction matters. Releasing prisoners is a signal, allowing them to act politically afterwards is a concession.

The regime’s strategy appears aimed at satisfying the former while containing the latter. Speed becomes an asset. If the appearance of a transition advances quickly enough, attention fades, diplomatic costs accumulate, and renewed pressure begins to look disruptive rather than principled.

But stabilization without a genuine transfer of political authority is a fragile equilibrium. It depends on discretionary power remaining benevolent, conditional freedoms remaining honored, and social legitimacy remaining dormant. The events of this weekend, reversible releases, staged consent, selective recognition, suggest none of those conditions can be safely assumed.

This is where the US debate becomes consequential. A Venezuela that is calmer but still politically closed begins to resemble not a democratic transition but a familiar Pinochet-style authoritarian compromise, technocratic opening, crony capitalism, and political repression wrapped in legal form. Whether that outcome is treated as acceptable stabilization or failed transition remains an open question in Washington.

A transition conducted under regime terms prioritizes closure over accountability and order over pluralism. One conducted under society’s terms is slower, messier, and harder to manage, but it is also the only path to durable stability.

The third battle is the most visible and the most familiar. It is the struggle inside Venezuela itself over whether this moment produces a real political opening or merely a rearrangement of control.

Here, the opposition’s internal divide matters. One faction, already seated in the National Assembly, is pursuing legitimacy from the top down. Its wager is that institutional participation, procedural wins, and international recognition will eventually cascade downward to society.

Another current rests on the opposite theory, that legitimacy flows from society upward, and that institutions rebuilt without social consent remain hollow. It is no accident that this current is not attacked head-on but bracketed out of the official narrative. It is easier to exclude than to incorporate.

The treatment of released prisoners will be the clearest test of which logic prevails. If those freed are able to speak, organize, and contest power without fear, then something real is shifting. If they are released into silence, surveillance, or renewed legal jeopardy, as we have already seen, then the transition exists largely on paper.

What the February weekend demonstrated is not that Venezuela is transitioning, but that the fight over who gets to define that transition has intensified.

Inside chavismo, the battle is over how much can be conceded without surrender. In Washington, it is over whether stability is an acceptable substitute for democracy. Inside Venezuela, it is over whether political life will be genuinely reopened or carefully contained.

These battles are related, but they are not the same. They may not even resolve on the same timeline.

A transition conducted under regime terms prioritizes closure over accountability and order over pluralism. One conducted under society’s terms is slower, messier, and harder to manage, but it is also the only path to durable stability. The events of this weekend, far from settling that question, have made it unavoidable.

After Pakistan announced their boycott of the forthcoming T20I World Cup match against India, the International Cricket Council (ICC) was quick to lament the position the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) had put fans in. “[Pakistan’s] decision is not in the interest of the global game or the welfare of fans worldwide,” the ICC said in a release, before going on to make special mention of “millions in Pakistan”, who will now have no India fixture to anticipate.

Through the course of this statement, and the one the previous week, justifying the ICC’s ultimatum to the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB) – which eventually led to Bangladesh’s exit from the tournament – the ICC leaned on ideals of fairness and equality. The “integrity and sanctity” of the World Cup was invoked, as well as the “neutrality and fairness” of such an event.

Pakistan’s fans may clock, of course, that they had not attracted such concern before the Champions Trophy in 2025, when India had refused to play in Pakistan for what were, in truth, purely political reasons. As it happened, a semifinal and the final of that tournament were eventually moved away from Pakistan, India’s cricketing magnetism pulling the knockouts to Dubai, after the ICC had adopted a “hybrid” model wherein India played all its matches outside the “host” country.

This was a key moment setting cricket on its current trajectory. In return for India’s refusal to play in its home country, Pakistan insisted they would not travel to India for this year’s T20 World Cup – two of the most storied cricketing nations on the planet descending to reciprocal petulance. In the lead-up to this World Cup, Bangladesh was also drawn into the fray, the Indian Premier League (IPL) franchise’s jettisoning of Bangladesh bowler Mustafizur Rahman prompting Bangladesh to demand all its matches be played in Sri Lanka (India’s co-host for this tournament), and that demand, in turn, leading to it being thrown out entirely.

All claims that any of these boycotts are founded on security concerns are, in fact, bogus; security assessments ordered by the ICC had found India sufficiently equipped to handle Bangladesh’s visit, while Pakistan had hosted ICC-sanctioned international cricket involving multiple touring teams, and Pakistan had played an entire One Day International (ODI) World Cup in India as recently as 2023.

What is also clear, however, is that the ICC has now allowed its sport to become the medium through which South Asian states, currently as riven as they have been for decades, exchange geopolitical blows. What’s more, the ICC has begun to favour one set of geopolitical ambitions over others, India never so much as copping a censure for its refusal to play in Pakistan, while India’s men’s team’s refusal to shake hands with the Pakistan players in last year’s Asia Cup has now been adopted across the Board of Cricket in Control’s (BCCI’s) teams – the women’s and Under-19 (U19) sides following suit. To take the ICC at face value would also require believing that ICC Chair Jay Shah is conducting his business in complete separation from Amit Shah, who is India’s home minister.

It is India’s stupendous cricket economy that has chiefly brought about this imbalance. Since 2014, when a Big Three (India, Australia, England) takeover at the ICC diverted cricket to a hypercapitalist path, the game’s top administrators have been adamant that it is profits that must define cricket’s contours. Because India is the wellspring of much of the game’s finances, the ICC has organised for the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) to receive close to 40 percent of the ICC’s net earnings, while international men’s cricket largely surrenders a fifth of the calendar to the IPL. The sport’s high-octane driver of financial growth demands protection, or so the official line goes. If member boards fail to align with the BCCI agenda at the ICC, it has long been taken as read that the BCCI may threaten to cancel India’s next tour of that country, which in turn may shatter the smaller board’s revenues. The vote to issue that ultimatum to the BCB had run 14-2 against Bangladesh. A board must never forget at whose table it eats.

A cricket world that has spent 12 years lionising economic might cannot now be surprised that politics has now begun to overrun even the game’s financial imperatives. That monopolies tend to lead to appalling contractions in consumer choice has been a fundamental tenet of economics for generations. Hundreds of millions of Bangladesh fans are about to discover this over the next few weeks, as will the remainder of the cricketing world on February 15, when India and Pakistan were due to play. That profit-driven systems, which equate wealth with power, frequently lose the means to check the most powerful, is another longstanding principle in political economics.

The tournament’s competitive standards will also undoubtedly slip for Bangladesh’s absence. Bangladesh have a body of work in cricket that, respectfully, utterly dwarfs that of Scotland, who have replaced them. There are warnings here, too, for other cricketing economies. Although broadcast revenues from Bangladesh are a mere sliver of the mountains India presently generates, macroeconomic indicators from Bangladesh (a growing population, an improving gross domestic product (GDP) per capita and Inequality-adjusted Human Development Index (IHDI) ranking) suggest that market is set to grow in future decades. If the ICC is willing to freeze a Full Member with Bangladesh’s potential, what will it do to more vulnerable boards – Sri Lanka, New Zealand, and the West Indies, for example?

The irony for many boards is that they have largely served the BCCI’s agenda at the ICC for a dozen years, helping extend its financial dominance. Since the Big Three first carved up governance and finances at the ICC in 2014, most smaller boards have been enthusiastic supporters of the BCCI’s programme, believing that only by appeasing India can they survive, which in itself is a tacit admission of a galling lack of ambition. And still, a dozen years of carrying this water has delivered them to no less bleak a position. In fact, several of the smaller Full Members have regressed..

Sri Lanka Cricket, for instance, has in recent years been among the BCCI’s most loyal allies. But it has now been a dozen years since any of their senior teams made the semifinal of a global tournament. Their Test cricket survives, but barely – the schedule is increasingly thin. Sri Lanka men only have six Tests on their slate in 2026, having had as few as four Tests to play last year. Cricket West Indies, meanwhile, has not seen a major resurgence on the field either, their men’s T20 fortunes having subsided since 2016, while both their men’s and women’s ODI teams have failed to qualify for the most recent World Cups. Zimbabwe Cricket is in no less challenging a footing now than it was two decades ago.

New Zealand and South Africa have held their own on the field, especially in women’s cricket and in the Test format. But to get here, Cricket South Africa (CSA), in particular, has had to be publicly chastened by the BCCI – in 2013, when India shortened a tour there because the BCCI resented the appointment of a CEO it didn’t like. More recently, South Africa’s top T20 league has also failed to feature Pakistan players, because each of the SA20’s franchise owners has a base in India. Excluding sportspeople based on the circumstances of their birth cuts hard against the ethos of post-Apartheid sport in South Africa. And yet even this national ambition has been subjugated by Indian political interests. Smaller boards have become so reliant on funds flowing from India that India increasingly chooses the terms of their cricketing survival.

Now, a World Cup is about to begin with Bangladesh having learned the harshest lesson of all. The BCB had been among the first of the smaller boards to sign away power to the Big Three during the first takeover in 2014. In 2026, the BCB now finds itself deeply out of favour for non-cricketing reasons.

India is inarguably the greatest cricketing superpower there ever has been. Even in the days of the Imperial Cricket Conference (the ICC’s predecessor), Australia and England could perhaps be relied on to check each other’s most predatory instincts. Such checks do not hold when one board is the sun, and the remainder are merely planets in its orbit. Perhaps the lesson for CA and the ECB – the BCCI’s most eager collaborators – is that the time may be coming when India has decided they are past their use-by date too. Why shouldn’t the BCCI freeze them out eventually? Would India not merely be doing what all superpowers tend to do, which is to leverage its stupendous power until all others either conform or are cast off? And why should the BCCI’s ambitions fall short of gobbling up even those established markets?

Cricket is now making clear its allegiances, and despite the ICC’s rhetoric, its commitments are no longer to neutrality and competitive equilibrium which are such vital rudiments of any sport. Other boards have allowed India’s will to prevail to such an extent that its motives now need not be merely economic; they can be nakedly political. And cricket is being eaten alive in this dark intersection between money and politics.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Feb. 3 (UPI) — House Republicans gave former President Bill Clinton and former first lady and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton a deadline of noon Tuesday to clarify the terms under which they plan to testify in an investigation into sex offender Jeffrey Epstein.

The former first couple agreed Monday evening to testify in the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee probe. Committee Chairman James Comer of Kentucky and the Clintons have repeatedly butted heads as they negotiate the details of the testimony.

The Clintons have “been so dishonest about the negotiation process, and their attorneys have been so dishonest about the negotiation process,” Comer told The Hill on Tuesday.

“We sent the terms, which are the basic standard terms of a congressional deposition … They have to sign it, and then if they sign it, then we agree to terms, and we’ll be deposing the Clintons in the month.”

Angel Urena, a spokesperson for former President Clinton, called Comer disingenuous amid the negotiations Monday.

The Clintons “negotiated in good faith. You did not. They told you under oath what they know, but you don’t care,” Urena said in a post on X. “But the former President and former Secretary of State will be there.”

House Speaker Mike Johnson said if the Clintons don’t sign the terms by the noon deadline, Republicans will move forward with holding them in criminal contempt of Congress.

“We’re holding off until noon,” Johnson said. “They have a deadline until noon to work out the details, and if it’s not done satisfactorily, then we’ll proceed with the contempt.”

Republican leader Steve Scalise said Republicans would hold a contempt vote Wednesday if need be.

Unnamed sources familiar with the negotiations told Politico and The Hill that the committee wants the Clintons to accept the terms under which they were initially subpoenaed in the case — transcribed, filmed depositions with no time limits.

Bill Clinton, however, seeks to narrow the focus of the testimony to “matters related to the investigations and prosecutions of Jeffrey Epstein.” He also didn’t want a transcribed interview, but instead a deposition under oath, and sought a 4-hour time limit.

Hillary Clinton sought a secondary sworn declaration instead of appearing in person for a deposition.

The committee issued subpoenas in August compelling the Clintons to testify. Bill Clinton is a former associate of the late Epstein but said he broke off relations with the disgraced financier in the early 2000s before his crimes became publicly known. Hillary Clinton has said she doesn’t recall ever speaking with Epstein.

Democrats have accused the Republican-led committee of trying to focus on the Clintons as part of President Donald Trump‘s pursuit of investigations of political rivals and to deflect from Epstein’s relationships with notable Republicans, including the sitting president.