Venezuelas

PARIS Fury has revealed why Tommy Fury wasn’t at Venezuela’s wedding after his pregnant fiancée Molly-Mae Hague flew to the venue by private jet.

The proud mother-of-the-bride showered Molly, 26, with praise for going above and beyond to make it to Venezuela’s big day, while Tommy was nowhere to be seen.

Molly, who is heavily pregnant with her second child, was seen stepping onto the runway with her daughter Bambi, 3, and sister Zoe Rae.

The extravagant soiree is taking place at The Comis Hotel and Resort on the outskirts of Douglas, Isle of Man.

In awe of Molly, Paris told The Sun: “She is incredible. She is being fully supportive, and she is bringing Bambi over, so that Bambi could be a bridesmaid with the kids.

“But I have got to throw her props. She is making that journey while heavily pregnant and I wouldn’t have been able to face that while I was at her term of pregnancy.

“It’s very good,” Paris added.

Molly’s fiancé, Tommy, 27, Tyson’s younger brother, wasn’t able to join in the festivities.

Tommy, who Molly met on the reality TV hit in 2019, had to stay in Manchester for his boxing training camp.

She says: “I’m very glad that they are coming. It means a lot. It’s a big journey for anyone to come from home to here.

“It’s lovely that they are making the effort. It’s lovely that Bambi and the other little girls all get to be bridesmaids. They are all cousins and it’s sweet that they‘ll make memories together.”

Bambi is one of 13 of the child bridesmaids, including Venezuela’s little sisters Valencia, eight, and Athena, including four of Noah’s cousins, and family members, as well as five grown up bridesmaids.

Venezuela revealed: “I chose powder blue cupcake dresses for the little ones, they’re really cute, and fitted gowns for my friends.”

Paris said: “Evangeline Designs in Liverpool made the bridesmaid dresses and every day there it was like, ‘There’s a new little dress, there’s a new dress there’s a new dress, because we ended up having a few extra little bridesmaids’.

“They’re wearing flowers in their hair.”

Paris revealed: “We found £120 shoes for the little ones, and the only shoes we found in the right shade of blue for the women were stunning shoes that were £13 from Shein.”

Paris stored all the wedding party outfits in a specially allocated wedding room in the basement of their home.

Paris and Venezuela thoughtfully put together goodie bags, which included diamante Primark flip flops, matching pyjamas, a hairbrush, sweets, Doll beauty make up and a “little dolly” for each of the younger bridesmaids.

And it wasn’t just the women who dazzled on Venezuela’s big day. The men were looking just as dapper.

“The men are in black tuxedos, Tyson too and Noah is in an ivory tuxedo. Noah picked it,” Paris said.

“Collecting everything wasn’t easy. I felt like I was doing circles on ferries with carloads.”

Photo by Rodrigo Abd for The Associated Press, May 2019 

The window international operators had waited years opened overnight in Venezuela. The interim government has signed new hydrocarbon and mining laws. US officials have been in and out of Caracas. The government of Delcy Rodríguez has landed several new deals in a matter of months. Everything is happening so fast that elements that seemed obvious when Nicolás Maduro was in charge are suddenly overlooked or underdiscussed.

For the last thirteen years I have worked in indigenous communities in the Venezuelan Amazon, in border towns along the Colombian border, and in barrios in and around Caracas. The Venezuelan towns and territories are not the ones the companies coming back will remember.

Almost eight million people left Venezuela during the crisis, one of the largest displacement events in history. The oil-dependent towns of Zulia, Anzoátegui, and Monagas were not spared, nor were mining communities in Bolívar and Amazonas. In some places, a large share of the working-age population is simply gone. What remains is older, poorer, and more dependent on informal survival than the country they left.

Institutions have followed. Hospitals in oilfield regions operate, where they operate at all, at drastically reduced capacity. Schools have hemorrhaged teachers. Local government in many areas has ceased to perform basic functions. Chronic blackouts compound everything. Formal PDVSA employment, the organizing principle of community life in these regions, collapsed along with the company. In many places there are no longer legitimate interlocutors left to negotiate with as the local civic infrastructure that companies elsewhere take for granted has been hollowed alongside everything else.

Once the rigs come back, however, these towns will not stay hollow. They will hastily be filled with returnees, prospectors, informal traders, and internal migrants chasing rumored hiring. The Mining Arc has already shown what this looks like: since 2016, gold has pulled in shifting populations of miners, intermediaries, and military protection chains, with towns like Tumeremo and El Callao expanding and contracting to the rhythm of the frontier economy.

A criminalized operating environment

In most resource markets, companies enter with a clear distinction between the formal environment and the informal risks around it. That distinction broke down in Venezuela a long time ago.

Research by Insight Crime and the International Crisis Group has documented how, over a decade, the line between State oversight and participation in illicit extraction dissolved. Individuals linked to the military and the ruling party benefited from illegal mining, using it as political currency and to cement alliances with Colombia’s ELN and FARC dissident factions. Gold mining was estimated to generate more than $2.2 billion last year, much of it through channels that evaded oversight. In the oil sector, criminal groups have been documented siphoning roughly 30% of fuel in some regions.

“There is deep political skepticism in the communities. Many do not believe that this time will actually bring lasting reforms,” a senior humanitarian told me.

The Rodríguez-led interim government intends to change this, and the foreign policy pressure behind the new laws is real. But the continuity problem deserves precision. The recent turnover at the top of the security apparatus—Defense, military intelligence, the presidential guard—was a selective reshuffle within the chavista system, not an outsider takeover or institutional rupture. The personnel and chains of command sitting inside this supposedly new architecture are not new. Informal structures built over a decade do not dissolve with a reshuffle among the same political elite.

Informal actors are not parallel to the formal system, but intertwined with it, which presents a complex practical consequence to the investors. Companies entering these zones will negotiate, in practice, with all of them at once: the local political boss, the garrison commander asking for vacuna, the colectivo that controls the access road, the gestor who can speed a permit, the sindicato, the guerrilla commander. The single regulator is a fiction.

What communities remember

These are not communities without prior experience of extraction. Many have decades of it, enough to have formed hard views about what operators promise, what they deliver, and what gets left behind. Those views were then tested against a decade of watching investment withdraw, oil spills go unaddressed, and industry jobs disappear.

The environmental record is severe and specific. Aging pipelines and wells around Lake Maracaibo, once the engine of the Venezuelan oil industry, have left slicks visible from the air, fishing communities along its shores watching their catch collapse, and a persistent green bloom of algae fed by untreated sewage and hydrocarbon residue. In mining regions, studies have found that up to 90% of Indigenous women in the Orinoco Mining Arc carry dangerously high mercury levels. These are not abstract concerns. They are the lived experience of the population any operator will meet.

The damage is also in the memory of being told it would be different. Communities have seen “openings” before. A senior humanitarian, who has spent years working on community engagement throughout the country, put it to me while I was writing this piece: “There is deep political skepticism in the communities. Many do not believe that this time will actually bring lasting reforms, and that hardens their initial positions. Even well-intentioned and hopeful promises can be met with radical distrust.”

Sanctions, fiscal terms, and reservoirs can be modeled from afar. The social landscape of a specific Zulia oilfield town or a Bolívar Indigenous territory cannot.

For an operator arriving with standard community-engagement  language, the problem is not that the offer isn’t understood. Other versions of it have been heard before, and the probability it fails to hold is being priced in.

Skepticism in Venezuela also comes pre-supplied with vocabulary. Almost three decades of State rhetoric have framed foreign extractive capital as imperial extraction (saqueo, entrega). People do not have to believe the framing to use it. Many will reach for it because it is the only available vocabulary for criticizing a returning company. The corporate language that lands well in a boardroom across an ocean arrives into a discursive space that has been filled for a generation.

None of which prepares an operator for the deepest mismatch. Where the State has withdrawn from basic services, foreign companies will not be received as purely economic actors. They will be received as potential substitutes for the State and expected to provide what the hospital, the school, the utility, and the municipality no longer do. A company arriving to play a bounded role (taxes, permits, a defined social investment envelope) may find the limits it has drawn around itself are not recognized on the other side of the gate. Conflict may rise not because the company has done something wrong, but because the role it is willing to play is smaller than the role it is being asked to fill. And past experience tells people that the only leverage they have, when promises don’t hold, is disruption.

The carpentry problem

In their 1984 book El caso Venezuela: una ilusión de armonía, Moisés Naím and Ramón Piñango argued that Venezuela had lived for decades in an unsustainable harmony, oil revenue papering over political frustrations. Today there is no harmony and there is no illusion. The arbiters are weaker than they have ever been. The redistributive cushion is gone.

In a 2024 retrospective, Naím and Piñango named a specific mode of failure: the neglect of what they called, in a deliberate understatement, la carpintería, the carpentry. The unglamorous work of implementation, where plans either succeed or quietly fall apart. Small, dismissed flaws in execution had repeatedly proved fatal. When everything was a priority, nothing was.

This is where the current opening risks repeating the failure, transposed from public policy to private investment. A former senior executive at a major international oil company recently told me that the industry’s preference for offshore projects in Venezuela is shaped to a meaningful extent by a desire to avoid the social dynamics on land, not only by reservoir quality. Sanctions, fiscal terms, and reservoirs can be modeled from afar. The social landscape of a specific Zulia oilfield town or a Bolívar Indigenous territory cannot, and the speed of the opening is pulling capital past the groundwork that determines whether a project actually runs.

The contracts will be signed in Caracas and approved in Houston or London. They will fail or hold somewhere else: at the gate of a refinery in Anzoátegui and on the road into a mining town, in front of a hospital that hasn’t run a power generator in a year. The plans are moving faster than the country they describe. That is the carpentry. That is where the projects will come apart: not on the page, but among neighbors more changed, more skeptical, and more demanding than the plan assumed.

THE HAGUE — Venezuela ’s acting President Delcy Rodríguez told journalists Monday that her country had no plans to become the 51st U.S. state after President Trump said he was “seriously considering” the move.

Rodríguez was speaking at the International Court of Justice in The Hague on the final day of hearings in a dispute between her country and neighboring Guyana over the massive mineral- and oil-rich Essequibo region.

“We will continue to defend our integrity, our sovereignty, our independence, our history,” said Rodríguez, who assumed power in January following a U.S. military operation that ousted then-President Nicolás Maduro. Venezuela is “not a colony, but a free country,” she added.

Speaking to Fox News earlier on Monday, Trump said he was “seriously considering making Venezuela the 51st U.S. state,” according to a post by Fox News’ co-anchor John Roberts on social media. The White House did not immediately respond to a request for comment on the matter.

Trump has made similar comments about Canada.

Rodríguez went on to say that Venezuelan and U.S. officials have been in touch and are working on “cooperation and understanding.”

Before addressing Trump’s comments, Rodríguez defended her country’s claim to Essequibo at the United Nations’ highest court, telling judges that political negotiations — not a judicial ruling — will resolve the century-old territorial dispute.

The 62,000-square-mile territory, which makes up two-thirds of Guyana, is rich in gold, diamonds, timber and other natural resources. It also sits near massive offshore oil deposits currently producing an average 900,000 barrels a day.

That output is close to Venezuela’s daily production of about 1 million barrels a day and has transformed one of the smallest countries in South America into a significant energy producer.

Venezuela has considered Essequibo its own since the Spanish colonial period, when the jungle region fell within its boundaries. But an 1899 decision by arbitrators from Britain, Russia and the United States drew the border along the Essequibo River largely in favor of Guyana.

Venezuela has argued that a 1966 agreement sealed in Geneva to resolve the dispute effectively nullified the 19th-century arbitration. In 2018, however, three years after ExxonMobil announced a significant oil discovery off the Essequibo coast, Guyana’s government went to the International Court of Justice and asked judges to uphold the 1899 ruling.

Tensions between the countries further flared in 2023, when Rodríguez’s predecessor, Maduro, threatened to annex the region by force after holding a referendum asking voters if Essequibo should be turned into a Venezuelan state. Maduro was captured Jan. 3 during a U.S. military operation in Venezuela’s capital, Caracas, and taken to New York to face drug trafficking charges. He has pleaded not guilty.

Rodríguez did not address the referendum in her remarks, but she told the court that the 1966 agreement is designed to allow negotiations between Venezuela and Guyana to resolve the territorial dispute. And she accused Guyana’s government of undermining the agreement with the “opportunistic” decision to ask the court to address the dispute.

“At a time when the mechanisms established in the Geneva agreement were still fully in force, Guyana unilaterally chose to shift the dispute from the negotiating arena to a judicial resolution,” she said. “This change was not accidental; it coincided with the discovery in 2015 of the oil field that would become world-renowned.”

When hearings opened last week, Guyana’s foreign minister, Hugh Hilton Todd, told the panel of international judges that the dispute “has been a blight on our existence as a sovereign state from the very beginning.” He said that 70% of Guyana’s territory is at stake.

The court is likely to take months to issue a final and legally binding ruling in the case.

Venezuela has warned that its participation in the hearings does not mean either consent to, or recognition of, the court’s jurisdiction.

Quell and Cano write for the Associated Press. Garcia Cano reported from Mexico City.

Caracas, May 5, 2026 (venezuelanalysis.com) – Venezuelan Acting President Delcy Rodríguez called US President Donald Trump a “man of action” and reiterated her commitment to long-term relations with Washington during a ceremony at Miraflores Palace on May 1.

Rodríguez received a delegation of US officials and business executives led by Jarrod Agen, executive director of the Trump administration’s National Energy Dominance Council.

“Please tell President Trump, who is a man of action, that in Venezuela there are men and women of action, but also of their word,” she told the US guests during a televised broadcast. “And we have made a commitment to build solid, long-term relations between the US and Venezuela.”

For his part, Agen first referred to Trump as a “man of action” and claimed that US-Venezuela relations are currently moving at “Trump speed” and that the White House is looking to promote oil, gas, and mining investments in the Caribbean nation.

The public statements followed the signing of contracts with Overseas Oil Company and Crossover Energy Holding for oil and gas projects in Anzoátegui, Barinas, and Monagas states, with investments of up to US $2 billion planned. Venezuelan authorities provided no details about the ventures, with Rodríguez only stating that the natural gas output would be used to strengthen the country’s electricity generation.

According to Argus Media, the two corporations will “work with” Venezuelan state oil company PDVSA on extra-heavy crude projects in the Orinoco Oil Belt. Venezuela’s recent pro-business overhaul of the Hydrocarbon Law allows PDVSA to lease out projects in exchange for a portion of the output.

While Crossover Energy does not have a track record of any past energy initiatives, Overseas Oil is a subsidiary of Hunt Oil, a 90-year-old company founded by Texas magnate H.L. Hunt. Hunt Oil previously used its close ties to the George W. Bush administration to secure oil contracts in Iraqi Kurdistan following the 2003 US invasion.

The latest oil agreements follow major energy deals struck by Chevron, Eni, Repsol, and Shell under the favorable conditions of the reformed Hydrocarbon Law, which include expanded control over operations and sales as well as reduced taxes and royalties.

On May 1, the acting Rodríguez administration also signed a memorandum of understanding in the mining sector with the US’ Heeney Capital and Switzerland’s Mercuria Energy Group.

In a statement, Mercuria, one of the world’s largest commodity traders with a history of involvement in international mining projects, explained that it had entered into “a series of strategic offtake agreements” to purchase around $2.2 billion a year of Venezuelan bulk commodities and gold. 

“The transactions align with ongoing efforts by US authorities to encourage responsible foreign investment in Venezuela’s extractive industries and to facilitate offtake structures that prioritize supply to Western markets,” the communiqué read.

Mercuria and Heeney likewise expressed interest in aluminum, nickel, and ferrous products “opportunities” that could represent a further $3 billion in annual exports.

Heeney co-founder and partner Sean Pi, who signed the agreement on behalf of the foreign companies, thanked Trump for his “leadership” in defending US access to critical minerals. Pi testified before the US House of Representatives in February to back legislative initiatives deregulating and streamlining mining projects to bolster the US supply of critical minerals.

Venezuelan Mining Minister Héctor Silva hailed the deal a “first step for the strengthening of mining ties between the US and Venezuela.” The Venezuelan National Assembly recently approved a new Mining Law that establishes incentives for Western conglomerates to exploit the South American country’s vast mineral resources.

The US delegation for the energy and mining deals with Caracas arrived on board the first direct flight between the US and Venezuela. American Airlines will hold a daily Miami-Caracas connection and will add a second one beginning on May 21 due to high demand.

US Chargé d’Affaires in Venezuela John Barrett held a ribbon-cutting ceremony alongside Venezuelan Transport Minister Jacqueline Faría to mark the resumption of the direct flights. 

Addressing reporters, Barrett stated that the reestablished air connection was a “milestone” and a “clear sign that Venezuela is open for business.”

Caracas and Washington fast-tracked a diplomatic rapprochement in the wake of the January 3 US military strikes and kidnapping of President Nicolás Maduro. Acting President Rodríguez has hosted several White House officials and touted investment opportunities for US corporations. For its part the Trump administration has issued sanctions waivers allowing select Western companies to participate in the Venezuelan energy and mining sectors but imposing control over Venezuelan export revenues.

Edited by Lucas Koerner in Caracas.

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.

In an era of 150-page novels in 14-point font, and books on Venezuela’s recent history that feel like overly long opinion pieces, Ulises Milla’s Editorial Alfa opted for something entirely different: a chronicle of how chavismo took over the Venezuelan State between 1999 and 2004, the product of ten years of research, divided into two volumes totaling more than 1,400 pages.

It is titled La oscuridad no llegó sola (no English translation yet), taken from a line by a Colombian poet, and has a subtitle that speaks volumes: “chronicle of a Venezuelan tragedy.” Yes, it is a chronicle in the broadest sense of the term, a systematic and multifaceted account that protects a series of events from oblivion in a specific era. It is also a Venezuelan tragedy, one among many, in which everything leads to an unhappy ending that seems inevitable, as in those of Aeschylus or Sophocles.

There is a classical feel to Mirtha Rivero’s new work, not only because she has drawn on literary genres that are over two millennia old, but also because it is a book that took a long time to write, one made to transcend time. For this reader, it is another essential text about our past, like José Domingo Díaz’s chronicles of the First and Second Republics or Lisandro Alvarado’s Historia de la Revolución Federal, and certainly like Rivero’s previous work: the bestseller La rebelión de los náufragos, published in 2010. It does not attempt to impose a personal thesis, defend one side or one figure, or propose a solution to the nation’s ills. It is an effort to understand how things happened, on a scale vast enough to allow the patterns of behavior developed by political actors over those years to emerge.

For those of us who experienced these events firsthand, through the media, La oscuridad no llegó sola still reveals aspects of the story we didn’t know, thanks to the quantity and quality of its sources. For those who were too young, it is an unparalleled document on how the traditional political class underestimated chavismo, how chavismo took advantage of the negligence and frivolity of its adversaries to seize control of institutions, and how the anti-politics we saw explode in La rebelión de los náufragos helped demolish what little remained of that democracy, which committed suicide, or allowed itself to die. A tragedy that, with its variations, has happened before. And that will very likely happen again. La oscuridad no llegó sola by Mirtha Rivero is available on Amazon and in bookstores in Spain. From Monterrey, Mexico, where she has lived for several years, the economics journalist who is showing how Venezuela’s contemporary history must be written spoke with Caracas Chronicles.

I want to start with the moment when La rebelión de los náufragos was published, had the impact it did, and you began the journey that led to these two volumes. You addressed this in the preface to La oscuridad no llegó sola, but what was the process like for defining not only the 1999-2004 timeframe, but also the questions you wanted to answer?

After La rebelión de los náufragos was published, I didn’t immediately consider any other topics. It was the third book I had written, but it was the first one that was published, and its reception changed my way of working. It was like a shock. For a year and a half, I couldn’t think about another “topic” because I was adapting to that new reality. It was in mid-June 2011 that another topic emerged. I wanted to answer a question: What happened in the 2004 recall referendum? For me, it was personally very important because, as a result, my husband and I began looking for a new place to live. Did voting fraud occur or not? What was it like? How did we get to that point? So I marked the period: from Chávez’s inauguration on February 2, 1999, until the day of the referendum, August 15, 2004.

It wasn’t so much that chavismo was pressuring the Supreme Court, but rather that a large part of society favored a Constituent Assembly.

I had to go back quite far because Chávez didn’t appear out of nowhere. Nor did other figures: the architects who helped him set up his political machine, those who accompanied him from that day forward, and those who had been with him even before the 1992 uprisings didn’t appear out of nowhere. They all have a past and a reason for being there, just like the people who kept appearing in my research. I confirmed along the way that during those years, the foundations were laid and the entire structure that allows chavismo to endure was built. As I guide my narrative, I realize that I not only have to look back, but that I often force myself to project into the future. For example, I look back when I discuss the oil industry, which is an important topic in my chronicle, but I also look forward when someone talks about the changes in the judicial sphere that the 1999 Constitution imposed, and I’m going to the trial against Judge Afiuni in 2009.

I see. For me, La oscuridad no llegó sola is a twin of La rebelión de los náufragos, in its structure, its tone, and its intention: first, you show how the political class sacrificed democracy with Carlos Andrés Pérez and paved the way for chavismo, and now we see how it overestimated its own strength and underestimated Chávez. Was describing this hall of mirrors the plan, or did it emerge during the research?

It wasn’t the plan. I didn’t see it as a continuation, nor as a hall of mirrors: it turned out that way, the story led me there. Exploring the recall referendum was actually a pretext for me to delve into that era, which I was afraid of. What was important was what happened before the referendum. How the referendum was repeatedly postponed until Chavismo had all institutions and powers under its control, which culminated in the expansion of the Supreme Court, and how it was able to regain popular support through direct subsidies via the social missions. How the opposition promoted the recall referendum without having a candidate to challenge Chavismo if Chávez lost and elections were held.

What did you learn, while writing this book, about the ability of the various opposition leaders to interpret reality? Do you share the common opinion that popular support for Chávez was underestimated in 1998 and 1999?

I was very surprised by their inability to see what was right in front of them. We had already seen how short-sighted the political parties were, their reluctance to form and renew themselves, since the 1980s. This is evident in the conspiracy against Carlos Andrés Pérez in 1993, based on a check from the secret fund that had been annulled in 1989 and was used against him in 1992; in the corruption accusations made by (future chavista minister) José Vicente Rangel; in the resistance to the reforms of the Presidential Commission for State Reform; and in the insistence of the old leaders on remaining political bosses.

There were people who knew who this Hugo Chávez they were opposing really was, but even so, there were those clumsy last-minute maneuvers in the 1998 campaign, and they weren’t prepared for the scenario in which Congress would be eliminated, as Chávez himself had said would happen. They acted with great carelessness in the face of Chávez’s rise: society, the political parties, and even a political animal like Teodoro Petkoff underestimated him. I was very surprised that they didn’t know how to confront the lieutenant colonel, the authoritarian tendencies that came with him, the power-hungry Left that accompanied him, the people who applauded the military coup attempts of 1992. They offered no resistance when Chavismo abolished Congress, taking advantage of the anti-political sentiment that had also been brewing since the 1980s. The lack of vision, and even of any statesman-like discourse, on the part of the politicians, did surprise me greatly.

One of the book’s many achievements was to unearth and trace a somewhat forgotten but key episode: how the Supreme Court accepted the Constituent Assembly’s suspension of the Legislative Branch. Did that also surprise you, how they paved the way for the dissolution of the separation of powers? How much pressure was chavismo exerting on the Supreme Court?

It didn’t surprise me that much, because we experienced it firsthand. The chavistas had just come to power and were barely learning how to use it, and they couldn’t exert pressure before Chávez took office on February 2, 1999. It wasn’t so much that chavismo was pressuring the Supreme Court, but rather that a large part of society favored a Constituent Assembly, even though a constitutional reform would have sufficed. Many people believed that this Constituent Assembly would save the country, to create a new, bright, efficient nation. Everyone was riding that wave. As Simón Alberto Consalvi said, we cannot absolve the people of their decisions.

Some of your interviewees, as expected, fall into hindsight bias: assigning to certain moments a meaning that we see today but that wasn’t easy to discern then. For example, everyone in your book says they knew the 2002-2003 strike was a bad idea, but that “the majority decided”: Didn’t you yourself fall into hindsight bias? Because when I write about those years, I have to tell myself, “Remember what you thought then about the 2002 general strike, not what you think today.”

One can always fall into that bias because one isn’t objective, pristine, but I was very careful about that and made an effort to compare the accounts. Because many interviewees told me things that didn’t happen as they said; they were mixing what others had told them with what they would have liked to have happened. My own interpretations of a particular moment fell apart as I investigated. Sometimes the same scene had six different testimonies, and I had to cross-reference them, sometimes going back to the witnesses to confirm or discuss parts of their story. The good thing is that I encountered very little reluctance from the interviewees, although of course there were people who didn’t want to talk, who stood me up, and I even made trips for nothing. 

Both the oil workers and the dissident military officers were convinced they were right and that they could convince some people, while these people already had a plan in place.

With those I did talk to, I sometimes confronted them, because now it turns out, for example, that nobody agreed with the national civic strike, or as we called it then, the “oil strike.” But the investigation was able to determine who truly resisted, and how society pressured for a repeat of what happened on April 11, even though it was so unlikely to have any effect.

April 11, 2002, is like the novel Rashomon; the same event is seen differently depending on many perspectives. But it’s quite well documented; much less known is what happened within PDVSA, and you contributed a lot to those of us who aren’t familiar with the oil world. How do you see today the role played by the oil executives when they decided to step outside their bubble? 

Within that bubble were people like Edgar Paredes and Juan Santana who, having been involved in university politics, were politically savvy. They knew their place and what might happen, but also what they needed to do. They created that protest movement to rescue PDVSA. Society joined them because, in reality, it used the PDVSA conflict as an excuse to protest many other things, but the oil workers were trying to defend their company because, ever since Chávez was elected in ’98, they saw him as a threat. Naively, they believed they could change the policies because they came from a school of thought where debate and consensus were reached. But even during the 2002 strike, they continued fighting to rescue PDVSA. They were fighting for the country too, but to rescue the country, they believed, PDVSA had to be rescued. The same was true for the soldiers in Plaza Altamira. Right or wrong, they wanted to rescue the FAN (National Armed Forces) where they had made their careers, without understanding that they couldn’t, because the first political prisoners of chavismo were military personnel.

The idea that Chávez also provoked the April 11th march, or the movement to crush it, is a narrative he fabricated after those events.

Both the oil workers and the dissident military officers were convinced they were right and that they could convince some people, while these people already had a plan in place. They thought that the truth would prevail and that the people would act for the good of the country. But that wasn’t meant to happen. They suffered a lack of understanding of the country’s political history, of what the 1992 coups meant. Because they were caught up in their own business, in what they knew. In fact, not all the oil workers or the military saw Chávez as a threat and voted for him in 1998, like a large part of the country.

Reading the book, I came to feel more empathy for what the oil workers and even certain military personnel, did than for what the politicians did.

Because they actually did more than the politicians in terms of trying to rescue their respective organizations. With all their naiveté, the oil workers and the military did force others to act. They gave their all to try to save not only their professional world, but democracy itself.

The book makes it clear that Chávez sought out conflicts, he provoked them. Even the massacres, not to mention the strikes: he sought out battles because he saw them (and he was right) as opportunities to wipe out pockets of resistance. Right? Do you see this as a pattern that connects everything from the 2001 enabling legislation to the recall referendum?

Chávez sought out battles because it was his way of life. He always said, like Pinochet, that he was a soldier. I believe he launched the enabling legislation package in 2001 to impose his agenda, not to provoke, because I don’t think he knew it would generate such strong resistance, even though there had already been protests since 2000. He introduced those laws at the last minute and without consulting anyone because he was an authoritarian who believed he was the center of the world. The idea that he also provoked the April 11th march, or the movement to crush it, is a narrative he fabricated after those events. He knew there were disaffected military officers and expected a classic coup, which he planned to counter with civilians, but he didn’t provoke it, because in fact, his intelligence services ultimately failed him. Just as there are people who, after the strike failed, said they never agreed with it, he rewrote history to impose the narrative that everything was his agenda. But many things surprised him, even though he eventually managed to navigate each situation. However, after April 11th, he did dedicate himself to provoking conflicts, now with the advice of Fidel Castro, and surrounded by radicals like Alí Rodríguez Araque. 

Another pattern I noticed is the persistence of anti-politics, how distrust of political parties shaped different situations. And you get the feeling that this still resonates with people, that three decades after the 1990s, anti-politics continues to define us, right?

The parties were already badly weakened, following a decline that began in the mid-1980s, and even more so after what happened with Pérez II. Their crisis became impossible to hide by the second year of Chávez’s presidency, but anti-politics was very much present during Chávez’s election itself, before that night of April 11, 2002, when decisions were made driven by the desire to remove politicians from important matters. Although politicians met, participated in discussion groups, and sought solutions on their own, such as promoting Adán Celis as transitional president, anti-politics was pervasive across all sectors and prevailed among the main actors who attempted to remove Chávez from power in 2002. The book includes testimonies from politicians who recount how the media favored the opinions of emerging civil society actors who viewed politicians as corrupt and stuck in the past. And yes, as you say, this continues today. Those in power still promote this idea of ​​politicians as a corrupt caste that led the country to ruin. Because it’s very easy to blame politicians for something in which the citizenry also played a part.

Caracas, April 27, 2026 (venezuelanalysis.com) – The Venezuelan Central Bank (BCV) has announced the hiring of outside firms to audit Venezuelan export revenues currently controlled by the Trump administration and disbursed to Caracas.

In a press statement, BCV Acting President Luis Pérez confirmed that both the Venezuelan and US governments had hired auditing companies to “ensure peace of mind and impartiality.”

“The auditing of the country’s resources by external consultants gives us peace of mind,” Pérez stated. “Venezuela can be confident that the resources are being channeled where they have to and getting where they need to.”

According to Reuters and Bitácora Económica, Deloitte is one of the firms selected to inspect the Central Bank’s accounts, though it is not known whether it was chosen by Washington or Caracas.

One of the largest global consulting corporations, Deloitte has close ties to the US political establishment and national security state.  The London-based firm has a well-documented history of hiring former CIA agents and undertaking corporate espionage.

Since the January 3 US military strikes and kidnapping of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro, the Trump administration has taken control over Venezuelan oil revenues, mandating that all royalty, tax, and dividend payments be deposited in US Treasury-run accounts before a portion is returned to Caracas at the White House’s discretion.

US officials, including Secretary of State Marco Rubio and Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent, have stated before congressional committees that the Venezuelan government’s allocation of its own resources, once returned by Washington, would be subject to outside audits.

Rubio additionally claimed that Caracas needs to submit “budget requests” before accessing funds. Both US and Venezuelan officials have acknowledged the use of US-managed funds for imports of medicines and medical equipment from US manufacturers.

The sequestered Venezuelan earnings have not been returned directly to the BCV but injected into foreign currency auctions run by banks. US officials have confirmed the transfer of US $500 million of a projected $2 billion initial agreement, though analysts have reported a higher volume of foreign currency made available in recent weeks.

Recently issued US Treasury licenses allowing transactions with the Venezuelan Central Bank are expected to restore some of the institution’s capacity to intervene in the economy. In a recent meeting with banking executives, Acting President Pérez stated that the BCV was prioritizing inflation control and forex market stability. A black market exchange rate has consistently hovered above the official one, with a gap currently at around 30 percent. Critics have blamed the BCV’s lack of oversight for the proliferation of currency speculation.

Pérez likewise pledged to review the Central Bank’s current reserve requirements, a recurring demand from banks in recent months. Banks are presently forced to hold 73 percent of deposits as reserves.

The contraction of credit, alongside reduced public spending and the freezing of wages, were policies adopted by the Maduro government in recent years in an effort to slow down inflation in the sanctions-hit Venezuelan economy.

Pérez was appointed acting president of Venezuela’s financial authority on April 16. He replaced Laura Guerra, who had been in the post since April 2025. Last week, the Venezuelan government’s “rapid response” social media denied reports of negotiations with the US State Department and the far-right opposition to select a new BCV board.

Since January, the Venezuelan government led by Acting President Delcy Rodríguez has fast-tracked a diplomatic rapprochement with the Trump administration.

The White House’s recognition of Rodríguez as Venezuela’s sole leader has paved the way for the resumption of dealings with the International Monetary Fund (IMF), while creditors of Venezuela’s sizable foreign debt anticipate a lucrative restructuring agreement.

The Rodríguez administration has likewise driven a pro-business legislative agenda with the goal of attracting foreign investment. The Caribbean nation’s parliament has approved reforms to the hydrocarbon and mining sectors that grant increased control to foreign conglomerates, alongside reduced fiscal responsibilities and the possibility of taking disputes to international arbitration bodies.

Canadian miner Gold Reserve issued a statement Monday “welcoming” the new mining law, noting that some of its “key recommendations were reflected in the final enacted law,” including the repeal of a 2015 decree establishing majority Venezuelan state control over the sector.

Acting President Rodríguez, as well as National Assembly President Jorge Rodríguez, have both acknowledged receiving “recommendations” and “suggestions” from oil majors in the hydrocarbon industry overhaul.

Edited by Lucas Koerner in Fusagasugá, Colombia.

Caracas, April 24, 2026 (venezuelanalysis.com) – Venezuelan Acting President Delcy Rodríguez hosted Colombian President Gustavo Petro for bilateral talks in Caracas on Friday. 

The meeting marked the first official visit by a head of state since the kidnapping of President Nicolás Maduro during a US military operation on January 3.

Following talks at Miraflores Presidential Palace, Rodríguez said both governments committed to tackling organized crime along their shared border, one of the longest in the region at over 2,200 kilometers.

“We have undertaken a very serious and concrete approach to combating criminal groups and transnational crime,” she said, announcing the development of joint military plans and “immediate” mechanisms for intelligence sharing in a new level of security cooperation.

Petro, for his part, stated that both countries would work toward the “liberation of border communities” through coordinated military, police, and social action.

“Building a fully coordinated common effort to free border populations from mafias engaged in various illegal economies,” he said, accusing irregular groups of human trafficking, drug trafficking, and illegal gold trade activities.

The leaders also agreed on economic initiatives aimed at supporting Venezuelan and Colombian populations in border regions. Petro expressed hope that these efforts would help reintegrate the two territories and boost food security.

The joint action commitments come amid escalating violence in the Catatumbo region of Colombia’s Norte de Santander department, which borders Venezuela’s Táchira state, where clashes between armed groups have displaced thousands in recent weeks.

Armed organizations operating in the area include the National Liberation Army (ELN), the Estado Mayor Central (EMC) and the Segunda Marquetalia, both descendants of the former FARC, and the Clan del Golfo, among others.

Friday’s talks also included the neighboring nations’ trade relations. Rodríguez highlighted discussions on “import substitution” between the two countries.

“It makes no sense for Colombia or Venezuela to look to other regions or hemispheres for what we can produce within our own territories,” she said, noting that bilateral trade currently stands at approximately $1.2 billion per year.

The leaders further addressed electrical interconnection projects for western Venezuela, a region heavily affected by blackouts, as well as reopening a pipeline that would allow Venezuela to export natural gas to Colombia and beyond.

Rodríguez and Petro also discussed the revival of air connectivity to boost tourism, including the development of multi-destination travel initiatives.

Present at the private meeting were Colombia’s foreign minister Rosa Villavicencio and defense minister Pedro Sánchez, alongside Venezuela’s foreign minister Yván Gil and Interior Minister Diosdado Cabello. The presidential summit followed an earlier meeting of the two countries’ Neighborhood and Integration Commission, with bilateral working groups established for a number of areas, including trade, energy and defense. 

A prior meeting scheduled between Rodríguez and Petro on the border in early March was suspended due to security concerns.

Rodríguez hosts new US chargé d’affaires

Venezuelan Acting President Delcy Rodríguez also welcomed the Trump administration’s new chargé d’affaires to Venezuela John Barrett at the presidential palace on Friday.

Alongside Cabello and Gil, Rodríguez held a private meeting that reportedly focused on energy and a “long-term cooperation agenda.” For its part, the US embassy in Caracas stated that Barrett will continue implementing Washington’s “three-phase plan” for the Caribbean nation.

Barrett recently replaced Laura Dogu, who had been on the post since January. A career diplomat, he last served as chargé d’affaires in Guatemala, where he was accused of interference in magistrate elections in March.

Washington and Caracas fast-tracked a diplomatic rapprochement following the January 3 military strikes and kidnapping of Maduro. In March, the White House recognized Rodríguez as Venezuela’s sole leader, while the acting president recently thanked Trump and Secretary of State Marco Rubio for their “good disposition” in establishing “cooperation” between the two countries.

The diplomatic reengagement and US recognition have likewise led to a resumption of ties between Caracas and the International Monetary Fund (IMF).

Edited and with additional reporting by Ricardo Vaz in Caracas.

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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April 22 (UPI) — Amnesty International said Venezuela has not dismantled its “repressive apparatus” nearly four months after former President Nicolás Maduro was arrested in a U.S. military operation.

During the presentation of its annual report in Bogotá, the organization said the country’s system of repression remains fully operational under the interim government led by Delcy Rodríguez.

Valentina Ballesta, research director for the Americas at Amnesty International, said Tuesday that Venezuela’s repressive structure continues to operate despite the political transition, according to reports by Infobae.

According to the report, Maduro’s government maintained a policy of systematic repression throughout 2025, with all branches of the state acting in coordination.

Amnesty International said authorities continue to use arbitrary detentions, forced disappearances and torture as tools of social control.

“These are not isolated incidents, but rather a pattern that amounts to crimes against humanity,” the report said.

The organization documented hundreds of cases in which detainees faced judicial proceedings without basic legal guarantees, including ineffective public defenders, the use of special anti-terrorism courts, lack of access to charges and repeated violations of due process rights.

Amnesty International also criticized the implementation of the Amnesty Law approved in February, saying its enforcement has been arbitrary and selective.

Many requests for relief were rejected without explanation, while some people initially granted benefits later had those measures reversed, according to Venezuelan news outlet Efecto Cocuyo.

While the nongovernmental organization Foro Penal and other groups confirmed the release of 673 political prisoners between Maduro’s capture and mid-April, Rodríguez’s government has reported much higher figures as part of what it described as “peace and reconciliation” measures.

In March 2026, government spokespeople said as many as 7,000 people had been granted full release or alternative legal measures. That figure, however, includes common criminals and people already serving conditional release.

Foro Penal said nearly 500 political prisoners remain in detention.

The Amnesty International report said impunity remains the driving force behind Venezuela’s repressive system and warned that the lack of an independent judiciary prevents victims from obtaining justice inside the country.

Analist also pointed to the recent restructuring of the Attorney General’s Office as an example of political control. The move replaced an official close to Maduro with another figure aligned with the Rodríguez political faction, which currently controls both the interim presidency and the National Assembly.

About 7.9 million Venezuelans have fled the country since 2015. Nearly 2 million people depend on international humanitarian aid, while severe shortages in basic services such as water, electricity and food persist, the report said.

Amnesty International further warned about the growing use of new technologies and artificial intelligence for population surveillance, along with continued harassment of journalists and human rights advocates.

Without a genuine dismantling of coercive state structures, Amnesty International said, Venezuela will not be able to restore fundamental freedoms.

The real test of Venezuela’s current political moment will not be institutional, but political. It will not lie in the appointment of a new prosecutor, or in any decision taken by a parliament that, by design, reflects the preferences of those in power. It will lie in something far less controllable: the return of María Corina Machado.

For months, there has been talk of normalization, of technocratic adjustment, even of a transition managed from within. It is an appealing idea, but an illusory one. As usual, chavismo does not administer space, it occupies it. The notion that it would suddenly evolve into a system governed by technocratic restraint, even under US pressure, was always more wishful thinking than analysis.

What has changed is not the nature of the system, but our understanding of it. For years, it was assumed that power rested on a rigid internal balance, a kind of tripod between civilian leadership, party machinery, and the military. The uneventful sidelining of Vladimir Padrino López suggests otherwise. Now relegated to an almost theatrical role as Agriculture Minister, he makes appearances at cattle shows in Borsalino hats and Panerai watches. We have long known that chavismo’s superpower is its adaptability. It can reshuffle, absorb shocks, and reallocate power without fracturing, even at its highest levels, and carry on.

That adaptability cuts both ways. It helps explain why Delcy Rodríguez has been able to consolidate authority despite presiding over the country under the tutelage of the “yankee devil”, and despite earlier doubts about her staying power. It also explains why the government has been able to pursue a limited opening without losing control. But it also sets the limits of that opening.

Because the one problem the system has not been able to solve is credibility.

An empty pitch

The effort to attract investment has run into a wall that legal reforms and external signaling cannot easily overcome. Investors are not simply looking for incentives, they are looking for guarantees, that power is legitimate, that rules will be upheld, that today’s opening will not be reversed tomorrow. So far, those guarantees do not exist.

As I have argued before, none of this means that capital will stop flowing into Venezuela altogether. It won’t. There are firms that know how to operate in this environment, firms that have built their business models around political risk rather than in spite of it.

Take Grupo Cisneros, which is moving to secure a $1 billion investment fund aimed at Venezuela’s recovery. Or Chevron, which has doubled down on its presence through a major asset swap with PDVSA, expanding its stake in key projects in the Orinoco Belt.

What is not arriving, at least not yet, is transformational capital, the kind that requires predictability, legal certainty, and a credible political horizon.

These are not naïve entrants. They are actors with long experience navigating the Venezuelan system. Cisneros has remained a player despite fines and suspensions over the years. Chevron, for its part, has effectively become the most important American economic partner of the current government, maintaining operations through multiple political cycles and regulatory frameworks.

But that is precisely the point.

This is not the kind of capital Venezuela needs.

What is arriving, or staying, is adapted capital, capital that knows how to survive volatility, negotiate through informal institutions, and operate without full guarantees. What is not arriving, at least not yet, is transformational capital, the kind that requires predictability, legal certainty, and a credible political horizon.

And that gap cannot be closed through reforms alone. It cannot be legislated into existence, nor negotiated deal by deal. It requires something more fundamental: confidence that power in Venezuela is not entirely discretionary.

The pressure map

The timing of this becomes even more significant in light of Venezuela’s re-engagement with the IMF and the World Bank. After years of isolation, the country is once again being folded back into the international financial system, opening the door to technical assistance, debt restructuring, and eventually, fresh financing. It is the clearest signal yet that normalization, at least at the institutional level, is moving forward.

But this only sharpens the underlying problem.

These institutions can help stabilize accounts, restructure liabilities, and provide liquidity. What they cannot do is manufacture credibility where it does not exist. Their return signals that Venezuela is being treated, once again, as a country with which business can be conducted. It does not guarantee that the rules of that business will hold.

In some ways, Delcy has the easier hand to play. The current arrangement in Venezuela has become useful to Donald Trump in ways that go beyond the country itself. With the Iranian campaign failing to deliver the results he had anticipated, Venezuela has quietly taken on the role of a foreign policy success story, something tangible he can point to, both in terms of energy security and geopolitical leverage.

That utility is not uniform across his coalition. For more isolationist voters in what is often referred to as flyover country, a stable Venezuela that does not require further military involvement, and that contributes to stabilizing US energy prices, is a net positive. 

Detaining Machado, after appearances at CERAWeek and high-level meetings in Europe and Washington, would send a clear and immediate signal to the very actors the government has been trying to court.

Venezuelan crude is already easing pressure on US fuel costs, reinforcing the perception that the current arrangement delivers practical benefits.

But in South Florida, the picture is different. Latino voters, particularly Venezuelans, are already uneasy with the administration’s immigration policies, and are far less inclined to accept stability under a reconfigured chavista leadership as an acceptable endpoint. They are drawn instead to Machado’s message, and increasingly wary of what a prolonged Delcy Rodríguez-led government would mean. For them, the issue is not stability alone, but the absence of a credible electoral horizon.

This creates a tension within Washington’s own political logic. On one hand, there is an incentive to consolidate what appears to be working: restored oil flows, renewed financial channels, and growing international engagement with Caracas. On the other, there remains a constituency that expects something more, a path toward elections, not just normalization.

Machado, in this context, faces a more complex task than it might appear. She is not only trying to pressure the Venezuelan government, she is also trying to persuade a cautious administration that pushing beyond the current equilibrium is worth the risk, that the next step is not to stabilize the system as it is, but to open it further.

And she is doing so with limited institutional backing. Much of the Venezuelan civil society ecosystem aligned with MAGA politics appears more focused on maintaining its own access to the White House than on advancing a coherent strategy for Venezuela itself. That leaves Machado in a familiar position, carrying the burden of political escalation largely on the legs of her own prestige, but now within a much tighter set of constraints.

This is where María Corina Machado reenters the picture, not just as a political actor, but as a structural variable. Her return forces a choice that cannot be deferred. Allow her back into the country, or stop her.

Detaining her, after appearances at CERAWeek and high-level meetings in Europe and Washington, would send a clear and immediate signal to the very actors the government has been trying to court. These are not abstract observers, they are the same executives and investors now being asked to commit capital. Arresting her would not simply be a domestic political decision, it would be read as a statement about the limits of the current opening.

Allowing her to return is not costless either. It risks projecting weakness toward a base that has been conditioned to expect control. It creates space for mobilization, for coordination, for a reactivation of political pressure that the system has worked hard to contain.

But at this stage, that is a more manageable risk.

A constrained confrontation

Chavismo has shown that it can absorb internal contradictions. It can tolerate limited openings while maintaining overall control. What it is less equipped to manage, at least at this point, is a collapse in external credibility at the precise moment it is trying to rebuild it.

This is also not a confrontation between unconstrained actors. Machado is operating within limits of her own. She understands that an uncontrolled escalation could be interpreted in Washington as an attempt to derail a strategy that, for now, tolerates the current arrangement. Her leverage depends not only on mobilization, but on preserving her external legitimacy.

What emerges from this is not a clean confrontation, but a constrained one. Both sides are pushing, but neither is free to push all the way. Machado needs to generate pressure without triggering a rupture that works against her. The government needs to contain that pressure without closing the space in ways that undermine its own economic strategy.

That is what makes her physical presence in the country so consequential. Without it, the reactivation we are beginning to see, student movements regaining traction, party structures reopening, political figures cautiously returning, remains fragmented. With it, that energy has a focal point. 

And that is precisely why her return has become the real test. Not whether the system can produce institutional outcomes aligned with its interests, but whether it can tolerate, and ultimately absorb, the presence of the one actor it does not fully control, without undoing the fragile equilibrium it is trying to build.

Madrid, Spain – Venezuela’s opposition leader Maria Corina Machado is aligned with Spain’s main right-wing party on its economic visions, but they are divided by social issues such as abortion, analysts say.

On a visit to Spain this weekend, Machado chose to snub an invitation to meet Socialist Prime Minister Pedro Sanchez and the left-wing coalition government officials.

The Nobel Peace Prize winner said she had chosen not to meet Sanchez because he was hosting a summit of left-wing leaders from Latin America in Barcelona.

“What has transpired in the past few hours at the meeting held in Barcelona with various political leaders from different countries is proof that such a meeting was not advisable,” Machado told a meeting in Madrid on Saturday.

Instead, she held a series of meetings with leaders from the opposition conservative People’s Party (PP) and the far-right Vox party.

Machado received a rapturous welcome from Alberto Nunez Feijoo, the PP party leader and Venezuelan emigres in Madrid, on Friday.

On Saturday, the Venezuelan opposition leader met Isabel Diaz Ayuso, the populist conservative Madrid regional leader, one of Sanchez’s fiercest critics and a possible rival to Feijoo.

Ayuso presented Madrid’s gold medal to Machado, while Madrid’s Mayor Jose Luis Martinez-Almeida – also of the PP – handed her the keys to the city before a rally with Venezuelan supporters.

Machado also met Santiago Abascal, the leader of Vox, in the Spanish capital.

Feijoo praised how Machado had championed freedom even at the cost of going into hiding in Venezuela away from her family.

“Spain knows well the value of freedom; it cost us dearly to obtain it. The generations of our parents and grandparents know what it is to live without freedom. That is why we cannot look the other way,” Feijoo said.

What divides Venezuela and Spain’s opposition?

Despite the cordial welcome, there are significant differences between Machado and Feijoo, commentators said.

A liberal conservative, who has said she is an admirer of Margaret Thatcher, Machado has been dubbed Venezuela’s “Iron Lady”.

She moved from the right politically to the centre-ground during the 2024 presidential campaign to attract voters in the middle ground.

As a conservative, Machado heads a Venezuelan opposition that is split and which also contains more liberal factions.

In contrast, Feijoo heads a well-organised conservative political party, which has only recently suffered divisions after the formation of the hard-right Vox party in 2013, analysts said.

Carlos Malamud, an expert on Latin America at the Real Elcano Institute, a think tank in Madrid, said the structure of both opposition groups was different.

“Machado is the leader of a small, disorganised opposition, while Feijoo is the head of the PP, which is a well-organised national political party,” he told Al Jazeera.

Malamud said Machado did not demonstrate the traits of a would-be Venezuelan president by refusing to see Sanchez.

“If Machado wants to be the president of Venezuela next year, she needs to be prepared to meet the head of the Spanish government, whoever that may be,” he explained.

“Perhaps the Venezuelan opposition sees the Spanish Socialist Party as being allied to (former Spanish prime minister) Jose Rodriguez Zapatero.”

Zapatero has played a controversial role in acting as a mediator between Spain and the government of former Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro, who was abducted by the United States in January.

Maduro faces charges of narcoterrorism, conspiracy to commit narcoterrorism, drug trafficking, money laundering and corruption, which he denies.

Machado ‘more conservative’ on social issues

Malamud said one factor which unites Machado and Feijoo is that they came from political systems which suffered from polarisation.

“Venezuelan politics is the same as Cuban politics, or like Spanish. They all suffer from the same degree of polarisation,” he added.

Ana Ayuso, an investigator in Latin American affairs at the Barcelona Centre for International Affairs, said Machado shared the liberal economic theories of Feijoo, but they differed on social issues.

“She is in favour of freedom of trade and a small state, so she is quite liberal on economic affairs like Feijoo,” Ayuso told Al Jazeera.

“She is also closer to Isabel Diaz Ayuso in terms of economics, in terms of free trade and the participation of the state.”

“However, she is more conservative when it comes to social issues. Machado is against abortion, and religious affairs are important to her. She is close to the [Roman] Catholic Church. Feijoo supports the right to abortion.”

In an interview in 2024 with Spanish newspaper El Pais, Machado said she was against abortion but in favour of changing the law in Venezuela to allow abortion in cases of rape.

At present, the law in Venezuela allows abortion only when there is a risk to the life of the mother or child. Otherwise, it is illegal and can carry a jail sentence of up to two years.

“Machado does not have any similarities with Vox. Venezuela does not have a problem with immigration. Emigration is the problem,” added Ayuso.

She said the Venezuelan opposition leader had initially been a staunch supporter of US President Donald Trump, but he had shunned her in support of Delcy Rodriguez, the acting Venezuelan president.

Machado was now closer to Marco Rubio, the US secretary of state, who supported her cause within the MAGA movement, she added.

Maria Corina Machado gave Trump her Nobel Peace Prize after the US leader captured Nicolas Maduro.

Venezuela’s main opposition leader Maria Corina Machado says she has “no regrets” about giving US President Donald Trump her Nobel Peace Prize medal.

Machado, the 2025 recipient of the prestigious prize, presented the medal that accompanies the prize to Trump when she met him at the White House in January, two weeks after he ordered US special forces to seize Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro from Caracas.

Trump’s military operation to remove Maduro, who is currently detained in the US facing drug trafficking charges, is “something we Venezuelans will never forget”, she was quoted by AFP news agency as saying at a conference in Madrid on Saturday.

“There is a leader in the world, a head of state in the world, who risked the lives of his country’s citizens for Venezuela’s freedom,” she said.

Trump, who has long publicly coveted the Nobel Peace Prize, called Machado’s presentation of the medal at the time a “wonderful gesture of mutual respect”.

The Norwegian Nobel Committee, which honoured Machado for her tireless campaign to restore democratic rights in Venezuela and her struggle to achieve a peaceful transition from authoritarian rule, made clear after the handover that the prize is nontransferable and cannot be revoked, shared or transferred to others.

Machado, who had been living in hiding before leaving Venezuela in December to collect her prize in Oslo, said she was coordinating her return to the country with Washington.

US key to ‘democratic transition’

“I am speaking with the US government, and we are working in coordination, with mutual respect and understanding,” she said, adding that she believed Washington was “key to advancing a democratic transition” in Venezuela.

Trump has, however, publicly questioned Machado’s standing, calling her a “very nice woman” but saying she lacks “respect” within Venezuela. He has instead backed Maduro’s former vice president, Delcy Rodriguez, as the country’s interim leader.

Venezuela’s opposition last week called for presidential elections. Machado, who was banned from running in the disputed 2024 vote that returned Maduro to power, has not yet said whether she would stand in a future poll.

While in Spain, Machado declined a meeting with Prime Minister Pedro Sanchez, citing his hosting of a progressive leaders’ summit in Barcelona as proof the meeting was “not advisable”. Sanchez had said he was willing to meet her at any time.

This snub comes in contrast to her frequent encounters with Sanchez’s right-wing opponents.