It’s all about oil. That was the reason Nicolás Maduro, the Venezuelan leader illegally abducted by US forces at the weekend, had given for Donald Trump’s fixation with his country. A better way to think about Venezuela is that oil was necessary but not sufficient. The presence of vast reserves made Mr Trump’s interest understandable – if Venezuela’s main export was bananas this would not have happened. But oil alone cannot explain the timing or scale of the move.
Venezuelan crude is extra-heavy as well as expensive and slow to bring online; it will not immediately transform US energy systems, nor rescue refineries that have already adapted to years without it. Instead, oil is the “prize” around which other agendas cohere. These include future profits for US firms; modest downward pressure on oil prices; depriving China of a meaningful ally in America’s backyard; putting pressure on Cuba; and US domestic political signalling in Florida. Each gain is small. But collectively Mr Trump could justify a high‑profile, theatrical – and unlawful – intervention even if the economic returns are incremental.
Oil has been Venezuela’s curse as well as its blessing. Built on oil rents since the 1920s, Venezuela’s booms overvalued its currency and made it import-dependent. A political pact in the 1960s that divided hydrocarbon spoils according to vote share amplified the damage, leaving Caracas dangerously exposed when oil prices collapsed in the early 1990s. That shock hastened a failed coup led by a young military officer, Hugo Chávez. Six years later, Chávez was elected president, pledging to deploy oil wealth to reduce poverty and inequality.
This year history looks like it is repeating itself. In 2002, the Bush administration covertly backed a business-led coup that briefly toppled Chávez. The interim government dissolved democratic institutions and signalled a reversal of state-led oil sector reforms. But mass protests saw Chávez’s return. The episode proved formative. It hardened the regime and entrenched an ideological state machinery. This treated political opposition as an existential threat and used oil cash to develop patronage networks and secure military support.
When oil prices collapsed a year after Chávez’s death in 2013, his Venezuela collapsed with them: dollars vanished; food and medicine became scarce; living standards tumbled. Eight million fled. Mr Maduro printed money to plug the gaps but, lacking productive capacity, the result was hyperinflation. Ad hoc fixes followed – and corruption flourished. The gap between Mr Maduro’s “man of the people” image and the rising wealth of insiders finished off the regime’s legitimacy. But removing Mr Maduro does not remove the system. Anyone outside Chavismo would inherit a state they do not control. Power still rests with Chavismo’s networks of fixers and generals. Small wonder, then, that Mr Trump left Mr Maduro’s deputy, Delcy Rodríguez, in charge.
US sanctions worsened Venezuela’s slump, but lifting them alone will not restore growth: the industrial base has been hollowed out and skilled labour gone. If US oil majors take a larger share of revenues, Caracas will be more cash-strapped than before. It is hard not to recall Iraq – not because Venezuela is Iraq, but because of how the decision was made. No single rationale was decisive about Caracas. Oil, drugs, ideological fixation and presidential ego all featured. Each was not enough on its own; together they saw Mr Trump make a high‑risk move with no clear endgame.
