America Seizes Caracas: Maduro Falls, Power Vacuum Sparks Chaos

Paul Riverbank, 2/4/2026In the wake of Maduro’s ouster, Caracas navigates fear, fragile normalcy, and a new, uncertain power dynamic—caught between old loyalties and emerging hopes, with ordinary Venezuelans waiting to see if promises of democracy and relief become reality.

Authorities wasted no time. Police checkpoints, the notorious alcabalas, sprang up within hours. Word spread through encrypted chat groups—talk of roadblocks, house searches, encrypted warnings that travel across town had become treacherous. Shops kept their shutters down, nervously calculating if and when it would be safe to reopen. Pharmacies, supermarkets, and the filling stations—often the city’s last holdouts in a crisis—let in only a trickle of wary residents. Long lines formed as cash grew scarce and the tension in the air could almost be tasted. “No one really wanted to go out,” Maria Ovalle Baró explained, days after the strike. “The fear was thick—you could feel it when you stood on your own doorstep.”

Time, as it does, kept moving. Gradually, Caracas found a rhythm again. Supermarkets blinked their lights on a little earlier, though many shut up shop before dusk settled. Meanwhile, armored trucks rolled through familiar streets, symbols of a new power structure that nobody yet fully understood. The local press picked at the uncertainty: El Nacional described a “power triangle” ensnared between CIA briefings and the confusing politics of a sudden regime change.

Inside Venezuela and out, the narrative fractured rapidly. The shock of Maduro’s abrupt detention fueled both street demonstrations and digital campaigns. Loyalists rallied around the United Socialist Party, chanting for “unity” and Maduro’s return. Those loyal to Chavismo called for solidarity, party leader Nahum Fernández thundering that “anyone conspiring against unity is conspiring against Venezuela.” On social media, Maduro’s son appeared, his messages tinged with nostalgia and veiled threats about “traitors” soon to be exposed.

From exile, the news hit entirely differently. José Antonio Martin, who fled Venezuela over a decade ago and now calls Colombia home, described a small eruption of pure emotion upon hearing the news: “I laughed and sobbed at once. Ten years since I saw my family—suddenly, I thought, maybe now I stand a chance.” For many outside the country, this moment glowed with the promise of reunions, the air heavy with longing and relief.

Yet the operation also drew sharp criticism. “Disgust replaced hope when I saw the violence,” said Rosita Baró, still in Venezuela. “Laws thrown aside, order discarded.” Even among those who fiercely opposed Maduro, the idea of direct U.S. intervention stirred deeper fears and opened old wounds. “You don’t need to be a Chavista to find this troubling,” pointed out Rafael Rezende, a political researcher based in Rio. “People here remember what foreign intervention means.”

A month into the post-Maduro era, the machinery of government has whirred on, if somewhat erratically. Delcy Rodríguez, once vice president and now acting leader, juggles combative news conferences with whisper networks of negotiation. “These new command centers answer to an unwieldy, unpredictable power structure,” El Nacional observed, capturing a mood of guarded skepticism. Washington’s view is more formal—officials point to pragmatic cooperation with Rodríguez for maintaining vital exports, especially oil. American energy firms, barely waiting for the dust to clear, have started nudging their way into Caracas’ oil sector, the first signs of a new economic order creeping through old socialist policy.

Ambassador Laura Dogu appeared on screens with a carefully worded message—three steps for a battered nation: security, economic revival, democracy. “We want a friendly, stable, truly democratic Venezuela,” Dogu declared, pitching a vision equal parts aspiration and hard realism. But oil rigs and new contracts aren’t enough. A recent editorial in Caracas pressed the obvious: “Venezuela’s oil fields need investment on a scale not seen in decades—no quick fix, only hard choices ahead.”

For millions, the immediate worry is not policy but survival. Food stocks look a bit better than last year, but inflation robs paychecks before families can cash them. “My mom calls each morning asking for money. If things turn violent again, people are scared they’ll have even less,” said Martin, who updates his family from Bogotá almost daily. Aid workers quietly estimate about eight million people now face urgent need, a number that haunts every conversation. Hospitals falter, and power blackouts break the monotony of crowded apartment blocks.

Despite the chaos, small signs suggest the door isn’t shut on change. In what some see as a fresh gesture, dozens of political prisoners walked free, blinking in disbelief. Rodríguez promised “a clean slate,” pledging a sweeping amnesty for past political offenses and the transformation of the infamous Helicoide prison into a center for the arts and commerce. Skepticism, however, runs deep. The amnesty bill is bogged down in paperwork, and former cell blocks at the Helicoide haven’t yet yielded up all their captives.

Protests, stifled not long ago, now fill city squares and university courtyards, demanding broader amnesty and freedom for all political prisoners. Maria Corina Machado, a longtime opposition voice, remarked on the shift: “A month ago, the idea of open protest would have been laughable. Now, students and teachers alike are shouting for what’s just.”

In private, the business of state continues—shadowy meetings between Rodríguez, her inner circle (her brother’s quiet presence is often noted), and American diplomats hint that, behind the fiery speeches, both sides are mapping a way forward. The flags may still bristle at the thought, but the reopening of the U.S. Embassy now seems less a question of “if” and more “when.”

Beneath all the noise and headlines, Venezuela lives in contradiction. As Rezende aptly points out, “Survival for any regime, democratic or not, isn’t just about force. It’s about some measure of popular backing, administrative machinery, and—always—the military’s patience.” Chavismo lingers, buoyed by its old promises of jobs and social welfare, yet battered by years of corruption and heartbreak. The opposition, grizzled but energized, know that whatever comes next will require more than slogans.

If you walk Caracas today, the armored carriers cast long shadows at noon. Children play in littered plazas, vendors hawk arepas with weary resilience, and everywhere, people cling to hope—muted, stubborn, sometimes desperate. “You’ve got to keep hustling to get by,” an engineer told me, borrowing that old Venezuelan saying. No one truly knows what’s coming, but for now, life presses on—in crowded kitchens, in crowded markets, in whispers and arguments and waiting for news. The future may yet be decided by deals and declarations, but it’s the quieter moments—shared bread, a child’s laugh—that hint at what might come next.

On a cool January morning in Caracas, the line between night and day was clouded by the acrid smell of burnt concrete. Dawn broke not with birdsong, but with uneasy silence and the evidence of violence—walls scored black, shop windows rattling from memories of explosions, the city’s pulse stilled by fear. Some first heard about the raid from the blinking screens on their phones, but for many, it was the guttural boom and sudden illumination that warned them of Nicolás Maduro’s capture by U.S. forces. Sader Guerra’s voice still trembles describing that day: “My daughter rang, panicked—‘Dad, the Americans are bombarding us. We’re under attack.’” It all happened in a kind of fever dream—Caracas, a city upended overnight, thrust into uncertainty by an operation few thought possible.Authorities wasted no time. Police checkpoints, the notorious alcabalas, sprang up within hours. Word spread through encrypted chat groups—talk of roadblocks, house searches, encrypted warnings that travel across town had become treacherous. Shops kept their shutters down, nervously calculating if and when it would be safe to reopen. Pharmacies, supermarkets, and the filling stations—often the city’s last holdouts in a crisis—let in only a trickle of wary residents. Long lines formed as cash grew scarce and the tension in the air could almost be tasted. “No one really wanted to go out,” Maria Ovalle Baró explained, days after the strike. “The fear was thick—you could feel it when you stood on your own doorstep.”Time, as it does, kept moving. Gradually, Caracas found a rhythm again. Supermarkets blinked their lights on a little earlier, though many shut up shop before dusk settled. Meanwhile, armored trucks rolled through familiar streets, symbols of a new power structure that nobody yet fully understood. The local press picked at the uncertainty: El Nacional described a “power triangle” ensnared between CIA briefings and the confusing politics of a sudden regime change.Inside Venezuela and out, the narrative fractured rapidly. The shock of Maduro’s abrupt detention fueled both street demonstrations and digital campaigns. Loyalists rallied around the United Socialist Party, chanting for “unity” and Maduro’s return. Those loyal to Chavismo called for solidarity, party leader Nahum Fernández thundering that “anyone conspiring against unity is conspiring against Venezuela.” On social media, Maduro’s son appeared, his messages tinged with nostalgia and veiled threats about “traitors” soon to be exposed.From exile, the news hit entirely differently. José Antonio Martin, who fled Venezuela over a decade ago and now calls Colombia home, described a small eruption of pure emotion upon hearing the news: “I laughed and sobbed at once. Ten years since I saw my family—suddenly, I thought, maybe now I stand a chance.” For many outside the country, this moment glowed with the promise of reunions, the air heavy with longing and relief.Yet the operation also drew sharp criticism. “Disgust replaced hope when I saw the violence,” said Rosita Baró, still in Venezuela. “Laws thrown aside, order discarded.” Even among those who fiercely opposed Maduro, the idea of direct U.S. intervention stirred deeper fears and opened old wounds. “You don’t need to be a Chavista to find this troubling,” pointed out Rafael Rezende, a political researcher based in Rio. “People here remember what foreign intervention means.”A month into the post-Maduro era, the machinery of government has whirred on, if somewhat erratically. Delcy Rodríguez, once vice president and now acting leader, juggles combative news conferences with whisper networks of negotiation. “These new command centers answer to an unwieldy, unpredictable power structure,” El Nacional observed, capturing a mood of guarded skepticism. Washington’s view is more formal—officials point to pragmatic cooperation with Rodríguez for maintaining vital exports, especially oil. American energy firms, barely waiting for the dust to clear, have started nudging their way into Caracas’ oil sector, the first signs of a new economic order creeping through old socialist policy.Ambassador Laura Dogu appeared on screens with a carefully worded message—three steps for a battered nation: security, economic revival, democracy. “We want a friendly, stable, truly democratic Venezuela,” Dogu declared, pitching a vision equal parts aspiration and hard realism. But oil rigs and new contracts aren’t enough. A recent editorial in Caracas pressed the obvious: “Venezuela’s oil fields need investment on a scale not seen in decades—no quick fix, only hard choices ahead.”For millions, the immediate worry is not policy but survival. Food stocks look a bit better than last year, but inflation robs paychecks before families can cash them. “My mom calls each morning asking for money. If things turn violent again, people are scared they’ll have even less,” said Martin, who updates his family from Bogotá almost daily. Aid workers quietly estimate about eight million people now face urgent need, a number that haunts every conversation. Hospitals falter, and power blackouts break the monotony of crowded apartment blocks.Despite the chaos, small signs suggest the door isn’t shut on change. In what some see as a fresh gesture, dozens of political prisoners walked free, blinking in disbelief. Rodríguez promised “a clean slate,” pledging a sweeping amnesty for past political offenses and the transformation of the infamous Helicoide prison into a center for the arts and commerce. Skepticism, however, runs deep. The amnesty bill is bogged down in paperwork, and former cell blocks at the Helicoide haven’t yet yielded up all their captives.Protests, stifled not long ago, now fill city squares and university courtyards, demanding broader amnesty and freedom for all political prisoners. Maria Corina Machado, a longtime opposition voice, remarked on the shift: “A month ago, the idea of open protest would have been laughable. Now, students and teachers alike are shouting for what’s just.”In private, the business of state continues—shadowy meetings between Rodríguez, her inner circle (her brother’s quiet presence is often noted), and American diplomats hint that, behind the fiery speeches, both sides are mapping a way forward. The flags may still bristle at the thought, but the reopening of the U.S. Embassy now seems less a question of “if” and more “when.”Beneath all the noise and headlines, Venezuela lives in contradiction. As Rezende aptly points out, “Survival for any regime, democratic or not, isn’t just about force. It’s about some measure of popular backing, administrative machinery, and—always—the military’s patience.” Chavismo lingers, buoyed by its old promises of jobs and social welfare, yet battered by years of corruption and heartbreak. The opposition, grizzled but energized, know that whatever comes next will require more than slogans.If you walk Caracas today, the armored carriers cast long shadows at noon. Children play in littered plazas, vendors hawk arepas with weary resilience, and everywhere, people cling to hope—muted, stubborn, sometimes desperate. “You’ve got to keep hustling to get by,” an engineer told me, borrowing that old Venezuelan saying. No one truly knows what’s coming, but for now, life presses on—in crowded kitchens, in crowded markets, in whispers and arguments and waiting for news. The future may yet be decided by deals and declarations, but it’s the quieter moments—shared bread, a child’s laugh—that hint at what might come next.