Trump Blocks Venezuela, Declares ‘Acting President’ As Old Guard Clings On

Paul Riverbank, 1/19/2026Despite Maduro’s dramatic ouster, Venezuela remains trapped in limbo: old power structures persist, U.S. control intensifies, and hope for real change is shadowed by uncertainty. The nation holds its breath, suspended between managed transition and the promise of true democracy.

“I see the same faces, just fewer of them smiling,” a Venezuelan journalist confided to me over a faded cup of coffee along a rain-washed Andean road. Former President Donald Trump’s announcements—broadcast triumphantly from the Oval Office, declaring himself “Acting President of Venezuela”—barely register on the streets of Caracas. Real power, if that’s the term, isn’t getting selfies in Washington; it’s busy holding onto levers behind thick doors and guarded checkpoints.

Delcy Rodríguez, once Maduro’s vice president and now interim leader by circumstance and decree, presides over a government hemmed in by a U.S. naval blockade. Oil tankers idle off the coast or slip away under foreign flags. Americans hear that Venezuelan oil will flow north, split at market price, but locals scoff—money, Trump claims, will be “controlled by me…to benefit the people.” What that means to the mother in Maracaibo waiting hours for flour, or to young men dodging patrols in Petare, is uncertain.

On the surface, not much has shifted. The feared colectivos—paramilitary groups with a reputation for both discipline and terror—still strut through the barrios. Uniformed security forces check mobile phones for seditious texts. Dissent gets you a cell, or sometimes, simply a warning at gunpoint. Maduro, balled away on a flight to New York, faces American justice. But according to parish lawyers, hundreds remain behind bars; the state occasionally parades a few political prisoners out the front gate, all smiles for the cameras. Beneath this, the rulebook hasn’t changed.

Rodríguez herself calls her former boss, now far from Caracas, the “legitimate president,” and has damned his capture as a kidnapping. In televised sessions before lawmakers, she rails against Washington’s “economic strangulation”—her term, not mine. She vows to keep Venezuela’s embattled alliances with Russia, China, Iran on track, while American warships bob within sight of La Guaira’s port.

“Madurismo sin Maduro.” The phrase crops up on street stalls and Telegram chats. It’s government by loyal residue—a movement outliving its architect. When you spot government banners atop the same tired buildings, or walk block after block past military checkpoints, the phrase fits like an old shoe.

The mood in Washington is tangled, too. Trump’s circle warns against any hasty handover to liberal opposition figures, invoking, perhaps too heavily, the ghost of postwar Baghdad. The risk, they argue, isn’t just unrest but a regional vacuum, with memories of failed promises—of Gaza’s “Riviera” and claims about ending the Ukraine war on “day one”—still raw. Others, frankly, see this caution as cover for inertia.

Rand Paul voices the counterpoint with characteristic bluntness, decrying the U.S. blockade as “an ongoing war.” He counts navy ships on live TV, watches oil flow under hammerhead surveillance by U.S. drones, and demands to know why Congress gets sidelined until shots are fired. He didn’t mince words: “If you wait until after an invasion…that’s a crazy definition of war.”

And then there’s Delcy Rodríguez’s reputation. To those who track these matters, her name isn’t new in American files. U.S. drug enforcement listed her as a “priority target” for years. Yet, as often happens, no indictment. Instead, she stands shoulder to shoulder with Trump for awkward press photos, drawing both scorn and whispers from all sides.

Opposition leader María Corina Machado, meanwhile, has been edged aside. Rodríguez sits at the negotiating table; Machado waits her turn, quieter but persistent, calling for what she describes as an authentic transition—not a reshuffling of insiders. “Some dirty work is being delegated,” she quipped to supporters. “But when the dust settles, Venezuela will stand proud—America’s true ally in the end.” Only time will confirm whether that’s optimism or necessity.

A restlessness stirs under all this managed theater. Former U.S. Ambassador Charles Shapiro warned me last week, quietly, that frustration is building. “People are waiting—for thirty days, ninety, maybe six months. Eventually they’ll be disappointed.” Elections remain in limbo and real freedoms elusive. If there’s no credible path drawn soon, nerves will fray.

Shapiro and his counterparts now recommend an unconventional shift: Let dialogue be led not by politicians or generals, but independent civic figures—the country’s most respected academic voices, religious leaders, perhaps even under the quiet guidance of the Vatican’s envoy in Caracas. Only such trusted intermediaries, they argue, could earn faith across the fracture lines.

For now, Venezuela stands caught in a spell of anticipation. The oil quietly moves, the security forces tighten and loosen their grip in mysterious cycles, and rumor occupies every corner of public life. It’s a country suspended between headlines and reality. The world watches, still unsure what transition—if any—will finally come.

Crowds in Caracas gossip in hushed Spanish, shops in Buenos Aires adjust their radios to foreign news, and at diplomatic hotels in Lima, the question lingers at breakfast tables: Who's really in charge in Venezuela now? Everything was supposed to change after Nicolás Maduro’s dramatic removal by U.S. forces. Instead, much remains murky, as if the old order dug its heels in under new badges.“I see the same faces, just fewer of them smiling,” a Venezuelan journalist confided to me over a faded cup of coffee along a rain-washed Andean road. Former President Donald Trump’s announcements—broadcast triumphantly from the Oval Office, declaring himself “Acting President of Venezuela”—barely register on the streets of Caracas. Real power, if that’s the term, isn’t getting selfies in Washington; it’s busy holding onto levers behind thick doors and guarded checkpoints.Delcy Rodríguez, once Maduro’s vice president and now interim leader by circumstance and decree, presides over a government hemmed in by a U.S. naval blockade. Oil tankers idle off the coast or slip away under foreign flags. Americans hear that Venezuelan oil will flow north, split at market price, but locals scoff—money, Trump claims, will be “controlled by me…to benefit the people.” What that means to the mother in Maracaibo waiting hours for flour, or to young men dodging patrols in Petare, is uncertain.On the surface, not much has shifted. The feared colectivos—paramilitary groups with a reputation for both discipline and terror—still strut through the barrios. Uniformed security forces check mobile phones for seditious texts. Dissent gets you a cell, or sometimes, simply a warning at gunpoint. Maduro, balled away on a flight to New York, faces American justice. But according to parish lawyers, hundreds remain behind bars; the state occasionally parades a few political prisoners out the front gate, all smiles for the cameras. Beneath this, the rulebook hasn’t changed.Rodríguez herself calls her former boss, now far from Caracas, the “legitimate president,” and has damned his capture as a kidnapping. In televised sessions before lawmakers, she rails against Washington’s “economic strangulation”—her term, not mine. She vows to keep Venezuela’s embattled alliances with Russia, China, Iran on track, while American warships bob within sight of La Guaira’s port.“Madurismo sin Maduro.” The phrase crops up on street stalls and Telegram chats. It’s government by loyal residue—a movement outliving its architect. When you spot government banners atop the same tired buildings, or walk block after block past military checkpoints, the phrase fits like an old shoe.The mood in Washington is tangled, too. Trump’s circle warns against any hasty handover to liberal opposition figures, invoking, perhaps too heavily, the ghost of postwar Baghdad. The risk, they argue, isn’t just unrest but a regional vacuum, with memories of failed promises—of Gaza’s “Riviera” and claims about ending the Ukraine war on “day one”—still raw. Others, frankly, see this caution as cover for inertia.Rand Paul voices the counterpoint with characteristic bluntness, decrying the U.S. blockade as “an ongoing war.” He counts navy ships on live TV, watches oil flow under hammerhead surveillance by U.S. drones, and demands to know why Congress gets sidelined until shots are fired. He didn’t mince words: “If you wait until after an invasion…that’s a crazy definition of war.”And then there’s Delcy Rodríguez’s reputation. To those who track these matters, her name isn’t new in American files. U.S. drug enforcement listed her as a “priority target” for years. Yet, as often happens, no indictment. Instead, she stands shoulder to shoulder with Trump for awkward press photos, drawing both scorn and whispers from all sides.Opposition leader María Corina Machado, meanwhile, has been edged aside. Rodríguez sits at the negotiating table; Machado waits her turn, quieter but persistent, calling for what she describes as an authentic transition—not a reshuffling of insiders. “Some dirty work is being delegated,” she quipped to supporters. “But when the dust settles, Venezuela will stand proud—America’s true ally in the end.” Only time will confirm whether that’s optimism or necessity.A restlessness stirs under all this managed theater. Former U.S. Ambassador Charles Shapiro warned me last week, quietly, that frustration is building. “People are waiting—for thirty days, ninety, maybe six months. Eventually they’ll be disappointed.” Elections remain in limbo and real freedoms elusive. If there’s no credible path drawn soon, nerves will fray.Shapiro and his counterparts now recommend an unconventional shift: Let dialogue be led not by politicians or generals, but independent civic figures—the country’s most respected academic voices, religious leaders, perhaps even under the quiet guidance of the Vatican’s envoy in Caracas. Only such trusted intermediaries, they argue, could earn faith across the fracture lines.For now, Venezuela stands caught in a spell of anticipation. The oil quietly moves, the security forces tighten and loosen their grip in mysterious cycles, and rumor occupies every corner of public life. It’s a country suspended between headlines and reality. The world watches, still unsure what transition—if any—will finally come.