Photograph by unknown author. “Trabajadores petroleros,” Fernando Irazábal Collection. Compiled by Archivo Fotografía Urbana.
On January 29, Venezuela experienced a legislative tectonic shift regarding the future of its hydrocarbon sector. The National Assembly approved a new petroleum law that effectively breaks with the post-1976 tradition of rigid state control, opening participation across the full value chain to private oil companies.
This is not the first experiment with private participation since nationalization, but it is the clearest attempt since the 1990s Apertura to normalize it as the governing framework of the sector. The legislation, approved with striking speed and opacity, has elicited mixed reactions, ranging from denunciations of lost sovereignty and surrender to foreign interests to support for a first step that still requires major fixes. Despite these divergences, one thing is clear: the return of private companies to Venezuela’s oil sector inevitably revives parallels with the concessionary system under which the industry was born and flourished between 1914 and 1976, a mirror of what Venezuela’s energy sector could become in the twenty-first century.
The 1943 and 2026 hydrocarbons laws
The iconic 1943 bill enacted by President Isaías Medina Angarita (1941–1945) regulated Venezuela’s privately run oil industry until the 1976 nationalization. It became the institutional template of the concessionary era: a rules-and-taxes state overseeing a privately operated industry. Together with related legislation, it established the famous 50/50 profit-sharing arrangement with the state, later tightened by reforms. Yet within the 1943 framework, the rentier state largely confined itself to setting the rules and collecting taxes and rents, while private companies assumed the capital risks. There was no government monopoly over day-to-day operations.
In spirit, the 2026 law reintroduces comparable conditions for private capital. Petroleum companies can now either hold operational control in joint ventures with the state or carry out activities independently through government contracts. The 1943 and 2026 frameworks also embrace flexible royalty schemes that prioritize business viability over rigid tax burdens. Differences, of course, abound. To mention a few, the 2026 version concentrates discretionary power in the executive branch regarding royalties, opens the possibility of international arbitration outside the country, simplifies the tax burden into a 15% integrated hydrocarbons tax, and diminishes the National Assembly’s authority over oil business.
The Venezolanization pioneered by firms like the Creole Petroleum Corporation, Royal Dutch Shell, Mene Grande Oil Company, and many others also became an exercise in social integration.
Divergences aside, both pieces of legislation share the same underlying imperative: attracting capital and technology. The 1976 and 2001 hydrocarbons laws, by contrast, were designed precisely to limit private initiative. But investment alone will not do all the work. Human capital is also desperately needed to lead a reborn hydrocarbon sector, and here the concessions model offers valuable lessons.
The Venezolanization of the industry
An underappreciated dimension of that era was human capital development. Over decades, foreign firms trained Venezuelans across the corporate hierarchy—in technical, managerial, and executive roles—so that by the mid-1970s expatriates were a small fraction of the workforce and Venezuelans increasingly ran the day-to-day business. This created a pipeline of local talent able to inherit operational responsibility and manage the 1976 transition to state control with unusual continuity.
This history is not nostalgia for a bygone era, but a lesson worth highlighting. Venezuela’s oil collapse in this century is inseparable from the degradation of corporate culture and human capital, deepened by the politicization of the industry. It triggered a professional brain drain and the hollowing out of operational efficiency. Multinationals like Chevron, and others that may follow, should explicitly lean on a “Venezolanization 2.0” that engages local talent still in the country and encourages the return of a diaspora of Venezuelan managers and engineers now abroad. Insulating the sector from partisan hiring and purging is essential if these cadres are to operate with full competence.
The Venezolanization pioneered by firms like the Creole Petroleum Corporation, Royal Dutch Shell, Mene Grande Oil Company, and many others also became an exercise in social integration. Many American expatriates, like Creole’s CEO Arthur T. Proudfit, embraced the social milieu of the country that welcomed them, often learning the language and speaking it fluently; his daughter even married a local businessman. In exchange, Venezuelans trained abroad and working for these firms absorbed US professional values and traditions. This cultural exchange helped forge durable bonds between both countries and contributed to the successful presence of foreign capital in Venezuela. And these corporations did not stop at their payrolls. They understood that long-term success in the hydrocarbon sector extended beyond employees to the surrounding communities of the oil fields, and beyond.
Social license
Creole, Shell, and Mene Grande undertook significant investments in the country. In the oilfields, they negotiated lucrative labor contracts with unions. They also financed hospitals, university campuses, and other infrastructure projects. These firms even joined the state in ventures like the Venezuelan Basic Economy Corporation to fund agro-industrial projects aimed at diversifying the economy, while supporting rural communities through initiatives such as the American International Association. They left an indelible imprint on everyday life, from how Venezuelans shopped through market chains like CADA, to culture through documentaries, corporate magazines, and even TV news programs like Observador Creole.
More importantly, they built alliances with domestic capitalists like Eugenio Mendoza to address social problems. Creole and Venezuelan business leaders, for instance, institutionalized private-sector social action through organizations like the Dividendo Voluntario para la Comunidad (DVC), founded in 1964 to mobilize corporate contributions toward community projects. This nonprofit continues to exist today, fulfilling the original goal of social action bequeathed by American and Venezuelan businessmen more than sixty years ago. Creole also created the Creole Development Corporation, a financial arm designed to provide seed capital for local entrepreneurial activity. This was hardly a frictionless era, but it shows how legitimacy was treated as a condition of stability.
Contributions to health, schools, and infrastructure would also ease the state’s burden and allow it to focus on critical nation-building emergencies.
This largesse reached widely, but it was not mere corporate charity. To avoid jeopardizing their operations and invite nationalist backlash, companies engaged with surrounding communities and invested in their future. That is a lesson new capital arriving in Venezuela should pursue. There is even generational memory favorable to the presence of these firms in oil communities.
Leveraging that legacy could open renewed opportunities for local professional growth while strengthening bonds between communities and multinationals. Contributions to health, schools, and infrastructure would also ease the state’s burden and allow it to focus on critical nation-building emergencies: democratizing institutions, reconstructing the economy, and addressing the public services and humanitarian needs the population faces.
A spiritual return to the concessions system?
The new hydrocarbons law pushes Venezuela’s oil industry in a new direction, and it functions as a first step in the right path. However, there is room for significant improvement.
Moreover, key questions remain unanswered. For instance, what will be the fate of PDVSA? Any plan that fails to address the resurrection of its operational capabilities undermines the development of an efficient sector. Only the re-democratization of the country can properly confront the deeper failings reflected in the current legislation. Many industry experts have already proposed an alternative framework that would solve several of the bill’s core problems by establishing clear rules, transparency mechanisms, and a dedicated government agency entrusted with regulating the hydrocarbon sector.
The spirit of the concessionary model walks once more around Venezuela’s refineries, port terminals, and petroleum wells. It is too soon to tell whether foreign capital will return with the same excitement it brought more than a century ago, or whether the scale of investments and engagement with surrounding communities will match that of its predecessors. The sector can either become a platform for institutional rebuilding and professionalization, or another discretionary channel for rents and corruption.
Democracy, check and balances, and clear rules can turn the 2026 hydrocarbons law (and its potential future modifications) into enduring principles for the remainder of the century. If so, the oil industry might unlock a new period of prosperity. Much remains to be done to materialize that future, but what is undeniable is that a new era begins.
