The decree will happen. No revision, no negotiation.
In the days following a national strike, Peru's interim president José Jerí chose the path of dialogue over decree, meeting with Petroperú union leaders at the presidential palace and asking for evidence before drawing conclusions. Yet even as he signaled openness, his own Finance Minister declared the privatization irreversible—revealing a government speaking in two voices on a question that touches energy sovereignty, thousands of livelihoods, and the meaning of public patrimony. The tension between a president willing to listen and a ministry unwilling to hear is itself the story: not merely a labor dispute, but a test of whether institutional power can still be moved by evidence and human consequence.
- A decree published in the dead hours of New Year's Eve set off a chain reaction—strikes, legal challenges, and a provincial government preparing to shut down for a day in protest.
- Finance Minister Miralles told union leaders the privatization would happen regardless, even as President Jerí, hours later, asked those same workers to bring him data and promised to keep listening.
- The numbers the unions carried into the palace were not those of a failing company: losses had been cut by 83 percent in a single year, and profitability was projected for 2026—evidence the government's economic team appeared determined to set aside.
- Major institutions—the Ombudsman, the College of Engineers, the Lima Bar Association—began declaring the decree legally and economically indefensible, lending institutional weight to what had begun as a workers' fight.
- Talara's mayors voted unanimously for a 24-hour provincial strike on January 30th, transforming the conflict from a union dispute into a regional defense of economic survival and national energy sovereignty.
- A second meeting was scheduled for January 27th, but the unions set a condition: the Finance Minister must be in the room—because without her presence, any dialogue would be theater.
The day after a national strike, Peru's interim president José Jerí sat down with Petroperú union leaders at the presidential palace. He listened. He asked them to assemble a technical team with performance data through October 2025, and he promised to consult his ministers before reaching any conclusions. A second meeting was set for January 27th.
The data the unions brought told a story of recovery, not collapse. Losses that had reached $2.109 billion in late 2024 had been cut by 83 percent under the previous company leadership, falling to $355 million by November 2025. Year-end projections showed positive EBITDA and a path to profitability in 2026. This was not a company in free fall—it was a company being turned around.
Yet hours before Jerí's meeting, Finance Minister Denisse Miralles had told the same union leaders there was nothing to discuss. The decree would happen. No revision, no negotiation. The contrast was impossible to ignore: the president signaling openness, his own minister closing every door.
The decree itself had arrived like a midnight ambush—published in the final hours of 2025. Since then, the Ombudsman's Office, the College of Engineers, and the Lima Bar Association had all questioned its legality. The bar association's dean argued that redirecting public funds, including rural electrification resources, to a private investment vehicle was simply illegal. Union leaders saw these institutional voices as confirmation that they were not fighting alone.
In Talara, where Petroperú's operations are rooted and its workers live, local mayors voted unanimously to call a 24-hour provincial strike for January 30th. It was a signal from the ground up: the privatization decree was not just a policy question in Lima—it was a threat to a region's economic future and the country's energy sovereignty.
Whether Jerí's willingness to listen would prove genuine or merely a way to release pressure before the decree proceeded anyway remained the open question. The unions made their condition clear: they would not return to the table unless the Finance Minister came with him. As long as she held her line, they said, real understanding would be impossible.
The interim president of Peru opened a dialogue with Petroperú's unions the day after a national strike, signaling a willingness to hear both sides of a contentious privatization debate—even as his own Finance Ministry dug in its heels. On the evening of January 21st, union leaders from the state oil company and the General Confederation of Peruvian Workers met with José Jerí and Labor Minister Óscar Fernández at the presidential palace. The workers came with concerns about an emergency decree that would dismantle Petroperú, and Jerí listened. He asked them to assemble a technical team to document how the company had actually performed through October 2025, and he promised to hear from his ministers before reaching any conclusions.
The numbers they brought told a story the government's new economic team seemed determined to ignore. In November 2024, Petroperú was hemorrhaging money—losses of $2.109 billion, with a negative working capital of $2.359 billion. But under the previous president of the company, Alejandro Narváez, those losses had been cut by 83 percent, falling to $355 million by November 2025. Projections for year-end showed further improvement to $290 million in losses, with positive EBITDA of $113 million. The company was on track to turn profitable in 2026, with expected earnings of $614 million. This was not a company in free fall. It was a company being turned around.
Yet just hours before Jerí's meeting with the workers, Finance Minister Denisse Miralles had sat down with the same union leaders and made clear there was nothing to discuss. The decree, she said, would happen. No revision, no negotiation. The contrast was stark—the president signaling openness, his own minister slamming the door shut. The unions left that encounter with Miralles knowing they were fighting against a predetermined outcome, not a genuine policy debate.
Jerí scheduled a second meeting for Tuesday, January 27th, to continue evaluating the decree. The first meeting had been planned for Friday the 23rd, but the president himself requested it be moved. A formal notice from the Prime Minister's office went to Petroperú's general manager, Rita López Saavedra, requesting space at the company's facilities for the dialogue. The unions made one condition clear: they would not return unless Jerí brought both the Finance Minister and the Energy Minister with him. As long as Miralles held her political line, they said, understanding would be impossible.
The decree itself had arrived like a midnight ambush—published between the roosters and dawn on the last day of 2025. Since then, major institutions had begun to speak. The Ombudsman's Office questioned it. The College of Engineers of Peru criticized it. The Lima Bar Association, through its dean Raúl Canelo Rabanal, declared it legally baseless. Canelo pointed out that the government was using public resources, including rural electrification funds, to hand over to ProInversión—a private investment vehicle—and that this amounted to illegality. The union leaders seized on this institutional backing. José Luis Saavedra Távara, general secretary of the Administrative Workers Union of Petroperú, said the professional institutions' statements strengthened the workers' position and that of citizens defending Petroperú as a strategic state asset.
Meanwhile, in Talara—the province where Petroperú's operations are centered—local authorities were preparing their own response. The provincial mayor and district mayors of Los Órganos, Máncora, and La Brea-Negritos met in permanent session and voted unanimously to call a 24-hour provincial strike for Friday, January 30th. They saw the privatization decree as a threat to the company and, by extension, to the region's economic future and the nation's energy sovereignty. The strike would begin at midnight and would draw in unions, community organizations, and local bases. It was a show of force from the ground up, from the places where Petroperú actually operates and where its workers actually live.
Jerí's willingness to listen stood in sharp relief against the Finance Ministry's refusal to budge. The president had asked for evidence, for technical arguments, for a real conversation. His minister had said the decision was made. What happened in the coming days would reveal whether the president's openness was genuine or merely a pressure valve—a way to let off steam before the decree went through anyway.
Notable Quotes
The decree will happen. No revision, no negotiation.— Finance Minister Denisse Miralles to union leaders
The professional institutions' statements strengthen the workers' position and that of citizens defending Petroperú as a strategic state asset.— José Luis Saavedra Távara, General Secretary of the Administrative Workers Union of Petroperú
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did Jerí ask the unions to form a technical team instead of just accepting or rejecting the decree outright?
He was signaling that he wanted to see the actual numbers, the real performance data. The unions had evidence that the company was being turned around—losses cut by 83 percent in a year. He needed to see that evidence himself before his ministers could claim the situation was hopeless.
But his Finance Minister had already told the unions the decree was non-negotiable. How does a president negotiate when his own cabinet member won't?
That's the tension at the heart of this. Jerí is interim—he doesn't have the full authority of an elected president. Miralles and the new Energy Minister were brought in to push this through. He's trying to maintain legitimacy by appearing to listen, but his hands may already be tied.
The unions said they won't come back unless Jerí brings both ministers. What happens if he doesn't?
Then the dialogue collapses, and the unions have their answer—that this was never a real negotiation. It becomes a test of whether Jerí is actually in control of his own government or whether the economic team is running the show.
The Bar Association called it illegal. Doesn't that matter?
It matters for the record, for the argument, for future legal challenges. But it doesn't stop a decree from being implemented. The government can push it through and let the courts sort it out later. By then, the restructuring may already be underway.
Why would Talara strike on the 30th when the next dialogue is the 27th?
Because the unions don't trust that dialogue will change anything. The strike is a backup plan, a way to show the government that if the decree goes through, the cost will be paid in the streets and in the provinces where Petroperú actually matters.
What does energy sovereignty mean in this context?
It means Peru keeping control of its own oil company, its own energy supply, rather than handing it over to private investors—possibly foreign ones. Once you privatize, you lose the ability to make decisions based on national interest. You answer to shareholders instead.