Knowing that others are free while you remain imprisoned creates constant anguish
Before American forces moved in to capture Nicolás Maduro on January 3rd, the Vatican had quietly sought a different ending — one arrived at through negotiation rather than force. The Holy See's top diplomat has now confirmed those efforts, and their failure, placing the Church among the many institutions that found themselves overtaken by events they could not shape. What remains in the aftermath is not resolution but suspension: a country in freefall, a region recalibrating its alliances, and families waiting at prison gates for names that may never be called.
- The Vatican's quiet diplomacy collapsed before it could take hold, leaving the Church to acknowledge, almost in passing, that force had rendered its efforts irrelevant.
- Selective prisoner releases — some foreign nationals freed, many Venezuelans still detained — have become their own instrument of psychological pressure, dangling hope while systematically withholding it.
- Families sleep in tents outside detention centers, cycling between hope and despair with each new release list that does not include their loved ones, while at least one detainee has already died in custody.
- The regional order is visibly straining: Cuba convenes its National Defense Council, Brazil invokes the language of neocolonialism, and Venezuelan exile communities organize internationally to demand accountability.
- Venezuela's interim government calls for unity and strategic prudence even as it reports hundreds of damaged apartments from the U.S. strike — a country trying to narrate its own coherence amid profound disruption.
The Vatican has confirmed what had long circulated in whispers: before U.S. forces captured Nicolás Maduro on January 3rd, the Holy See had worked to broker a peaceful exit for the Venezuelan leader and other regime figures. Secretary of State Pietro Parolin acknowledged the effort almost in passing at a public event, noting that the Church had always sought a peaceful resolution — but that it found itself facing a fait accompli. The talks had gone nowhere, and force had decided the matter. Parolin offered no roadmap for what comes next, only the observation that Venezuela now exists in a state of profound uncertainty, its economy in freefall and its people suffering.
In the meantime, a different kind of torment has taken hold. Political prisoners are being released — selectively. Several foreign nationals have walked free: a Ukrainian, a Czech, an Iranian-Irish man, a Romanian tourist detained for ten months after being swept up on a bus. Each release is real, but each one also sharpens the anguish of those still waiting. Mariana González, daughter of opposition leader Edmundo González Urrutia, described the selective excarcerations as psychological torture — the cruelty of watching others go free while her detained husband remains inside. Families have been camping at prison gates since January 8th, when the regime announced releases would come. One mother, Yessy Orozco, demanded the right to deliver medicine to her imprisoned mother, invoking the death of Edison José Torres Fernández, a 52-year-old officer who died in custody, as proof that detention in Venezuela carries mortal risk. Her father and brother are also imprisoned.
Beyond Venezuela's borders, the reverberations are spreading. Venezuelan exiles gathered in Bogotá and Buenos Aires to demand the release of all political prisoners. In Argentina, a religious procession became a march for freedom, with a priest framing the cause not as politics but as the defense of basic human dignity. In Ecuador, operatives from opposition leader María Corina Machado's party began a census of exiles, mapping who has fled and whether return might one day be possible.
The regional temperature continues to rise. Cuba convened its National Defense Council to assess military preparedness — its first such public meeting since the January 3rd operation. Brazil's president criticized the United States in stark terms, calling the intervention another erosion of international law and invoking the word neocolonialism. Venezuela's interim government reported 463 apartments damaged in the U.S. strike and called for national unity against what it described as external enemies and internal extremists. The story, for now, is one of suspension rather than resolution — the Vatican's diplomacy failed, the prisoners wait, the families wait, and the region watches, calculating what comes next.
The Vatican, through its top diplomat, has now confirmed what had circulated in whispers and news reports for weeks: it tried to negotiate a way out for Nicolás Maduro before American forces moved in. Secretary of State Pietro Parolin acknowledged on Saturday that the Holy See had worked to broker what he called a peaceful solution—one that would have allowed Maduro and other regime figures to leave Venezuela without bloodshed. The talks went nowhere. By January 3, before any deal could take shape, a U.S. military operation in Caracas ended the matter entirely, and Maduro was in custody.
Parolin's admission came almost as an afterthought, mentioned in passing at an event, a reference to reporting that had already surfaced in the Washington Post. He described the Vatican's position with the careful language of diplomacy: they had always supported a peaceful resolution, but they found themselves facing a fait accompli, a situation already decided by force. Now, he said, Venezuela exists in a state of profound uncertainty. The economy is in freefall. People are suffering. The Vatican hopes the country moves toward stability and recovery, though Parolin offered no sense of how that might happen.
Meanwhile, the machinery of selective release continues to grind forward, creating a different kind of torment. Political prisoners are being freed—some of them. A Ukrainian named Sergi Rudavskyy walked out. A Czech, Jan Darmozval. An Iranian-Irish man, Alireza Akbari. A Romanian, Cristian Cenuse, who had been arbitrarily detained for ten months after being swept up during a tourist bus ride. These releases are real. But they are also incomplete, and that incompleteness is the point. Families camp outside detention centers, waiting. They do not know if their loved ones will be next, or if they will remain locked away indefinitely.
Mariana González, daughter of opposition leader Edmundo González Urrutia, put words to what this uncertainty does. Her husband, Rafael Tudares, has been detained since January 2025. She called the selective releases a form of cruelty, a psychological torture that dangles the possibility of freedom while withholding it. Knowing that others are being excarcelated while you remain imprisoned creates, she wrote, a constant anxiety, a deep anguish that compounds the physical and spiritual exhaustion of captivity itself. The regime announced on January 8 that releases would happen, and families have been waiting at prison gates ever since, sleeping in tents, hoping their turn comes.
One mother, Yessy Orozco, demanded that authorities allow her to deliver medicine to her detained mother. She invoked the memory of Edison José Torres Fernández, a 52-year-old police officer who died in custody—a stark reminder that detention in Venezuela carries real physical risk. Her father is also imprisoned, her brother as well. The family is fractured across the system.
Outside Venezuela, the reverberations continue. In Bogotá, about twenty Venezuelans gathered at Plaza de Bolívar to demand the release of all political prisoners. In Buenos Aires, a procession of the Divina Pastora became a march for freedom, with former ambassador Elisa Trotta among those walking. A priest in the Argentine capital, Father Eusebio Hernández, used his pulpit to call for liberation, framing it not as politics but as a defense of basic human rights. In Ecuador, operatives from María Corina Machado's party began a census of Venezuelan exiles, trying to understand who has fled and whether they might return if conditions change.
The regional temperature is rising. Cuba's National Defense Council met to evaluate military preparedness in case of war, the first public meeting of that body since January 3. Brazil's president, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, criticized the United States in an interview with the New York Times, calling the operation another chapter in the erosion of international law and the multilateral order. He used the word neocolonialism—the old language of Latin American resistance to foreign intervention. Maduro's government reported that 463 apartments in Caracas were damaged in the U.S. military strike, and interim president Delcy Rodríguez called for national unity and strategic prudence, warning that external enemies and internal extremists work to divide the country.
The story, then, is not one of resolution but of suspension. The Vatican tried and failed. The prisoners wait. The families wait. The region watches and calculates. And somewhere in the machinery of Venezuelan detention, people remain locked away, their fates uncertain, their families' hope and despair cycling with each new release announcement that does not include their names.
Citas Notables
We had attempted what also appeared in some newspapers. We always supported a peaceful solution, but we found ourselves facing an accomplished fact, a situation already decided.— Pietro Parolin, Vatican Secretary of State
It is a form of cruelty and psychological torture to play with the expectation of freedom for political prisoners and their families.— Mariana González, daughter of opposition leader Edmundo González Urrutia
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did the Vatican bother trying to negotiate Maduro's exit if the U.S. was already planning a military operation?
The Vatican didn't know the operation was coming. They were working on their own timeline, trying to prevent bloodshed. By the time they realized what was actually happening, it was already done.
So Parolin's confirmation now—is that an admission of failure, or something else?
It's both. He's acknowledging they tried and it didn't work. But he's also establishing that the Vatican was on the side of a peaceful solution. When the U.S. moved in, they became bystanders to a fait accompli, which is a way of saying: we didn't choose this outcome.
The selective releases seem designed to break people psychologically. Is that intentional?
It's hard to say what's intentional versus what's just the nature of how these systems work. But the effect is clear: you know people are being let out, you don't know if you're next, and that uncertainty is its own form of punishment. It keeps families in a state of constant, exhausting hope.
Why would the regime release foreign prisoners but keep Venezuelan political prisoners?
Foreign prisoners create diplomatic complications. Releasing them costs the regime less politically. Venezuelan prisoners are the regime's leverage—they're the ones whose detention sends a message to the opposition.
What does Lula's criticism actually change?
Probably nothing in the immediate term. But it signals that the U.S. operation has cost it credibility in the region. Brazil is a major power. When Lula uses the word neocolonialism, he's invoking a shared historical memory of Latin American countries resisting outside interference. It matters for how the region sees itself.
Is there any scenario where the detained people actually get released?
The regime has already started releasing some. Whether it releases the rest depends on what it thinks it gains or loses by doing so. Right now, keeping them imprisoned keeps the opposition demoralized and divided. That's worth something to the regime.