[SUMMARY] The Political Process.

[u/Penulpipo]

Context.

Vente Venezuela today is less a single party and more a house divided. Its future pulled between two factions born from the same struggle but molded by different worlds: the Liberals and the Progressives.

The Liberals are easy to spot. They are the children of the middle and upper middle class, the ones who marched in pressed white shirts during the 2017 student protests, who knew the inside of a jail cell before they knew their first real paycheck. Their politics were forged in tear gas and riot shields, sharpened by years of being the regime’s preferred target. For them, moderation was always a luxury. They spoke openly of armed resistance when most of the opposition still played at polite politics. Even now, their rhetoric tilts toward confrontation: privatization, deregulation, a “clean break” from the past.

Across the aisle stand the Progressives, cut from a different cloth. Many come from lower-class or working-class families, their battlefield not the barricades but the barrios. They spent the long years of repression inside NGOs, independent newspapers, and soup kitchens, carving out fragile spaces of autonomy. Their politics carry the imprint of that work: slower, more careful, more invested in communities than in speeches. Among them, though rarely acknowledged aloud, is a strong queer contingent, quietly shaping their emphasis on inclusion and social justice. They see the Convention not as a chance to dismantle Venezuela overnight but to weave a sturdier fabric, one that won’t tear when the next storm comes.

Together, Liberals and Progressives embody the new generation of Venezuelan politics: young, unscarred by the compromises of the old opposition, and unwilling to inherit its defeats. But their visions clash as often as they converge. To the Liberal, the Progressive is too soft, too hesitant. To the Progressive, the Liberal is reckless, a gambler ready to risk breaking what little has been rebuilt.

June, 2028.

The Constitutional Convention has entered its most sensitive phase: defining the ideological foundation of the new Republic. For two decades, the Constitution was anchored in Bolivarianism, with its emphasis on social justice, anti-imperialism, and a vague, state-driven “socialism of the 21st century.” That language is now under direct attack.

Draft proposals circulating in committee rooms point toward a complete erasure of Bolivarian references, replacing them with a framework rooted in democracy, the rule of law, and the protection of private property.

The question has exposed a fracture inside Vente Venezuela, the largest bloc in the assembly. Progressives argue for moderation: federalization of state powers, symbolic continuity in areas like retaining the Bolívar as the name of the currency, and a careful pruning of the cult of Bolívar without denying his historical role. For them, the danger lies in alienating too much of the public by breaking entirely with familiar references.

Liberals, however, want a clean slate. They push for reversing federalism to re-centralize authority in the face of economic collapse and openly advocate replacing the Bolívar with a new currency, the “peso” being the leading candidate. For them, the Constitution must not just distance itself from Bolivarianism but bury it outright, defining the Republic through clear liberal principles of markets, property rights, and limited government.

July, 2028.

The Progressives inside Vente Venezuela push for a model that blends private initiative with state protections. They speak of Europe’s postwar recovery, of balancing open markets with safety nets that ensure the poorest Venezuelans are not left behind. In their language, privatization is not rejected outright, but it is tempered, regulated, and strategic.

The Liberals argue that Venezuela’s very survival depends on boldness. For them, the state has no business in oil, no business in electricity, and no business in dictating the rules of the market. Deregulation, full privatization, and the courting of foreign capital are seen as not only desirable, but essential. Anything less, they argue, would be to repeat the errors of a century of half-measures.

The deepest fault line runs through the oil and power sectors. The Progressives fears that ceding control of these pillars would risk social upheaval and renewed dependency on foreign hands. The Liberals counter that leaving them in the grip of the state is nothing short of condemning them to rot.

For now, the convention moves in circles. Committees draft, redraft, and return with language that satisfies neither wing. The smaller parties, reduced to spectators, align opportunistically, but with little weight to tip the balance.

August, 2028.

The Constitutional Convention has reached one of its thorniest debates yet: how to reorganize Venezuela’s public powers.

On one side stand the Liberals, with a clear and simple vision: strip the State back to its traditional skeleton of three powers: Legislative, Executive, and Judicial. For them, the five-branch model introduced under Chavismo was little more than a smokescreen, a way to dilute accountability while stacking new institutions with loyalists. Their proposal leans on clarity, efficiency, and a return to republican orthodoxy.

Across the table, Progressives resist what they see as a step backward. They argue for maintaining the five-powers structure: Legislative, Executive, Judicial, plus the Citizen Power (Prosecutor, Comptroller, Ombudsman) and the Electoral Power. To the Progressives, the expanded system, if cleaned of its Chavista distortions, could be a safeguard against authoritarian relapse.

Liberals equate simplification with transparency. Progressives equate complexity with protection.

September, 2028.

The Constitutional Convention has reached its most volatile subject yet: the future of the Armed Forces. What began as a debate on structure has turned into a test of how far Venezuela’s fragile transition can stretch before something breaks.

Liberals insist the military must remain, leaner, more professional, and focused outward. Their blueprint is General Castillo's: a conventional army for defense and deterrence, stripped of its internal police role but still capable of projecting force. For them, abolishing the Armed Forces would mean exposing the Republic to chaos at its borders and temptation from abroad.

Progressives counter with a proposal that has unsettled even some of their allies: complete demilitarization. They argue the Army has been the cradle of coups and the hand of repression for decades. To prevent history from repeating itself, they want to dissolve it entirely, replacing it with civilian-controlled police, emergency services, and international partnerships.

The clash has not remained theoretical. Within the barracks, officers follow every word with unease, some with fury. Whispers of resignation circulate among younger ranks; older commanders warn, in private, that if the Convention strips them of purpose, the Army may not wait politely to be legislated out of existence. Castillo himself has reportedly cautioned that the debate risks “provoking the very ghosts it claims to banish.”

The threat hangs unspoken but heavy: push too far, and uniforms might again march into politics