Accusations of neocolonialism against the United States following Operation Absolute Resolve in Venezuela are not wrong—but they are focused on the wrong thing. The spectacle of Nicolás Maduro’s capture has drawn attention away from the quieter installation of systems and power networks that constitute colonial rule. If we ignore those systems now, Venezuela could slide into a colonial state that US policymakers and citizens will hardly be able to see, let alone contest.

Colonialism is not defined by spectacle but by the imposition of infrastructures of power, and history shows that private companies have been at the forefront of constructing this influence. The imperial 19th century offers a warning: Some of the most exploitative power imbalances of the colonial world began not with conquest but with private corporate investment.

The abduction of Maduro was a blatant violation of a globally recognized norm: territorial sovereignty. Governments around the world have condemned the operation as illegal. That condemnation, however, is largely rhetorical. There is no global litigator of international law. International law relies on collective enforcement, and Venezuela is demonstrating how thin that protection can be when confronted with overwhelming power.

The Trump administration is acting as if the postwar international order never existed. Actions in Venezuela, alongside Donald Trump’s broader hegemonic declarations about the Americas and Greenland, suggest a return to a world before international law—a world governed by imperial prerogative. This isn’t even neocolonialism; it’s simply colonialism. The danger of the “neo” qualifier is that it risks distancing the present from a past that is reasserting itself with unsettling familiarity.

The difference between war and colonialism lies in durability: the establishment of long-term control through structures of governance. This control can appear limited or indirect. Colonialism announces itself not only through occupation but also through legal, economic, and administrative rule. At its height, the British Empire ruled vast territory without blanket military occupation. Control was typically exercised indirectly through trade monopolies, legal authority, and administrative influence, with force deployed selectively rather than continuously.

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Understanding colonialism this way clarifies what to look for in Venezuela—and, crucially, where our outrage should be directed.

History suggests several warning signs of durable colonial control. First is the injection of the colonizer’s legal systems. This can occur at a high level, through the enforcement of norms surrounding human rights or transnational crime (such as the illicit drug trade), or at a lower level, through the restructuring of domestic legal regimes governing contracts, property, or due process. Second is control over key economic sectors. In the 19th century, Britain repeatedly reshaped colonial economies by redirecting trade, reorganizing labor, and privileging extractive industries, which entrenched imperial authority while appearing commercially neutral. These economic transformations did more to stabilize empire than any military campaign.

Third, empire was also administered from within. British officials embedded themselves in local courts and political systems, exercising authority through advisory roles and indirect oversight rather than overt annexation, echoing the advisory role the administration has hinted at for Venezuela.

While colonialism and empire are often treated as the remit of the state, chartered companies typically led the way. This wasn’t just because they were convenient; profit-seeking institutions were structurally aligned with the economic logic of empire. Private corporations, granted monopolies of trade, were often the first imperial actors on the ground. They signed treaties, raised military forces, and enforced their own law—initially over employees and then eventually over entire populations. For overstretched empires, particularly Britain during its near-constant wars with France, this was a cost-effective means of expansion.

The first warning sign of colonialism, then, is not invasion but corporate entry. The most important place to look for colonialism in Venezuela is not, for instance, the placement of naval vessels but the decisions of oil companies. President Trump’s declaration that the US oil industry will “rebuild” Venezuela’s oil infrastructure, alongside his support for Delcy Rodríguez—a long-standing oil industry ally—as interim president, positions US companies for deep incursion into not just Venezuela’s oil economy but also its governance writ large. It would place a dominant industry tightly linked to political authority under US corporate direction.

Already, the response to Trump’s push for oil company investment in Venezuela, the warning signs are appearing. While CEO of ExxonMobil Darren Woods said Venezuela was “uninvestable,” he followed up with the assertion that “significant changes have to be made to those commercial frameworks, the legal system, there has to be durable investment protections.” ExxonMobil’s involvement is conditional on, among other factors, the Trump administration’s ability to pressure Venezuela to rewrite laws governing its oil industry. In terms of promises Trump can make to the oil executives, changes to Venezuela’s legal governance of the industry is much cheaper and easier than promising security or subsidizing infrastructure construction. The leverage on offer is not tanks or troops, but the law.

For the left, this distinction matters. Focusing outrage on the spectacle of intervention or the legality of Maduro’s kidnapping risks missing the more durable threat: the embedding of private commercial actors in governance itself. Historically, it was these arrangements, not dramatic seizures of power, that stabilized colonial rule and rendered it difficult to reverse.

The risk is compounded by a lack of transparency. Despite the long relationship between the US oil industry and American grand strategy, shifting Venezuelan diplomacy to private companies alters what information is available to the public. The privatization of diplomacy makes intervention harder to see and harder to contest. Even policymakers may find themselves excluded from decisions that shape long-term commitments.

History also shows where this path leads. Governance is expensive. The protection of trade is costly if done both independently or dependent on state support. Chartered companies were frequently insolvent. One of the earliest corporate bailouts occurred in the 17th century, when the British East India Company required parliamentary support to continue operating. Despite their aptitude for profit-seeking, companies could not finance the administrative and infrastructural burdens they assumed on behalf of empire.

Allowing companies such as the US oil industry to lead the reconstruction of a strategically vital sector is therefore likely to fail in one of two ways. Either the state will provide substantial financial support, or it will intervene directly to protect and administer corporate interests. Both outcomes deepen colonial power and redirect profit and agency away from the Venezuelan people. Early indications suggest the administration is prepared to pursue the former, with reports circulating that Trump may subsidize oil companies’ efforts in Venezuela. The robust naval activity of the past several weeks, however, also does not rule out the latter.

The stakes for the US public are huge. Financially, the United States risks committing itself to a multibillion-dollar investment in another nation’s industrial infrastructure. Politically, it risks escalating adversarial competition. Morally, it risks becoming like the empire it claimed to leave behind in 1776.

The danger is not that Americans will choose colonialism but that it will be built inconspicuously, through contracts and corporate governance, before anyone is asked to consent.