A massive U.S. military buildup in the Caribbean has renewed fears that Washington is entering a new era of direct intervention in Latin America. President Donald Trump has publicly walked back talk of strikes inside Venezuela and framed recent naval attacks as counter-narcotics actions, yet the arrival of the USS Gerald R. Ford and other forces will substantially increase the U.S. presence in the region.
As a scholar of U.S.–Latin American relations, I see these moves as rooted in a long history of U.S. interventions. If attacks on ships escalate into direct confrontation with Venezuela, such actions would fit a historical pattern of U.S. coercion in the hemisphere. But the current posture is unprecedented in important ways and risks damaging U.S. ties across the Americas for a generation.
Deploying a flotilla to the southern Caribbean evokes “gunboat diplomacy”: the unilateral use of naval power and landings of forces to intimidate or overthrow governments, a tactic the U.S. used repeatedly from the late 19th century through much of the 20th. One account documents dozens of U.S. interventions in the region between 1898 and 1994, some involving direct aggression, others supporting authoritarian regimes. Many resulted in the overthrow of governments and thousands of deaths — for example, the U.S. occupation of Haiti (1915–1934) that may have caused as many as 11,500 deaths.
Through World War II and the Cold War, the U.S. intervened to defend its investments and counter perceived ideological threats, backing dictators such as Chile’s Augusto Pinochet. Roosevelt’s “Good Neighbor” policy in the 1930s reduced overt interventions, but Cold War logic resumed interventions against leftist governments in places like Guatemala and Grenada. After 1994, U.S. forces in the hemisphere generally operated as part of multilateral missions or with host-nation consent, focusing on tasks such as counter-narcotics cooperation.
Respect for sovereignty and non-intervention became especially salient given rising drug violence, tempering regional resistance to U.S. military cooperation in large countries like Mexico and Brazil. But the current situation cannot be dismissed as a simple revival of the Monroe Doctrine. Two key distinctions make a U.S. strike on Venezuela especially fraught.
First, the action would shatter the traditional Monroe Doctrine justification, originally intended to keep external powers from meddling in the Americas. Over time that rationale morphed into a U.S. prerogative to police the hemisphere, invoked during episodes ranging from Guatemala (1954) and the Bay of Pigs (1961) to the Dominican Republic (1965) and Grenada (1983). The doctrine’s logic held firmer during the Cold War when preventing Soviet influence could be framed as hemispheric defense.
The 1989 invasion of Panama to oust Manuel Noriega — a narco-convicted, anti-democratic leader — was one of the last clear assertions of this policing impulse without an external great-power pretext. Noriega’s removal by about 26,000 U.S. troops resembles, rhetorically, Trump’s narrative about Venezuelan criminality. Trump has repeatedly depicted Nicolás Maduro as illegitimate and at times linked him to organized criminal groups, even suggesting ties to the Tren de Aragua gang, which U.S. authorities have labeled a foreign terrorist organization. From there, arguing for Maduro’s removal on narco-terrorist grounds becomes an easier rhetorical step.
Second, any U.S. campaign against Venezuela would dwarf Panama in scale and complexity. Venezuela is far larger and more populous, with a military force far beyond what the U.S. faced in Panama. A U.S.-led regime change there would likely provoke broad, possibly armed, resistance. Maduro’s call for a “republic in arms” might be bluster, but analysts warn an invasion could spiral into prolonged conflict. Maduro has solicited assistance from Russia, China and Iran; external backing, even limited, could complicate any U.S. operation. The mobilization of U.S. assets in the Caribbean is no guarantee of success.
Regional leaders have voiced unease. Even governments that oppose Maduro dislike the prospect of external intervention. Colombia’s and Mexico’s presidents have criticized the U.S. strikes, and others warn of hemispheric resentment if intervention becomes the method for removing leaders. For many Latin American countries, opposition to intervention is shaped both by memories of U.S. interference and by current self-preservation — especially among left-leaning governments already at odds with Washington. As Brazil’s President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva put it, if powerful states feel free to invade others, respect for sovereignty evaporates.
Trump’s public rationale emphasizes counter-narcotics enforcement, yet Venezuela is not a major producer or trans-shipment hub relative to other countries in the region. If Washington broadens its targeting to other states perceived as compromised by drug corruption — Mexico, Colombia, Bolivia, Peru — the hemisphere could see a worrying domino effect.
Historically, the U.S. has occasionally used force in parts of Latin America and has occupied cities or pursued cross-border expeditions into Mexico, but it has never occupied or directly invaded a large South American country. Past experiences showed such operations to be costly and counterproductive. Today, a U.S.-provoked regime change in Venezuela risks massive resistance across the country and deep, long-lasting damage to U.S. relationships throughout the Americas.
Alan McPherson is professor of history, Temple University
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license.
