Maduro, Castro and the War on Drugs: Latin America's troubled ties with the US

Maduro, Castro and the War on Drugs: Latin America's troubled ties with the US Following the capture of Venezuelan president Nicolás Maduro by American forces, and suggestions that Washington might also target Cuba or Colombia, Danny Bird spoke to Greg Grandin about the history of US engagement with Latin America Danny Bird: How have US views of Latin America changed over time? Greg Grandin: When the United States first emerged, what was then known as ‘Spanish America’ was part of the Spanish empire. Early US leaders therefore viewed the region through the lens of imperial geopolitics rather than as a collection of future sovereign republics. Figures such as [third president] Thomas Jefferson saw Spain as a declining empire that would fragment slowly – to the benefit of the US, which could absorb parts of its territory over time. That is largely what happened. Initially, US engagement was with Spain as an empire, not with Latin America as an independent entity. By 1823, around the time of the Monroe Doctrine [asserting the primacy of US interest in the western hemisphere], it had become clear that Spanish America was winning its wars of independence. Compared with the American Revolution, these conflicts were longer, more violent and far more destructive, unfolding across multiple theatres: Mexico; northern South America under Simón Bolívar; and the southern cone [Argentina, Uruguay and Chile]. By then, Mexico was independent, Colombia was close, and the imperial order was collapsing. At that moment, the US began to shift from dealing with a disintegrating empire to engaging with newly formed nations. In many ways, Spanish America (still not called ‘Latin America’ at that point) marked the United States’ entry into international diplomacy, because it was now required to conduct relations with other nation states within the western hemisphere. What methods has Washington used to impose its will on this region – military or otherwise? One of the earliest coups supported by the United States took place in Mexico in the 1820s. It was orchestrated by the US diplomat Joel Poinsett – best known for introducing the poinsettia to the US – who recognised that Britain was exerting influence in Mexico through Scottish Rite Freemason lodges. In response, Poinsett organised a network of York Rite lodges aligned with American interests. These networks played a central role in a coup that brought to power a government more favourable to the United States. Figures such as Thomas Jefferson saw Spain as a declining empire that would fragment slowly – to the benefit of the US This episode amounted to an early form of US-backed regime change. Such interventions would become a recurring method through which the US projected its power abroad. Alongside covert political influence, it also relied on naval force. American gunboats operated along the Atlantic coast of Brazil and up the Paraná and Amazon rivers, pressuring states such as Paraguay, Uruguay and Argentina into accepting free-trade treaties. And in Nicaragua in 1854, a US gunboat destroyed the port of Greytown. - Read more | Is this the secret to understanding US foreign policy? How a powerful doctrine from 1823 reshaped America When did US corporations start to wield influence in Latin America? Violence in the region was tied to rivalry between British and American interests over transit routes across Central America, which were crucial after the California Gold Rush began. Many migrants travelled through Panama [where Britain had influence] or Nicaragua, making control of these routes strategically vital. Railroad and shipping magnate Cornelius Vanderbilt was a central figure in these struggles, working to counter British influence in the region. This context also produced figures such as William Walker, a Tennessee mercenary who seized control of Nicaragua in the 1850s and declared himself president. He reinstated slavery, despite its abolition there three decades earlier, and aligned himself with Southern slaveholding interests. Before the American Civil War, much of US foreign policy was dominated by Southern states, whose priorities included defending slavery where it still existed [in places such as Brazil and Peru] and expanding it if possible. These priorities drove aggressive US policy towards Latin America. After the Civil War, slavery was abolished and Republicans took control of the foreign policy apparatus. At that point, corporate interests became central to US engagement with the region. Mexico, in particular, became what we would now call the United States’ first nation-building project. Capital from Boston, Philadelphia and New York flooded into the country, reshaping its economy around agricultural and mineral exports. US businesses took control of Mexican ports, railways, tram systems, electrification and telegraphs, while major mining and agricultural interests came to be dominated by American dynasties such as the Hearsts and the Guggenheims. As a result, Mexico became increasingly dependent on – and oriented towards – US capital and markets. In this light, the Mexican Revolution of 1910 can be understood in part as one of the world’s first anti-economic nationalist revolutions: a revolt against extensive US corporate control. It was during interventions such as William Walker’s in Nicaragua that intellectuals and opponents began to describe themselves as ‘Latin American’, in contrast to ‘Anglo-Saxon’ America. Latin America was imagined as humanist and universal, embodying the redemptive promise of the New World, whereas Anglo-Saxon America was cast as utilitarian, capitalist, interventionist and imperial. The term ‘Latin America’ thus emerged directly from the experience of intervention, as a political and cultural identity defined in opposition to US power. Has there been any consistency to Washington’s long intervention in Latin America? US support for Latin American governments has generally rested on a few core criteria. The first is cooperation: regimes are backed so long as they align with US interests, whatever those may be at the time. Before the Civil War, for example, Southern slaveholding interests wanted Mexico to return escaped slaves and buy plantation cotton. The second criterion is stability, particularly the ability of a regime to protect US property and economic relations. At later points, additional layers of justification were added – democracy, elections, political liberalism, freedom – but these emerged largely as rhetorical frameworks rather than as original guiding principles. Intellectuals began to describe themselves as ‘Latin American’, in contrast to ‘Anglo-Saxon’ America A decisive shift occurred with the War of 1898 against Spain. Cuba, unlike much of Spanish America, had not gained independence in the 1820s. Instead, it experienced a prolonged independence struggle beginning in 1868 and intensifying again in the mid-1890s, by which point Cuban forces were close to defeating Spain. US intervention in 1898 pre-empted this largely indigenous independence movement and replaced it with a form of informal American rule. The brutality of Spain’s counterinsurgency was widely publicised by the Hearst press and other proponents of ‘yellow’ [sensationalist] journalism, fuelling public pressure for action. Although Spanish atrocities were real, their depiction was used to legitimise US intervention. This marked a significant turning point: the US began to justify the projection of power in Latin America through the language of human rights. Throughout the 20th century, the extent to which the US invoked democracy, human rights or humanitarian concerns would fluctuate, but the precedent established in 1898 proved enduring. Did US intervention in Latin America change during the Cold War in terms of ideology, scale or rationale? You cannot understand the Cold War in Latin America without first examining the 1930s and 1940s, when the region played a crucial role in supporting the US before and during the Second World War. When Franklin D Roosevelt became president in 1933, he presided over a major shift in US policy towards Latin America. Latin American governments had long demanded that the US renounce its right to intervene, and recognise the full sovereignty of individual nations, effectively rejecting the old doctrine of conquest. Facing the constraints of the Great Depression, Roosevelt acquiesced, fundamentally altering US-Latin American relations. Economic nationalists in the region gained unprecedented support. When Bolivia and Mexico expropriated foreign holdings, FDR allowed it. The US even provided funding to build steel factories in Mexico and Brazil. This reflected a broader ‘continental New Deal’ in which governments actively sought to regulate capital and create distributive states, with US backing. Weapons supplied to Latin American militaries were suddenly being used against leftwing movements rather than fascist threats Strategically, this policy shift was critical. As global conflict loomed, US planners feared that Latin America could follow a trajectory similar to Franco’s Spain: small landed elites controlling most property, a largely peasant class, militant labour unions challenging entrenched hierarchies, and authoritarian nationalism. FDR’s support for reformers and social democracy prevented this, and nearly every Latin American country – with the exception of Argentina until later – aligned with the Allied cause. The fight against fascism became linked to the promotion of social reform and inclusive governance. However, the postwar shift was abrupt. By 1947, the US pivoted from fighting fascism to combating communism. Weapons, tanks, warships and aircraft supplied under Lend-Lease to Latin American militaries were suddenly being used against leftwing movements rather than fascist threats. In Chile, for example, equipment provided to fight fascism was deployed in 1948 to suppress a labour strike, in action orchestrated by a young lieutenant named Augusto Pinochet. At every level, US policy reversed. Intelligence and surveillance, previously focused on rightwing threats, turned towards leftwing actors. This abrupt, violent realignment established patterns of polarisation across the region, setting the stage for insurgencies, anti-communist regimes and continued US intervention throughout the 1950s, 60s and 70s. How have Latin Americans regarded the US historically? The relationship has always been shaped by tension between admiration and critique, often influenced by class position. From the very beginning of Spanish American independence, some reformers saw the US as a model of dynamism. Simón Bolívar, for example, admired its rapid creation of a market society, its settler communities of yeoman farmers and its agricultural and manufacturing growth. At the same time, he recognised that Latin America lacked the social foundations to replicate that model. Centuries of Spanish rule had concentrated wealth and power in a small class of landlords overseeing a vast, racialised majority, meaning it would require a more activist government to foster social and economic development. This tension persisted across generations. Francisco Bilbao, active in the 1840s and 1850s, initially saw the US as a liberal model. But after the loss of Texas, parts of Mexico and events such as William Walker’s invasion of Nicaragua, he turned critical. Bilbao popularised the term ‘Latin America’ and framed a cultural opposition: the US as Sparta, militaristic and self-interested, with Latin America as Athens, humanist and aspirational. The United States’ wealth and power remained magnetic, inspiring admiration and emulation. Yet Latin America also developed a coherent critique of its underdevelopment, noting recurring political crises and economic dependence. By the 20th century, ideas that would later be called dependency theory explained Latin America’s position in the global system: the prosperity of the ‘first world’ relied on the relative immiseration of the ‘third world’, maintained through structural inequalities. Thus Latin American attitudes toward the US were always ambivalent – drawn to its model of development, yet aware of its role in a system of exploitation. This tension shaped much of Latin America’s political and economic thought throughout the 20th century. Which historical figure best exemplifies that tension? Fidel Castro is a perfect example. As a youth, he once sent a letter to FDR offering all of Cuba’s iron ore to build ships for the Second World War, requesting a 10-dollar bill in return. However, Castro came of age in the late 1940s, after the US had shifted sharply from its pre-Cold War Pan-American cooperation to a policy defined by anti-communism. University students such as Castro quickly recognised the consequences of this policy change, while older, established politicians were slower to see it. Castro initially saw the US as an inspiration – a model for social democracy. Yet, following the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961 and American efforts to isolate and overthrow his government, that perception was decisively transformed. The US went from being a potential model to a powerful adversary to be resisted rather than emulated. How did the ‘War on Drugs’ change US intervention in Latin America in the late 20th century? The origins of that campaign, declared by Richard Nixon in 1971, can be traced back to the end of the Vietnam War, when many returning US troops were addicted to heroin – some units reportedly had a 50 per cent addiction rate. Nixon responded by creating the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) in 1973, which became the primary instrument of US drug policy both domestically and abroad. Its first major operations were in Mexico, where poppy cultivation had surged to meet demand from returning veterans. DEA cooperation with Mexican military and police produced a scorched-earth approach, with northern villages destroyed in a manner likened to South-East Asia. From that point, the War on Drugs developed a logic of its own, largely immune from political critique. Unlike the CIA or FBI, the DEA was rarely challenged, and its operations in Latin America proceeded with broad bipartisan support. A recurring dynamic emerged: US-backed repressive governments often became involved in drug production, yet simultaneously cooperated with the DEA to suppress it. Augusto Pinochet in Chile illustrates this paradox. After the CIA-backed coup of 11 September 1973, he presented himself as both anti-communist and capable of eliminating drug production, endearing himself to the Nixon administration. Yet Pinochet’s regime profited enormously from cocaine, including ‘black cocaine’ designed to evade detection, while collaborating with the DEA to suppress what were essentially his competitors elsewhere in the region. Similar patterns occurred in Bolivia, where CIA-backed ‘cocaine coups’ in the 1960s and 1970s brought rightwing regimes to power. These regimes facilitated production and used paramilitaries and death squads for political repression, while simultaneously inviting DEA involvement. Colombia later became the largest example of this dynamic, with rightwing political forces deeply invested in emerging cartels, while the US attempted to eradicate them. This contradictory pattern persists today: US policy simultaneously facilitates and combats drug production. Former CIA agent John Stockwell summarised it starkly: every major CIA operation has left behind a significant cartel, a pattern tracing back to post-Second World War Italy, beginning with gangsters such as Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano. In Latin America, then, US covert operations, political repression and counter-narcotics efforts have been inextricably intertwined for decades. Can we identify a common thread running through the history of US-Latin American relations? Latin America has served two central functions for the United States. First, it socialises the US, teaching it the limits of its power and shaping its sense of responsibility. Latin American opposition to interventionism and insistence on sovereignty – most clearly recognised by FDR in 1933 – grounded the US, forcing it to confront the realities of the hemisphere rather than pursue expansive fantasies such as Jefferson’s vision of a Saxon-dominated continent from the Arctic to Antarctica. In this way, Latin America has at times strengthened US governance and the responsible exercise of power. Second, Latin America functions as a testing ground. It is where US businesses gained their first international experience, banks expanded abroad, and the military conducted its first operations. It is also where domestic political coalitions are practised and forged. For example, by recognising national sovereignty and signing free-trade treaties, FDR strengthened a progressive corporate bloc that supported redistribution, the creation of a middle class and labour rights. This helped stabilise the New Deal order through the 1960s. Decades later, Ronald Reagan used Latin America in a similar way. Facing domestic crises – stagflation, rising energy prices, the aftermath of Vietnam and the Iranian Revolution – he combined economic and military intervention in Central and South America with a vision of universalist capitalism. Latin America became a space where Reagan fused markets and militarists, bringing together various different types of conservatives into a governing coalition. In short, Latin America helps socialise the US, so that Washington can wield its power more precisely and, during crises caused by global overreach, it serves as a workshop where new coalitions can rebuild power. Greg Grandin is Peter V and C Vann Woodward professor of history at Yale University. His latest book is America, América (Torva, 2025) This article was first published in the March 2026 issue of HistoryExtra magazine