The Donroe Doctrine: The U.S. Rebranded Return to Latin America
The morning of January 3, 2026, the world woke up to dramatic images and reports of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro being captured during a U.S. military operation in Caracas. In a predawn raid executed by U.S. special forces, Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, were taken into custody and transported to the United States, where he later faced drug trafficking, narco-terrorism, and other related conspiracy charges. The events in Venezuela were soon described by officials and analysts alike as part of a broader foreign policy shift now being referred to as the “Donroe Doctrine.”
The term, an explicit nod to the 19th-century Monroe Doctrine, reflects a renewed willingness by the United States to assert its dominance over the Western Hemisphere, exclude external rivals, and act unilaterally in the name of “regional stability.” While proponents argue that this approach responds to growing geopolitical competition with China and transnational security threats, critics warn that it revives a familiar logic: one that reduces Latin America to a strategic arena, rather than a region of sovereign actors.
Monroe to Donroe
To understand why the events in Venezuela have sparked such intense debate, it helps to remember that the United States has long framed the Western Hemisphere as its own sphere of influence. The Monroe Doctrine, articulated in 1823, originally declared that European powers should no longer attempt to colonize or interfere in the Americas. While it was presented as a defensive principle, it also laid the groundwork for a broader U.S. posture: the idea that the hemisphere was a zone where the United States had the authority to shape outcomes. Over time, the doctrine evolved from a diplomatic warning into a justification for intervention, from military occupations to economic pressure, whenever U.S. interests were perceived to be threatened.
The current administration’s rhetoric and actions suggest a revival of this logic. In recent months, President Trump has used symbolic language to emphasize U.S. dominance in the region: describing Canada as a “51st state,” calling for the annexation of Greenland, rebranding the Gulf of Mexico as the “Gulf of America,” and reaffirming control over the Panama Canal. These statements signal a worldview where the U.S. is willing to assert its power unilaterally when it believes its strategic interests are at stake. In this sense, the so-called “Donroe Doctrine” is less a new policy than a revival of an old one, reframed for a world defined by competition with China and renewed concerns about regional security.
The Case of Venezuela
Nowhere has this revived doctrine been tested more directly than in Venezuela. The operation that led to Nicolás Maduro’s capture came after months of escalating U.S military presence in the Caribbean and off the coast of South America. Starting in August 2025, Washington began deploying U.S. Navy missile destroyers and thousands of military personnel to the edge of Venezuelan territorial waters. The Trump Administration also intensified pressure on Maduro, including offering a $50 million reward for information leading to his arrest. The forces operated alongside more than 30 boat strikes that killed at least 115 people in the Caribbean and the Pacific, all alleged to be transporting drugs to the U.S. The governments and families of several of those killed have rejected the Trump Administration’s claims of “narco-terrorism” and insisted the victims were fishermen. One family even brought its case to the Inter-American Commission of Human Rights, alleging the extrajudicial nature of the strikes.
Yet, Maduro’s capture did not lead to the democratic opening many had hoped for. Within days, Delcy Rodríguez, a long-time figure of the Chavista regime, was sworn in as Venezuela’s interim leader by the Venezuelan Supreme Court. In response, Washington quickly signaled that it would treat Rodríguez as a partner in stabilizing the country. What followed highlighted the paradox at the heart of the operation: rather than dismantling the existing power structure, the U.S action effectively changed the head of state while leaving much of the regime structure intact. Rodriguez has since then signaled her willingness to cooperate with Washington on oil and security issues.
The opposition’s hopes for a clear democratic transition were complicated by these developments. Before the intervention, opposition leader María Corina Machado, who won international attention and a Nobel Peace Prize, had gone as far as presenting that award to President Trump during a high-profile meeting, a gesture intended to secure U.S. backing for a transition. However, soon after the operation, Trump publicly downplayed Machado’s prospects inside Venezuela, arguing she lacked broad domestic support, and instead shifted focus to working with Rodríguez’s interim administration. What was expected as support for the opposition became, in practice, continued engagement with a regime figurehead, raising sharp critiques towards the United States’ intervention.
Opinions among Venezuelans and regional observers remains deeply divided. Some view the rapid handoff of power as a hopeful break from decades of repression, while others see the episode as a violation of international law and an imperial assertion of American influence that violates Venezuelan sovereignty and self-determination.
The Case of Latin America
The capture of Maduro also sent an unmistakable signal to regional leaders. In the following days, tensions between Washington and Bogotá sharpened, with Maduro himself issuing threats toward Colombian President Gustavo Petro over perceived failures in combating drug trafficking. In the lead-up to the 2026 elections, this pressure has become a central issue for candidates: some condemn U.S. intervention as imperial overreach, while others openly call for stronger cooperation or even support for U.S. action. For many voters, the controversial boat strikes are a reminder that Washington’s “anti-drug” agenda can easily become a cover for military escalation and regional dominance. Ultimately, the question Colombian voters face is not just who will win the election, but whether Colombia will be allowed to chart its own path or be forced to align with U.S. strategic priorities, even when those priorities threaten democratic norms and sovereignty.
Across the region, the Donroe Doctrine’s logic shows up less in dramatic raids and more in strategic alignments and pressure. In Panama, for example, high-level U.S. engagement helped encourage the government to abandon China’s Belt and Road Initiative, a move Washington framed as guarding the neutrality of the Panama Canal and countering Beijing’s influence. Meanwhile, in Argentina, the United States has boosted financial assistance through a $20 billion bailout in an effort to stabilize the falling Argentine peso under Libertarian president Javier Milei. Similarly, in Chile’s recent presidential election, Trump quickly moved to endorse and congratulate José Antonio Kast, a long-time Pinochet follower and Nazi descendant, signaling support for leaders who align with Washington’s regional agenda and resisting those who pursue more independent policies.
And although these actions are presented as efforts to support stability or prevent foreign interference, they reveal a more concerning pattern: leaders who ideologically align with Washington’s priorities are rewarded, while those who seek autonomy or closer ties with China face pressure, threats, or even overthrow. This is the core of the Donroe Doctrine in practice. Beyond a simple foreign policy strategy, it embodies a system of incentives and punishments designed to keep the hemisphere within U.S. influence. It is an explicit demonstration of hard power, not just a softer “strategic partnership.” And the competition with China is the key driver. The U.S. sees Latin America as a critical battleground for access to strategic resources, from oil and gas to various critical minerals used in batteries and renewable energy. In other words, the Donroe Doctrine is a response to the growing rivalry with China, but it also exposes a deeper reality: Latin American countries are again being forced to choose between two major powers.
On a personal note, that choice feels painfully familiar. It echoes the long history of neocolonial and imperial relationships in the region, only now the faces have changed. Countries are left deciding between aggressive investments and influence from two global powers, and the “choice” is often just choosing the lesser of two evils. The result is a region where sovereignty is increasingly conditional, and where the space for independent development is shrinking under the weight of geopolitical competition.