"America's business is business," President Calvin Coolidge 30th President of United States
Looking at U.S. foreign policy in Latin America, I often examine how presidential doctrines evolve and intersect with contemporary crises. The administration of Donald J. Trump (2017-2021) provides a fascinating case study in this regard, particularly its approach to the Venezuelan crisis under Nicolás Maduro. At first glance, Trump's aggressive stance—marked by economic sanctions, diplomatic isolation, and recognition of opposition leader Juan Guaidó as interim president in January 2019—might seem like a modern echo of the Monroe Doctrine, the 1823 policy that asserted U.S. hegemony in the Western Hemisphere and warned European powers against interference. However, upon closer scrutiny, Trump's Venezuela policy aligns more closely with the Wilsonian tradition of Woodrow Wilson (1913-1921), emphasizing moralistic interventionism, democracy promotion, and ideological crusades against autocracy. This shift represents a departure from the Monroe Doctrine's original pragmatic, isolationist roots, favoring instead a proactive, values-driven engagement that risks entangling the U.S. in internal affairs for the sake of global democratic ideals.
To understand this comparison, we must first revisit the Monroe Doctrine's origins and evolution. Articulated by President James Monroe in his 1823 address to Congress, the doctrine was a defensive posture born of post-Napoleonic anxieties. The U.S., still a young republic, sought to prevent European recolonization of newly independent Latin American states, declaring the Americas closed to further European colonization or intervention. Secretary of State John Quincy Adams, the doctrine's intellectual architect, framed it as a policy of non-interference: the U.S. would not meddle in European affairs if Europe reciprocated in the Western Hemisphere. This was not idealism but realpolitik—protecting U.S. commercial interests and territorial security without committing to moral crusades. Over time, the doctrine morphed. Theodore Roosevelt's 1904 Corollary expanded it into an offensive tool, justifying U.S. interventions in Latin America to prevent instability that might invite European involvement, as seen in occupations of Cuba, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic. Yet even in its interventionist form, the Monroe Doctrine remained sphere-of-influence oriented: it prioritized stability and U.S. dominance over ideological transformation. Interventions were often paternalistic, aimed at "civilizing" neighbors through financial oversight or military occupation, but not necessarily democratizing them in a universal sense.
In contrast, Wilsonianism introduced a moral dimension to U.S. foreign policy, rooted in Progressive Era ideals of self-determination, collective security, and the spread of democracy. Woodrow Wilson, a former academic and idealist, viewed international relations through a lens of ethical imperatives. His Fourteen Points (1918) called for open diplomacy, free trade, and national self-determination, culminating in the League of Nations to prevent wars through multilateralism. Wilson intervened in Latin America—occupying Veracruz in 1914 and Haiti in 1915—not merely for stability but to foster democratic governance and combat "tyranny." His famous declaration that the world must be made "safe for democracy" during World War I exemplified this: U.S. power should remake nations in America's image, promoting liberal values as a path to peace. Critics, including realists like George Kennan, later derided Wilsonianism as messianic, leading to overreach in places like Vietnam or Iraq. Yet its legacy endures in post-Cold War interventions, from Bill Clinton's actions in the Balkans to George W. Bush's democracy promotion in the Middle East.
Turning to Trump's Venezuela policy, the parallels with Wilsonianism become evident in its ideological framing and proactive regime-change efforts. Venezuela's crisis escalated under Maduro, who succeeded Hugo Chávez in 2013. By 2017, hyperinflation, food shortages, and political repression had triggered mass protests and a refugee exodus affecting neighboring countries. Trump's response was multifaceted: imposing sanctions on Venezuelan oil (PDVSA) in 2019, freezing assets, and barring U.S. firms from dealing with Maduro's regime. More dramatically, the U.S. recognized Guaidó, the National Assembly president, as legitimate leader, rallying over 50 nations to do the same. This was not just economic pressure but a direct challenge to Maduro's sovereignty, justified in moral terms. Trump and officials like Secretary of State Mike Pompeo repeatedly invoked human rights abuses, electoral fraud, and the need to restore "democracy and freedom" in Venezuela. In a 2019 speech to the Venezuelan American community, Trump declared, "The days of socialism and communism are numbered not only in Venezuela, but in Nicaragua and Cuba as well," echoing Wilson's anti-autocratic rhetoric.
This approach diverges from the Monroe Doctrine in key ways. Traditionally, Monroe's policy focused on external threats: preventing foreign powers from gaining footholds in the Americas. In Venezuela, external actors like Russia, China, and Iran indeed supported Maduro—Russia with military advisors and debt relief, China with loans, and Iran with oil shipments. A pure Monroeist might have emphasized countering these influences to maintain U.S. hemispheric primacy, perhaps through quiet diplomacy or targeted actions against foreign assets. Instead, Trump's policy prioritized internal transformation: ousting Maduro to install a democratic government. This mirrors Wilson's interventions, where the goal was not just repelling outsiders but engineering regime change for ideological purity. For instance, Wilson's occupation of Haiti aimed to impose constitutional reforms and elections, much like Trump's support for Guaidó's "interim government" and calls for free elections. Moreover, Trump's multilateralism—coordinating with the Lima Group and Organization of American States (OAS)—evokes Wilson's League of Nations vision, where collective action enforces democratic norms.
Critics might argue that Trump's real motivations were Monroeist: protecting U.S. energy interests (Venezuela holds vast oil reserves) and curbing migration flows. Sanctions did aim to starve Maduro of revenue, potentially benefiting U.S. oil producers amid the shale boom. The refugee crisis, displacing over 5 million Venezuelans by 2020, strained Colombia and Brazil, indirectly affecting U.S. borders. Yet these pragmatic elements were subordinated to a Wilsonian narrative. Unlike Monroe's non-ideological stance, Trump's rhetoric framed the conflict as a moral battle against "socialist tyranny." Pompeo's 2019 tour of Latin America warned of "malign" influences but tied them to the broader fight for "liberty." Even the failed 2020 "Operation Gideon"—a botched mercenary incursion allegedly tacitly supported by U.S. elements—recalls Wilson's covert meddling in Mexico during the 1910s, where ideological zeal overrode caution.
Furthermore, Trump's policy lacked the Monroe Doctrine's restraint on entanglement. Monroe and Adams advocated "non-interference" in internal politics unless vital interests were at stake. Roosevelt's Corollary intervened only when "chronic wrongdoing" invited European action. In Venezuela, no immediate European recolonization loomed; the threats were from non-Western powers, but Trump's response went beyond containment to active promotion of self-determination. Guaidó's recognition effectively declared Maduro's 2018 election illegitimate, intervening in Venezuela's domestic legitimacy—a Wilsonian hallmark. Wilson similarly refused to recognize Mexican dictator Victoriano Huerta in 1913, insisting on "constitutional" rule. Both cases reflect a belief that U.S. power should arbitrate foreign governance based on democratic standards, risking escalation. Trump's threats of military options ("all options are on the table") amplified this, though no invasion occurred, unlike Wilson's Veracruz landing.
The Wilsonian tilt also explains the policy's limitations and backlash. Like Wilson's idealism, Trump's approach overestimated U.S. leverage. Sanctions crippled Venezuela's economy, reducing GDP by over 70% since 2013, but Maduro endured through repression and foreign alliances. Guaidó's momentum faded by 2021, with Maduro consolidating power. This mirrors Wilson's post-World War I failures: the Senate rejected the League, and self-determination ideals faltered in practice. In Latin America, Trump's policy alienated left-leaning governments wary of U.S. interventionism, reviving memories of Cold War-era overthrows like Guatemala (1954) or Chile (1973). A more Monroeist strategy—focusing on bilateral deals to isolate foreign influences without regime change—might have been less divisive.
While elements of the Monroe Doctrine persist in Trump's "run" Venezuela policy—such as countering external powers—the overriding emphasis on democracy promotion, moral rhetoric, and internal transformation marks it as profoundly Wilsonian. This blend reflects a broader trend in U.S. foreign policy: the tension between realist spheres of influence and idealist global missions.
As historian Walter Russell Mead notes, Wilsonianism appeals to American exceptionalism, viewing the U.S. as a beacon of liberty. Trump, often labeled isolationist, ironically embraced this in Venezuela, perhaps influenced by neoconservative advisors like John Bolton. The result was a policy that, while failing to dislodge Maduro, underscored Wilsonianism's enduring allure and perils. In an era of great-power competition, future administrations might weigh whether such ideological interventions serve U.S. interests or merely perpetuate cycles of resentment in the Americas.
Editorial comments expressed in this column are the sole opinion of the writer.
