The United States is escalating a hybrid war across the region — attacking civilian vessels, disciplining Petro, and tightening its grip on Colombia as part of a broader imperial strategy to crush multipolar sovereignty in the Americas.
By Prince Kapone | Weaponized Information | October 2025
Blood in the Water
In the churning waters of the Caribbean, a small vessel carrying Colombian citizens was torn apart by a U.S. strike, its passengers left dead beneath a sky patrolled by foreign drones and warships. Washington called it “narco-terror interdiction.” Bogotá called it a violation of sovereignty, a murder in waters that belong to the Colombian people. That single explosion did more than sink a boat; it ripped open the veil that usually hides the daily operations of empire. For a brief moment, the mask slipped, and the world could see the old colonial arrogance resurfacing in its modern, militarized form.
The United States insisted the target was a criminal threat. It always does. From Vietnam to Panama, Iraq to Libya, and now anywhere a poor fisherman can be relabeled a “narco” at the push of a Pentagon keyboard, the empire has perfected the art of killing first and justifying later. This strike was not an error, not an accident, not an isolated “operation” in some eternal war on drugs. It was a message — a flex of imperial muscle directed not just at a boat, but at a government, a process, and a people attempting to walk a sovereign path.
President Gustavo Petro, unlike the docile administrations that preceded him, refused to swallow Washington’s line. He named the dead as Colombians, not terrorists. He named the waters as Colombian, not “international.” And by doing so, he named the contradiction itself: a so-called partner that behaves like an occupier, and a nation told it must be sovereign in theory but submissive in practice. Petro’s stance punctured the diplomatic theater and exposed a reality long known to the barrios, the campesinos, the students in the streets, and the communal movements across Nuestra América — that sovereignty under empire is tolerated only when it obeys.
A single act can reveal the totality. The strike in the Caribbean is one such act. It forces a question that cannot be dodged: why does the United States believe it has the right to kill with impunity near Colombian shores and then lecture the world about law, order, and human rights? The answer is older than both nations — a doctrine of domination dressed up as “security cooperation,” recycled through the War on Drugs, and now mutating into hybrid war against any government that dares to chart a multipolar course. When Colombia’s dead wash up on Colombian beaches and Washington still claims jurisdiction, the truth becomes impossible to ignore.
This is not the beginning of the story, nor will it be the end. But it is a rupture — a moment when the everyday violence of empire becomes visible enough for millions to notice. The blast that shattered that Colombian vessel did not come out of nowhere; it is the latest expression of a system that treats sovereignty as a privilege, not a right, and expects gratitude from the very nations it wounds. To understand where this dangerous escalation is headed, we must pull back from the immediate spectacle and confront the deeper structure that produced it. Only then can we see why the empire felt compelled to fire, and why Colombia, at long last, has begun to answer back.
The Empire That Refuses to Release Its Grip
To understand why a U.S. missile found a Colombian boat, we have to step back from the smoking debris and study the architecture of power behind the trigger. Empires do not act impulsively; they act historically. Washington’s behavior in the Caribbean is not the rash tantrum of an insecure superpower but the logical expression of a doctrine that has ruled this hemisphere for two hundred years. Long before a drone camera locked onto that vessel, the United States had already authored the script for who may live sovereign and who must kneel. The Monroe Doctrine was the opening chapter; the War on Drugs became its modernized sequel. Different language, same command: the Western Hemisphere belongs to Washington’s orbit, and any nation that steps out of line must be disciplined.
The rhetoric has always been noble. They speak of partnership, cooperation, freedom, stability. But the truth is carved into the soil of Haiti, Guatemala, the Dominican Republic, Grenada, and Chile, where democratically chosen projects were strangled because they threatened the economic arteries of U.S. capital. When bullets, blockades, and coups failed to fully contain the rebellious spirit of the continent, a new instrument was refined—he security paradigm. With it, the empire could wage counterinsurgency, counter-narcotics, counter-terrorism, and counter-everything-else, rewriting conquest as public safety and intervention as mutual defense. Under this framework, the Caribbean became a patrol zone, the Andes a counterinsurgency laboratory, and sovereignty a negotiable privilege.
In this imperial worldview, the people of the South are never geopolitical subjects—only objects to be managed, classified, or pacified. A fisherman can be turned into a trafficker, a campesino into a combatant, a union into a threat, and a nation into a narco-state. Classification is power, and the empire’s deadliest weapon is its ability to name its enemies before the world can name the truth. That is why the strike in the Caribbean fits so neatly into the longer arc of U.S. hemispheric domination: it is not an anomaly, but a reenactment of an old script under new conditions. The language changes, but the hierarchy does not.
And now, with the rise of a multipolar world challenging U.S. supremacy, this hierarchy is under stress. The empire’s tolerance for disobedience is shrinking, not expanding. Every independent foreign policy, every regional integration project, every government that dares to speak in the voice of its own people is treated as a contagion to be quarantined. Venezuela was isolated. Cuba was strangled. Nicaragua was smeared. And now Colombia, by electing a president who refuses to be Washington’s viceroy, has entered the crosshairs of a doctrine that cannot coexist with genuine sovereignty. The flashpoint on the water was not improvised—it was structural. The empire was merely reminding the hemisphere of its claimed jurisdiction.
This is the contradiction at the heart of our moment: Latin America is breaking northward chains at the exact historical moment the United States is tightening them. Something has to give, and something is. The Caribbean incident exposes the collision between a region struggling to breathe and an empire afraid of losing its leash. To see how this contradiction sharpened so quickly in Colombia, we must trace how the country itself was bound into Washington’s security architecture. Only then can we grasp why Petro’s arrival in power marks not just a national dispute, but a geopolitical rupture decades in the making.
Chains Forged in the Name of Security
Colombia’s modern state formation has been shaped by U.S. security policy and military assistance for decades. Colombia did not wake up one day to find itself under the shadow of U.S. power; it was built under that shadow, brick by brick, base by base, policy by policy. Throughout the Cold War, Washington identified Colombia as a key anti-communist outpost and counterinsurgency partner — a willing apprentice in the dark arts of internal war. From the first “civic action” missions to the militarized drug war, Colombia became both the laboratory and the showcase for U.S. security doctrine in Latin America. Training programs and counterinsurgency frameworks exported from U.S. military schools found their mirror image in the jungles of Caquetá and Putumayo, where doctrine written in English was executed in Spanish. The manuals taught at Fort Benning and other U.S. bases left fingerprints on Colombia’s internal war, and the bullets fired in the name of “freedom” were stamped with foreign policy priorities rather than the will of the Colombian people.
Plan Colombia, launched at the dawn of the new millennium, was the culmination of that dependency — a vast imperial joint venture where cocaine was the pretext, but control was the purpose. Under its banner, U.S. advisers flooded the country; fumigation planes poisoned peasant lands; surveillance technologies mapped entire regions as if they were insurgent zones. Billions in “aid” financed an army more accountable to the Pentagon than to the Colombian Congress. The strategy worked, not in eradicating narcotics, but in cementing U.S. command over Colombia’s security and political apparatus. Every helicopter, every rifle, every software system became a strand in a web of dependency. Colombia was no longer a sovereign partner; it was an outsourced garrison for Washington’s southern front.
When Colombia became NATO’s “global partner” — the first in Latin America — the symbolism was unmistakable. A country still grappling with internal displacement and rural poverty was now enlisted as a junior ally in the global policing system. Washington had turned its most reliable client into a continental sentry, a regional enforcer dressed in the uniform of democracy. To the architects of empire, this was progress; to the Colombian people, it was quiet occupation. The flag remained national, but the command structure was transnational. Sovereignty survived in speeches but not in the chain of command.
This militarized dependency was not an accident of policy but a structure of power. It ensured that Colombia’s armed forces and intelligence networks were made interoperable with U.S. systems, while its political class was conditioned to seek legitimacy through U.S. approval. For decades, presidents competed for praise from Washington, not accountability to Colombians. The few who hesitated — like President López Michelsen, who challenged U.S. influence in the 1970s, or President Ernesto Samper, who faced U.S. visa revocation and sanctions in the 1990s — were swiftly punished through diplomatic isolation. The message was consistent: the partnership is conditional on obedience.
By the time Gustavo Petro came to office, Colombia was no longer merely aligned with the United States — it was structurally integrated into the machinery of empire. And yet Petro’s victory signaled a rupture in that long alignment. A former guerrillero turned head of state, he embodied the contradiction of a country built under foreign tutelage now daring to assert an independent will. His presidency posed a question the U.S. security apparatus could not tolerate: what happens when the garrison stops taking orders? To answer that question, Washington reached instinctively for the tools it knows best — coercion, intimidation, and destabilization. But before those methods came into the open, Petro first had to declare a different path, one that threatened to unravel the very foundations of Colombia’s subordination. That declaration would be the spark for escalation.
When the Garrison Refused Its Orders
Petro’s ascent did not simply rotate the faces in government; it disrupted the logic that had guided Colombia’s role in the hemisphere for generations. After decades of presidents who governed like junior officers in Washington’s command chain, Petro spoke a forbidden language — sovereignty, regional integration, post-extractivism, peace with social justice, and diplomacy over militarization. He dared to say, publicly and repeatedly, that the War on Drugs had failed, that the Amazon was not a battleground for foreign armies, that Colombia must breathe as part of Latin America and not as a military appendix of the United States. In a country conditioned to bow, his administration stood up — and the empire noticed.
Petro’s program was not merely progressive; it was geopolitical. Reopening relations with Venezuela, strengthening CELAC, questioning NATO alignment, proposing an exit from the militarized drug paradigm — each move challenged a different pillar of U.S. hemispheric architecture. For Washington, this was not “policy disagreement.” It was insubordination. Colombia had never been treated as just another ally; it was a forward operating post, a strategic hinge linking the Caribbean, the Andes, and Amazonia. To lose Colombia to a multipolar horizon was to lose the keystone of continental control. And so, from the moment Petro signaled a sovereign orientation, the confrontation became inevitable. He had not simply won an election — he had disrupted a military arrangement disguised as partnership.
Petro’s vision threatens the ruling class that has long governed on behalf of foreign interests. The oligarchy and its media bloc respond with hysteria, as if sovereignty itself is treason. They call him a communist, a dictator, a danger to investment, a man turning Colombia into “another Venezuela.” But behind the fear propaganda is a deeper anxiety: Petro’s project exposes how little sovereignty Colombia actually possesses. For the first time in decades, a president is attempting to align state policy with the aspirations of workers, peasants, and the popular classes rather than the demands of Washington, Miami, and Wall Street. That inversion of priorities breaks the unwritten pact that has kept Colombia obedient.
The empire understands politics in terms of obedience and contagion. If Petro succeeds — if Colombia proves that peace, integration, and multipolar diplomacy can deliver stability and dignity — the example can spread. Chile, Brazil, Mexico, Bolivia, Honduras, and the Caribbean bloc might deepen their coordination. The long dream of Latin American sovereignty, from Bolívar to Chávez, could gain institutional form and material force. That is why the U.S. response has been so aggressive and swift: Petro’s project doesn’t just challenge U.S. policy; it challenges U.S. hegemony. And in the eyes of empire, a sovereign Colombia is not a policy disagreement — it is a geopolitical threat.
Thus the contradiction sharpened. Petro sought a Colombia that could walk on its own feet; Washington demanded a Colombia that marched in its ranks. Petro extended a hand to the region; Washington reached for the stick. One path pointed toward integration and dignity, the other toward intimidation and discipline. The moment Petro charted an independent course, the question became not whether the United States would retaliate, but how. The answer is revealing itself now through escalating pressure — on the ocean, in the media, in diplomatic halls, and in the machinery of lawfare — as the empire set out to punish the garrison that refused its orders.
The Empire Tightens the Screws
Once Petro made it clear that Colombia would no longer serve as a compliant outpost of U.S. strategy, Washington shifted from watchful irritation to active retaliation. The empire did not waste time improvising; it simply reached into its familiar toolkit and activated every pressure point it has refined over a century of disciplining defiant governments in the Global South. In the Caribbean, the escalation took its most brazen form: U.S. military strikes under the banner of “counter-narcotics”, severing Colombian lives and provoking a sovereignty crisis. On a parallel track, the CIA’s covert operations in Venezuela were openly confirmed by Trump himself — a message that the region would be treated as a single theater of hybrid war where borders meant nothing and consent even less. Armed operations and intelligence destabilization are not separate policies; they were two claws of the same imperial strike, tightening around a government that dared to break formation.
But Washington never relies on bombs alone. It knows that force lands heavier when wrapped in legal and diplomatic theater. So came the next blow: the United States “decertified” Colombia on drug policy, — a bureaucratic weapon with geopolitical payload. Decertification is not a technical disagreement; it is a declaration of political delinquency, a foundation for sanctions, aid suspensions, and international isolation. In lockstep, Trump revoked Petro’s visa and launched a barrage of public insults, painting a sitting head of state as a criminal and a “drug leader.” The message to the world was unmistakable: Colombia’s elected president is framed as illegitimate, untrustworthy, and unworthy of sovereign respect. The empire understands the game — delegitimize the leader, and you destabilize the process he represents.
Corporate media, ever faithful to imperial choreography, performed its role without hesitation. U.S. outlets parroted Pentagon language about “narco-terror vessels” and “international waters”, while burying or ignoring the claims of Colombian victims and Colombian jurisdiction. Western correspondents did not question why a fishing boat could be bombed without evidence, or why U.S. troops and intelligence networks operate in a country whose president had not authorized such aggression. Meanwhile, Colombia’s right-wing opposition echoed and amplified Washington’s narrative, inviting further U.S. interference and using the scandal to smear Petro at home. Their goal is simple: fracture the national consensus, weaken the government’s legitimacy, and prepare the terrain for deeper instability.
In this multilayered offensive — military, diplomatic, legal, and informational — the pattern is impossible to mistake. The U.S. is not responding to “drug flows,” nor to any imminent threat. It is responding to disobedience. Lethal force at sea, CIA destabilization next door, decertification as lawfare, visa punishment as humiliation, media fabrication as cover, and domestic elites as accomplices: each lever reinforces the others, forming a single apparatus of coercion. The goal is not merely to pressure Petro’s administration, but to make an example of it — to warn every government in the region that sovereignty will be punished, and multipolar ambitions will be crushed before they take institutional root.
Yet this escalation, for all its violence, also exposes imperial weakness. A confident empire does not need to bomb fishing boats or defame presidents to maintain its order. A declining empire, however, lashes out at the margins to preserve the illusion of control. The more multipolar the world becomes, the more desperate Washington grows in its own “backyard.” But as the screws tighten, so too does the resistance. To understand how the internal terrain of Colombia became the next battleground in this campaign, we must now turn inward — to the oligarchs, parties, and media networks that serve as the empire’s local relay stations, and to the domestic struggle that determines whether pressure becomes rupture or liberation.
The Proxy War Within
Every empire requires local partners. Cannons alone cannot hold a nation; it must also be governed through the minds of its people. And so, as Washington escalated from the outside, Colombia’s opposition rushed to open the gates from within. The old political bloc — forged in the ranks of Uribismo, oligarchic networks, narco-linked interests, and U.S.-trained security elites — recognized the moment as an opportunity not merely to weaken Petro, but to reclaim the country for the order that had long served them. They did not need marching orders; dependency had already trained their instincts. The empire’s signal was enough. Their task, as always, was to translate foreign pressure into domestic crisis.
The opposition’s first maneuver was to fuse its narrative with Washington’s. When the U.S. bombed a vessel carrying Colombians, opposition leaders did not defend national sovereignty — they defended the U.S. narrative rather than Colombia’s. When Trump branded Petro a “drug leader,” his loyalists in Bogotá echoed the script verbatim, as opposition figures amplified Trump’s accusations against the president, as if the State Department were their Ministry of Truth. The bomb did not just land in the Caribbean; it detonated inside Colombia’s information system, clearing space for the right to argue that U.S. aggression was not aggression at all, but a necessary correction to a government gone rogue. In this inversion, empire became protector, and sovereignty became treason.
The next move was to weaponize fear. The opposition portrayed Petro’s agenda — peace, integration, sovereignty, and social reform — as a march toward collapse. They warned of “becoming Venezuela,” a tired slogan repurposed for the thousandth time, as though Washington’s blockade of Venezuela had not been the very cause of that nation’s crisis. They framed CELAC diplomacy as subversion, questioned peace talks as betrayal, and portrayed any divergence from U.S. directives as a national emergency. These were not arguments — they were psychological operations, planting anxiety in the middle classes and confusion among sectors of the working poor, softening public terrain for destabilization.
Meanwhile, corporate media — owned by the same elites whose fortunes grew under Plan Colombia — amplified the panic. They downplayed U.S. violations and magnified every difficulty facing the government, turning governance into spectacle and sovereignty into scandal. Editorial boards did not ask why U.S. forces kill Colombians without consent; they demanded to know why Petro had the audacity to complain. This is how the internal war of position unfolds: not with tanks in the capital, but with headlines, smear campaigns, lawfare maneuvers, and narratives designed to suffocate a political project before it matures.
In this terrain, Colombia found itself facing a two-headed enemy. From abroad, the empire tightened its grip through military strikes, decertification, visa warfare, and covert destabilization. From within, the local managerial class sharpened its knives, willing to sabotage the national interest so long as it preserved their privileges. The contradiction was now fully internalized: a sovereign government trying to breathe, and a comprador opposition trying to hold the pillow over its face. But Colombia is not an isolated battlefield; it is a frontline in a continental struggle. As the proxy war inside the country intensified, the question transcended Bogotá: what Colombia represents — and what Washington fears — is a region awakening to its own power.
The Hemisphere Remembers
What is unfolding in Colombia cannot be understood as a self-contained drama. It is a chapter in a continental story — one that stretches from the Caribbean to the Andes, from the Southern Cone to Central America, and from Bolívar’s sword to Chávez’s voice. Washington’s escalation is not merely a reaction to Petro’s policies, nor even to Colombia’s strategic location; it is the defensive reflex of an empire increasingly unable to command obedience in what it still claims as its “backyard.” As Venezuela refuses to kneel, as Cuba, endures, as Mexico asserts autonomy, as Brazil flirts with multipolarity, and as new regional institutions attempt to stand up without U.S. permission, the old order in the Americas is shattering. In this geopolitical earthquake, Colombia becomes not just a country to discipline, but an example to make.
For decades, the hybrid war against Venezuela has served as the flagship campaign of U.S. supremacy in the region. Sanctions, sabotage, isolation, covert destabilization, and psychological warfare were meant to break the Bolivarian process and warn others not to follow its path. Yet Venezuela survived — bruised, blockaded, but unbroken. That failure now torments Washington’s planners. In their eyes, the danger is no longer Chávez’s ghost alone, but the possibility that the hermetic seal around Venezuela may dissolve if neighboring governments reject the script. Petro’s reopening of relations with Caracas, his refusal to demonize Venezuela, and his gestures toward regional cooperation did more than alter a bilateral relationship; they disrupted the entire containment strategy. If Bogotá joins the sovereign camp, Venezuela is no longer isolated — it is integrated.
This is why Colombia’s turn under Petro has geopolitical consequences far beyond its borders. To the empire, a peaceful Caribbean is a threat; a united South America is a nightmare. CELAC, UNASUR, ALBA, and BRICS-curious diplomacy represent the embryonic forms of a new regional architecture — one where Washington is not the chair, the sponsor, or the judge. Every one of these projects is still fragile, contradictory, and incomplete. But in them lives a historic memory: the memory of a hemisphere that once imagined itself free of foreign chains. In this context, the U.S. does not fear crisis; it fears stability on sovereign terms. It is not chaos that destabilizes empire — it is integration.
And so Colombia’s present crisis mirrors a regional pattern. When Honduras elected Zelaya, the empire backed a coup. When Bolivia stood up, it supported another. When Brazil leaned left, lawfare became the weapon. When Venezuela refused subordination, the hybrid war unfolded in full. Now, with Petro in power, the empire revives the same repertoire — military provocation, diplomatic punishment, economic pressure, media warfare, and internal destabilization — because in Colombia it sees the same danger it saw elsewhere: a government that might break ranks and inspire others to do the same. This is not paranoia; it is imperial logic.
The hemisphere remembers its scars, and Washington remembers its defeats. The hybrid war aimed at Petro is therefore not only about Colombia’s resources, or its territory, or even its government; it is about preventing a new regional bloc from consolidating. Colombia is being targeted precisely because it stands at a crossroads — between obedience and integration, between subordination and sovereignty. The Caribbean strike, the CIA operations, the decertification threats, the media blitz, the visa warfare — each act is a signal to all of Latin America: attempt multipolar sovereignty, and you will be disciplined. Yet beneath this threat, another signal now grows in strength — a counter-signal from the pueblos of the continent, who know that the window for emancipation has returned, and that Colombia, like Venezuela before it, now stands on the frontlines of a larger continental awakening.
The Mask Falls, the Map Changes
When an empire escalates on every front — military strikes, lawfare, diplomatic humiliation, psychological operations, media coordination, and proxy agitation — it reveals something it normally works very hard to conceal: weakness. A confident empire does not need to bomb fishermen, blacklist presidents, or falsify narratives in order to maintain its grip. A confident empire convinces, coaxes, absorbs. But a declining one coerces, threatens, and lashes out. The United States is no longer managing a hemisphere; it is managing disobedience. And each new act of aggression against Colombia exposes the structural reality that Washington can no longer rule by consensus — it must now rule by force, fear, and fragmentation.
The incident in the Caribbean, and everything that followed, has stripped away the diplomatic euphemisms that once coated U.S.–Colombia relations. “Partnership” has revealed itself as command. “Cooperation” has revealed itself as obedience. “Security assistance” has revealed itself as domination through dependency. In this clarity, Petro’s collision with empire becomes more than a national controversy or a foreign policy dispute — it becomes a case study in the anatomy of hegemony and its unraveling. For decades, Colombia functioned as a pillar of U.S. strategy not because of ideology, but because the costs of disobedience were too high and the ruling class was too comfortable in its station as local steward of foreign interests. But once a project emerges that reorients the nation toward the needs of its own people and the sovereignty of its own territory, that calculus collapses. The empire cannot reform that contradiction — it can only try to crush it.
And yet, every blow the United States delivers now has the opposite of its intended effect. Each strike accelerates the delegitimization of U.S. power. Each threat pushes Colombia deeper into regional alliances. Each humiliation clarifies the nature of the relationship for millions who once believed the mythology of “shared values” and “mutual interests.” Empire, in its arrogance, has made the case for sovereignty more effectively than Petro ever could alone. It is Washington, not Bogotá, that has reminded the continent of its chains — and in doing so, it has reminded the continent of its unfinished liberation.
This moment forces a sober conclusion: the United States is no longer capable of coexisting with sovereign governments in Latin America. Its geopolitical blueprint requires subordination, and any deviation — whether in Venezuela, Bolivia, Honduras, Brazil, Mexico, or now Colombia — triggers the same cycle of punishment. But this cycle unfolds in a different world than the one that existed during Operation Condor or Plan Colombia. Multipolarity is not an aspiration; it is a material process. China, Russia, the BRICS bloc, CELAC, and a resurgent Global South present alternatives that did not exist when Washington could isolate nations at will. The empire is trapped in a paradox of its own making: it must escalate to preserve control, but every escalation accelerates the erosion of that control.
Colombia now stands as a hinge in this historical transition. If Petro survives the siege — politically, economically, and institutionally — it will open a path for a new regional alignment rooted in dignity rather than obedience. If he is broken, Colombia will be used as the cautionary tale to discipline the hemisphere for another generation. The stakes, therefore, are not merely national or diplomatic; they are civilizational. What is being decided is whether Latin America will remain a managed periphery of a declining empire, or whether it will become one of the engines of a multipolar order struggling to be born. The mask has fallen. The question now is whether the hemisphere will avert its eyes — or confront the truth and walk through the door that history has opened.
Two Roads, One Future
The strike in the Caribbean was never just about a single boat, a single president, or a single incident. It was a spark that illuminated the crossroads at which Colombia—and indeed the entire continent—now stands. On one road lies the familiar future: obedience to Washington, the recycling of dependency, the management of poverty through militarization, and the slow suffocation of any project that dares to center the needs of the people. On the other road lies a future still unfinished: sovereignty, regional integration, popular democracy, and a multipolar world where Latin America is a subject of history, not its spoils. The empire has chosen its road. The question is whether Colombia will choose its own.
If Colombia yields to the campaign now underway—if intimidation, lawfare, destabilization, and media warfare succeed—then Washington will claim the victory as proof that nothing fundamental has changed. A defeated Petro would be paraded as Exhibit A: a warning to Mexico, to Brazil, to the Caribbean, to the Andes, that sovereignty is performative and resistance is futile. The comprador elites would return to power, eager to resume their role as administrators of the old order, and Colombia would once again serve as the forward operating post of U.S. strategy—a garrison masquerading as a republic.
But there is another possibility, and it is this possibility that terrifies Washington. If Colombia holds its ground—if Petro withstands the blows and the popular classes refuse to break—then the message to the hemisphere will reverse. Venezuela survived. Cuba endured. And if Colombia resists as well, the illusion of U.S. inevitability will shatter. The spell will be broken. The continent will remember its power. A sovereign Colombia, linked to a sovereign Venezuela, to a sovereign Mexico, to a sovereign Brazil, would turn the Caribbean from a U.S. patrol zone into a corridor of integration. CELAC would have teeth. UNASUR would have direction. Latin America would have its voice. The road to multipolarity would widen.
History does not move by moral persuasion alone—it moves by force, contradiction, and courage. Washington has already revealed the force it is willing to deploy. The contradiction is now clear to all. What remains is the courage of a people and a government to defy the destiny others wrote for them. The empire has fired its opening salvo. The region has answered with memory, with dignity, and with the stubborn insistence that it will not be chained forever to someone else’s flag.
Colombia stands at the hinge of an era. What happens next will not only shape its own future, but the future of a continent and the fate of a world struggling to break the grip of a dying imperial order. The waters of the Caribbean have already carried the truth onto the shores: sovereignty without obedience is the line that Washington will not tolerate. The task before the people is to decide whether that line becomes a border of fear—or the first trench of liberation. The roads now diverge. The hour demands choosing. And the future will not forgive hesitation.
Weaponized Information 
Leave a comment