Transcription
When an American president decides to use force to neutralize a foreign head of state, it is never a simple, isolated act. This type of decision involves much more than a military or judicial operation. It engages a worldview, an interpretation of international law, and a particular reading of global power dynamics. This is precisely what makes the Venezuelan affair so revealing. The spectacular arrest of Nicolas Maduro, exfiltrated to the United States to be tried, was presented by the Trump administration as a swift strategic victory. A head of state accused of drug trafficking neutralized, a regime weakened, a message sent to the entire Latin American continent. But this immediate interpretation masks a much more complex reality, because behind the apparent demonstration of force lies a tangle of legal, political, and diplomatic fragility that transforms this operation into a strategic trap. To understand what is truly at stake, we must first revisit the official justification put forward by Washington. Just a few hours after the American strikes and the arrest of Nicolas Maduro, the Trump administration insisted on a central point. It was not an act of war but a law enforcement operation, an operation conducted at the request of the Department of Justice, based on indictments issued in New York for arms and drug trafficking. In this narrative, the American armed forces would have been merely logistical support for a legitimate judicial action. This presentation is not trivial; it aims to circumvent two major obstacles: the absence of prior authorization from the American Congress and the prohibition under international law of the unilateral use of force against a sovereign state. By labeling Nicolas Maduro an American fugitive from justice, the Trump administration attempts to transform a head of state into a mere transnational criminal subject to American criminal law, regardless of his office and national sovereignty. Yet, this is precisely where the first major flaw lies. International law is based on a fundamental principle: the sovereign equality of states. The use of armed force is strictly regulated and is only permitted in exceptional circumstances, notably self-defense against an armed attack or with an explicit mandate from the United Nations Security Council. In the absence of these conditions, any military intervention constitutes a violation of the United Nations Charter. In the case of Venezuela, no UN mandate was issued. No armed attack by Venezuela against the United States was established. The accusations of drug trafficking, however serious, fall within the criminal domain, not armed conflict. This is what many international law experts recall, emphasizing that transnational criminality alone cannot justify a military operation of this magnitude. Oh, the Trump administration attempted to rely on the American War Powers Resolution, which allows the president to launch a short-term military action without prior congressional approval, provided that Congress is promptly informed. But here again, the argument is fragile, because this resolution concerns military actions of a temporary and defensive nature, not the overthrow of a foreign head of state followed by declarations implying direct administration of the country. By stating that the United States would control Venezuela for a certain period, Donald Trump himself undermined the coherence of his narrative. One cannot, as an American constitutional law professor pointed out, claim to be conducting a simple law enforcement operation and at the same time speak of governing a sovereign country. This contradiction fuels legal skepticism and exposes Washington to accusations of flagrant violation of international law. But the trap in which Donald Trump has engaged himself is not limited to the legal arena. It is also, and perhaps primarily, political. Recent history offers a precedent often cited by analysts: the American intervention in Panama in 1989, which led to the capture of Manuel Noriega and his extradition to the United States. At the time, Washington invoked self-defense and the protection of its strategic interests, particularly the Panama Canal. However, the differences between Noriega's Panama and Maduro's Venezuela are considerable. In Panama, a structured opposition, largely supported by the population, was ready to take power after the leader's overthrow. A relatively rapid political transition was put in place, and American troops withdrew within a limited timeframe. The political and diplomatic cost of the operation was contained. In Venezuela, the situation is radically different. The capture of Nicolas Maduro did not cause the immediate collapse of the Chavista regime. On the contrary, the main centers of power remained in place: the army, the supreme court, key ministries, and the politico-military apparatus. Vice President Delsy Rodriguez was recognized as interim president by the military authorities, in accordance with the Venezuelan Constitution. A state of emergency was declared, consolidating the control of the existing power. This point is fundamental. Contrary to what Washington seemed to anticipate, the physical or judicial elimination of the head of state did not lead to an automatic transition to a pro-American regime. On the contrary, it strengthened the cohesion of Chavista factions, civilian and military, in the face of an external aggression perceived as illegitimate. This is where the Venezuelan response, which Donald Trump did not fully anticipate, emerges. A response that does not take the form of direct military confrontation, an unrealistic option given American superiority, but rather a strategy of institutional, political, and diplomatic resistance. By maintaining a functional central government, invoking the Constitution, and denouncing a violation of international law, Caracas seeks to delegitimize American action on the world stage. This strategy resonates with several international actors. Russia and China have firmly condemned the American intervention, denouncing a unilateral use of force against a sovereign state. Admittedly, these condemnations remain largely rhetorical for now. Moscow is absorbed by the conflict in Ukraine. Beijing prioritizes its economic and commercial interests. But their position contributes to weakening the American claim to embody a rules-based international order. More broadly, the Venezuelan affair sends a disturbing signal to many states. If the United States can capture a sitting head of state without an international mandate in the name of criminal charges, then no leader is truly safe. This logic opens the door to the instrumentalization of criminal law for geopolitical purposes, undermining the very foundations of state sovereignty. Donald Trump undoubtedly thought he was sending a message of deterrence: defying Washington comes at a personal price. But this message partly backfires on its author because it reinforces the perception of a variable-geometry international order where rules apply to the weak but not to the powerful. This perception fuels mistrust, even defiance, towards the United States, including among some of its partners. Within the United States itself, the operation raises profound questions. Congress, kept out of the decision, is questioning the legality and appropriateness of the action. A vote aimed at restricting or ending any prolonged military action is expected. This internal debate weakens the American position and highlights institutional divisions surrounding Donald Trump's foreign policy. On the judicial front, finally, the American administration relies on the so-called K. Frisby doctrine, according to which a court can try a suspect, regardless of how he was brought to American territory, provided he has not been subjected to severe torture. This doctrine allows for bypassing debates on the legality of the arrest itself. But here again, the symbolic cost is high. Trying a former head of state captured after a contested armed intervention fuels a sense of arbitrariness and weakens the moral credibility of the American judicial system internationally. The central question then becomes: what is Washington truly gaining from this affair? In the short term, the Trump administration can boast of having neutralized a long-standing adversary. But in the medium and long term, the outcome is much more uncertain. Venezuela is not pacified. The Chavista regime is not dismantled, and Caracas's allies, without intervening militarily, are exploiting the affair to denounce Western hypocrisy. Above all, this operation creates a dangerous precedent. If it goes unpunished, it could encourage other powers to resort to similar methods to settle political disputes by invoking criminal or security justifications. The already weakened rules-based international order would emerge even more weakened. Ultimately, Donald Trump may have won a tactical victory, but he exposed himself to a strategic defeat. By underestimating Venezuela's capacity for institutional resistance, overestimating the deterrent effect of brute force, and weakening the international legal framework, he has opened a field of uncertainty whose consequences will far exceed the Venezuelan case alone. Understanding geopolitics is precisely this: not to be blinded by the spectacular event, but to analyze the deep dynamics, the long-term effects, and the chain reactions. And in this affair, it is perhaps less the costs borne by Washington than the silent, legal, and political responses from Caracas that are discreetly reshaping future balances. Mr.