The flight of far-right Brazilian politician Flávio Bolsonaro has exposed covert support from the Donald Trump administration and a network of alliances among conservative governments on the continent, encouraged by Washington, that collaborated to enable his escape. Bolsonaro’s departure for Miami — just one day after insisting he would lead the opposition to the newly re-elected Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva — demonstrates the existence of a Latin American bloc not only ideologically aligned with Trump but willing to act according to his logic, disregarding international treaties, several analysts said.

“It’s a network behaving identically to Trump’s, where international law has no relevance. The U.S. administration feels no respect for it and the Bolsonaro case is further proof. This creates a contagion effect among his regional allies, who choose to ignore legality. Trump sets the pattern and his allies avoid any decision that might anger him: they are aligned and follow the policy he defines,” says Michael Shifter, former president of the Inter-American Dialogue and one of Washington’s most influential hemispheric policy analysts.

Shortly after returning to the White House for his second term, Trump infused the federal administration with his particular geopolitical vision — a view that seeks to restore U.S. preeminence in the Western Hemisphere, according to the National Security Strategy published by the Pentagon late last year. The Defense Department’s new plan aims to reinstate the Monroe Doctrine, named for U.S. President James Monroe, who in the early 19th century formulated the idea of “America for the Americans,” an ideology that consolidated U.S. hegemony across the Americas and encouraged interference and intervention in Latin American countries.

The strategy has found backing among his allies. A few months before Brazil’s election, the son of former president Jair Bolsonaro — who was sentenced to 27 years in prison for plotting a coup after the 2022 elections — visited Trump in the Oval Office, an unusual move for a candidate. There, according to U.S. media reports, they agreed that Trump would not publicly endorse Bolsonaro because it could be counterproductive, but in recent months the U.S. president has made things difficult for the Lula da Silva government. And now he has welcomed Flávio in his country.

The fact that the United States, under Trump’s leadership, allowed Flávio Bolsonaro to flee Brazil — where he is under investigation for corruption cases, including money laundering — sets a dangerous precedent in the region, Michael Shifter says. “Everything Trump does sets a precedent,” he notes. “There’s a long list of unprecedented acts, and this is a very worrying precedent because it shows there is no regard for any law, regulation or court order,” he explains.

The occupant of the White House has meddled in every presidential election held in the region over the past two years to favor the most conservative candidates. Trump openly backed Argentina’s Javier Milei in last year’s legislative elections. Washington facilitated a $20 billion financial rescue to sustain the Argentine currency during a period of financial turbulence. And without much hesitation it conditioned that aid on the populist Argentine’s electoral victory.

Imposing the Monroe Doctrine

It was the clearest example of interventionism, although Trump also meddled in other elections through explicit messages of support on his social network, Truth, designed to favor right-wing hopefuls aligned with his cause. He publicly backed Nasry Asfura in Honduras. He also staged his “full support” for Abelardo de la Espriella in Colombia’s presidential race. Over the last two years, Trump has kept the carousel of endorsements going with Keiko Fujimori in Peru, Rodrigo Paz in Bolivia, and Laura Fernández in Costa Rica. Last November he declared his support for far-right José Antonio Kast to become Chile’s next president.

All these new conservative allies signed an agreement to create the so-called Shield of the Americas, an association of American countries to fight drug trafficking and organized crime. Trump staged the founding of the new organization last March at Doral (Miami), in a summit attended by a large representation of leaders who bowed to the U.S. leader’s dictates. The Shield of the Americas, however, is also a Washington instrument to cement its new foreign policy toward Latin America: under a neocolonial vision dubbed the “Donroe doctrine,” a play on James Monroe’s strategy combined with Donald Trump’s name.

Since Trump returned to the Oval Office two years ago, this strategy has forged an alliance with Latin America’s conservative presidents, showing favoritism and at times disparaging their rivals.

The political shift in the region is evident. A total of 17 allied, right-leaning countries have joined the Shield of the Americas founded by the United States. In the region, practically only Brazil, Mexico, Uruguay, Guatemala, Nicaragua and Cuba are governed by leftist parties. Although Trump did not publicly back Flávio Bolsonaro in Brazil’s presidential race, he maneuvered to favor him.

That alignment enabled Bolsonaro’s unpunished exit from Brazil, evading Brazilian law. Katya Salazar, director of the Due Process of Law Foundation (DPLF), an organization that promotes human rights and the rule of law in Latin America, criticizes the support provided by the governments of Argentina’s Javier Milei and Ecuador’s Daniel Noboa in facilitating the senator’s escape; late Tuesday night he crossed the land border into Argentina by vehicle with his wife and two daughters. At 11.30 p.m. (local time), the family boarded a private flight operated by Baires Fly S.A. bound for Guayaquil that departed after midnight.

“Argentina and Ecuador’s support for Bolsonaro’s departure is especially troubling because there were explicit judicial restrictions preventing him from leaving the country. Ideological affinity weighed more than respect for justice,” Salazar says. “This kind of solidarity between governments is not exclusive to one political sector; we have seen it across the ideological spectrum. But precisely for that reason, we must insist on a basic principle: political affinity cannot justify evading the law or disregarding court rulings,” she adds. “The precedent is awful for the Americas, especially in a context where the United States plays an increasingly active role in backing like-minded leaders. Accepting these behaviors means normalizing a logic where alliances prevail over institutions. The region cannot afford that,” she warns.

Internal fractures

Both Ecuador and Argentina are part of the Shield of the Americas. For Michael Shifter, the bloc shows severe fissures despite the firmness of its rhetoric and joint maneuvers such as Bolsonaro’s flight. “The electoral result in Brazil was a very heavy blow to Trump’s policy toward Latin America and to his ambitions of showing a fully aligned region,” he says. “The two largest economies in the area, which account for more than half the population and the largest GDP, are now on the other side. That trend toward automatic alignment is going through a very complicated moment,” he argues.

Added to that is the fact that governments such as those of Chile, Argentina and Ecuador face serious internal problems that suffocate their leaders: from the uncontrolled wave of violence besieging Noboa, to the low popularity levels of Chile’s José Antonio Kast or Peru’s Keiko Fujimori, who has just assumed the presidency with severe political wear.

“You can see the consolidation of a bloc sympathetic to Trump, willing to operate outside traditional legal parameters, but at the same time it is a bloc weakened by each country’s internal circumstances, which raises doubts about the sustainability of that alignment,” Shifter explains. At the social level, polls also reflect a deterioration in the image of the United States compared with a more favorable perception of China.

“The relationship with Washington is complex. It is true that these leaders maintain loyalty to Republican leadership, but they also know the political map in Washington could be reconfigured after the midterm elections, which would alter their calculations,” Shifter warns. A possible weakening of Trump at the ballot box would directly affect dynamics with his Latin American partners. “Trump will keep a lot of power, but not the same. And that matters for the historic tutelary relationship the United States has with the region,” he concludes.

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Three years after the start of the war in Gaza, thousands of families still do not know what happened to their loved ones. Some vanished beneath buildings bombed by Israel; others remain unaccounted for. The destruction of territory, the displacement of millions of people and the lack of resources to recover and identify remains make it increasingly difficult to reconstruct their stories. The longer time goes by, the greater the risk of losing the evidence that could lead to them.

According to estimates from the Palestinian National Team for Monitoring Missing Persons, more than 10,000 people are missing in the Gaza Strip, and it is believed that over 8,000 remain under the rubble. The team has individually documented more than 9,500 cases, including 4,700 women and children.

For Omar Al‑Assouli, strategic adviser to the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) in Palestine, the experience of Colombia’s Unit for the Search for Persons Declared Missing (UBPD) provides an answer—drawn from the Colombian reality—to the question of how to launch searches for missing people without waiting for the conflict to end.

“The first time we talked about this issue it was almost impossible to start the work, because people always think you have to end the war or have a peace agreement before starting the process of searching for the missing. But contact with the UBPD gave us the key, which is that we have a humanitarian approach. That gave us a lot of motivation to start, without making the mistake of waiting for the peace process or for transitional justice,” Al‑Assouli says from Bogotá, where he is taking part in an international symposium organized by the Search Unit.

In Colombia, that unit was born out of the 2016 Peace Agreement as a humanitarian, extrajudicial entity tasked with searching for people who disappeared in the context of the armed conflict. It includes those who may still be alive and those who died, whose remains must be recovered, identified and returned to their families. Because it does not seek to determine criminal responsibility, the search can advance without relying on judicial processes.

That is precisely something that could work in Gaza, Al‑Assouli says. “People are suffering and every day counts. They do not need a process of transitional justice now, nor do they need to be waiting for one; they do not need to see the people who made their relatives disappear go to prison. What they are seeking immediately is the truth and information about them,” he says.

Contact with the Colombian experience has also led him to consider how to centralize all available information, as the UBPD does. He explains that families can hand the same data to different organizations and agencies, a repetition that wears on those who are searching and increases the risk that information becomes scattered. “We think it is very important to have a comprehensive information‑collection system. We can collect the data that NGOs, international organizations or the Red Cross already have,” he explains.

Another point of convergence between the Palestinian and Colombian experiences is a collective dimension to the search. In Colombia, the UBPD has built on and strengthened the work of families and searchers—mostly women, who have their own protection and accompaniment law—social organizations, specialists and professionals from different disciplines. In Gaza, Al‑Assouli says, families are part of that work, although the conditions make it harder. The challenge is for that search to have coordination, technical support and mechanisms to preserve the information.

The obstacles to finding the missing in Gaza

The challenges, however, go further. Al‑Assouli points out that a significant portion of the territory is outside the control of Palestinian authorities and that, even in places where access is possible, resources to examine bodies are lacking. Searches take place amid destruction that makes both recovering remains and reconstructing the circumstances of disappearance difficult.

“In areas under Palestinian control, search methods are very primitive. There are no, for example, large excavators,” he says. The critical scenario is compounded by a shortage of DNA tests and forensic laboratories. In some centers samples are kept and remains are registered as unidentified, awaiting conditions that would allow testing.

But while time there may sound like hope, it also worsens the shortages. Bodies that remain beneath destroyed buildings can deteriorate. Some of those recovered have been in a condition that requires expertise in forensic anthropology and other disciplines. Those technical skills are scarce on the ground.

Displacement adds another difficulty. Around two and a half million people lived in Gaza, and about two million of them have had to flee their homes. Reconstructing who lived in each building, who was there when it was destroyed and who has been missing since then is far harder given those movements. “It is another source of information that we do not have,” the expert says.

While institutions try to organize the search, some families return to places they can enter and dig with their own hands or rudimentary tools. They try to find any evidence that would let them know whether their relatives are still there and recover the bodies to bury them.

The expert describes that search as a response to uncertainty, one that the Colombian experience shows could be reduced with organization and resources, even without waiting for all conditions to be adequate.

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It is 2022. In a neighborhood in western Caracas, Yolanda (a fictitious name) walks through a checkpoint manned by hooded police officers. In her pocket, she carries a small transparent bag containing several misoprostol pills – the second part of the treatment recommended by the World Health Organization (WHO) for a safe medical abortion.

She walks quickly, without looking back. Any nervous movement could lead to her arrest. That package could land her in jail: in Venezuela, abortion is punishable by up to two years in prison, while assisting in an abortion could get you a two-and-a-half year sentence.

The country has changed a great deal since then, especially since U.S. forces captured Nicolás Maduro on January 3, 2026. However, women’s reproductive health isn’t on the agenda. Laws are being reformed at breakneck speed to exploit oil and gold, while Venezuelan women – who can only legally get an abortion if their life is in danger – continue to resort to clandestine networks.

Oftentimes, not wanting a child is a matter of survival. “It’s not that I don’t want to be a mother. It’s that, right now, I can’t afford diapers, baby formula, or doctors. I just can’t,” Tatiana (a fictitious name) laments. She’s the recipient of the pills.

In almost one out of every three Venezuelan households, there isn’t sufficient income to even cover food needs. This is according to the 2025 National Survey of Living Conditions (ENCOVI).

Tatiana, a 22-year-old dancer at the time, had already taken the mifepristone, the first part of the treatment. When she was speaking with EL PAÍS, she was taking the first dose of misoprostol. And, just 15 minutes later, she ran to the bathroom to vomit up what little she had eaten for lunch. Yolanda followed her, held back Tatiana’s curly hair and closed the door.

That house, narrow and full of stairs, hadn’t had running water for years. Next to the bathroom, a garbage can that had been converted into a 50-liter tank served as a place to get water to bathe, flush the toilet and brush your teeth. Yolanda asked Alberto, Tatiana’s partner, to boil some water. That way, he’d be able to keep his trembling hands busy.

In Venezuela, what happens in that room has been happening in secret for decades. In the latest survey conducted by the Venezuelan Association for Alternative Sexual Education (AVESA), in which 500 women took part, 5.1% admitted to having had a abortion by taking medication.

Women and girls with fewer resources buy the pills on the black market, where they’re often scammed. Wealthier women pay more than $800 at clandestine clinics in Venezuela. And others cross the border: in Colombia, abortion is legal up to the 24th week of pregnancy, even for migrants. But that door is threatening to close. This is due to a constitutional reform that seeks to prohibit abortion. Washington’s foreign aid cuts have also affected Colombia-based organizations that attend to migrants’ reproductive needs.

Four years after Tatiana’s procedure, abortion doulas continue doing the same work, now in a country with hospitals that have been overwhelmed since the double-earthquake of June 24. One of these healthcare aides is currently supporting a woman for whom carrying her pregnancy to term could be fatal.

On paper, this is the only case in which Venezuelan law permits abortion. But her doctor insists that she have the baby anyway. This woman hasn’t been able to get the pills. And, weighed down emotionally, she’s alone: her partner left her when he found out about the pregnancy. “Many men have opinions about abortion and [feel that they have the] right to make decisions about our bodies… but the truth is that many women are abandoned during pregnancy,” the support worker says.

Daniella Inojosa – director of the feminist organization Tinta Violeta (“Purple Ink”) – explains that the existing exception that permits abortion in Venezuela “is practically nonexistent.” It only covers abortions that are performed by a doctor to save the mother’s life. It doesn’t consider her physical or mental health, and, since there’s no established procedure for applying it, it’s left to the doctor’s discretion. “This leaves women completely defenseless,” Inojosa points out. Only a few countries in the region such as El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras and the Dominican Republic are even more restrictive: they prohibit abortion without exception.

Suspicion also extends to miscarriages. “If you show up at a hospital with an ongoing miscarriage, [you’re automatically criminalized], based on the assumption that you’ve had an abortion,” Inojosa continues. She asserts that some women are imprisoned for having abortions, although her organization has no way of knowing how many.

The same Venezuelan Penal Code that ignores women’s health does, however, consider the notion of honor: sentences are reduced by between one-third and two-thirds if the perpetrator of a crime acts “to defend their honor” or – in the case of men – the honor of their wife, mother, sister, or daughter.

Heads of their households

The figures vary depending on the study, but more than half of Venezuelan households are headed by women. And, in these households, poverty reaches 80%, or 11 points higher than in those headed by men. “If I’m overwhelmed with unpaid care work, I don’t have time to have a paid job,” says Suzany González, a lawyer and executive director of the Center for the Study of Sexual and Reproductive Rights (CEDESEX). “The crisis has reinforced gender roles in relation to childcare and housework,” warns the researcher Laura Cano.

We go back to 2022. Inside the house, Tatiana’s contractions begin. Yolanda sits her on the toilet, so that she can expel the contents of her uterus. She repeats: “You can do this. You’re strong.” Tatiana moans. When it’s all over, the petite Yolanda carries her to the bed, even though Tatiana is much taller and heavier than she is.

Tatiana had someone by her side, but many other women face this ordeal alone. In Venezuela, there’s no recent official data to measure what’s happening to this population of women, although the last epidemiological bulletin – published in May of 2017 – recorded 756 maternal deaths in 2016, or 65.8% more than the previous year. And abortion was the fifth-leading cause of death. According to United Nations estimates, in 2020, 259 women died in Venezuela for every 100,000 live births, almost triple what the rate was in 2000. This was the largest increase in the world during that period of time.

With Tatiana already in bed, Yolanda lights purple candles on the windowsill and prays. Not to the saints, as is customary in Venezuelan homes, but to her female ancestors. She opens the refrigerator, but there’s nothing to settle Tatiana’s stomach. Instead, she prepares a herbal tea, which Tatiana drinks while sitting up on her pillow, her eyes watering. Through the barred window, the candle flames and threadbare curtains sway in the breeze.

Praying to the ancestors runs counter to the wave of evangelization in the country, which various humanitarian crises have only served to intensify. According to Inojosa, since 2014, evangelical churches have become guardians of morality in Venezuela. And, she notes, “all the churches share a common fight against the legalization of abortion.” Without sex education in schools, information about contraceptives – including emergency contraception – barely reaches women and girls. This, according to researcher Laura Cano, “creates an atmosphere of secrecy and unsafe practices.”

The Colombian gateway

“While women living on the border face complex realities, they’re actually the fortunate ones in [Venezuela], because they can cross the border and receive care,” says lawyer Suzany González. Since 2022, a ruling by the Constitutional Court of Colombia has allowed voluntary abortion up to the 24th week of pregnancy. Additionally, health regulations guarantee abortion access to migrants. And, regardless of their immigration status, the authorities are not notified.

Even so, according to Cristina Rosero Arteaga, a senior legal advisor at the Center for Reproductive Rights, many women don’t seek care for fear of deportation, while some government entities along the border violate the law and even threaten them.

In Colombia, however, there’s now a new president, Abelardo de la Espriella, who opposes abortion. And there’s a constitutional reform being pushed by the pro-life bloc in Congress that seeks to protect life from the moment of conception. No previous attempt has succeeded, but pro-choice activists say that they’ve never felt such a reactionary wave before. And the pressure is also coming from Washington: according to lawyer Selene Soto, several organizations that attend to migrants have stopped offering abortion services since Trump reinstated the 2025 ban on U.S. funding to NGOs that perform abortions or provide information about abortion.

In Nariño, a Colombian departmento (state) bordering Ecuador that acts as a transit point for migrants, Yanni Caicedo, from the feminist organization Unidas Para Avanzar (“United to Move Forward”), explains that many Venezuelan women depend on the Catholic Church for support, because there isn’t a single public shelter for migrant women. And that same Church, she says, judges them: “They aren’t listening to those of us who are part of the Church because we’re having abortions… yet, at the same time, we [still believe] in God.”

Since many migrants are evangelical Christians, her organization’s members have trained in feminist theology, in order to speak to them from a faith-based perspective: “There’s a merciful Christ who would surely march with us on September 28,” she notes, referring to International Safe Abortion Day.

This past September 28, hundreds of women marched in Bogotá. In Caracas, a few dozen people gathered in the rain in Plaza Venezuela to demand the decriminalization of abortion.

Today, Tatiana is 26 years old. And she still dances. She believes that she made the right decision, although she admits to having “some pangs of a guilty conscience.”

“I’m grateful that I’m not a mother right now… especially after the earthquake. If everything was chaotic before, now, it’s even worse,” she sighs. “My God, if I can’t even take care of myself, imagine if I had to take care of someone else?”

What she remembers most about that afternoon is that she wasn’t alone… and, because of that, she didn’t end up “in a bad place.” Like the women Caicedo describes, Tatiana also speaks from a place of faith: “I’m grateful that my companion crossed my path. I know God put her there for me.”

Translated by Avik Jain Chatlani.

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