The recent US military operation that removed Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro has reignited debate about Washington's true motivations in Latin America. While administration officials offer multiple rationales—from combating narcotrafficking to restoring democracy—their unusually frank emphasis on securing Venezuela's petroleum reserves has captured global attention. This explicit prioritization of economic interests represents a striking departure from historical norms, where such motives were typically shrouded in ideological justifications.
In his first press conference following the January 2026 intervention, President Donald Trump made headlines by declaring that American oil corporations would play a central role in Venezuela's reconstruction. He went further, suggesting that revenue generated from petroleum exports could directly fund future US operations in the region. When subsequently interviewed by supportive media outlets, the president remained unapologetic, boasting about the superiority of American energy companies and confirming their imminent involvement in Venezuelan affairs.
As a historian specializing in inter-American relations, I find this candor both remarkable and troubling. Throughout the twentieth century, the United States consistently pursued economic objectives in its southern neighborhood, but rarely with such transparency. My forthcoming book on Guatemala's Cold War experience documents how Washington systematically concealed financial motivations behind interventions, manufacturing ideological threats to justify actions that primarily benefited corporate interests.
The 1954 coup that toppled Guatemala's democratically elected President Jacobo Árbenz provides an illuminating parallel. By the early 1950s, Guatemala had become America's primary banana supplier—a status it retains today. The Boston-based United Fruit Company controlled over 550,000 acres of Guatemalan territory, acquired through sweetheart deals with successive dictators who prioritized foreign investment over national sovereignty.
This corporate behemoth, which locals dubbed "el pulpo" (the octopus), extended its tentacles across Central America, the Caribbean basin, and portions of South America. Its influence corrupted political systems, distorted economic development, and penetrated everyday existence. The company's power was so absolute that when Colombian workers dared to strike in 1928, government forces massacred hundreds to preserve its operations—a atrocity immortalized in literature and collective memory.
The business model was brutally simple: expropriate fertile lands from indigenous and peasant communities, employ the displaced population at poverty wages with zero job security, and crush any attempt at organized resistance. Workers faced arbitrary layoffs and wage reductions while company executives cultivated relationships with dictators and local officials who ensured favorable operating conditions.
What distinguishes the Guatemala case is the elaborate deception surrounding the intervention. The CIA orchestrated the coup while publicly denouncing communist infiltration in Árbenz's government. In reality, the operation protected United Fruit's massive investments when the president's agrarian reform threatened to redistribute uncultivated company holdings to landless peasants.
The conflict of interest was staggering. Secretary of State John Foster Dulles had previously represented United Fruit as a corporate attorney. His brother, CIA Director Allen Dulles, sat on the company's board of trustees. These connections remained hidden as the administration fabricated evidence of Soviet arms shipments and communist subversion to sell the operation to Congress and the public.
The consequences were catastrophic. The coup installed a military regime that reversed Árbenz's reforms and triggered a 36-year civil war that claimed approximately 200,000 lives, predominantly among indigenous Maya communities. Yet for decades, the official narrative framed the intervention as a noble Cold War victory against communism, never mentioning the protection of corporate assets.
This historical amnesia serves contemporary political purposes. By acknowledging oil interests in Venezuela while ignoring similar patterns in Guatemala, policymakers create a false dichotomy between past and present. Economic motivations have always driven US involvement in Latin America, whether for bananas, copper, sugar, or petroleum.
The primary difference lies in the packaging. Cold War interventions required anti-communist justification to mobilize domestic support and secure international legitimacy. Today, with public skepticism toward foreign wars running high and memories of Iraq's nonexistent weapons of mass destruction still raw, the Trump administration appears to be testing a new approach: overt economic nationalism.
This strategy carries significant risks. Latin American nations, long suspicious of "Yanqui imperialism," now see their worst fears validated in official statements. Regional allies who might have supported action against Maduro's authoritarianism are distancing themselves from what appears to be a transparent resource grab. Meanwhile, competitors like China and Russia are exploiting this narrative to expand their own influence, offering investment without political interference.
The United Fruit Company's legacy continues to shape Central American reality. In Guatemala, the land concentration preserved by the 1954 coup remains a root cause of poverty, inequality, and migration. In Honduras, where the company also dominated, similar patterns persist. The 2009 coup against President Manuel Zelaya occurred after he raised the minimum wage and proposed constitutional reforms that threatened elite interests—disturbing echoes of 1954.
Understanding this history is essential for evaluating current policy. When Trump speaks openly about oil companies' role in Venezuela, he is not pioneering a new approach but simply removing the mask from a long-standing practice. The question is whether this honesty will prove more effective than the covert operations of the past, or whether it will simply accelerate the decline of US influence in a region increasingly determined to forge its own path.
The octopus may have changed its name—United Fruit evolved into Chiquita Brands International—but its tentacles still reach across the continent. Today's resource extraction operations, whether for minerals, agricultural products, or fossil fuels, continue to generate conflict and displacement. The fundamental difference is that now, the US government openly admits its role as the octopus's protector, abandoning the plausible deniability that previously characterized imperial interventions.