By Eboni Brandon
The Caribbean has always known the weight of empire. It has felt the boots of soldiers and the shadows of warships on its turquoise waters. Yet through centuries of conquest and defiance, this region has achieved something rare — peace. Today, as U.S. destroyers, fighter jets and nuclear submarines once again crowd our seas, that peace feels fragile.
The United States says it is waging war against drug traffickers, but the scale and tone of its campaign tell another story. Since early September, at least 38 people have been killed in U.S. military strikes across the Caribbean and 14 in the eastern Pacific. The USS Gerald R. Ford carrier strike group is moving into the region as part of President Donald Trump’s expanded counter-narcotics mission. The Pentagon claims these actions are surgical and necessary. The Caribbean sees something more ominous — a show of might near the shores of Venezuela, a nation many of our countries consider a friend.
Venezuela’s political crisis is undeniable. The country has endured years of turmoil, contested elections, and deep division. The U.S. and several of its allies refuse to recognise Nicolás Maduro as the legitimate president, claiming the last elections were fraudulent. To use military force, however, in the name of liberation or regime change — under the banner of “freeing” an oppressed people — is no act of moral courage. It is an act of war, and for a region that has fought too long and too hard to remain conflict-free, it is a betrayal of everything we have built.
War has no borders. It does not stop at the edge of the nation it targets. If the U.S. were to expand its operations into Venezuela, the consequences would ripple across the Caribbean. The presence of European or Asian superpowers coming to Venezuela’s defence could transform our peaceful sea into a theatre of global confrontation. Trade, travel, and daily life would collapse under the weight of militarisation. Millions would face displacement, hunger, and hardship — and none of it would be of our making.
This region — the last truly conflict-free zone on Earth — cannot and must not be made to bear the cost of another great power’s ambitions.
The Caribbean remembers too well what happens when the cannons of empire return. In 1983, U.S. forces invaded Grenada after the execution of Prime Minister Maurice Bishop and seven of his associates. Their bodies were taken away, burned, and never found. The invasion, which Washington justified as a rescue mission, left 45 Grenadians, 24 Cubans, and 19 Americans dead. Grenada’s sovereignty was crushed under the boots of “liberators,” and the message was clear: when Washington speaks of protection, small nations should brace for intrusion.
It is why the Community of Latin American and Caribbean States (CELAC) declared this region a Zone of Peace in 2014 — a vow to resolve conflicts through dialogue, not domination. That vow now hangs by a thread.
After the first U.S. strikes in September, CARICOM issued a statement of grave concern, urging respect for international law, regional sovereignty, and the Caribbean’s right to peace. The region’s prime ministers have since echoed that alarm.
Gaston Browne of Antigua and Barbuda declared that his country “has absolutely no interest in hosting any form of foreign military assets.” Mia Mottley of Barbados warned that “the Caribbean must not become collateral space in a wider confrontation.” Andrew Holness of Jamaica reminded that all nations “must respect the sovereign rights of Caribbean states and international maritime law.” Meanwhile, Dr. Ralph Gonsalves of St. Vincent and the Grenadines — a senior regional statesman and unwavering defender of Caribbean sovereignty — condemned the strikes as “deeply troubling,” arguing that they violate the very legal order small nations depend on to survive.
The moral clarity of these statements matters. Caribbean nations have endured centuries of enslavement, colonialism, and intervention. We will not quietly accept a return to the days when our fate was decided elsewhere, and history gives us good reason to be wary.
Cuba has lived under a U.S. economic embargo since 1962, enduring more than six decades of restrictions designed to starve its revolution into submission. Generations of Cubans have suffered under those sanctions — not because of their government’s choices, but because of Washington’s punishment. It is this same philosophy — the belief that dominance brings righteousness — that now threatens to once again reshape our region.
The Caribbean’s caution is not without cause. Throughout the twentieth century, our islands were dotted with foreign military bases — in Trinidad and Tobago, Antigua and Barbuda, Guantánamo Bay and beyond. These installations were justified as “temporary” or “protective,” yet they entrenched decades of dependency and surveillance. Even after most were dismantled, they left behind environmental scars, economic distortion, and the lingering memory of foreign soldiers policing our borders. That dark history — immortalised in the songs of legendary calypsonians like King Obstinate and the Mighty Sparrow — reminds us still of the wounds left by those U.S. bases. It is why, when warships return to our waters under new names and missions, our instinct is not hostility but memory — the memory of what it cost us to reclaim our space.
Even in the United States, opposition is mounting. Both Democrats and Republicans have condemned the strikes as extrajudicial killings carried out without congressional authorisation. President Trump has dismissed those concerns, saying he sees “no need for Congress’ approval” and that the U.S. will simply “kill” alleged traffickers. It is a chilling declaration — not only of intent, but of contempt for the very checks and balances that guard democracy itself.
If war were to erupt, it would not stop at Venezuela’s borders. The fallout would consume an entire region unprepared for conflict. From right here at home in St. Kitts and Nevis to Guyana, from Trinidad and Tobago to Jamaica, millions who have nothing to do with this power struggle would pay the price.
We in the Caribbean are not blind to the suffering of our Venezuelan brothers and sisters, nor indifferent to the evils of the illicit drug trade, but we understand that peace cannot be imposed by force. The path to justice is not paved with bombs and blockades. The same diplomacy that resolved tensions between Guyana and Venezuela over the Essequibo region — through patience, dialogue, and regional mediation — is the same diplomacy that must guide us now.
We must remain steadfast. Our leaders must be unambiguous. And our people must raise their voices to ensure that amid the polite language of diplomacy, the message is not lost: foreign militarisation in the Caribbean is unacceptable.
The Caribbean is not a stage for anyone’s power. We are not a flank in someone else’s war. We are the custodians of a Zone of Peace, and its defence is our collective duty. We reject the drug trade, but we also reject the arrogance of force disguised as liberation. We welcome partnership, but not subjugation, because peace in the Caribbean is not a gift. It is a victory, and we will not surrender it now.
The Caribbean does not ask for permission to exist; it insists on being respected.
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