There is, in the image of Nicolás Maduro paraded in New York like a petty drug trafficker, something that echoes Vercingetorix being displayed as a war trophy in Rome before Julius Caesar in September 52 BC, after the siege of Alesia. No one is suggesting shedding crocodile tears for a populist dictator at the helm of a defiant state. Maduro, moreover, is neither Lumumba nor Che Guevara. He is simply one of those figures Latin America has always known how to produce in its darkest hours: characters straight out of The Autumn of the Patriarch by Gabriel García Márquez, whose outward flamboyance masks a total absence of grandeur. Spectral. Ridiculous. Through this show of force, Donald Trump clearly sought once again to demonstrate the supremacy of the American empire, just as George W. Bush did twenty years ago by sending Saddam Hussein to the gallows after the Iraq expedition. Yet, despite the striking nature of the U.S. operation, it is not necessarily a sign of strength. On the contrary, it acts as a brutal revelation: the return, unspoken, to a world governed by spheres of influence, close in spirit to what was formalized between the USSR and the United States in the Helsinki Accords of 1975. But with one crucial difference. Since the end of the Cold War, the international order has sought to present itself as universal and normative, grounded in law, democracy, and the sovereignty of peoples. In reality, this narrative long concealed a selective interventionism, often justified by the fight against terrorism or against so-called “rogue” regimes. The new world order was American. An “hyperpower,” as Hubert Védrine famously put it. For two decades, the United States targeted figures operating outside the classic framework of statehood: the Taliban, Osama bin Laden, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, Qasem Soleimani. Even Saddam Hussein, a notable exception, was absorbed into a broader narrative of proliferation and systemic threat. With Maduro, the logic shifts. This is no longer about neutralizing a transnational actor, but about intervening directly against a sitting head of state, in a region historically viewed by Washington as part of its natural strategic sphere. The gesture is less ideological than geopolitical. What is emerging increasingly resembles an informal Helsinki, without negotiation tables or solemn signatures. A tacit rule now prevails: each major power acts as the enforcer of its vital space, carefully avoiding direct confrontation with others. Israel imposes “its” regional security order in the Middle East through preventive deterrence and targeted military action; Turkey redraws its red lines from Syria to the Caucasus; Saudi Arabia manages its immediate neighborhood through an existential reading of security; the United States reinvests in the Western Hemisphere in an explicitly Monroeist spirit; Russia acts in Ukraine (and previously in Syria) in the name of strategic depth; China insists that Taiwan is a non-fragmentable red line; India and Pakistan revert to their familiar refrains… without even mentioning the Horn of Africa and its endless intrigues. With the collapse of the Yalta order, the world is no longer governed by universal norms, but by localized balances of power. Here is where the analogy with Helsinki reaches its limits. In 1975, mutual recognition of spheres of influence operated within a strict bipolar framework. The nuclear arms race followed a paradoxically stabilizing logic: deterrence. Each side knew the other’s red lines. The existential risk of nuclear annihilation acted as an ultimate brake. Competition within coordination was the rule. Today, that framework has vanished. The world is multipolar, fragmented, crossed by middle powers, hybrid actors, militias, failed states, and disruptive technologies. Nuclear weapons still exist, but they no longer structure the entire system. They coexist with prolonged conventional wars, targeted strikes, covert operations, cyberattacks, and proxy conflicts. Deterrence is no longer a shared language. As for coordination… one might ask the judoka Putin what he thinks. This return to regional policing produces a world that is more legible for major powers, but infinitely more dangerous for gray zones. States too weak to impose sovereignty yet too strategic to be ignored become permanent theaters of contained tension. Above all, the absence of a credible global framework introduces an unprecedented risk: miscalculation, a localized escalation spiraling out of control, in a system where no one truly believes in the rules they invoke. That is another name for chaos. And it will not be “constructive.” Helsinki froze the world through fear of mutual annihilation. Today’s world advances without a safety net, convinced that local force can solve everything, while forgetting an essential truth: brinkmanship always carries the risk of falling into the abyss. Perhaps that is the real omen for tomorrow: an international order less “hypocritical,” but more unstable; more honest in its brutality, yet stripped of safeguards. A world where everyone polices their own backyard, until the borders between those “backyards” once again fail to hold. “I’ve seen the future, brother, it is murder,” sang Leonard Cohen after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the bipolar order. He was right. Between dreams of freedom and democracy and the nightmarish disillusion of unbounded violence, there is often only a single step.








