The 20th century promised a world governed by institutions, diplomacy, and the rule of law. The 21st is proving otherwise. In today’s global landscape, wealth and force have replaced respect and principle as the defining languages of power. For Africa — and Ethiopia in particular — this new world order is not merely abstract. It is a daily threat to sovereignty, economic independence, and human dignity.
The old order, shaped by post-war multilateralism, was premised on mutual recognition — the idea that smaller states could still command respect by adhering to international norms. Today, that assumption has collapsed. If you have wealth or military might, you get your way; if not, you get ignored or exploited.
Africa knows this reality intimately. From the mineral-rich Democratic Republic of Congo to Ethiopia’s strategic Horn of Africa position, the continent has become a chessboard for great-power competition. When former U.S. President Donald Trump recognized an alternative government in Venezuela and imposed crushing sanctions, he sent a clear message: sovereignty matters only for the rich and influential. The suffering that followed — hyperinflation, shortages, mass exodus — fell on ordinary Venezuelans. Africa watched and recognized the pattern all too well.
The new global order no longer negotiates in terms of justice or humanity. Its currency is influence, and its enforcement mechanism is force. Those with access to capital, technology, and weapons dictate the terms of politics, economics, and morality. For African nations without these assets, compliance is the only option.
China’s Belt and Road Initiative and Western sanctions regimes illustrate this perfectly. Beijing builds infrastructure in exchange for resources and strategic ports; Washington and Brussels leverage aid and debt relief to enforce governance reforms. Both approaches treat Africa as a junior partner rather than an equal. Ethiopia’s recent debt negotiations with creditors exposed this dynamic: years of infrastructure investment have yielded growth, but also vulnerability to external pressure.
Respect has become a sentimental luxury for African nations. Wealthier powers lecture about democracy and environmental responsibility while extracting rare earth minerals, dictating trade terms, and setting conditions for climate finance. The African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA) offers hope for intra-African commerce, but its success depends on external powers allowing African economies to mature without interference.
The post-World War II institutions — the United Nations, World Bank, IMF, WTO — were meant to safeguard peace and development. Yet for Africa, they have often functioned as tools of control. Veto powers in the UN Security Council stifle African voices; IMF structural adjustment programs have deepened dependency; WTO rules favor industrialized agriculture over African farmers.
When morality has a price tag, global empathy becomes selective. Conflicts in the Sahel, Sudan, and the Horn of Africa draw sporadic attention, but rarely the decisive intervention seen in Europe. Refugees from African wars are turned away at borders, while those from geopolitically convenient conflicts are welcomed. The hierarchy of suffering mirrors the hierarchy of wealth.
Ethiopia’s experience underscores this. Despite centuries of independence and strategic importance, the country faces external pressure on internal affairs — from Tigray peace processes to GERD negotiations. The message is clear: African nations must align with great-power interests or risk isolation.
History warns that such imbalances do not last peacefully. Every few generations, the global system reaches a breaking point where accumulated inequality and unbridled power ignite conflict. Africa, strategically positioned and resource-rich, will be ground zero for this coming storm.
The First and Second World Wars were brutal resets. Today, Ukraine, Taiwan tensions, and Middle East conflicts expose a world moving toward confrontation. For Africa, the stakes are existential. Proxy wars, arms races, and competition for critical minerals could turn the continent into a battlefield. Ethiopia’s position at the crossroads of the Red Sea and Indian Ocean makes it particularly vulnerable.
Nuclear deterrence, AI warfare, and economic sanctions give great powers new tools to harm one another — and Africa will bear the collateral damage. Climate change, weaponized by the rich nations that caused it, threatens African food security and migration patterns. The new scramble for Africa’s lithium, cobalt, and rare earths will intensify, not diminish.
Is there a way forward? Yes — but it demands African unity and strategic autonomy. The AfCFTA must become more than aspirational; it must deliver intra-African trade that reduces dependency on external powers. Regional bodies like the African Union need stronger enforcement mechanisms and genuine peacekeeping capacity. Ethiopia, with its diplomatic heritage and growing economy, can lead by example — balancing relations with all powers while prioritizing national interests.
African nations must also diversify partnerships beyond traditional donors. Engaging with BRICS nations, Gulf states, and emerging Asian economies offers alternatives to Western dominance. Most critically, Africa must rediscover respect — not for wealth or borders, but for its own people and potential.
The new world order is not designed for cooperation but control. Those who command global capital will continue to shape politics and dictate policies. Unless this trajectory changes, history may once again choose violent reset — with Africa paying the heaviest price.
The tragedy is that it will not be the powerful who suffer. It will be Africa’s millions — those without influence, without weapons, without voice — who will carry the burden of the powerful’s pride. Ethiopia and its neighbors must prepare not just for economic challenges, but for the geopolitical storms ahead.
The old world order may have been flawed, but it aspired to ideals of respect and shared responsibility. The new one, driven by force and fortune, promises only exploitation disguised as partnership. If Africa does not reclaim its agency, the coming reset will not be a renaissance. It will be a reckoning.
Maduro’s story is the latest chapter in Latin America’s struggle against empire
By Nadezhda Romanenko
Latin America’s history is not simply a chronicle of poverty or instability, as it is so often portrayed in Western discourse. It is, more fundamentally, a record of resistance – resistance to colonial domination, to foreign exploitation, and to local elites willing to trade their nations’ futures for personal power and external approval.
Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro, kidnapped by US forces and about to be put on trial on nebulous and transparently politically-motivated charges, joins a very particular lineup of Latin American leaders. Across different centuries, ideologies, and political systems, the region has produced leaders who, despite their flaws, shared one defining trait: they placed national sovereignty and popular interests above obedience to empire.
From the very beginning, the first Latin American heroes emerged in open defiance of colonial rule. Figures such as Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla and José María Morelos in Mexico did not merely seek independence as an abstract ideal; they tied it to social justice – abolishing slavery, dismantling racial hierarchies, returning land to Indigenous communities. Simón Bolívar (in whose honor the country of Bolivia is named) and José de San Martín, a national hero in Argentina, Chile and Peru, carried this struggle across an entire continent, breaking the grip of Spanish imperial power and imagining a united Latin America strong enough to resist future domination. Their unfinished dream still haunts the region.
Yet independence from Spain did not mean freedom from imperial pressure. By the late 19th century, the US had openly declared Latin America its “sphere of influence,” treating it not as a collection of sovereign nations but as a strategic backyard. From that point forward, the central political question facing Latin American leaders became starkly clear: resist external domination, or accommodate it.
Those who resisted often paid a heavy price. Augusto César Sandino’s guerrilla war forced US troops out of Nicaragua – only for him to be murdered by US-backed strongman Anastasio Somoza, whose family would rule the country for decades. Salvador Allende attempted a democratic and peaceful path to socialism in Chile, nationalizing strategic industries and asserting economic independence, only to be overthrown in a violent coup backed from abroad. Fidel Castro and Ernesto “Che” Guevara turned Cuba into a symbol – admired by some, despised by others – of what open defiance of US hegemony looked like in practice: economic strangulation, sabotage, isolation, and permanent hostility.
Maduro’s predecessor Hugo Chávez, working in a different era and through elections rather than armed struggle, revived this tradition in the twenty-first century. By reclaiming control over Venezuela’s oil wealth, expanding social programs, and pushing for Latin American integration independent of Washington, he directly challenged the neoliberal order imposed across the region in the 1990s. Whatever one thinks of the outcomes, the principle was unmistakable: national resources should serve the nation, not foreign shareholders.
Opposed to these figures stands a darker gallery – leaders whose rule depended on surrendering sovereignty piece by piece. Anastasio Somoza, Fulgencio Batista in Cuba, the Duvaliers in Haiti, Manuel Estrada Cabrera and Jorge Ubico in Guatemala, and others like them governed through repression at home and obedience abroad. Their countries became laboratories for foreign corporations, especially US interests, while their populations endured poverty, terror, and extreme inequality. The infamous “banana republic” was not an accident of geography; it was the logical result of policies that subordinated national development to external profit.
Even when repression softened and elections replaced open dictatorship, collaboration persisted. Neoliberal reformers such as Fernando Belaúnde Terry and Alberto Fujimori in Peru dismantled state control over strategic sectors, privatized national assets, and aligned their countries ever more tightly with US-led economic models. The promised prosperity rarely arrived. What did arrive were weakened institutions, social devastation, and, in Fujimori’s case, mass human rights abuses carried out under the banner of “stability” and “security.”
In very recent history, the figure of Juan Guaidó in Venezuela illustrates a modern version of the same pattern: political legitimacy sought not from the population, but from foreign capitals. By openly inviting external pressure and intervention against his own country, he embodied a long-standing elite fantasy – that power can be imported, even if sovereignty is the price.
Latin America’s lesson is brutally consistent. Imperial powers may change their rhetoric, but their logic remains the same. They reward obedience temporarily, discard collaborators when convenient, and punish defiance relentlessly. Meanwhile, those leaders who insist on autonomy – whether priests, revolutionaries, presidents, or guerrilla fighters – are demonized, sanctioned, overthrown, or killed.
To defend sovereignty in Latin America has never meant perfection. It has meant choosing dignity over dependency, development over plunder, and popular legitimacy over foreign approval. That is why these figures endure in popular memory – as symbols of a region that has never stopped fighting to belong to itself.
