By Don Terry | Monday, January 05, 2026 | 4 min read
The day after U.S. forces removed Nicolás Maduro from Venezuela, President Donald Trump wasted no time widening the lens. By Sunday, his message was unmistakable: the operation in Caracas was not an isolated act. It was a signal. From Greenland to Cuba to Colombia, Trump’s rhetoric suggested a renewed—and far more aggressive—American posture in the Western Hemisphere, one that has allies uneasy, adversaries on edge, and observers asking a question that now echoes well beyond Latin America: who’s next?
Speaking to reporters aboard Air Force One, Trump revived his long-running fixation on Greenland, arguing that the vast Arctic territory is too strategically important to be left in Danish hands. Russian and Chinese ships, he claimed, are everywhere. Denmark, he insisted, “is not going to be able to do it.” When pressed later about whether Venezuela-style action could foreshadow a move on Greenland, Trump offered a shrug rather than reassurance. “They’re going to have to view it themselves,” he said.
That ambiguity may be intentional. Trump’s second-term national security strategy openly calls for restoring “American preeminence in the Western Hemisphere,” dusting off ideas rooted in the Monroe Doctrine and the Roosevelt Corollary—doctrines historically used to justify U.S. intervention across the Americas. Trump has even joked that some now call it the “Don-roe Doctrine,” a line delivered with humor but received by many abroad with unease.
In Denmark, concern quickly turned to alarm. Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen responded bluntly, stating that the United States has “no right to annex” Greenland and reminding Washington that Denmark already grants extensive military access under NATO agreements. Greenland, she emphasized, is not for sale. Her words were echoed by European Union leaders, who also issued a statement affirming Venezuela’s right to self-determination—a pointed rebuke to Trump’s vow to “run” the country after Maduro’s removal.
Fueling the tension were social media posts that struck many Danes as provocative, if not threatening. One former Trump official shared an image of Greenland draped in the Stars and Stripes with the caption “SOON.” Danish diplomats publicly pushed back, demanding respect for their country’s territorial integrity. What may have been intended as chest-thumping bravado landed instead as a reminder of how casually sovereignty can be treated when power tilts sharply in one direction.
Cuba, meanwhile, found itself squarely in the administration’s crosshairs. Secretary of State Marco Rubio declared that Havana was “in a lot of trouble,” alleging that Cuban intelligence officers played a central role in protecting Maduro and policing loyalty within his inner circle. Cuban officials countered with grim claims of their own, announcing that dozens of officers were killed during the U.S. operation in Caracas. Trump, for his part, predicted that Cuba’s already fragile economy would collapse without Venezuela’s subsidized oil. “It’s going down for the count,” he said.
Then came Colombia. As Trump returned to Washington, he lobbed accusations at Colombian President Gustavo Petro, calling him a “sick man” who profits from cocaine production. His administration has already sanctioned Petro’s circle and sharply reduced U.S. aid to Colombia, once America’s closest regional partner in the drug war. The message was unmistakable: cooperation is expected, defiance will be punished, and patience has run out.
Supporters of the president see coherence in this approach—a hardline strategy aimed at drugs, rivals, and regional instability. Critics see something far more dangerous: a pattern of escalation where legal claims, military force, and political pressure blur together, leaving little room for diplomacy or restraint. The fear is not just about any one country, but about precedent. If Venezuela can be forcibly reshaped, if Greenland can be openly discussed as a prize, if allies can be mocked and threatened, then the boundaries of acceptable action are shifting fast.
History in this region offers sobering lessons. Interventions framed as security measures have often produced instability, resentment, and long-term blowback. That memory lingers, shaping the skepticism now spreading from Copenhagen to Bogotá to Havana.
Trump thrives on unpredictability, and that may be precisely the point. But unpredictability cuts both ways. It can deter adversaries—or it can convince the world that American power is being exercised without guardrails. After Maduro, the question is no longer whether Trump is willing to redraw the map. It’s how far he intends to go, and who will be caught next under the shadow of that ambition.