At the end of history, Francis Fukuyama suggests, all societies will have moved to liberal democracy. Although the road is usually bumpy, nations walk along toward global democratic convergence.

Of the many objections to this view, the strongest challenge came before the theory itself. Actually, it came before modern democracy. Yet don’t bother looking into dusty history or political theory books for it. Try, instead, some Shakespeare.

A phrase in Macbeth properly summarizes Latin America’s difficulties with democracy: “vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself” and clouds leaders’ minds when annoying electoral results or too rigid constitutions come between them and power. And just like Macbeth, Latin America’s patriarchs lose sight of their humanity through equivocating terms and definitions.

In the Ibero-American world, problems of syntax too often translate into human rights violations, accompanied by aristocracy or autocracy. But rather than more semantics professors, these countries need leaders willing to sacrifice their ambition by supporting the democratic outcomes even when they lose.

Obviously, translating this simple theory into practice is extremely complicated. Cultural legacies are the first problem. Conquered by two naval superpowers with Papal mandates, Latin America was plundered for precious metals as its indigenous populations died from disease and war. Spaniards and Portuguese alike were highly autocratic, installing viceroys without even the façade of local representation.

But Latin America’s ‘strong man’ phenomenon stems from deeper historical roots. The Enlightenment brought admirable leaders, San Martín and Simón Bolívar, who were comparable to George Washington, but local leaders shattered their dream of a free and united continent. Latin America—a gargantuan landmass with roughly the same Catholic beliefs, mostly one language, and similar cultural heritage, institutions, and economic development—was not encouraged to unite as a republic, or even a confederacy.

Instead, Spanish-speaking Macbeths encouraged hatred toward their neighbors, and thus gained control of small local territories. Almost without exception, betrayal and dictatorship followed absolute control: The liberators of the day were the dictators of the next.

For example, in Argentina Juan Domingo Perón enfranchised millions, but could not complain when a coup deposed him: He had led one himself less than a decade before. The country subsequently suffered six “constitutional interruptions” in less than a century.

In Mexico, this process took an absurd turn when an Austrian archduke was installed as Emperor of Mexico by the French forces of Napoleon III. After defeating the Habsburg Emperor, local conservatives argued that the hero of the résistance, Benito Juárez, concentrated too much power. So, they brought the army general to the foreground. Porfirio Díaz deposed the dictator-to-be, and became “President.” He then ruled unchallenged for thirty years.

The unifying trait of these Latin American Macbeths is that they disregard democratic continuity; nothing transcends them. This is even represented in the syntax used every time a new regime or military junta is called in. The PRI party’s name in Mexico, which “won” elections uninterruptedly for almost a century, stands for “Institutional Revolution Party.” In Argentina, the last military junta instituted a permanent “Process of National Reorganization,” which gave painful birth to thousands of “desaparecidos.” And Venezuelan Chávez calls his movement “Bolivarian Revolution,” even though he chooses all the dictatorial paths Bolívar never traveled.

But because of its size and strategic location, the most pressing challenge to democracy in Latin America is Manuel López Obrador, the Mexican presidential candidate who refuses to acknowledge his defeat in July’s election. The winner of the election, the current president, and even the founder of his own party have all called on Obrador to concede, as have many foreign nations. Although his opponent won by less than 1 percent, Mexico’s electoral court declared the process valid and European election monitors testify that, for once, there was no fraud. Yet López Obrador decided to proclaim himself the “legitimate president,” and to promise the impossible to impoverished angry masses. At this point, regardless of whether the vote count was exactly right, Obrador is the real danger is to the health of the Mexican Republic.

Ultimately, this “vaulting ambition” has hurt too many dreams, shattered nations too many times. We need to understand that democracy can only survive if leaders think beyond their immediate power lust and avoid tricky semantics to stay in power. Countries cannot rewrite their past, and, therefore, wishing for “better luck next time” to cultural heritage or history is impossible. But America, and the world as a whole, must indeed pressure leaders like López Obrador to honor the institutions it took much blood to uphold.



Pierpaolo Barbieri ’09, a Crimson editorial editor, is a history concentrator in Eliot House.