On June 28, 2009, news broke that Manuel Zelaya, Honduras’s 35th president, was gone. With a 53 percent approval rating, he was a popular incumbent. He rubbed shoulders with the small elite class in Honduras, yet the coffees and tortillas he shared with everyday citizens were central to his public image. This ultimately became his personal theater of promise to the everyday Honduran: he pledged to combat corruption, crime and poverty.
Near the end of his term, buoyed by his popularity, Zelaya proposed the idea of a fourth “urn”: Hondurans would cast ballots for local, congressional and presidential candidates, but would also vote on a referendum to hold a constituent assembly. If the referendum passed, the assembly would rewrite the constitution.
His political opponents saw this as an attempt by Zelaya to remain in power. They feared his first move would be to eradicate presidential term limits (which, at the time, restricted presidents to a single four-year term). The Supreme Court and Congress immediately ruled the referendum illegal. Zelaya rejected the ruling and ordered the Honduran military to distribute the ballots anyway.
On the morning of the referendum, 200 soldiers stormed the Honduran presidential palace; they trampled past bodyguards, dragged Zelaya from his bed, beat him to the floor, and handcuffed him before escorting him in an armored car to a plane. Before long, Zelaya was in Costa Rica, and the head of the coup was sworn in as the new commander in chief of Honduras.
Military coups were considered passé in Latin America — but in Honduras, one succeeded anyway. The world knew then that Honduras was in a constitutional crisis.
If Zelaya’s expulsion raises any questions, let this be one: why did he feel capable of such power? Just as chilling is the question Elizabeth Powel asked Benjamin Franklin on the final day of the American Constitutional Convention in 1787: “Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?” Franklin claimed, “A republic,” but only “if you can keep it.”
Is it up to political actors and its people to keep a republic alive? World leaders may spend a lifetime trying to attain Franklin’s level of erudition, only to remain blind to masses impassioned with hatred, would-be despots who seek to slowly detonate the constitutional order of democracies—a reality as grotesque as it sounds.
President Joe Biden’s crisis now is just that: can our neighbors save their republics? Can we preserve our own? The last decade has seen a growing threat to democracy throughout the hemisphere. Venezuela experienced an economic and constitutional crisis in 2017. In 2020, election results in the U.S. have been contested.
Indeed, on some level, Honduras’ government attempted to offer respite to the crisis. The Supreme Court had declared that then-President Zelaya had abused his authority by attempting to amend an unamendable provision of its constitution. But Zelaya returned — fierce and determined. In 2015, the politicized court contradicted itself by claiming that Zelaya had done nothing wrong, essentially rendering presidential term limits moot. Zelaya had revealed one thing in particular about governing: to govern under a brittle constitution, whether it be congenitally flawed or struck down by the whims of political influence, is a losing feat. The power-hungry will revel in its contradictions and they are faced with either overwhelming power or thunderous revolt.
Mexico, the U.S.’s southern neighbor, faces a similar threat. Andrés Manuel López Obrador, Mexico’s president, has toyed with expanding the presidency’s power over a weak Mexican state. A state where approximately a quarter of its economy operates outside the law, untaxed and unregulated. A state where violence can claim anyone. López Obrador has cast doubt on the national commission on human rights. And the national electoral institute. And the antitrust commission. And the freedom of information agency. He has weaponized the judiciary and installed officials before going through the legislative process. He floutedenvironmental restrictions. He has attacked the press — yet the killing of five journalists would not suffice to tone down his vilifying remarks against them.
López Obrador’s presidency has at best sought to mimic the single party reign that held strong in Mexico in the mid-20th century. At worst, it’s an attempt to neutralize entities meant to act as checks on presidential power.
In 2021, López Obrador lost his supermajority in Congress. This could be seen as a safeguard against his attempts to bend, break or rewrite the constitution to his liking—arguably the most abusive act against any form of checks and balances. But should he regain control in Congress, this threat could become reality.
The subversion of the many institutions López Obrador has threatened will inevitably lead to his attack on the institution that still lives: Mexico’s constitution. If the events in Honduras offer any wisdom, it’s this: attempts to manipulate, twist, or dismember a constitution are a risk of democratic regression. The U.S. must continue to diplomatically enforce democratic principles where it sees them slipping. The United States-Mexico-Canada agreement enforces anti-corruption measures, and the U.S. must apply consistent pressure to uphold practices of political and economic accountability.
The freedoms of Mexico’s citizens—and any republic’s—are enshrined in their constitutions by delimiting the power of any one individual or entity. Yet no constitution, ruling body, state or nation is perfect. And I think Benjamin Franklin understood this deeply. The U.S. Constitution is impenetrable; but flawless it is not. We’ve amended it 27 times since its ratification.
An evolving polity often necessitates change, but desired changes should never conceal attempts to overhaul its constitution’s foundation. That’s what transpired in Honduras. That’s what might happen in Mexico. The difference is that many Mexicans fear they may not be able to defend themselves against López Obrador should he exploit his power. Political violence against its citizens has run amok.
In answering Powel’s question, Franklin wasn’t implying a republic’s downfall would come solely at the hands of its people. He was wondering, rather, if a people’s founding document could survive the test of time. Because he knew that people by nature are flawed — they will disagree, yearn for power or retribution, and defy structure.
And he wondered whether the text that gave birth to the republic could defend itself, language willing, with the vision presented at its creation: freedom, fairness, strength divided, continuity — and hopefully, resilience.
Only time will tell. In the meantime, the U.S. must do whatever it can to defend the principles of democracy not just in Mexico but around the world.
Hugo Amador is a contributor for the 140th editorial board. He can be reached at [email protected].
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