Protest and military action raised the prospect of regime change in Iran and Venezuela, and the voices of both countries’ diasporas were heard loud and clear through the media of their host nations.

Venezuelan exiles in the U.S. were, according to the popular narrative, broadly behind President Donald Trump and his plan to “run Venezuela,” as the nickname “MAGAzuelans” suggests. Meanwhile, the Iranian diaspora rallied behind Prince Reza Pahlavi as he positioned himself as a leader-in-waiting, projecting an image of unified exile support.

Diasporas are often treated by media and policymakers as monolithic blocs — politically unified, ideologically coherent and ready to be mobilized for regime change. But as a scholar of migration and security in Latin America, I know this assumption misunderstands how diaspora communities form, evolve and engage politically.

Iranian and Venezuelan émigrés might broadly oppose their current governments — having left them, this is unsurprising. But they are far from unified on what should replace those governments, who should lead or how change should come about.

Migration waves shape politics

Diasporas are not uniform because their constituent populations did not arrive all at once, from the same places or for the same reasons. Each migration wave carries distinct political orientations shaped by the circumstances of departure.

The tendency of diasporas to become politically frozen at the moment of departure appears across contexts. El Salvador’s diaspora in the United States, which first left during the 1980s civil war, developed a reputation for being “stuck in the ’80s” — mentally still fighting battles that had long since ended at home.

This temporal displacement has consequences. Iranian-American sociologist Asef Bayat, writing about the Iranian diaspora, argues that exile opposition to the ruling government back home “suffers from a political disease, positioning itself against the movement it claims to support.”

In other words, diaspora activists may advocate positions that resonate with Western audiences but find little support among those actually living under authoritarian rule. This lack of accountability to political consequences back home can rankle the constituencies on whose behalf they seek to advocate.

Research on the Venezuelan diaspora reflects similar dynamics. A 2022 study found that Venezuelan exiles hold more extreme anti-government views than those who remained.

Despite this presumed disconnection, homeland politicians often devote disproportionate attention to those who have left. The logic is simple: emigrants send money home — accounting for as much as 25% of gross domestic product in some Central American and Caribbean countries. Politicians assume that this financial power translates into political influence over remittance-receiving relatives.

One party official in El Salvador told me: “If we get one Salvadoran in Washington to support us, that gives us five votes in El Salvador — and it doesn’t even matter if the one in Washington votes.”

My own research tested this assumption using polling and voting data across Latin America and found it to be exaggerated. Remittances and family communication mostly reinforce existing partisan sympathies rather than swing votes.

But the belief in diaspora influence matters politically — and diaspora voters can be weaponized by authoritarian leaders. El Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele, in his successful and plainly unconstitutional 2024 reelection bid, expanded external voting through online balloting, increasing diaspora votes by 87-fold over the previous election.

Diasporas can influence home-country politics through several channels: direct voting, financial support for opposition movements, lobbying host governments and transmitting democratic values through what sociologist Peggy Levitt calls “social remittances.” Other research has found that remittances can undermine dictatorships by helping fund opposition activities.

Yet authoritarian governments have developed sophisticated countermeasures. Freedom House recorded more than 1,200 incidents of physical transnational repression against dissidents — including assassinations, abductions and unlawful deportation — between 2014 and 2024 involving 48 governments.

The limits of exile politics

For Venezuela and Iran, these lessons counsel caution. Nearly 8 million Venezuelans have fled their homeland — the largest displacement crisis in the Western Hemisphere. Iranian emigration accelerated after the 2022 protests.

Both diasporas contain passionate activists, wealthy donors and would-be leaders positioning themselves for future rule. But passion does not equal unity, and visibility does not equal representation.

The loudest voices on social media — or those amplified by U.S. officials and media — may represent narrow slices of diverse communities. There may be consensus on opposing the government back home, but far less agreement on what should be done or how change should occur.

Nor does diaspora opposition necessarily translate into regime vulnerability. Authoritarian states have learned to insulate themselves from diaspora pressure while simultaneously using emigration as a safety valve, turning potential dissidents into remittance-senders.

Diasporas can contribute to democratic change through funding, advocacy and the transmission of democratic values. But ultimately, the path to democratic change in Venezuela, Iran and elsewhere will be determined by those who remain, not those who left. Diasporas can support that struggle; they cannot substitute for it.

About the author: Michael Paarlberg is Associate Professor of Political Science at Virginia Commonwealth University.

This article is reproduced from The Conversation under a Creative Commons licence.

Colombian President Gustavo Petro has made Gaza the moral centerpiece of his foreign policy. Since the October 7, 2023, Hamas terror attacks, he has devoted extraordinary political capital to denouncing Israel, questioning its right to self-defense, and framing the Gaza war as a singular global emergency.

He summoned “Free Palestine” marches, spent public funds hosting solidarity concerts in Bogotá’s Plaza de Bolívar, donned a keffiyeh near Times Square alongside Roger Waters, branded Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu a “war criminal,” labeled Gaza a “genocide,” and even urged U.S. military personnel to disobey orders from President Donald Trump over Middle East policy.

The performance was theatrical, relentless – and costly. Petro’s visa to the United States was revoked. Months later, he was placed on the U.S. Treasury’s OFAC sanctions list alongside his close political ally and interior minister Armando Benedetti, as well as his wife – or estranged wife – Verónica Alcocer, whose marital status, according to Petro himself, remains mysteriously unresolved.

Yet for all this moral fervor, Petro has remained conspicuously silent on one of the gravest human rights catastrophes unfolding today: Iran’s brutal suppression of nationwide protests.

His silence is deafening.

Since protests erupted across Iran in late December 2025, the regime has responded not with reform but with terror. Demonstrators demanding economic relief, dignity, and political change have been met with live ammunition. Militiamen aligned with the Revolutionary Guards have swept through cities on motorbikes, firing automatic weapons into crowds. Snipers reportedly aim at faces and genitals. Morgues are overflowing. Bodies are stacked in blood-soaked streets.  More than 12,000 are believed dead. Thousands more have been dragged from hospital beds into prisons, many never to be seen again.

This is not metaphorical violence. These are not contested narratives. These are crimes against humanity carried out by a theocracy against its own citizens.

And yet – nothing from Petro.

The Iranian regime insists the unrest is a foreign-engineered plot: psychological warfare orchestrated by hostile powers to destabilize the Islamic Republic. The opposition, by contrast, sees a nationwide rupture—an uprising rooted in decades of repression, economic collapse, and the severing of legitimacy between rulers and ruled.

Narrative control matters. In modern conflict, perception is a battlefield. As scholars Ihsan Yilmaz and Shahram Akbarzadeh have noted, authoritarian regimes increasingly rely on Strategic Digital Information Operations—psychological warfare designed not merely to suppress dissent, but to reshape reality itself. The objective is cognitive: to induce fear, discredit opponents, and convince societies that resistance is futile.

Petro’s brand of performative moralism has not been cost-free. His compulsive need to condemn Israel – and, by extension, the United States – was read in Washington not as symbolism but as direct provocation. It coincided with a marked deterioration in U.S.–Colombia relations, freezing high-level dialogue, undermining security cooperation, and contributing to the unprecedented decision to revoke his U.S. visa. For a country whose military, intelligence, and counter-narcotics apparatus remains deeply intertwined with American support, the damage was neither abstract nor symbolic – it was strategic.

The rupture with Israel was even more explicit. By publicly referring to Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as a “Nazi,” Petro crossed a diplomatic red line that few world leaders have dared approach. The comparison – historically illiterate, morally inflammatory, and deeply offensive- effectively severed Colombia–Israel relations. Defense cooperation was halted, diplomatic channels collapsed, and decades of bilateral engagement in security, technology, and trade were sacrificed to rhetorical escalation. Whatever one’s view of Israel’s conduct in Gaza, equating the Jewish state with the architects of the Holocaust is not principled criticism; it is diplomatic arson.

In both cases, Petro appeared less concerned with consequences than with signaling ideological virtue to a global activist audience. The result has been the erosion of Colombia’s standing with two key partners—one its most important ally, the other a longstanding strategic collaborator—while yielding no tangible benefit to the civilians whose suffering he claims to champion.

What makes Petro’s silence on Iran so damning is not merely its contrast with his Gaza activism; it is the exposure of a deeper incoherence. For years, leftist politicians, celebrities, and fringe groups have flooded streets in capitals around the world denouncing Israel’s war as “genocide.” Now, when protesters are machine-gunned in Iran, hospitals are raided, and young people are summarily executed, this outrage dissipates.

As Allister Heath wrote recently in The Telegraph, this is “pure, unadulterated evil… a stain on humanity.” And yet where are the chants? Where is the flotilla? Where are the luvvies? One might also ask: where is the Colombian president who claims human rights as his moral compass?

The answer is uncomfortable. Gaza became a performative ritual of sit-ins and campus “occupations.” The tragedy of Iran exposes the hollowness of that performance.

When Iran’s protests began in Tehran’s Grand Bazaar, authorities initially assumed they were manageable. Bazaar merchants—traditionally conservative and closely linked to the state—were seen as transactional actors seeking economic relief, not regime change. Even Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei acknowledged their grievances, a rare concession.

But the regime miscalculated. Protests spread to more than 25 provinces. Ethnic minorities—Kurds, Baluch, Arabs, and Azeris—joined despite deep skepticism about the opposition and fears of what might follow. The unrest evolved from economic protest into an existential challenge to the state, triggering a massacre reportedly claiming more than 6,000 lives.

Meanwhile, fears of chaos loom. Exiled figures such as Reza Pahlavi position themselves as transitional leaders, even as their proposed roadmaps concentrate power in ways eerily reminiscent of the current theocracy. The Syrian precedent—where Western intervention elevated jihadist actors rather than democratic forces—haunts the region.

None of this excuses silence.

President Petro has every right to condemn injustice – especially on his own soil, where human rights abuses by FARC dissidents and the ELN guerrilla continue to inflict immense suffering on Colombia’s most vulnerable. Yet here, too, the silence has been deafening: soldiers kidnapped, children cowering under desks amid gunfire in Cauca, an ongoing humanitarian catastrophe in Catatumbo that has displaced more than 60,000 people and quietly slipped from the government’s agenda.

For Petro, moral leadership is selective. If civilian lives matter, they matter everywhere. If state violence is intolerable, it is intolerable whether committed by an ally, an adversary, or a regime ideologically convenient to ignore.

Silence in the face of mass murder is not neutrality. It is complicity by omission.

Petro’s foreign policy has become a study in selective empathy – loud where ideology demands it, louder still on social media, but mute where principle requires courage. That is not moral clarity. It is hypocrisy incarnate.