There is something profoundly medieval about the current state of North American diplomacy, a regressive descent into the politics of tribute that would make a seventeenth-century Habsburg blush with envy. The latest communiqué from Mexico City arrives not with the dry language of trade parity or carbon credits, but with the physical delivery of thirty-seven human souls. These individuals, labeled as ‘cartel members’ with the same clinical detachment one might use to inventory crates of avocados, have been bundled across the border in what can only be described as a desperate, propitiatory gesture toward the incoming American administration. It is a performance of obedience, a ritual cleansing of the Southern neighbor’s house in the hope that the new deity in Washington might stay his hand—or at least his tariffs.

To the unrefined eye, this looks like law enforcement. To those of us who have spent decades watching the gears of statecraft grind human lives into dust, it is pure, unadulterated theater. The number—thirty-seven—is particularly exquisite in its absurdity. It is a figure that suggests meticulous bookkeeping while simultaneously revealing the utter randomness of the selection process. One wonders what the internal selection committee looked like. Were there spreadsheets? Did they choose thirty-seven because thirty-eight felt like trying too hard, while thirty-six seemed insultingly low? It is the geopolitical equivalent of a corporate apology basket, sent by a middle manager who knows the CEO is looking for reasons to fire the entire department. Mexico isn’t just exporting crime; it is exporting the optics of resolution.

Naturally, the recipient of this gift is a man who treats the legal process as a personal scoreboard. For the incoming Trump administration, these thirty-seven individuals represent more than just defendants; they are trophies of war, proof of a dominance hierarchy that operates on the logic of a schoolyard bully. The transactional nature of the exchange is so blatant it borders on the erotic. Mexico delivers the heads of the Hydra, and in return, perhaps the promised twenty-five percent tariff on goods will be delayed by a week or two. It is a spectacular demonstration of how easily the rule of law can be bent into the shape of a protection racket. The cartels, of course, are likely already interviewing for the thirty-seven vacancies created by this sudden talent export. In the vast, nihilistic machinery of the global narcotics trade, thirty-seven mid-to-high-level functionaries are a rounding error, a mere cost of doing business.

We must also pause to appreciate the exquisite cynicism of the timing. For years, the extradition process has been a slow, agonizing crawl through the mire of international bureaucracy, hampered by sovereignty concerns and legal appeals. Yet, as the orange shadow looms over the Rio Grande, the wheels of justice have suddenly found a liberal application of grease. It is remarkable how quickly the high-minded principles of national sovereignty evaporate when the threat of economic collapse enters the chat. The Mexican government, once so protective of its internal processes, has transformed into a high-speed courier service for the U.S. Department of Justice. It is a masterclass in the art of the 'please don't hit me' strategy of international relations.

The American public, meanwhile, is expected to applaud this as a victory. We are told that the streets will be safer because thirty-seven men have been moved from a cell in Sinaloa to a cell in Texas. It is a comforting fiction for a population that prefers the binary of heroes and villains to the uncomfortable complexity of systemic failure. The demand for illicit substances remains a bottomless pit in the American soul, yet we insist on focusing on the logistics of the supply chain's human cast-offs. Extraditing thirty-seven people to solve the drug crisis is like trying to empty the Atlantic with a thimble while someone else stands behind you with a fire hose. It is a futile, exhausting exercise in maintaining appearances.

As a European observer, one cannot help but find a grim amusement in this spectacle. We watch as the Americas engage in this primitive dance of tribute and threat, a tragicomic play where the actors pretend the script isn't written in the blood of the desperate. The tragedy, of course, is that both sides know this changes nothing. The cartels will continue to flourish, the border will continue to be a site of performative cruelty, and the bureaucracy will continue to churn out meaningless statistics to justify its own existence. But for today, thirty-seven names have been crossed off a list, a box has been checked, and the theater of the absurd continues its run for another season. It is, quite simply, the only way they know how to govern: by offering up a few bodies to the volcano and hoping the smoke keeps the angry gods satisfied for one more night.