Introduction

‘Every one of the bastards that are out for legalizing marijuana is Jewish. What the Christ is the matter with the Jews? I suppose it is because most of them are psychiatrists.’

US PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON

Washington has never fought a war on drugs, but it has fought multiple wars fuelled by drugs. Controlling drug supply was rarely if ever a priority. Understand this, and you get how powerful the drug war has been in the public imagination for over one hundred years. Trillions of dollars spent, millions of lives lost, surging drug use and abuse around the world, and apocalyptic violence caused by illicit substances all look like failures. But don’t be fooled; this was always the inevitable by-product of trying to control an industry that’s led by the insatiable appetite for drugs in every corner of the globe.

From US president Richard Nixon, who unleashed the war on drugs in 1971 and called drug abuse ‘public enemy number one’, to President Donald Trump, who called in 2018 for drug dealers to be given the death penalty, this war has been fought across multiple administrations, nations, continents, communities, and generations. It has killed, maimed, enslaved, and imprisoned millions, with the annual global value of drug-trafficking worth hundreds of billions of dollars, second only to the illicit industries of pirated goods and counterfeiting.

These facts are central to understanding what the drug war has always meant to its architects in Washington, London, Canberra, and beyond. Despite these astronomical figures and lives lost and jailed, there’s no sign that drug use has declined. If anything, it’s become more ubiquitous and devastating due to the unregulated potency of illicit substances, organised criminal networks that profit from the misery, and huge state resources dedicated to chasing and targeting all levels of the drug-trade. It’s been a colossal waste of resources and money, with more than US$50 billion spent annually in the US alone towards fighting a war that will never eradicate drugs from our societies. And yet on and on it goes, year after year.

Victory in the traditional sense was never really the point. One of Nixon’s key advisors admitted years after he left power that the drug war was designed to neuter domestic opponents of the president. ‘The Nixon campaign in 1968, and the Nixon White House after that, had two enemies: the anti-war left and black people,’ Nixon’s domestic policy head, John Ehrlichman, said:

You understand what I’m saying? We knew we couldn’t make it illegal to be either against the war or black, but by getting the public to associate the hippies with marijuana and blacks with heroin, and then criminalizing both heavily, we could disrupt those communities. We could arrest their leaders, raid their homes, break up their meetings, and vilify them night after night on the evening news. Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did.1

It’s easy to be cynical about this comment, dismissing the entire drug war as nothing more than government control of minorities through the strong arm of the state. As this book will show, from the US to Honduras to Australia, every country dresses up its rhetoric against drugs in different ways, but the overarching aim is the same, publicly stated with such regularity that it’s arguably become the most propagandised message of the modern age: Drugs are bad. Drug takers must be punished. Imprison the weak souls who sell hard drugs. A military-style response is the only answer to crush and control the trade.

The war on drugs is both an overt and covert conflict with visible and largely ignored victims. There are few winners, except drug cartels that make billions of dollars in profits, and law-enforcement bodies in multiple jurisdictions that enjoy a steady flow of state funds to pursue their goals. Mass incarceration in the US, with 2.3 million adults held in penitentiaries on a daily basis, is one of the inevitable outcomes of Nixon’s policies and ideological obsessions. US president Ronald Reagan deepened it, as did every subsequent US president, with the notable exception of Barack Obama, who was the first US leader to take a more critical view.

In this war, Latinos, African-Americans, and the poor are principally targeted for exclusion, and drugs are the convenient excuse. Not all inmates are locked up because of the drug war; close to half of all people in US federal institutions are there for drug charges (though it’s less in state and local jails). Whites and African-Americans use drugs at a roughly similar rate, but blacks are nearly six times more likely to be charged with a drug offence and far more likely to be incarcerated for it.

The US-led drug war operates on multiple levels. On the one hand, it’s a real war with deadly consequences, reckless in its aims and dismissive of civilians. Although officials know that drug-trafficking and use won’t end by militarising the conflict, Washington hopes to at least partially control the trade and infiltrate its key players. On the other hand, though, it’s also a phoney war pushed by the US to control segments of its own population, manage client states near and far, enrich the US defence industry, and benefit close allies. Think of it as a form of neo-imperialism. No war can last this long without utilising all the rhetorical devices in the playbook.

The explosion of privatised prisons and entire industries that have profited from the prison boom since the 1980s proves that this isn’t an accident of the war on drugs but a deliberate part of it. On any moral reading, this has been a catastrophic failure that has destroyed communities and families; but in another interpretation, mass incarceration has served its purpose. As writer Michelle Alexander, author of The New Jim Crow, explains, ‘Like Jim Crow (and slavery), mass incarceration operates as a tightly networked system of laws, policies, customs, and institutions that operate collectively to ensure the subordinate status of a group defined largely by race.’2

Washington didn’t invent the rhetoric. During the Nazi era in Germany, illicit drug use was framed as menacing, with anti-Semitic overtones. In his ground-breaking book Blitzed, about the Nazis’ use of drugs, including by Adolf Hitler, author Norman Ohler explains that the National Socialists ‘combined their twin bogeymen, Jews and drugs, into racial-hygiene propaganda that was used in schools and nurseries … Anyone who consumed drugs suffered from a “foreign plague”. Drug dealers were presented as unscrupulous, greedy, or alien, drug use was “racially inferior”, and so-called drugs crime as one of the greatest threats to society’.3

Jews are no longer labelled as the cause of drug dealing, but instead different racial groups are targeted. Less has changed in our discussion about drugs than we may like to believe. Western media reports still routinely blame the designated enemies of the day: the black drug dealer, the Latino cartel boss, and the poor white or black heroin user.

Public opinion in the US has evolved since the height of the drug war in the 1980s. A 1988 CBS News/New York Times poll found that 48 per cent of people surveyed thought that drug-trafficking was the top foreign-policy issue. Stopping communism was only of main concern to 21 per cent.4 By 2018, according to Gallup polling, immigration was the biggest concern of voters. Drugs were way down the list, lower than the environment, poverty, and education, but higher than school shootings and terrorism.

What’s changed is that for the vast bulk of people, drug taking is a normal part of life with no negative consequences. In this book, I examine how this profound societal shift has occurred in virtually every Western country in the last 30 years. Drugs are no longer the bogeyman that threatens lives; they’re taken for fun on weekends, with friends, and in homes, clubs, and bars. But, too often, how drugs reach people, and those who have suffered in their production, isn’t considered by those who take them. How about a movement that pushes for fair-trade cocaine, heroin, and cannabis?

The infrastructure of the war on drugs would collapse tomorrow if demand for cocaine, cannabis, ecstasy, methamphetamine, heroin, synthetic cannabinoids, opioids, or fentanyl suddenly stopped. But so long as humans have lived on planet earth, drugs have been used and abused. Humans have been getting high on alcohol, opium, and magic mushrooms since prehistoric times.

Many countries have been consumed by drug policies designed in Washington. Just think of Honduras, Mexico, and Colombia alone. These states aren’t consumed by drug violence because locals are inherently criminal. Washington claims it’s about stopping drug networks, but this book questions those claims. In fact, the aim is not to stop drug-trafficking or drug use, an impossible task when demand for drugs in the West continues to surge, but to ensure that Washington and its allies work with drug producers and cartels from whom they can glean intelligence. This book investigates largely untold examples in Honduras and West Africa where the pursuit of traffickers is less about stopping smuggling and more to do with pursuing US foreign-policy goals.

There’s copious evidence that shows how broken the US DEA [Drug Enforcement Administration]-led war has become, from DEA agents attending cartel-funded sex parties in Colombia between 2009 and 2012 to the DEA leaking sensitive information about cartel activity in Mexico to corrupt Mexican officials in 2011.5 This led to the vicious Zetas organisation murdering hundreds of people that it considered snitches.6

In Mexico alone, according to its corruption-tainted government (which means the figure was likely much higher), there were a record 33,341 homicides in 2018, the highest number recorded since authorities started releasing figures in 1997. The drug war was a leading cause of the carnage. In such circumstances, it’s unsurprising that so many Mexicans want to flee to safer territory in the US. Mexico’s top human-rights official announced in 2019 that the government aimed to search for and find the estimated 40,000 individuals missing due to the drug war.

In the city of Tijuana, methamphetamine, or cristal in Spanish, is a cheap drug that’s causing civil war–level violence. There were 2,518 people killed in 2018, close to seven times higher than in 2012. With 140 murders per 100,000 people, Tijuana has become one of the most dangerous cities on the planet.7

Mexico is a grim reminder that the drug war is designed as a violent, cynical game. When infamous cartel leader Joaquin ‘El Chapo’ Guzman escaped from a supposedly high-security Mexican prison in 2015 — he was eventually recaptured and faced extensive charges in a US court trial, though his Sinaloa cartel boomed despite his incarceration — it was suggested that the Mexican government had wanted him to escape, and had even helped.

During the trial of El Chapo in 2018 and 2019 in a New York courtroom, there were explosive allegations about the drug war that revealed its real agenda (and lack of accountability). Colombian drug lord Alex Cifuentes Villa, who worked with El Chapo between 2007 and 2013, alleged that a former president of Mexico, Enrique Pena Nieto, had taken a US$100 million bribe from El Chapo. Pena Nieto has always denied taking any money from drug-traffickers.

Other equally damning details during the trial included testimony from cartel witnesses that El Chapo’s Sinaloa cartel was in regular contact with the DEA and had given the US government information about rival drug groups for over a decade, and that in doing so these individuals received immunity (or reduced sentences) from US prosecution. The DEA denied that any deals were ever made.8 Nonetheless, El Chapo was replaced by his sons and former colleague so that the Sinaloa cartel is still alive and well today, and it has ‘the most expansive footprint in the United States’, according to the DEA’s 2018 assessment of the drug-trade.

El Chapo was found guilty of all ten charges laid against him, and will likely spend the rest of his life in a US prison. After the verdict was announced in 2019, Richard P. Donoghue, the United States attorney for the Eastern District of New York, claimed that the decision was a victory for the 100,000 dead in Mexico and the drug war itself. ‘There are those who say the war on drugs is not worth fighting,’ he argued. ‘Those people are wrong.’

The trial encapsulated so much that was futile about the drug war. While El Chapo was undeniably a brutal drug boss who caused misery for many, his trial and imprisonment will neither reduce violence in Mexico nor address the industrial-scale amount of drug taking in the US. Believing that law enforcement can solve the issues of drug use, abuse, and trafficking fundamentally ignores the last 50 years of history. The Sinaloa cartel, and other major Mexican drug groups, are increasingly producing fentanyl for the US market as demand for heroin decreases.9 El Chapo’s incarceration will do nothing to stop this.

To truly understand the drug war in Mexico is to appreciate how few facts appear in the mainstream media about it. Former Mexican journalist turned academic Oswaldo Zavala wrote a controversial book in 2018 that detailed the reality of cartels in his home country. He argues that the cartels have never overwhelmed the nation, despite successive governments claiming that they have, but instead work for the state to bolster both their powers. The logic of the violent drug war gives Mexican administrations the ability to grant multinational corporations access to natural resources. Violent militias or drug gangs do the dirty work for companies by forcibly cleansing people from their areas. Zavala argues that this is the unspoken reason behind the Mexican war on drugs, the alliances between authorities, multinationals, and cartels.10

On 31 January 2018, the last day of the El Chapo trial, authorities in Arizona announced that they had seized the largest amount of fentanyl ever found in the US — enough for 100 million lethal doses — in trucks at a legal entry point into the US. The Nogales port of entry, connecting Arizona and Mexico, was a regularly used transit point by the Sinaloa cartel.11 El Chapo had left the scene, but the drug-trade that he had undeniably worsened was still operating with ruthless efficiency. Removing El Chapo from the scene gave a warning to other potential drug kingpins, but the sheer amount of money that could be earned in the industry rendered his verdict almost irrelevant. The future of cartels may lie with IT experts who code, encrypt, and lead global networks of untraceable drug distribution.

In reality, El Chapo’s incarceration had never done anything to stem the bloodshed. Violence had soared during his time in jail, and a senior cartel operative explained that officials hoped El Chapo would ‘restore peace’ by cracking down hard on his rivals, whom authorities found difficult to control. Whoever was left standing would be weakened but victorious, at least momentarily until another cartel rose to challenge its power. ‘There’s no real fight against drugs,’ a Mexican intelligence official admitted. ‘It’s all a perverse game of interests.’12

Mexican President Andrés Manuel López Obrador offered a sensible response to this situation by announcing in May 2019 that his country should decriminalise all illicit drugs, shift funding to treatment programs, and negotiate with the US to follow suit. This is the drug war in a nutshell: futile, powerful, and self-sustaining.

Perhaps Mexico should follow the lead of Bolivia, which took the important step of kicking out the DEA in 2009, legalised coca, and regulated production. Cocaine production has dropped ever since.

Consider Colombia, the world’s biggest supplier of cocaine. (Peru is second.) According to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, there had been a 31 per cent increase in cocaine production in Colombia in 2018 from the year before. Despite a 2016 peace deal between warring sides of the country’s long-standing civil war, cracks had appeared due to a lack of support for demobilised Farc rebels, some of whom produced cocaine, and other groups that remained committed to trafficking.

Washington’s relationship with Colombia is a salient warning in how not to approach drugs. In 2000, the Clinton administration and Colombia initiated Plan Colombia to tackle drug cartels and Farc militants. More than US$10 billion was sent from Washington with bipartisan backing.13 Both governments claimed victory 15 years later, but the price had been steep. Over 220,000 people had died since 1958, a toll which accelerated during Plan Colombia. Foreign investors were pleased with the results, however — a key, often unstated, aim of the policy. There was an increase in the amount of cocaine being produced on the ground (output fell for a time, but it didn’t last), and gross human-rights abuses by a militarised approach included collusion between security forces and right-wing death squads.14

~

I began working on this book before Donald Trump had the faintest chance of becoming US president. It was conceived during the Obama years when there were some positive, albeit small, changes to the drug war in the US and globally. The rate of incarceration in US prisons declined, a handful of US states legalised cannabis without federal government censure, and, on the international stage, Washington was less belligerent about enforcing a zero-tolerance prohibitionist agenda.

These were significant departures from previous US administrations, and sent a signal globally that nations could explore alternatives to policies that had killed millions while enriching drug cartels and organised-crime gangs. Legalisation and decriminalisation were finally on the agenda. Uruguay was the first nation on earth to legalise marijuana in 2013. Canada was the first Western country to do so in 2018.

In this book, I report from Honduras and Guinea-Bissau in West Africa, two nations that are at the centre of the US-led drug war, though they receive little media coverage. Honduras experiences some of the worst violence in the world outside a traditional war zone. The bulk of cocaine arriving in America and Europe transits through both these countries. As the white powder grows in popularity in Western capitals, it’s the people of Honduras and Guinea-Bissau that feel it most acutely. I speak to the farmers, authorities, peasants, and victims of a war that they didn’t start and have no idea how to stop.

The Philippines is also a focus, and has recently suffered a brutal war on drugs launched by its president, Rodrigo Duterte. More than 30,000 people have been killed since he took office in 2016, and the bloody streets of Manila are a salutary tale of what happens when state-sanctioned murder becomes official policy. How and why so many Filipinos back Duterte in his drug war is perhaps the most disturbing part of the story.

As the intellectual heart of the drug war, the US is a key battleground. I investigate how marijuana has gone mainstream, a reality that seemed impossible just ten years ago, while the state still implements a drug war that it knows will disproportionately affect people of colour and poor whites. The darkest policies of the Nixon and Reagan eras are rearing their heads again in the Trump age with demonised drug users back at the rhetorical heart of law enforcement, the Justice Department, and the DEA. I uncover some of the secrets behind the DEA and how it entraps vulnerable people in West Africa and Honduras.

In the UK and Australia, two US client states, there’s a growing awareness that prohibition has failed to impede drug use or criminality, but political cowardice means that little is done about it. In Australia, I find some reasons for optimism — for example, safe injecting rooms are increasingly accepted by the community as a necessary tool in tackling addiction — but the authorities remain fearful of moving too fast on drug-policy reform in case they incur a tabloid media backlash. In Britain, with extreme austerity, soaring poverty, and hopelessness evident from the heart of London to Newcastle, it feels like generations of young people are being left to suffer amidst an influx of deadly drugs.

I detail the ways in which drug users increasingly access the dark net to shop for drugs as a safer way to source illicit substances. Alongside this positive development is growing research into and adoption of psychedelic substances such as LSD, ecstasy, and magic mushrooms to treat depression and other mental-health problems. Finally, the debate that’s long overdue is slowly entering the mainstream: tangible plans to regulate and legalise all drugs. What was once considered radical and unrealistic has never been more important to discuss and implement.

I’ve picked these countries and themes because they reveal a cross-section of the drug war. I wanted to examine places that receive little mainstream media attention but play a huge role behind the drugs that are consumed nightly in such major cities as London, Sydney, New York, and Paris.

~

The Donald Trump era has brought the drug war back with a vengeance, though it’s arguably far less effective in convincing people than in the past. President Trump claimed that his proposed border wall with Mexico was the answer to ending drug importation. ‘The drugs are pouring in at levels like nobody has ever seen,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to stop them once the wall is up.’ But a DEA intelligence report found the complete opposite, explaining that the vast bulk of illicit substances entered the country by air and sea. ‘The majority of the heroin available in New Jersey originates in Colombia and is primarily smuggled into the United States by Colombian and Dominican groups via human couriers on commercial flights to the Newark International Airport,’ the document said.15

During the El Chapo trial, witness after witness testified that his network imported drugs largely at legal US border crossings in cars, tanker trains, and trucks. A Trump-style wall would do virtually nothing to change this.

Trump was using rhetoric that Nixon, Reagan, and Bill Clinton had used in the past, whipping up fear against black and Latino drug dealers and users. The DEA still operates with almost complete impunity, and Trump has boosted its budget by US$400 million. But with a majority of Americans now supporting cannabis legalisation, and increasingly high support for this policy in Britain, Australia, and many other Western states, what kind of drug war is it fighting and with what public mandate?

Nonetheless, the drug war has served the political class well for decades, providing an ideological framework and language while talking ‘tough’ on drugs. On the DEA’s 45th birthday in 2018, two leading US senators, Republican Chuck Grassley and Democrat Dianne Feinstein, issued a congratulatory resolution in Congress to thank the department for its work. The DEA had served the US ‘with courage’, and had ‘helped protect the people of the United States from drug-trafficking, drug abuse, and related violence’.

The drug war has developed its own momentum that is incredibly hard to stop. It’s not dissimilar to the war on terror, declared after the terrorist attacks on 11 September 2001, that unleashed a multi-billion-dollar industry to thwart and deter terrorism, if not stop it entirely. It has not achieved any of its stated goals — terror threats and actions from both Islamists and far-right extremists have worsened in the years since 2001 — but the justification for its continuation has not diminished. The DEA routinely links drug-trafficking to terrorist group financing, so the wars on drugs and terror are both sold as vital to protecting the homeland.

There are always new ways to create threats and then provide solutions to them. The US Coast Guard now locks up low-level drug-smugglers in international waters, in floating Guantanamo Bays of dubious legality, and keeps them there for weeks or months before bringing them to US courts.16 This didn’t cause a scandal when it was revealed in 2017.

We’ve seen this narrative before when the US government’s drug policies knowingly worsened the drug-trade. Soon after the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in 1979, US president Jimmy Carter reacted by sending armaments to the mujahideen rebels. Dr David Musto, a White House advisor on drugs who had been appointed by Carter to the White House Strategy Council on Drug Abuse, expressed concern. ‘We were going into Afghanistan to support the opium growers in their rebellion against the Soviets’, he told Alfred McCoy, professor of South-East Asian History at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and author of one of the finest books on the drug war, The Politics of Heroin: CIA complicity in the global drug-trade.17 After Washington backed Islamist rebels in Afghanistan and Pakistan, heroin poured into the US, and drug-related deaths soared.

McCoy had uncovered a vast, largely hidden, history of CIA and US government complicity in the production of heroin in Laos, Thailand, and Burma from the late 1940s until the 1980s, sustained by the murderous Vietnam War and its brutal legacy. The CIA contracted airlines to transport opium, and turned a blind eye to its distribution. Global supply skyrocketed, the drug caused a huge increase in overdoses around the world, and it was all done in the name of fighting the Cold War.

‘Since ruthless drug lords made effective anti-Communist allies and opium amplified their power, CIA agents, operating half a world away from home, tolerated the illicit trade’, McCoy wrote:

The CIA’s role in the heroin traffic was an inadvertent consequence of its Cold War tactics … Once a CIA secret war ended, its legacy persisted in rising narcotics production. American agents may have departed, but the covert war zone’s market linkages and warlord power remained to make these regions major drug suppliers for decades to come.18

These were the early days of the global war on drugs. I show how Britain, Australia, Honduras, and a range of other nations signed up to Washington’s militarised drug war, usually through coercion as well as a desire to stay in the US’s good books, and are still playing the game today.

I’m not shy about my own views after four years of research around the world for this book; the drug war must end, but the question is how. I view ending the war on drugs as akin to killing a zombie. It’s not impossible, if you know how to destroy the brain with a stake through its centre, but it’s like playing whack-a-mole because there are too many institutions with a vested interest in its continuation. Nonetheless, voices of sanity, calls for legalisation and regulation, and politicians who reject the drug-war rhetoric are becoming less of a whisper and more like a scream, from the halls of Washington to the bloodied capitals of Latin America that have suffered the most.19

Although I began this book with strong views against the drug war, writing it took me in directions that I didn’t necessarily expect. I’ve spent my career investigating the abuse of corporate and state power — from occupations in Palestine and Afghanistan to private prisons and internet censorship — but the drug war was inarguably bigger than them all. It’s a conflict that’s never-ending and completely global, so I aim to reveal what this means for the millions of civilians caught in the middle of it. Capturing the scale of the war — its rhetorical justifications, militarisation, faux arguments, and yet brutal outcomes — is what this book hopes to achieve.

I view this book as a work of journalistic investigation infused with a curious mind. It’s true that, before I embarked upon it, I wasn’t open to supporting the prohibition of drugs — I’ve never believed such a policy works effectively to improve human rights — but in the course of my research I certainly listened to individuals who worried about the societal effects of full legalisation and regulation. And although my work over the years has often been accompanied by activism on particular issues, from Palestine to privatised wars, the journalism has been a priority because I believe that fine reporting is often connected to opposing injustice. Speaking out against the drug war inevitably makes me an advocate in the broadest sense of the word, but it’s nothing compared to the bravery of countless men and women on the frontlines whom you’ll meet in these pages.

Before I began researching the war on drugs, I would casually and unthinkingly use the word ‘addict’ to describe a person who used drugs excessively. But current thinking about drugs has forced me to challenge my thinking and biases. The Associated Press updated its widely used AP Stylebook in 2017 to accommodate the new ideas. ‘Addict’ would no longer be used as a noun. ‘Instead’, it said, ‘choose phrasing like “he was addicted”, “people with heroin addiction” or “he used drugs”’.

John Kelly, an associate professor of psychiatry at Harvard University, and founder and director of the Recovery Research Institute at the Massachusetts General Hospital, welcomed the move, because he had found in a 2010 study that doctors took a more punitive stand against patients who were described as ‘substance abusers’ as opposed to ‘people with substance use disorder.’20

This equally applied to the general public when reading stories in the media. Addiction researchers at the University of Pennsylvania found in a 2018 study that people responded negatively when a person was described as an ‘addict’, ‘alcoholic’, or ‘substance abuser.’ ‘Terms that seem to label the person — and invoke the negative attitudes toward the person rather than the disease — those are the ones that have the higher levels of bias,’ said lead study author Robert D. Ashford.21

For all these reasons, I’ve tried to modify my language throughout the book to reflect the most appropriate way to discuss drugs and the people who use them.

Aside from checking my language, this book challenges the vast bulk of what passes for reporting on the drug war. Too often, government spin is what journalists publish. I’ve highlighted many examples throughout the text when embedded reporters visit a dangerous country, barely meet anyone not taken to them by a government minder, and end up endorsing US foreign-policy goals. The fact that Washington and the West are often behind a nation’s descent into violence, drug use, or gang warfare is ignored or softened.

This isn’t to downplay the hideous brutality unleashed by cartels — they were committing the kinds of abuses that ISIS shocked the world with, years before the Islamist terror group emerged — but it’s too easy to just cast them as the bad guys.

The drug war is exactly that — a war — and yet it’s too frequently viewed through the prism of a public-health emergency or national panic. Neither is entirely untrue, but journalism requires more than simply repeating grim statistics and speaking to experts who talk about the crisis. I spent time in the middle of the war so I could explain what it looks and smells like from the streets of Sydney to the killing fields of Honduras. Nothing can replicate being on the frontline of a war that’s a conflict against both a domestic population and vast swathes of the global population.

Unpacking the ways in which the war has survived and thrived for decades is a trickier proposal, but no less important. How can a war be both created in the minds of its advocates and practitioners, with slogans and weapons at the ready, while also designed as an effective tool of control over what are viewed as unruly populations? The answer is partly that this is how empires operate. Washington is the latest iteration of an age-old tradition, but I think it goes deeper than this to the very heart of modern capitalist societies and those who aim to protect their wealth at any cost.

~

Popular culture has a lot to answer for when it comes to romanticising the drug war and deliberately ignoring its ugly realities. Take the Netflix series Narcos, on the rise of cocaine in Colombia from the 1980s. Framed as a noble DEA effort to curtail the growing cartel business, the program portrays Colombia as a backwards country that needs some good, old-fashioned American help in the form of imposing violence and making immoral choices working with the ‘good’ traffickers. This battle in Colombia was never about a war on drugs, but was a war fought over drugs. Narcos dishonestly claims otherwise.22

It’s impossible to count the number of drug-war books that glorify the industry. Drug-war tourism is thriving, too. In Medellin, Columbia, the city that experienced the notoriety of narco-trafficker Pablo Escobar, visitors can go on tours to some of Escobar’s famous sites. Escobar’s accountant and brother, Roberto Escobar, who served 14 years in prison, now takes tourists to the family’s former safe houses.23

There’s no evidence that prohibition has curtailed drug use. I’ve often wondered during the writing of this book what our world would have looked like if the prohibitionists hadn’t gained control of the levers of power in the 20th century. In Portugal, a nation that decriminalised all drugs in 2001, drug use has declined amongst the most at-risk group, 15–24-year-olds. The sexiness or allure of illegal drugs was removed; they’re now just a normal part of life, ignored or mostly consumed safely. This is a sensible approach that I examine in a number of countries. Could it work elsewhere around the world?

This book is a local and global investigation to determine a better way to manage drugs, and a challenge to end the most destructive war of the last half century.