On May 31 of 2025, Guatemala marks the 40th anniversary of its current Constitution. Nearly 70% of Guatemalans today weren’t even born when the country adopted it back in 1985. Back then, Guatemala had about 8 million people. Today, the population exceeds 18 million. So the question is timely: has the constitutional pact forged during a turbulent transition held up?
The 1985 Constitution was drafted in the midst of a political opening led by the military, during a civil war that had devastated the country. After years of repression, the armed forces sought to restore legitimacy by transferring power to civilian institutions and laying the groundwork for democratic rule.
It was a different Guatemala—smaller, poorer, less educated. Literacy rates were below 50%, and the economy was in crisis. Between 1980 and 1985, exports fell by 32%, and the current account deficit exploded from $35 million in 1977 to $573 million in 1981. Unemployment surged. In that bleak context, one of the first democratic milestones was the creation of an independent electoral authority. Around 3.5 million Guatemalans were registered to vote. Nearly a million more couldn’t register due to the country’s instability, but it was still a crucial step toward restoring credible elections after years of military regimes.
The 1984 National Constituent Assembly became the forum for drafting the new Constitution. The process had limits—leftist and armed opposition forces did not participate, largely due to internal conflict and political restrictions—but the Assembly reflected a relatively plural political environment. Three major blocs dominated the process: the Christian Democrats (DC), who won 21% of the vote and held 20 seats; the National Center Union (UCN), with 18% and 21 seats; and the right-wing MLN–CAN alliance, which earned 16% of the vote and 23 seats. Together, these three blocs controlled two-thirds of the Assembly.
Although ideologically distinct—the DC leaned center-left, UCN was centrist, and MLN–CAN firmly conservative—their dominance produced a system of constant negotiation. That political equilibrium curbed any push for radical transformation. The resulting Constitution was politically functional but cautious: a document full of rights and guarantees on paper, yet still tied to elements of the old regime.
That structural fragility was never resolved—not even through the only constitutional reform since 1985. In 1993, amid a constitutional crisis triggered by President Jorge Serrano Elías’s attempted self-coup, 37 of the Constitution’s 281 articles were amended. But instead of correcting foundational weaknesses, some reforms deepened them. One of the clearest examples is the expansion of judicial nomination commissions. Intended to promote a more professional, independent selection process for judges and the Attorney General, the system instead solidified informal networks—based more on personal or political loyalties than merit. That made it virtually impossible to build a career judiciary rooted in independence and professionalism.
Since then, Guatemala has changed in dramatic ways. Beyond demographic growth, it has become more connected to global markets, witnessed the emergence of new political forces, and now faces challenges such as transnational organized crime and institutional capture.
So, does a Constitution written for a transitional state still meet the needs of today’s Guatemala? This anniversary shouldn’t just be a symbolic milestone—it should be a moment to reflect on what has held up, what has collapsed, and what was never fulfilled.
Just a few days ago, the Constitutional Court issued what I believe was a misguided ruling on Article 27 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties. The Court framed it as a defense of constitutional supremacy. But is that defense meaningful—or just rhetorical?
Let’s ask some uncomfortable questions.
Where was that constitutional supremacy when a criminal judge stepped in to block the Semilla party—the political movement of then-candidate and now-president Bernardo Arévalo—just weeks before the 2023 runoff-election? The judge ordered the party’s temporary suspension and later its deregistration, actions widely seen as politically motivated. But under the Constitution, only the Supreme Electoral Tribunal has authority over electoral matters. This was a clear overreach—and a direct blow to the constitutional order.
What happened to one of the most important achievements of the democratic transition—the electoral system designed by Arturo Herbruger Asturias? It was based on manual vote counting, polling stations run by ordinary citizens, and full oversight by party-appointed observers. That model played a crucial role in legitimizing elections after years of authoritarian rule. Today, that legacy is under attack. In 2023, the Constitutional Court stepped into the electoral process, halting the certification of results and ordering a review of tally sheets after several establishment parties—alarmed by the unexpected rise of Bernardo Arévalo and the Semilla movement—challenged the outcome in what many saw as a last-ditch effort to block it. The Public Prosecutor’s Office blamed the software used to transmit preliminary results and even pursued criminal charges against the Tribunal’s IT director—despite the fact that vote counting in Guatemala is still done manually and recorded on paper. The final blow came when four sitting magistrates of the Supreme Electoral Tribunal were suspended indefinitely, in a move that blatantly violated electoral independence and weakened one of the last credible democratic institutions in the country.
What about freedom of expression? Article 35 of the Constitution was supposed to enshrine it. But today, some journalists live in exile. Others are harassed using laws intended to address femicide. And several reporters from the now-defunct newspaper El Periódico are facing criminal charges for publishing investigations. According to the Chapultepec Index, Guatemala is now among the countries with the highest levels of press restrictions in the region.
What about political pluralism, a cornerstone of any democracy? In 2023, candidates were arbitrarily disqualified just weeks before the presidential election. Isn’t that the same logic used by authoritarian regimes—precisely the kind of abuse this Constitution was meant to prevent?
And what kind of justice system do we have, when pretrial detention is no longer the exception but the rule? When high-profile criminal cases are kept under strict secrecy, with charges and evidence hidden from the public for months? When conflicts of interest are effectively constitutionalized, allowing substitute magistrates to serve both as judges and as private litigators?
These are not just rhetorical questions. If we want to honestly assess whether the democratic transition and the 1985 Constitution have delivered, we must ask: are the rights and guarantees it set out actually being upheld?
Reciting lofty slogans about constitutional order won’t cut it if, in practice, those guarantees have been reduced to empty words. Maybe it’s time to ask, without nostalgia, whether this constitutional framework still fits the country we want to become—or whether the moment has come to pursue targeted, meaningful reforms that can finally make it real.
