From Tucson to Timbuktu: How Adelita Grijalva Perfected the Global Art of Political Immortality

Adelita Grijalva and the Global Art of Being Politically Unfireable
By Our Correspondent in the Department of Schadenfreude Studies

Tucson, Arizona—If you’ve never heard of Adelita Grijalva, congratulations: you have successfully avoided American local politics, a pastime that ranks somewhere below competitive taxidermy on the international glamour scale. Yet Ms. Grijalva’s recent re-election to the Pima County Board of Supervisors is being quietly studied in political backrooms from Brussels to Bangkok as a masterclass in how family brand recognition, demographic math, and the human tendency to vote for the devil we binge-watched on cable news can keep a public servant in office long after the warranty expires.

Grijalva, 39, is the daughter of Raúl Grijalva, the U.S. Congressman who has represented southern Arizona since the concept of “swipe right” was still a cassette-player function. In dynastic terms, this is the political equivalent of inheriting a family-run falafel stand that somehow got Michelin stars while nobody was looking. Internationally, the practice is hardly exotic: Pakistan has its Bhuttos, India its Gandhis, the Philippines its Marcoses, and the United States—ever the egalitarian utopia—has a rotating cast of Bushes, Clintons, and now, apparently, Grijalvas. The difference is that while other countries at least have the decency to schedule their dynasties with operatic flair, Arizona prefers the low-budget telenovela approach: same plot, cheaper wardrobe.

Why should anyone beyond the Sonoran Desert care? Because Grijalva’s victory is a case study in the globalization of political immortality. In an era when democratic backsliding is the new black, local elections have become pilot programs for how to keep incumbents permanently moisturized with public funds. Observers from Kenya to South Korea note that Grijalva’s campaign leveraged three universal principles: (1) a surname that tests well in focus groups of nostalgic voters, (2) an opponent who campaigned with the charisma of a parking ticket, and (3) a media ecosystem that treats policy debates like background noise during a particularly aggressive root canal.

Her platform—affordable housing, climate adaptation, and “equitable development”—sounds harmless enough, the sort of IKEA-word salad every urban planner now serves with lingonberry compote. Yet the implementation carries the faint whiff of gentrification dressed up as progress, a trick developers from Lagos to Lisbon have perfected. Local activists grumble that “affordable” here means “affordable to someone who already owns three Airbnbs,” while “equitable” translates roughly to “we hired a muralist.” Still, the electorate—51% of it, anyway—decided that continuity beats chaos, a calculation familiar to voters who once chose Brezhnev over uncertainty, or who currently stick with leaders because the alternative might tweet something unhinged at 3 a.m.

Globally, the takeaway is sobering. As climate change, migration, and inflation turn every city council into a triage unit, the skill set required to survive politically is less “visionary leadership” and more “brand management.” Grijalva’s Instagram feed—equal parts desert sunsets and bilingual press releases—could be swapped with that of a mid-tier influencer in Valencia or Valparaíso without anyone noticing. The implication: future politicians may not need to solve problems; they only need to curate the aesthetic of problem-solving, ideally with a sepia filter.

Meanwhile, international betting markets (yes, they exist, and yes, they’re as depressing as you think) list the over/under on her next re-election at 78%. Those odds are better than most European prime ministers enjoy, and they haven’t even met her yet.

In the end, Adelita Grijalva is less a person than a data point in a worldwide spreadsheet titled “How Democracies Learn to Stop Worrying and Love the Heir Apparent.” The cell next to hers is already occupied by a Kennedy in Massachusetts, a Le Pen in France, and a Gandhi in India—each performing the same slight of hand: turning democracy into a family reunion where the punch is spiked with inevitability.

And so, under the Arizona sun, the dynasty reboots itself, confident that somewhere on another continent, a consultant is taking notes. The voters, weary but obedient, shuffle forward. The desert blooms, or at least posts about blooming. And the world keeps spinning, slightly dizzy, wondering whether the problem is the system or the fact that we keep ordering the same cocktail, just with different paper umbrellas.