The remarks by U.S. Vice President JD Vance on the war in Ukraine were more than a political statement; they were a trumpet blast announcing a strategic shift. When Vance says it is a "fantasy" to imagine a Ukrainian victory simply through more weapons, more funding, or tougher sanctions, he is not merely criticizing the current Western strategy. He is openly voicing what many Western governments have privately concluded for months but avoided saying aloud.
For Washington, a total Ukrainian victory is no longer seen as realistic. In the new framework outlined by the Trump administration, Ukraine may soon face an ultimatum that could redefine its future: accept an American-designed peace plan shaped around U.S. global strategic interests, or continue fighting largely on its own—a war that has already drained its manpower, its economy, and its diplomacy.
Trump's now-famous statement — "Zelensky is going to have to like the peace plan" — distills the essence of his negotiating philosophy. It is not bluster for its own sake; it is a statement of method. The war must end, and ending it requires imposing a compromise, however harsh or unpalatable. It is the same pragmatic logic that allowed Richard Nixon to close the Vietnam chapter in 1973 through a controversial agreement that nonetheless brought American soldiers home and secured the return of prisoners of war.
The parallel is no coincidence. Republican presidents—from Nixon to Reagan—have often embraced a fundamentally realist geopolitical worldview: negotiate when it serves national interests, strike when necessary, and avoid endless wars with no attainable victory. Foreign policy, in this tradition, is not a moral crusade but a calculation of strategic advantage. Trump fits squarely into that lineage.
On the ground, the situation leaves little room for illusions. Russian forces continue advancing—slowly but steadily—and Ukraine struggles to mobilize new troops. Western stockpiles are thinning, and European public opinion appears increasingly weary of supporting a war with no clear horizon. Each passing week strengthens Moscow's negotiating position, weakens Kiev's, and makes more plausible the idea of a deal that freezes the frontline as it stands—effectively locking in Russia's gains from its 2022 offensive.
In this context, Trump has crafted a message aimed at Europe as well: no concessions to Russia regarding the borders of European NATO states. It is a guarantee that seems to reach beyond the Alliance itself, positioning the United States as the direct arbiter of Europe's security. Yet the implicit message is just as striking: Europe is no longer central to American strategy. It is useful, but not decisive — and certainly not the actor that sets the final terms.
Meanwhile, the war has triggered a near-epochal transformation in Russia's military doctrine. For the first time in its modern history—stretching from the 17th-century wars with Sweden, through the Napoleonic campaigns, to the Second World War—Russia adopted an immediate offensive strategy instead of its traditional elastic defense and strategic retreat. It marks a precedent that will reshape Eurasian military balances for decades.
And that is not all. Russia emerges from the conflict with a renewed strategic horizon: the Arctic. The Northern Sea Route, increasingly navigable due to climate change, promises to become the fastest commercial corridor between Asia, North America, and Europe. At the heart of this strategic geography lies the Bering Strait, where Russia and the United States almost touch. Many analysts see in this geography the possibility of a future rapprochement—one built on shared interests and a mutual desire to limit China's rise. For Russia, loosening dependence on China would be a strategic gain; for the United States, disrupting the Sino-Russian partnership would be a geopolitical coup.
If such an alignment were to emerge, Europe could become the great loser. Without an autonomous foreign policy, without integrated defense capabilities, and with the Mediterranean growing less central, the continent risks becoming a spectator to global power shifts. The United States would secure access to Ukrainian resources and a more cooperative Russia; Moscow would gain stability and economic openings; China would lose a vital partner. And Europe? Europe would be left in the middle—neither strong enough to shape events, nor united enough to resist them.
The brutal realism expressed by Vance and embodied by Trump is more than a change in tone; it is the signal that an entire geopolitical season is ending. The era in which the West supported Ukraine under the banner of moral principles is giving way to one in which the raw interests of great powers take precedence. Ukraine, whether it wishes to or not, may find itself pressured to accept a settlement shaped elsewhere. And in the emerging world order, Europe may discover—perhaps too late—that it no longer holds the role it once believed it had.
Marco Baratto
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