Free Hand

Unclasping its grip, the U.S. lets an entitled yet faltering Europe slip toward the abyss, while Ukraine is left to be crushed beneath the tank treads of reality.

On his way to deliver his nation’s declaration of independence from the alliance, Pete Hegseth strides through NATO’s gleaming cathedral of geopolitical power.

Hands are like forks—tools of piercing, of grasping, of asserting dominance over the world. They are instruments of the masculine, sharp and deliberate, stabbing into flesh, pulling apart fibres, imposing order upon the chaos of a meal. The fork, with its prongs, is a weapon as much as a utensil, a reminder of the hunter, the warrior, the conqueror.

But when two hands come together, their fingers interlacing like the threads of a tapestry, something transformative occurs. The sharpness of the fork gives way to the curve of the spoon, a vessel of the feminine, designed not to pierce but to cradle, to carry, to nourish. The spoon is a boat, gently ferrying sustenance from bowl to mouth, a symbol of gathering and continuity. In the interlacing of hands, the masculine and feminine merge, creating a synthesis that is both tender and enduring.

NATO’s interlacing fingers of alliance

This symbolism of interlaced hands, the gesture of prayer, of solidarity, of lovers entwined, found its architectural expression in the design of the new NATO Headquarters, a building meant to embody the unity of the transatlantic alliance. The structure, with its jutting, interconnected fingers, evokes the image of two hands clasped tightly together—one representing the United States, the other Europe. The design speaks of a bond forged in the fires of World War 2 and tempered by the trials of a cold peace. It is a monument to the idea that strength lies not in isolation but in connection, that the sharpness of the fork can be softened by the curve of the spoon, that the masculine and feminine, the aggressive and the nurturing, can coexist in harmony.

Yet, symbols are never static; they shift and twist with the currents of history. The interlaced hands of NATO, once a testament to unity, now carry a darker resonance. The announcement by U.S. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth of an American strategic withdrawal from Europe unravels the symbolism finger by finger. The hands, once knotted together in steel and glass, now begin to slip, the grip loosening. The American hand, suddenly free, does not retreat with grace—it metaphorically rises with a middle finger extended, an unforgiving farewell.

In the wake of this humiliating rejection, European foreign ministers gathered for a photograph, their collective unease betrayed by the discord of their hands. Some clasped nervously in front of them, as if seeking solace in their own grip, while others let their arms hang awkwardly by their sides, unsure of where to place them. One minister, perhaps in a moment of desperation or dark humour, even flashed a triangular Illuminati-like gesture, as though hoping to summon some shadowy force of salvation from the void. Their disharmony was palpable, a silent yet deafening testament to the unravelling of the transatlantic alliance.

In true bureaucratic fashion, the European foreign ministers responded with a sternly worded letter, insisting that Europe and Ukraine “must be part of any negotiations” with Russia.

Most appropriately, they titled their demands the Weimar+ Statement—a name that unwittingly conjures the ghost of the Weimar Republic, long synonymous with weakness and decadence. Born from Germany’s defeat in World War I, the Weimar era was a study in fragility: political chaos, economic ruin, and a culture drowning in excess, all while the republic staggered toward its inevitable collapse. Its name has since become shorthand for feeble leadership, doomed idealism, and the kind of wishful diplomacy that paves the road to disaster. In invoking Weimar, the EU unwittingly reaffirms an old lesson—history repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce.

A Farewell to Alms

A Dear John letter is a final missive of detachment, a cold severance of obligation. Traditionally, it is the note a soldier receives from a lover back home, informing him that she has moved on. It is an end not merely to romance, but to the imagined future that once tethered two lives together. The recipient, still in uniform, still at war, is left with the bitter realization that what was once steadfast has now dissolved into memory.

Europe’s shield-maidens basking in the glow of premature triumph.

Pete Hegseth’s February 12th speech at NATO Headquarters was, in essence, a Dear John—or perhaps, given Europe’s increasingly feminized posture, a Dear Jane. With cruel finality, he declared that the United States was departing Europe to turn its strategic gaze towards Asia. No longer would Washington bankroll Europe’s security or take the lead in managing the Ukrainian quagmire. The Atlantic clasp had loosened, and the era of American alms—military, financial, and strategic—had come to an end. This was not an argument, not a debate, but a verdict long in the making: American’s hand is henceforth free.

America was moving on, and Europe—lingering in NATO’s grand halls like a discarded spouse rattling through an empty estate—would have to stand alone. Its once-valiant shield bearer had turned eastward, drawn by youth, vigour, and booty.

In his speech, Hegseth declared with blunt finality that Ukraine would never reclaim its pre-2014 borders, would not join NATO, and would receive neither American “peacekeepers” nor security guarantees. Whether naïve or disingenuous—perhaps both—the new Pentagon chief floated the notion that any future peace settlement would require robust international oversight along the line of contact. But Europe was left in no doubt: if its troops ever entered Ukraine as peacekeepers, they would do so outside NATO’s umbrella, with no protection under Article 5. In other words, Europe was on its own against Russia.

America’s unspoken fear was clear. If a ceasefire were reached and European peacekeepers deployed, an unbowed Ukraine would have every incentive to break the truce, hoping to provoke a Russian retaliation that could drag the U.S. into a direct great-power war.

The reality, however, is that Ukraine will receive no meaningful security guarantees from Europe. If any Western army had truly wanted to fight Russia, it would already be in the Donbass. Any future European pledges of protection will be empty words. When the war finally ends, Russia will ensure that rump Ukraine’s military remains tightly constrained, securing its own place on Kyiv’s national security council. The last thing Moscow will entertain is the presence of "non-NATO" European forces on Ukrainian soil—aside from potential concessions over Galicia, Ukraine’s Western fringe teeming with ardent nationalists. If, in the future, Europeans wish to enforce their hollow promises, they will have to fight their way through Ukraine’s western border—an endeavour for which they simply lack the means.

As a last desperate gambit, Ukraine clings to the hope that maintaining its tenuous foothold in Russia’s Kursk region might somehow compel Moscow into a territorial swap— Kursk for Donbass. But this is pure fantasy. Trading a few barren, strategically insignificant patches of Kursk for the industrial and resource-rich Donbass would be akin to exchanging Arkansas swampland for Silicon Valley. Russia has no incentive to entertain such a lopsided proposal. At war’s end, if Ukraine wants to keep any miserable sliver of Kursk it manages to hang on to, so be it.

Sharing Booty

Since time immemorial, war has been waged for booty—the spoils of conquest, the glittering prizes of victory. The victor takes, the vanquished lose; this is the immutable law of history, as old as the clash of swords and the roar of cannons. To imagine a world where the conqueror shares his plunder with the defeated is to dream of a utopia that has never existed. Just as President Trump is unlikely to parcel out Greenland’s vast mineral riches to Russia, should the U.S. ever lay claim to that frozen expanse, so too is President Putin disinclined to reimburse the United States with Ukrainian lithium for the cost of its war machine—a machine that has spent billions to cut down young Russian patriots on the battlefield.

The darker green Ukrainian oblasts hold the most mineral wealth

Dnipropetrovsk Oblast, with its mineral reserves valued at a staggering $3.5 trillion, is Ukraine’s Greenland—a treasure trove buried beneath the earth, waiting to be claimed. Russian forces now stand just kilometres from its border, their advance slow yet relentless, their purpose clear. The war will not end until these resources are firmly in Russian hands—until the spoils of victory are secured. And just as Russia will never see a single gram of Greenland’s wealth, the United States will extract nothing from Ukraine’s riches.

So why does Trump persist in his grandiose claims about Ukraine’s mineral wealth as recompense for America’s expenditures? The answer lies not in logic but in politics. Ever the showman, Trump must justify the billions still flowing from U.S. coffers into a losing war. With the DOGE sounding alarms over fiscal collapse, the rhetoric of Ukraine’s untapped riches serves as a fig leaf—a flimsy cover for the reality that the money is gone, siphoned into a conflict with no end in sight. It is performance, pure sleight of hand, meant to placate the MAGA faithful and distract from the grim truth: America's wealth is still being funneled into a bottomless pit. Perhaps continued support for Ukraine was the price Trump had to pay to secure Senate confirmation for his cabinet picks?

But President Putin is no stranger to such theatrics. He knows that any agreement with the United States will be as ephemeral as a shadow. Look to Gaza, where the peace plan Hamas signed never included a clause to depopulate the Strip and transform it into a posh resort for “world people.” Agreements, in the eyes of great powers, are little more than scraps of paper, easily torn asunder when the winds of power shift. And from Russia’s perspective, Zelensky is not even Ukraine’s legitimate leader, rendering any deal he signs null and void the moment a Russian-aligned government rises in Kiev.

Yet, even as the war grinds on, reports emerge that Zelensky has refused to sign over Ukraine’s mineral wealth to U.S. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent. It is a small act of defiance, a fleeting moment of resistance in a conflict defined by betrayal and greed. But in the grand calculus of war, it changes nothing. The spoils will go to Russia, while the defeated in Europe are left to gather the remnants of their exaggerated expectations.

Breaking Morale

President Trump’s timeline for ending the war in Ukraine keeps slipping. What began as a bold promise to broker peace within 24 hours soon stretched to 100 days. Now, he has granted Russia an implicit extension, suggesting the conflict could wrap up in six months. But when all is said and done, the most realistic timeframe for the completion of Russia’s Special Military Operation is closer to 18 months—if not longer.

Steel beam deformation as a metaphor for Ukraine’s vulnerable front lines

Such predictions are inherently uncertain, as a war of attrition unfolds much like the deflection of a steel beam under stress. At first, in the Elastic Stage, immense force is required to produce even minor movement—mirroring Ukraine’s early resilience, when fresh Western aid and mobilization propped up the front lines. As strain accumulates, the beam enters the Plastic Stage, where resistance falters and deformation accelerates. Ukraine now teeters on this threshold. Eventually, the structure reaches the Ultimate Limit State, where pressure overwhelms the material, leading to sudden and irreversible collapse. The same fate awaits key sectors of the Ukrainian front, where exhaustion and logistical breakdowns will make defensive lines untenable.

Ukrainian morale is slipping following Hegseth’s speech at NATO

Russia humours Trump’s peace proposals not because they are viable but because they corrode Ukrainian morale—an indispensable element of any fighting force. The illusion of imminent peace breeds hesitation, uncertainty, and discord among Ukraine’s leadership, weakening their resolve just as Russian forces prepare to exploit the cracks. The grand Russian offensives will come in time, when conditions are ripe. Until then, Ukraine will be left in turmoil—perhaps its ruling class can be just destabilized enough for a pro-Russian figure to emerge in Kiev, reshaping the war’s final chapter before the battlefield delivers its own verdict?

No Trust, No Deal

As the Soviet Union crumbled into the ash heap of history, Russia emerged—fragile, wounded, yet clinging to a flicker of hope. It sought not dominance but a place at the table of equals, a voice in the new world order taking shape. When Vladimir Putin rose to power in 1999, he carried this vision forward: a Russia integrated with the West, not as a supplicant but as a respected partner. It was a dream rooted in the belief that former adversaries could forge a shared future, that the scars of the Cold War might heal through dialogue and mutual respect. But this vision, delicate as a spider’s web, was met not with the open hand of partnership but with the cold fist of betrayal. With each broken promise and each encroachment, Mirroring Ukrainian frontlines today, Russia’s faith in the West bent like a steel beam under mounting strain—first elastic, then plastic, until it reached its ultimate limit and snapped.

The early 2000s were a time of cautious outreach, of Russia extending its hand only to find itself encircled. NATO’s relentless march eastward, the CIA-backed colour revolutions that toppled governments on Russia’s doorstep, culminated in Russia’s 2008 military intervention in Georgia. The West was not a partner but a predator, its promises hollow, its actions calculated to weaken and isolate Russia.

The 2014 Euromaidan protests, which Putin saw as a U.S.-backed coup, and the subsequent Minsk Accords—later exposed as a cynical stalling tactic to militarize Ukraine—laid bare the truth: Western diplomacy was not a bridge but a trap, a theatre of deception masquerading as peace-making. Even economic cooperation, the last fragile thread of engagement, was severed with the sabotage of Nord Stream 2, a pipeline that symbolized Russia’s dwindling hope for honest partnership with Europe.

Now, with the West’s empty promises laid bare, Russia has abandoned the dream of simply being granted equal partnership out of American generosity. Broken treaties, missile installations creeping ever closer to its borders, and every overture met with duplicity have forged a new, unyielding resolve. What remains is not idealism but a hard-edged realism—a nation that has learned, through bitter experience, that in the arena of great powers, trust is an illusion, and strength is the only true guarantor of security. This lesson is as old as Thucydides’ Melian Dialogue, yet even the Europeans, in their hubris, must now relearn it the hard way.

And so, no deal is possible between Russia and the United States. The war in Ukraine will not conclude with a grand bargain but with Russia taking what it deems necessary and installing a leader who grasps the art of obedience. Yet, ironically, peace talks—when they come—will bear fruit, but only in the most indirect sense. As alliances unravel, as Europe and Ukraine find themselves humiliated and sidelined, and as Ukraine’s defenses buckle like fatigued steel under relentless pressure, the will to continue the fight will evaporate. This war will not end with a handshake but with an unspoken admission of the inevitable: that power, not promises, dictates the final settlement. And in that grim reckoning, Russia will emerge with what history has repeatedly granted, and then taken away—a free hand in Europe, won through blood and steel.