Trump’s “make a deal” mantra feeds Putin’s appetite, undermines Ukraine’s sovereignty, and risks turning peace into capitulation—bad news wrapped in handshakes that reward aggression instead of resisting it.
I watched the spectacle unfold as if it were a Broadway play, except this one was staged in Alaska and written by men who believe maps are chessboards. President Trump stood at the center, promising that the war in Ukraine could end not with another fragile ceasefire but with a grand deal that would bring history to heel. He insisted a true peace was within reach, and the chorus of European leaders sang his praises as if they had discovered a savior wrapped in a red tie. I could almost hear the old saying echoing in the background: when a drum is loudest, it is often hollow inside.
The facts are plain. On day 1,269 of Russia’s invasion,
bombs still fell on Ukraine. Even as handshakes were exchanged in Alaska,
Russia’s military pressed forward. President Volodymyr Zelensky, preparing to
meet Trump at the White House on Monday, released his demands for peace—lasting
peace, not a pause that gives Moscow time to reload its cannons. He reminded
the world of 20,000 Ukrainian children taken across the border by Russian
forces. His words carried the weight of fathers and mothers left staring at
empty beds.
Trump, however, gave his own advice to Zelensky in the
simplest language possible: “Make a deal.” It was the gospel of his politics,
the shorthand for his worldview. To him, Russia is big, Ukraine is small, and
the math of power is not sentimental. If you cannot overpower the bear, then
feed it honey until it retreats. The irony here is thicker than Alaskan ice. He
preached that Russia was a “very big power,” as though size alone confers
legitimacy. By that logic, Goliath deserved to win. Yet even the tallest
tree falls when struck by a sharp axe.
Putin made his demands clear through his diplomats: he
wants all of Donbass, even the parts his troops have yet to capture. He wants
Kramatorsk, a city that serves as Ukraine’s eastern military headquarters, with
a population of 150,000—about the size of Savannah, Georgia. It was less a
negotiation than a grocery list. Putin pointed at the map like a diner circling
entrées, and Trump smiled as if he were the waiter bringing the menu.
Still, the nominations rolled in. Seven nations have
already put Trump’s name forward for a Nobel Peace Prize, citing his past
deals. And in a twist stranger than fiction, even Hillary Clinton—yes, Hillary
Clinton—hinted she would nominate him if he pulled off peace in Ukraine. The
irony was delicious. It felt like watching a cat invite the mouse to dinner,
praising its bravery. Trump, with a grin, said he might have to like her again.
Truly, politics makes strange bedfellows, and sometimes enemies shake hands
when their interests align like stars in a crooked sky.
Yet the summit in Alaska ended without a ceasefire. The
lunch was canceled, the leaders flew home, and the killing continued. Trump
admitted he would have been unhappy without at least a ceasefire, yet he left
with none. Instead, he carried a letter from Melania Trump addressed to
Vladimir Putin, pleading for the safety of abducted Ukrainian children. She
asked Russia to “look after the children,” a line that made history’s irony
drip like oil on water. Imagine asking the wolf to guard the sheep and signing
the request with delicate penmanship. It is like giving the key of the
granary to the rat and praying it will not eat the grain.
Meanwhile, Putin wrapped his message in flattery. He
called Trump “dear neighbor,” pointing out that Russian islands in the Bering
Strait sit only four kilometers from Alaska. He spoke of trade, high-tech
ventures, and space exploration, as if peace could be bought with satellites
and rockets. He claimed the talks would pave the path toward peace in Ukraine.
His words sounded rehearsed, as though meant to soften the edges of his
territorial hunger. And there was Trump, nodding, soaking it in, playing host to
a man who demanded more land than he had conquered.
The White House celebrated Trump’s diplomacy as a triumph
of strength. They reminded everyone that the previous administration barely
spoke to Russia. They said Trump’s willingness to sit with Putin, even riding
together without interpreters, proved his genius in deal-making. I looked at it
another way: when you get into a car with Putin and dismiss the translators,
you might as well hand him the map and trust him not to drive you into his
garage. When you dance with the tiger, don’t be surprised if you end up in
its stomach.
Zelensky, however, clung to his red lines. No land would
be ceded. Ukraine would not hand over Donbass like a bargaining chip. He
demanded not just silence in the guns but permanence in the peace. His words
were heavy, his warnings clear: the war might intensify during negotiations,
and any deal that amounted to surrender was no deal at all. He spoke like a man
whose people bled daily, not like a businessman reading from a contract.
And yet Trump’s admirers applauded. They called him a man
of peace, a humanitarian, the only leader capable of pulling adversaries to the
same table. They pointed to Melania’s letter as proof of compassion. They even
insisted that peace through strength had returned, as if the world had
forgotten that strength without sacrifice is merely muscle flexing in a mirror.
The praise was so loud that it drowned out the fact that no ceasefire had been
secured, no children had been returned, and no maps had been erased of Russian
ambitions. The rooster may crow at dawn, but it cannot make the sun rise.
The media raged, of course. Critics on the left accused
Trump of ignoring democracy, betraying allies, and turning his back on
sovereignty. They fumed that he was erasing years of support given to Ukraine.
But in truth, what enraged them most was not betrayal, but success. Trump had
once again placed himself at the center of history’s stage, threatening to
rewrite the script. And nothing angers rivals more than the possibility that
the man they loathe may end the war they failed to stop.
So here we are, waiting for Monday’s meeting at the White
House, when Zelensky will arrive with demands and Trump with advice to “make a
deal.” Between them lies Putin’s grocery list, a region he insists is his, and
the world’s nervous hope that this act will not end with Ukraine carved like a
feast at the table of giants.
If peace comes, Trump will claim the laurels. If it
fails, he will shrug and say the Ukrainians refused his advice. Either way, the
theater continues, and we all sit in the audience watching the stage lights
flicker. A man who builds castles in the sand should not be surprised when
the tide comes in—but sometimes the crowd still cheers the builder for dreaming
big.
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