Trump’s fancy: a far-right Europe on subsidy drugs by Thanos Kalamidas

Donald Trump has always had a flair for the dramatic, but his latest foreign-policy fantasy is particularly audacious even by his standards. Calling on Poland, Hungary, Italy, and Austria to leave the European Union is not just a political suggestion; it’s a full-throttle, dystopian vision of a Europe reshaped under far-right, Trump-approved leadership. The image he paints is of obedient allies marching in lockstep with his worldview, a continent finally “made great” again through loyalty and ideology. On paper, it sounds bold, even seductive to some. In reality, it’s a naïve, almost cartoonishly reckless proposal that ignores the messy realities of modern European economics and politics.

Let’s start with Italy. A country already teetering on the brink of fiscal disaster, Italy survives largely thanks to the EU’s financial architecture. Its economy is a delicate house of cards propped up by subsidies, low-interest loans and the quiet hope that Rome won’t default on the next tranche of government bonds. Asking Italy to abandon the EU is essentially asking it to step off the safety net while balancing on a tightrope in a hurricane. In other words, it’s a recipe for economic chaos. And one wonders if Trump ever paused to consider that Italy, freed from Brussels’ oversight, might not automatically become a loyal acolyte of his ideological dreams but rather, a freewheeling, cash-strapped state scrambling to survive.

Then there’s Poland and Hungary, the two so-called “rising stars” of the far-right bloc. Sure, both have flirted with authoritarianism and populist governance making them politically appealing in Trump’s eyes. But here’s the catch, their economies are deeply intertwined with the EU. Poland thrives on EU funds for infrastructure, education, and industry. Hungary, too, relies on subsidies and development programs. In a world without Brussels, these nations would face immediate economic pain. They might rebel not against the EU, but against the fantasy of instant allegiance to a distant American president who doesn’t fund their roads or pay their teachers’ salaries. Trump’s vision assumes ideological loyalty can replace financial necessity but anyone who has watched Eastern European politics knows that hunger and debt tends to have the final say.

Austria presents yet another twist. Economically, Austria is relatively stable, but it is hardly an isolated powerhouse capable of weathering a sudden EU divorce. Its banking system, trade relationships, and labour markets are all embedded in European networks. Ask it to leave the EU and suddenly it’s no longer a quiet, prosperous Alpine nation, it’s a country scrambling to negotiate new trade deals, navigate foreign investment gaps, and prevent its highly integrated economy from crumbling. In short, it’s the classic “fine in theory, disaster in practice” scenario.

And what about Hungary? Maybe it’s the one country that could entertain Trump’s proposal with the least immediate pain but even there the long-term consequences are dubious. EU membership brings more than money; it brings legitimacy, trade access, and diplomatic leverage. Walking away for the sake of ideological alignment would leave Hungary isolated, forced to rely on promises from a U.S. administration that has historically shown little patience for the complexities of foreign aid or economic management. The idea that Budapest would gain more than it loses is wishful thinking at best.

In the end, Trump’s vision is less about geopolitics and more about symbolism. It’s a statement; Europe should bend to his ideological whims. But it completely ignores the practical reality that these nations are financially dependent on the very institution he wants them to abandon. Loyalty cannot be legislated; debt cannot be ignored. And while the idea of a far-right Europe may thrill certain segments of the American base the Europeans themselves are likely to greet such a plan with a mixture of confusion, amusement, and outright hostility.

Perhaps the most ironic twist of all is that if any of these countries actually tried to follow Trump’s lead it would hurt them far more than it would benefit him or the United States. Subsidy withdrawals, trade disruptions, and financial instability would destabilize these countries internally, potentially provoking mass unrest and yet, the Trumpian dream seems blissfully unconcerned with any of this. The fantasy is neat, a continent of obedient and far-right allies ready to mirror his worldview. The reality? A Europe scrambling for survival, economically battered and politically fractured, while Americans cheer a theoretical victory that may never materialize.

Trump’s proposal is less a policy and more a fairy tale, a story in which ideology trumps economics, loyalty trumps self-interest, and consequences are mere afterthoughts. For those who enjoy watching political theater unfold, it’s a spectacle. For anyone grounded in economic or diplomatic reality, it’s a cautionary tale of what happens when ambition meets naïveté, with a side of populist fantasy.

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Fabricating Foolishness #Poem by Jan Sand

To masturbate with love and hate
Is the game we play with words
To label the life of our illusion,
An infusion of emotional confusion
To the lack of minus or plus
In the tough rough and tumble we call life.

The sauce of meaning we each pour
To flavor the neutrality of time
Implies an entity that laughs and grumbles
At the interplay of us and all that we each feel
In the free fall of dice to infer motivation
Where there is none, the universe
Quite simply doesn’t care.
There is no one there.

Each tick of the clock that we presume
Slices our Moon with shadow
Until it vanishes in doubt
Touches the vast mystery of totalities
Wherein we fabricate a fragile fate of direction
Into an infection of ourselves,
A disease of unease we cultivate
To architect into our inner being
An importance of our presence,
A peacock tail to no avail to strut
Within our tiny planetary yard.

Here and gone is what is,
No need to infer any more,
To grab pleasure or deplore
The clownish horrors we create
As if there is any more
Than that final dust to end it all
Is just personal theatrics.
Might as well just have our fun
And be done.

Across the pond, across the line by Nadine Moreau

Watching the Trump administration posture toward Europe over the years has been like witnessing a soap opera written in real time by someone who never learned to read the room. There’s a pattern here, a familiar rhythm, a blend of aggression, contempt, and performative superiority that somehow masks a deep, simmering insecurity. When figures like Donald Trump and his emissaries, including the ever-vocal Rudy Giuliani-alike, JD Vance, castigate European leaders or sneer at the European Union, it’s rarely about policy. It’s about ego, wounded pride, and, let’s be honest, a particular kind of cultural resentment.

What’s striking is how personal it all feels. Trump’s disdain for European institutions, whether NATO, the EU, or even the quaint little traditions of parliamentary democracy, isn’t cloaked in the usual diplomatic jargon. It’s blunt, almost adolescent in its bluntness: tariffs here, insults there, dismissive hand-waves at centuries-old alliances. For those paying attention, it reads like someone who never quite felt at home at a dinner party, now holding a microphone and shouting about how the hors d'oeuvres are overpriced. It’s jealousy dressed as political strategy.

Consider the psychology. Europe, in its leisurely, history-soaked way, represents a kind of refinement and global influence that cannot be purchased, won in a reality TV competition, or built with skyscrapers and golf courses. Trump and his inner circle who spent a lifetime in the peculiarly American crucible of wealth, fame and competition, see Europe’s prestige and shrug it off as snobbery or elitism. But underneath that sneer is discomfort; Europe doesn’t need them, doesn’t flatter them, and certainly doesn’t bend to their worldview. It’s a continent that has existed for centuries without consulting Mar-a-Lago, and that autonomy is threatening.

Then there’s the cultural clash. Trumpism thrives on the logic of the deal, the charisma of the individual, the spectacle of winning. Europe, with its social democracies, labour protections, and multilateralism, operates on compromise, patience, and systems that reward collective over personal triumph. For a personality that equates personal success with universal validation, that’s not just baffling it’s offensive. This is not policy disagreement; it’s a kind of cultural dissonance amplified into political theater. Every European refusal to bow, every critique from Brussels or Berlin, is interpreted as a personal slight, a rejection of the very idea that Trump’s version of the world should reign supreme.

And the menacing rhetoric is part of the arsenal. It’s both a shield and a signal: a shield to protect fragile ego from the judgment of institutions that do not answer to reality TV ratings and a signal to followers that Trump’s disdain isn’t just rhetorical, it’s righteous. Vance and others amplify this, framing Europe as an antagonist, a foreign other that must be tamed or mocked. It’s reminiscent of schoolyard psychology: bully the peer who makes you feel small, and in doing so, convince yourself you’re tall.

It’s also performative, of course. Hostility toward Europe plays well to a domestic audience that values toughness, disruption, and the fantasy of reclaiming lost grandeur. But make no mistake: there’s a real emotional kernel here. It’s not merely strategy; it’s resentment and insecurity wrapped in nationalist bravado. The continent that endured wars, rebuilt itself, and developed a social and political sophistication that Trump’s circle treats as quaint or irrelevant becomes, in their eyes, both a threat and a prize: a threat to their ego, a prize they can never truly conquer.

So yes, it’s partially jealousy; a complicated, toxic admiration filtered through disdain. But it’s also, in equal measure, pure contempt: for a way of life they never grasped, for a culture that quietly rejects their values, and for a history that refuses to bend to modern self-interest. When Trump threatens tariffs or makes cutting remarks about European leaders, it’s not only about policy leverage; it’s about marking territory, asserting superiority over a civilization that refuses to acknowledge it. And in that performative assertion, one sees the vulnerability, the need for validation, and the almost comical frustration of a worldview constantly bumping up against centuries of self-assured European independence.

In the end, Trump’s menace toward Europe isn’t clever diplomacy or strategy; it’s insecurity in full bloom. It’s the adolescent tantrum of a man and a movement that mistake global respect for personal approval, that see centuries of history and culture as something to conquer, rather than something to respect. And in that sense, Europe remains, ironically, both untouchable and utterly provocative: a mirror, in which Trump and his circle see the reflection of what they will never, and can never, truly be.

Berserk Alert! #105 #Cartoon by Tony Zuvela

 

Tony Zuvela and his view of the world around us in a constant berserk alert!
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A fistful of cactus #110 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

When a cactus becomes the sheriff then a whole lot of spines shoot around!

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Bulgaria’s government resignation and the illusion of stability by Sabine Fischer

Bulgaria’s government resigned on Thursday, an event that on the surface may seem like another routine political tremor in a nation long accustomed to instability. But this moment, occurring just as Bulgaria prepares to join the euro zone, reveals something deeper and more troubling, the exhaustion of political alternatives in a system that promises change but delivers only variations of the same status quo. What we are witnessing is not merely a reset of leadership but the collapse of a familiar narrative, one that has held Bulgarian politics together for far too long.

For months, the coalition in power had become increasingly unpopular, its internal fractures exposed by a series of crises, policy missteps, and a pervasive sense that it was no longer capable of governing effectively. Yet, this government’s resignation does not signify the birth of fresh political energy. It instead ushers in a period of political drift, one that will likely see more of the same, familiar faces, recycled promises, and a public more disillusioned than ever.

What is remarkable about this moment is not the resignation itself, such events are almost routine in parliamentary democracies but the context in which it occurs. Bulgaria stands on the brink of a historic economic transition: entering the euro zone. This move, long championed by political elites and business leaders alike, is meant to anchor the country more firmly within European institutions and markets, promising stability, investment, and a closer alignment with Western Europe.

Yet the irony is bitter. Bulgaria seeks economic steadiness and credibility through monetary union just as its own political framework falters. To many Bulgarians, this juxtaposition feels like a profound contradiction: the country is ready for the euro but not for the political maturity that such an economic step demands. It is as if the political class is asking citizens to trust in an uncertain future while offering only worn-out leadership in the present.

The root of this instability is not confined to personalities or policy failures; it is structural. Bulgaria’s political landscape has been dominated for years by a narrow set of parties and leaders, each promising reform while deeply entrenched in the very networks and compromises that fuel public discontent. Corruption scandals, opaque decision-making, and an inability to address pressing social issues have eroded trust. Yet, when governance collapses, there is no viable alternative waiting in the wings, no vibrant new movement with the organization or appeal to assume the mantle of leadership.

This is the real crisis: not simply that a government fell, but that nothing truly new is ready to replace it. In many other countries undergoing political stress, we see the rise of insurgent movements, fresh coalitions, or charismatic figures willing to challenge the old order. In Bulgaria, the alternatives seem variations on familiar themes, parties splintered from older ones, alliances built on convenience rather than conviction, and civic movements that lack the resources or reach to translate popular frustration into political power.

The consequence of this hollowed-out political field is a prolonged period of uncertainty. Bulgarians will likely confront early elections, protracted negotiations, and perhaps another unstable coalition. In the interim, the day-to-day business of governance, from public services and economic policy to foreign relations, may suffer from a lack of coherent direction. This vacuum is not just a matter of inconvenience; it undermines public faith in democratic processes and strengthens the cynical view that politics is an elite game, remote from the realities of ordinary citizens.

It is important to recognize that political instability is not inherently destructive. Democracies can survive and even thrive amid turnover and debate. The problem arises when instability becomes endemic, when governing institutions lose credibility, and when the cycle of resignation and reformation becomes a habitual backdrop to national life. In such an environment, meaningful reform becomes almost impossible. Leaders look less toward long-term solutions and more toward short-term survival.

For Bulgaria, the looming euro adoption only magnifies these stakes. Joining the euro is not merely a technical economic adjustment; it is a symbolic leap, signaling a deeper integration into the European mainstream. But such a step requires a stable political foundation, transparent institutions, and a government capable of articulating and implementing policies that benefit the broad public. Without this, the shift to the euro risks being seen not as a collective achievement but as an abstract goal pursued by a disconnected elite.

There is a deeper irony here: the very forces that have pushed for euro membership, pro-European politicians and stakeholders, are partly responsible for the system that has left the Bulgarian public disenchanted. Advocacy for euro adoption has often been framed as a panacea, a sign of progress and normalization. But progress cannot be measured in currency denominations alone. The health of a democracy is equally defined by how its leaders are chosen, held accountable, and renewed.

As Bulgaria navigates this moment, its political actors must confront an uncomfortable truth: stability cannot be bought through external validation alone. It must be cultivated through genuine responsiveness to citizens’ needs, through openness to new voices and ideas, and through an honest reckoning with the structural flaws that have brought the system to its current impasse.

The resignation of the government could be a catalyst for renewal, a cleansing moment that forces the political class to rethink its assumptions. But more likely, unless there is a surge of new political energy, it will be remembered as another iteration of the same instability that has long plagued Bulgarian politics.

Bulgaria stands at a crossroad, one that juxtaposes economic opportunity with political fragility. How it navigates this juncture will define not only its place in the euro zone but the character of its democracy for years to come. The question now is not just who governs next, but whether the next chapter will offer something genuinely new or simply more of what has come before.

Subtropics #Poem by Abigail George

 

Love is quiet
Quiet

Be strong heart
I’ve cried tears

that have
tasted like the rain

Woven into my tissues
are wildflowers

What are woven
into yours?

I spoke to
the person in the cell

I went to bed with storms in my head
I called it a mistake then

And much later, a lesson

a choice

It’s summer
I feel the heat

beneath my skin
under my eyelids

I feed my father's cancer
tomato sandwiches

Dark
Dark
Dark

Here they come
The waves

Fear in my heart
for every word not said
every meal not prepared
when I saw blood

on the bandage
that covered your eye

Oh, mother
will you ever forgive me

for not listening to you?
Daily I write you poems

inside my head
that turn into

hymns, psalms
the Chopin melody turns into a river

the piano into a cold leaf

Dark
Dark
Dark

Here the waves come
I am left waiting for a miracle

in the dark
a spinster

with spinster thoughts
with spinster wants, needs and desires

even these fantasies
have tested me.

The nod-off president by Edoardo Moretti

There is a peculiar irony unfolding in American politics, one so on-the-nose that if it appeared in a satire show, it would be dismissed as too heavy-handed. Donald Trump, the man who spent years branding Joe Biden as “Sleepy Joe,” who mocked his opponent’s gait, sentences and supposed fragility, now presides over the Oval Office in his second term exhibiting the very behaviors he once ridiculed. And the country is watching, uncomfortably, as the joke circles back.

The recent string of televised moments, eyes drooping in meetings, incoherent tangents during speeches, sudden explosive outbursts on social media that read like the internal monologue of a man arguing with invisible adversaries, has ignited a national debate. Not about policy. Not about direction. About capability. About stability. And, increasingly, about the president’s health.

To be clear: aging is not a moral failing. Fatigue happens. Mental lapses happen. Humans are human. But when that human sits behind the Resolute Desk, entrusted with decisions that can alter economies, reshape alliances, and send soldiers into danger, the bar is different. It must be.

What America is witnessing feels less like ordinary exhaustion and more like a slow unraveling, uneven, erratic, impossible to predict and impossible to ignore. Watching a president nod off during a live-streamed economic briefing is no minor gaffe. Watching him launch into rambling digressions about nonexistent conspiracies in the middle of foreign policy remarks is not charming eccentricity. These are not normal blips in a stressful job. They look like symptoms.

And this time, the question is not simply “Is he tired?” It’s “Is he okay?” For years, Trump used insinuation as a political weapon, raising doubt about opponents not through evidence but through repetition, mockery, and innuendo. “Sleepy Joe,” he said, and half the country absorbed it as truth. “Not all there,” he smirked, and crowds cheered. He trained supporters to equate moments of slowness with cognitive collapse. He insisted that stamina was the ultimate proof of leadership.

But now the frame has turned. Clips of him slumped in his chair are replayed with the same intensity his campaign once applied to Biden’s debate stumbles. His recent unpredictability, tantrums mid-speech, contradictory statements, forgetting names, drifting off into unrelated anecdotes, has invited whispers even among allies who once defended him at every turn. Some dismiss it as stress. Others blame overwork. But more and more Americans are privately asking the same unsettling question: Is the president exhibiting signs of cognitive decline?

The tragedy is not simply that the country may be witnessing a leader falter. The tragedy is that Trump himself built the very measuring stick by which he is now being judged. When you loudly equate lucidity with legitimacy, you leave no room for compassion. You create a purity test no human can pass forever. And now the purity test is aimed at him.

The White House, of course, denies everything. Aides insist the president is “sharp,” that he merely “closes his eyes to listen,” that his lengthy digressions show his “unfiltered authenticity.” They chalk up his erratic messaging to “creative spontaneity.” But dismissals ring hollow when the evidence is visible on every screen. When the nation sees a president blink awake mid-sentence, the spin does not reassure, it patronizes.

The psychological tension extends beyond politics. A nation needs to believe its leader is grounded, focused, and capable. In moments of crisis, Americans want to feel that someone competent is steering the ship through turbulent waters. When the captain appears drowsy at the wheel, public confidence falters. And when confidence falters, everything else becomes shaky markets, diplomacy, even national morale.

Of course, it is possible that these moments are simply misread. It is possible the president is exhausted, not impaired. That stress, not decline, is the culprit. But the problem with opacity is that it invites suspicion. And the problem with Trump’s legacy of ridicule is that it leaves him little room to seek empathy now.

If he were any other leader, the conversation might be gentler. But when a politician spends a decade using mockery to delegitimize opponents on the basis of perceived age or frailty, he cannot be surprised when the boomerang returns.

The presidency is not a place for denial, certainly not for fragile ego. America deserves transparency. It deserves assurance that its leader is capable of fulfilling the duties of the highest office. And at the very least, it deserves to know whether the behaviors broadcast across national television are momentary blips or signs of something deeper.

This is not about politics. It is about stewardship. And right now, America is watching a president who once wielded insults as a shield now stand exposed by the very narratives he constructed. The question that lingers, heavy and unavoidable, is simple: Who is truly awake at the wheel?

Fika bonding! #113 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Fika is a state of mind and an important part of Swedish culture. It means making time for friends and colleagues to share a cup of coffee and a little something to eat.

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Tides of legitimacy by Marja Heikkinen

There’s a strange geometry to global politics, a kind of moral cartography where distance isn’t measured in nautical miles, but in who gets to define the rules. Take, for example, the recent Yemeni seizures of commercial tankers in the Red Sea and the U.S. Navy’s interdiction of a Venezuelan-flagged vessel. On a map, these events sit on opposite ends of two different seas. But politically, the gap between them is far wider, stretching across oceans of power, narrative, and the privilege of who gets to be called a pirate and who gets to be called a defender of freedom.

Let’s be blunt: very few nations actually obey the same rulebook at sea. The rules shift depending on whose ship you’re boarding.

When Yemeni armed groups, specifically the Houthis, stop merchant vessels in the Red Sea, they’re immediately branded “pirates,” “outlaws,” and “global threats.” The word “pirate” comes with heavy political weight. It strips the actor of state legitimacy, places them outside the international order, and gives every powerful navy on Earth permission to intervene. Calling someone a pirate is a geopolitical eraser; it deletes their status, their grievances, and any claim that their actions are tied to ongoing conflict rather than random lawlessness.

Yet when the U.S. Navy stops a Venezuelan tanker, often with the justification of sanctions enforcement or counter-narcotics missions, the language transforms. Suddenly, it’s not piracy but “maritime security” or “upholding international law.” The U.S. frames itself as a custodian of stability, a sheriff patrolling a global ocean that it believes must remain open and orderly, under its definition of order.

This isn’t about moral equivalence; it’s about narrative power. If an armed group in Yemen claims they are acting in solidarity with Gaza or retaliating against attacks on their territory, the world shrugs. If the U.S. says it is protecting global commerce or enforcing sanctions against a government it deems hostile, those words carry institutional legitimacy, because the U.S. is a recognized state actor with a Navy that spans the globe and decades of diplomatic relationships to reinforce its narratives.

Put differently, legitimacy is not something you do at sea; it’s something you’re granted on land.

Of course, the Houthis are not internationally recognized rulers of Yemen and operate from territory seized in civil war. That matters legally. But it’s also true that international law is heavily shaped, some would say disproportionately by the very powers that have the luxury of large navies. When the U.S. conducts maritime interdictions thousands of miles from its shores, these actions are viewed through the lens of America’s role in global governance. When a non-state actor does something similar in a narrow chokepoint through which one-third of global trade flows, the instinctive reaction is to classify the act as criminal.

But legality does not exist in a vacuum. It lives inside politics. The U.S. Navy can stop a tanker and call it enforcement. Yemenis stop a tanker and it becomes piracy even when the motivations are political or military, not criminal. One is framed as upholding the order of the seas; the other as threatening the international system. But both are, at their core, acts of power, someone with weapons boarding someone else’s ship for strategic reasons.

If we’re honest, "pirate" is simply the label reserved for those who lack the status to enforce their will under the polite umbrella of international law.

There’s also a moral convenience at play. The Red Sea is a vital artery for world trade; any disruption sends insurers, governments, and shippers into a frenzy. When the Houthis target vessels linked to certain countries as leverage in a broader political struggle, it becomes intolerable not only because of legality but because of economic impact. The U.S., on the other hand, rarely faces consequences when it intercepts foreign vessels, partly because no one is powerful enough to stop it, and partly because the global system is built on an assumption that American power is, by default, stabilizing.

That assumption is rarely extended to armed groups in the Middle East. In the end, the distance between these two maritime incidents cannot be plotted by GPS. It is a measurement of narrative privilege: who has the authority to police the seas, who is permitted to use force, and who gets shoved into the category of “pirate” simply because no one wants to admit they’re acting politically.

So yes, Yemen and the U.S. are thousands of miles apart geographically. But the real gap is the one between who writes the rules and who gets written out of them. And that distance is far greater than any ocean.

Projecting self by Gabriele Schmitt

There’s a peculiar boomerang effect that happens whenever Donald Trump describes Europe. He leans into phrases like “weak,” “decaying,” or “past its prime,” as if he were diagnosing a continent in its final stages of political exhaustion. But listen closely, really closely and the tone starts to sound less like an analysis of Europe and more like an accidental confession.

Because when Trump paints Europe as frail, fearful, or fading, he’s really sketching a portrait of his own anxieties: a leader who once projected swagger now shadowboxing with relevance, desperately trying to reclaim a version of American dominance that no longer exists and arguably never existed in the cartoonish form he remembers.

Trump’s favorite rhetorical move is projection. It has always been his most reliable, if unintentionally revealing, form of communication. What he accuses others of, he often embodies. What he mocks is what he fears. And so when he calls Europe “weak,” it feels less like geopolitical critique and more like an aging strongman squinting at his reflection in the mirror, convinced he’s still towering while the world sees someone shrinking.

Europe, of course, is far from perfect no serious observer would pretend otherwise. It struggles with bureaucracy, political fragmentation, demographic challenges, and uneven military investments. Yet even with these headaches, Europe continues to be a global economic powerhouse, a leader in democratic governance, and a region where most citizens enjoy a standard of living Americans would envy. Europe’s problems are real, but they’re not fatal. Its institutions bend, adjust, argue, reform, and annoyingly slowly, move forward.

Trump’s own trajectory tells a different story. His political capital depends on division rather than unity, resentment rather than reform. His messaging increasingly relies on doom, decline, and grievance, an emotional palette far dimmer than the swaggering confidence he once strategically deployed. When he speaks of decay, he seems fixated on it. When he mocks others for being weak, he sounds obsessed with the concept of strength. And when he talks about crumbling institutions, he gravitates toward imagery that mirrors the chaos he has personally unleashed.

So what’s really going on? For one, Europe is a convenient foil. Trump needs adversaries who are big but not too big, symbolic enemies rather than genuine threats. Europe fits perfectly: impressive enough to attack for drama, safe enough to attack without risk, and familiar enough that American audiences recognize the names but not the nuances. By calling Europe “weak,” Trump reinforces his old storyline that only he can return America to greatness, only he can make allies bow, only he can reassert dominance.

But beneath the bravado lies insecurity. Trump’s worldview is fundamentally nostalgic. His foreign policy instinct is rooted not in strategy but in longing, for a romanticized past where America dominated through sheer weight. He often speaks as though the world stopped in 1985. In that sense, Europe’s modern complexity challenges him. It doesn’t behave like a caricature. It doesn’t tremble when he thunders. It negotiates, disagrees, pushes back, and worst of all, it sometimes moves on without him.

When Trump calls Europe “decaying,” what he’s really lamenting is the changing global order that no longer centers the world around American exceptionalism or Trump’s vision of it. Multipolarity frustrates him. Consensus politics confuses him. Cooperative power bores him. So he claims weakness where he sees difference. He declares decay where he sees independence. And yet, Europe persists.

It maintains one of the most stable political landscapes in the world. It has strong social protections, competitive economies, and cultural influence that far outstrips its size. If Europe is decaying, it is doing so at a suspiciously comfortable pace, one that still ranks it among the world’s most desirable places to live.

Trump’s projection reveals a personal truth more than a geopolitical one: the world is changing faster than he can reinterpret it. The contours of power look different now. Force alone no longer defines dominance. Alliances matter. Cooperation matters. Soft power matters. Stability matters. And none of those things are Trump’s strengths.

When he describes Europe as fragile, the irony is sharp. Europe is many things, messy, sometimes maddeningly slow, occasionally divided but fragile is not one of them. If anything, the political figure showing signs of fragility is Trump himself, leaning harder than ever on overstated insults to mask diminishing influence.

In the end, Trump’s comments about Europe aren’t really about Europe at all. They’re about an aging political brand struggling to stay relevant in a world that has already begun writing its next chapter.

And that, perhaps, is the clearest projection of all.