There is something almost theatrical about the way Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin, two men who cannot agree on the colour of the sky unless it flatters them politically, suddenly find common ground in blaming Europe for the world’s troubles. Their latest point of convergence came after an hours-long meeting at the Kremlin between U.S. envoys and Putin, an affair that produced plenty of stern faces, ceremonial handshakes, and resolute posturing, but not a glimmer of actual progress. And yet, as if pre-scripted, both leaders emerged with a shared refrain: peace is elusive not because of Russia’s aggression, not because of America’s political whiplash, but because Europe, poor, aging, bureaucratic Europe, is simply too stubborn. It would be almost funny if it weren’t so predictably cynical.
Europe, in this telling, becomes the geopolitical equivalent of the fussy neighbour who refuses to “just be reasonable” about the noise coming from your backyard flamethrower experiments. The accusation is smooth, convenient, and infinitely malleable. Europe is too hawkish. Europe is too soft. Europe is too aligned with Washington. Europe is not aligned enough. It is the sort of argument that collapses upon brief inspection, and yet in the mouths of Trump and Putin it sounds less like analysis and more like alibi.
What makes this convergence particularly rich is that Trump and Putin conceive of Europe as obstacles for opposite reasons. For Putin, Europe is the fortress of sanctions, the scolding schoolteacher blocking his ambitions, the moralizing continent that insists borders matter and invasions shouldn’t happen on Tuesdays. For Trump, Europe is the ungrateful dependent, the cost center, the fraying alliance he alternately threatens, courts, and shrugs at. One man wants Europe quieted; the other wants Europe billed. But both enjoy the symmetry of saying Europe is the problem. It offers them a shared antagonist that asks nothing in return. This is not, however, really about Europe. This is about narrative convenience.
Blaming Europe absolves Washington and Moscow of responsibility for the calcified stalemate they jointly maintain one through erratic diplomatic overtures, the other through kinetic force. It shifts accountability from the two governments actually sitting across the table to a third party outside the room. Europe, meanwhile, lacks both the unified voice and the raw theatricality to counter the accusation effectively. Brussels does not tweet. Paris does not improvise. Berlin does not bluster. Europe responds with communiqués, and communiqués, no matter how sternly worded, are no match for two leaders adept in the politics of spectacle.
The deeper truth is that the U.S.–Russia impasse lives in the space between incompatible worldviews. Putin clings to an old-world sphere-of-influence philosophy, a map drawn in the ink of 19th-century entitlement. Trump, meanwhile, approaches global politics like a real estate negotiation, everything transactional, everything renegotiable, everything personal. Neither framework allows for the kind of multilateral, rules-based diplomacy Europe holds dear. So when discussions falter, Europe becomes the designated culprit by default.
But the irony is that Europe’s “stand,” the very position Trump and Putin call obstructionist, is simply consistency. Europe likes treaties. Europe likes institutions. Europe likes the idea that borders remain where cartographers put them and not where tanks later decide they belong. In a world increasingly driven by improvisation, Europe’s steadfastness suddenly feels radical.
Perhaps that is what unnerves both men. Europe, with its mild technocrats and its cautious language, quietly asserts that power still has limits. It insists that ambitions must be bounded by law, that wars cannot be shrugged off as misunderstandings. Europe is, in a way, the last adult in a room full of performative strongmen, an identity that earns respect privately but derision publicly.
What emerged from the Kremlin meeting, then, was not a breakthrough but a familiar pantomime. U.S. envoys expressed concern. Russia expressed grievance. Everyone expressed “commitment to continued dialogue,” which is diplomatic code for “we tried nothing and we’re all out of ideas.” But because the world demands a storyline, and because leaders require a villain, Europe was pushed forward like a reluctant actor entering stage left.
Still, Europe’s role in this drama is not merely reactive. If anything, it now faces a moment of recalibration. The continent must decide whether to continue serving as the moral backbone of the West reliable but often sidelined or to adopt a more assertive posture, even if that invites louder criticism from those accustomed to a pliant Europe. The choice before Europe is not whether it should act, but how loudly it should speak.
What Trump and Putin cannot admit, though perhaps they quietly understand, is that Europe’s resistance is not obstruction but principle. And principles, inconveniently, do not bend simply because two powerful men find them annoying.
In the end, the most telling part of this convergence between Trump and Putin is not what they say about Europe, but what it reveals about themselves. For all their differences, both men share a belief that global order is something to be shaped by force of personality rather than collective agreement. Europe disrupts that narrative by insisting that the world is not, in fact, a wrestling match between giants but a long negotiation between equals.
If Europe is an obstacle to peace, as they claim, it is only because peace defined on their terms is something the continent cannot, and should not, accept.
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