The art of betrayal in a red tie by Edoardo Moretti

Donald Trump has always understood one thing better than most modern politicians: performance matters more than consistency. His political genius lies not in ideology, but in instinct, the ability to sense outrage, exploit grievance and wrap contradiction inside the language of patriotism. That is why his latest balancing act over Taiwan feels less like diplomacy and more like political theater staged for two audiences at once.

On one side stands Beijing, eager to hear signals that Washington’s commitment to Taiwan is weakening. On the other stands Trump’s nationalist base, conditioned to believe he alone projects American strength abroad. So after appearing to soften America’s posture during his China visit, Trump suddenly floats the idea of speaking directly with Taiwanese President Lai Ching-te about arms sales, a move that would shatter decades of carefully maintained diplomatic convention.

It is classic Trump; create the fire, then sell yourself as the firefighter. Since 1979, Washington has walked an intentionally ambiguous line with Taiwan. The United States recognized the government in Beijing while maintaining unofficial but strategically vital relations with Taipei. Every president since Jimmy Carter understood the fragility of that arrangement. Democrats and Republicans alike avoided direct leader-to-leader communication not because they were weak, but because they understood that symbolism in Asia can carry the weight of military action.

Trump, however, views diplomacy the way reality television producers view ratings. Stability is boring. Disruption commands attention.

The irony is impossible to ignore. Trump built much of his political identity on attacking the global elite for “selling out” America. Yet his posture toward authoritarian strongmen has often looked remarkably accommodating. He praises Xi Jinping’s “strength,” admires centralized power and speaks about alliances as if they are overpriced business contracts rather than pillars of geopolitical order.

Now he wants credit for sounding tough on Taiwan after appearing to hand Beijing precisely what it has long wanted: uncertainty. This is the essence of modern populism. It is not about coherent doctrine. It is about emotional sequencing. First reassure isolationists that foreign commitments are wasteful. Then reassure hawks that America remains feared. Say NATO allies are freeloaders, then boast about military dominance. Compliment dictators, then threaten them on social media. The contradictions are not liabilities; they are the product itself.

And for many supporters, it works because the appearance of toughness matters more than strategic consistency. Trump understands that in the age of fragmented media, politics is consumed in clips, not doctrines. A provocative statement about Taiwan generates headlines. The deeper consequences, increased Chinese military pressure, confusion among allies, heightened instability in the Indo-Pacific, arrive later, if they arrive visibly at all.

But Taiwan is not a campaign prop. It is one of the most dangerous flashpoints in the world. Ambiguity has preserved an uneasy peace for decades precisely because every American president treated the issue with caution bordering on obsession. Recklessness dressed as bravado can alter calculations in Beijing and Taipei alike.

Trump’s defenders will argue that unpredictability is strategic. Yet unpredictability without discipline becomes improvisation and improvisation in great-power politics can be catastrophic.

The deeper concern is not merely what Trump says about Taiwan today. It is that American foreign policy increasingly resembles a pendulum swinging between spectacle and retreat. Allies no longer know whether Washington’s commitments survive beyond the next news cycle. Adversaries test boundaries because they sense confusion.

Trump calls this strength. History may call it something else entirely: the slow corrosion of credibility masquerading as populist swagger.