In the wake of the disastrous Oval Office showdown between Donald Trump and Volodymyr Zelensky, European leaders scrambled to convene an emergency summit in London—a ritualistic display of unity that, at this point, has become almost comedic. The objective? To formulate a coherent response to Washington’s apparent willingness to abandon Ukraine and, by extension, Europe itself. The result? More handwringing, grand statements, and the usual insistence that America remains the bedrock of European security.

One might have expected a moment of reckoning. After all, Trump essentially told Zelensky to “come back when you’re ready to surrender,” while his allies whispered that peace could only come if Ukraine changed leadership. The US officials are now demanding, just like Russia, that any peace deal must include the departure of President Zelensky. This extraordinary alignment should have set off alarms across the continent. But instead of accepting the cold reality—that the United States, under Trump or any other president, is fundamentally uninterested in shouldering Europe’s burdens—Brussels and its member states remain fixated on somehow bringing Washington back into the fold.

This misplaced faith is nothing new. Since the end of the Cold War, Europe has assumed that American power is both inexhaustible and benevolent. Even when Barack Obama initiated the infamous “pivot to Asia,” signalling that Europe was no longer a primary focus, few in Brussels took the hint. Trump’s first term was dismissed as an aberration, and when Joe Biden came to power, European leaders heaved a collective sigh of relief, convincing themselves that America’s brief flirtation with isolationism was over. Now, with Trump likely shaping the next four years, they are scrambling to understand exactly what went wrong.
After Trump’s first NATO meeting in his initial mandate, only Angela Merkel had the foresight to recognise that Europe would need to rethink its national security without the Americans. She famously warned that the continent could no longer rely on the US and needed to take its future into its own hands. Yet, instead of acting on that warning, Europe wasted years hoping for an American re-engagement that would never come.

Yet the most striking feature of this crisis isn’t just European denial—it’s American indifference. Trump’s performance with Zelensky barely registered as a scandal in Washington. The Democratic Party, which theoretically should be mounting a full-throated defence of Ukraine, has remained largely silent. The American public, fatigued after decades of foreign entanglements, has barely reacted. Unlike in Europe, where newspapers and commentators are treating this as a geopolitical earthquake, Americans seem unbothered by the idea of Ukraine being sacrificed for a “deal” with Vladimir Putin.

More extraordinary, with the sole exception of Justin Trudeau—who voiced concerns in a very diplomatic way—no Western leader directly criticised the way Zelensky was treated in Washington. This silence speaks volumes. The global order is shifting, yet the very leaders who claim to uphold democratic values are hesitant to publicly challenge Trump’s new approach.

Meanwhile, European leaders appear as lost as ever. This morning, the UK Secretary of Defence denied reports that Paris and London had agreed on a ceasefire—an omission that only deepens the confusion surrounding Europe’s strategic direction. If even the continent’s two leading military powers cannot coordinate a clear position, what hope is there for a unified European response?

And then, of course, there’s the elephant in the room: do we need to manufacture a threat to justify action in Europe? The narrative of Russia as an existential danger to Europe has been stretched to its limits. Before the war, Russia’s GDP was the size of Spain’s. It is suffering from a catastrophic demographic crisis and is now so desperate for a workforce that it is importing North Korean soldiers to fill its ranks. This country is supposed to be the great menace to Europe.
This glaring contradiction—exaggerating Russia’s strength while simultaneously admitting it is struggling to maintain its own war effort—underscores just how much of the European response is driven by inertia rather than reality. If Russia is genuinely on the brink, why does Europe remain paralysed, waiting for America to step in? And if Russia is the existential threat that justifies endless NATO expansion and increased military budgets, why does it need mercenaries from Pyongyang to hold the front lines?

Europe’s failure to grasp this new reality is as much a psychological issue as a political one. For decades, the continent has operated under the assumption that, no matter what happens, the Americans will always come back—whether to save them from financial crises, aggressive neighbours, or their own lack of strategic cohesion. This belief persists despite ample evidence to the contrary, from Obama’s reluctance to enforce his own red lines in Syria to Trump’s disdain for NATO to Biden’s chaotic Afghanistan withdrawal.

And yet, here they are again, in London, attempting to “coordinate” a response to the United States that is moving in an entirely different direction. The only conclusion they seem unwilling to entertain is the obvious one: America has moved on, and Europe is on its own.