Trump Wants Peace—But on Putin’s Terms

Since Donald Trump’s inauguration in January, global attention has focused on the prospect of a ceasefire in Ukraine. The illusion was understandable: the arrival of a U.S. president more inclined to act as a mediator than as Kyiv’s ally seemed like a potential way out of the deadlock—and a chance to stop the bloodshed.

Yet wartime diplomacy requires careful calibration: effective leverage, balanced incentives, and firm deadlines. Trump managed to introduce the last of these—promising a swift deal and then threatening to walk away when it failed to materialize. But he misjudged the rest: almost all the pressure was directed at Ukraine, while the concessions favored Russia. He criticized Kyiv for prolonging the war and froze military aid, while praising Vladimir Putin as a wise strategist.

The result was predictable. Since Trump’s election victory in November, the peace process has not advanced an inch. The world has witnessed Moscow’s overtures toward Trump, Kyiv’s openness to dialogue, Europe’s diplomatic choreography, and repeated efforts to stay on Washington’s good side. None of it built a bridge to peace—it was merely an effort to keep Trump from choosing the wrong side.

From the outset, Trump’s mission was doomed. Neither Moscow nor Kyiv is currently interested in ending the war. Russia has spent two years restructuring its economy for wartime and cannot simply switch off its military engine. Ukraine, for its part, is unwilling to compromise its sovereignty and remains capable of defending itself. Under these conditions, the hope for a quick peace is little more than a mirage.

Ukraine’s Western allies have long been divided over the Kremlin’s true goals. One school of thought holds that Vladimir Putin is seeking limited concessions and might settle for a compromise—such as formal recognition of the occupied territories as part of Russia and guarantees that Ukraine will not join NATO.

Advocates of a different view consider that scenario a dangerous illusion. Concessions, they argue, would only reinforce Putin’s belief that force yields results. According to this logic, the Russian president is not aiming for partial control, but for the dismantling of the Ukrainian state itself—an entity he believes has no right to exist. As evidence, they cite his prewar essay "On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians," in which he describes Ukrainians as "misguided Russians" who must be brought back under Moscow’s authority. Even when discussing peace, Putin insists that any settlement must involve addressing the "root causes of the conflict"—by which he means Ukraine’s surrender of sovereignty.

Some Western policymakers acknowledge this analysis but draw a different conclusion: a prolonged war will only weaken Ukraine and lead to an even worse deal later. A bad peace now, they argue, is better than catastrophe down the road. Donald Trump appears to subscribe to this view. "You have no leverage," he told Volodymyr Zelensky in February.

This approach may seem rational. But it distorts the actual situation: Kyiv may not be in the strongest position, but Ukraine is far from the level of desperation that would warrant immediate surrender. The government is counting on European support—both military and political—should U.S. assistance weaken. And despite alarmist claims, the front line remains relatively stable.

In December 2023, Russian forces controlled roughly 42,000 square miles of Ukrainian territory. A year later, in December 2024, that figure had risen only marginally—to 43,600 square miles. By late May 2025, the total area under occupation stood at around 43,650 square miles. In other words, over a 16-month period—and despite endless headlines about villages changing hands—Russia expanded its control by just 1,650 square miles, less than 1% of Ukraine’s territory. Effectively, the Kremlin has moved from controlling 18% of the country in 2023 to 19% today.

These figures underpin Kyiv’s strategy of buying time: consolidating its positions on the battlefield, intensifying diplomacy, and adapting to the new balance of power. A range of variables could, of course, upend these calculations—such as a shift in Moscow’s objectives or Europe’s failure to make up for vanishing U.S. support. Another critical risk is the potential collapse of Ukraine’s air defense, which depends heavily on American-supplied PAC-3 interceptors—one of the few meaningful levers Donald Trump currently holds. Ukraine might also reconsider its position if there is a large-scale collapse of civilian infrastructure. Sensing this, the Kremlin is intensifying missile and drone strikes.

For now, Ukraine’s air defenses are holding, European nations are ramping up support, and arms production is accelerating. Russia’s military has shown no decisive progress, and Putin’s rhetoric remains as uncompromising as ever. Under such conditions, forcing Kyiv into a knowingly disadvantageous deal—even under pressure from the White House—is simply not feasible. Ukraine does not believe the Kremlin would honor such a deal.

Trump’s failure to move the needle on Ukraine does not mean his Russia policy is without consequences for European security. On the contrary, the U.S. president’s overt friendliness toward Moscow and his deliberate distancing from Europe are pushing the continent toward greater autonomy—while also leaving it exposed in the short term. Although European countries are fast-tracking military modernization and scaling up defense production, their efforts still fall short of the threat’s magnitude—both for themselves and for Ukraine.

Technically, Trump has no plans to withdraw the United States from NATO. But given his open hostility toward Europe and his desire to disengage from foreign commitments, it is difficult to imagine U.S. troops fighting to defend their allies if it came to that. This creates a dangerous window of opportunity—not merely in theory.

For the Kremlin, the temptation to strike a NATO country is becoming increasingly tangible. Unlike in Ukraine, where the initial aim was regime change and occupation, a hypothetical attack on a NATO member could be designed primarily to expose Europe’s weakness and shatter faith in the principle of collective defense. Strategically, the coming years may offer a narrow window in which the risks appear lowest—before Europe closes its defense gaps, and before a more pro-European administration returns to the White House.

Russia is preparing to open a new front. Troop buildups have been observed along its borders with Finland and Norway, resembling the early stages of the Ukraine invasion in the spring of 2021. In the Baltic region, Moscow is playing an increasingly aggressive hand. Large-scale joint exercises with Belarus have been announced.

Putin has repeatedly shown his readiness to engage in protracted, grinding military campaigns, forcing his own population to endure hardships that would be politically intolerable in most democracies. He maintains stable ties with China, while Ukraine’s allies remain divided over the Kremlin’s strategic goals. Russia’s economy has been reoriented toward war, and its political system is focused single-mindedly on securing foreign policy victories at any cost. These conditions enable the Kremlin to pursue simultaneous conflicts of varying intensity—both in Ukraine and beyond.

Europe continues to impose sanctions on Moscow, hoping that political and economic pressure will force the Kremlin to reconsider its strategy. But no matter how enthusiastically Brussels celebrates each new round of restrictions, the European Union alone cannot paralyze Russia’s war machine. Efforts to clamp down on the "shadow fleet" of oil tankers helping Moscow circumvent sanctions are a step in the right direction—but they are unlikely to meaningfully affect the price of Russian oil.

The only factor likely to alter Putin’s calculus is a sustained correction in global energy prices—a sharp and prolonged drop in oil revenues, which continue to fuel Russia’s war economy. Achieving that without U.S. involvement is impossible. Washington would need to impose tough measures on Russia’s oil sector, persuade Saudi Arabia—one of the world’s top suppliers—and India—one of Russia’s largest buyers—to join a pressure campaign. It would also require restraint from China. In turn, that would demand a clearly stated objective: ending the war, not dismantling Russia as a state. Saudi Arabia, which maintains close ties with both Washington and Beijing, could theoretically serve as a mediator.

But such a scenario is highly unlikely. While Trump has toughened his rhetoric toward Putin, there are no signs he is prepared to apply real pressure. Nor have India or Saudi Arabia shown any interest in joining such a coalition. The implications are clear: Russia will continue to earn enough from oil sales to finance the war—and potentially other conflicts beyond Ukraine.

The European age of peace is over. The prospect of ending the war is growing increasingly remote. Putin sees no reason to retreat, and Zelensky no reason to capitulate: the Ukrainian president believes that giving up one part of the country will inevitably lead to the loss of all of it. In his view, the light at the end of the tunnel is not peace, but an oncoming train. And while nothing is predetermined—except death—now is the time for Europe to maximize weapons deliveries—to Ukraine, and to itself.

Trump and other leaders can still change course. But Europe no longer has time to wait.