Donald Trump has ordered an immediate freeze on all military aid to Ukraine, turning up the pressure on Volodymyr Zelensky just days after their disastrous Oval Office clash made it abundantly clear that Kyiv’s most powerful ally was, at best, ambivalent about its continued support. In Washington, the message is blunt: no more weapons until Trump decides that Ukraine’s leadership is genuinely committed to peace—a strikingly similar position to Moscow’s, which has also made Zelensky’s departure a condition for ending the war.
The freeze applies to all US military equipment not yet inside Ukraine, including weapons in transit via planes or ships or sitting in Polish depots. While the full extent of the halted deliveries remains unclear, Trump inherited authorisation from Joe Biden for $3.85 billion worth of arms from US stockpiles. That, too, is now on hold.
And yet, in Europe, the response is entirely predictable. The continent’s leaders have scrambled to convene emergency meetings, draft statements of unity, and reassure themselves that this is a temporary aberration and that the US will eventually come to its senses. The UK and France, in particular, have rushed to patch together a ceasefire proposal to present to Trump, hoping to kickstart detailed peace negotiations. However, the fact that Washington is no longer pretending to include its allies in its decision-making should set off alarm bells.
“It’s a great deal for us,” Trump boasted about a potential minerals agreement between the US and Ukraine, leaving European leaders clinging to the faint hope that the deal could still be salvaged. In an astonishing display of transactional diplomacy, he reminded Zelensky that Ukraine should be “more grateful” for the billions in US military aid that had been sent his way. In Trump’s world, geopolitics is simply a matter of winners and losers—and, as far as he’s concerned, Ukraine’s gratitude deficit makes it unworthy of further investment.
The White House’s strategy seems clear: squeeze Zelensky until he either submits or collapses politically. Reports suggest that Britain and France are quietly advising Zelensky to mend fences with Trump, acknowledging the uncomfortable reality that the American president is far more interested in securing his legacy as a dealmaker than in upholding any grand notions of Western unity. One European official, speaking anonymously, went further: “Zelensky will need to crawl, not just apologise. Simple regret won’t be enough.”
Meanwhile, European leaders are struggling to square their grand rhetoric about defending democracy with the cold reality that their military capabilities are simply inadequate without American support. Their stockpiles will last only until summer. The notion that Europe could independently sustain Ukraine’s war effort is, at best, wishful thinking. The continent’s defence industries—neglected for decades in favour of America’s security umbrella—are ill-prepared for sustained conflict. And yet, even as the rug is being pulled out from under them, European leaders remain hopelessly optimistic that Washington will, somehow, come back.
At the heart of the issue is a simple yet painful truth: Europe’s foreign policy remains trapped in the past. Despite decades of American disengagement—from Obama’s pivot to Asia to Trump’s open disdain for NATO to Biden’s chaotic Afghanistan withdrawal—Europe remains convinced that, somehow, the US will always return to “save” them. But Washington has moved on.
The question is whether Europe can finally grasp this reality—or if it will still be begging for scraps from an increasingly disinterested America in another decade.