Finally, the thought may have penetrated Donald Trump’s reptile brain that Vladimir Putin is not remotely interested in concluding his war on Ukraine — or at least not until all his original objectives are met. This realisation might explain last week’s still more extortionate demands Trump is making of Ukraine as part of his so-called peace process — to hand over control of its natural resources to the US, including a $100 billion payment for services rendered.
The one thing Trump least wants is to fall out with Putin, whom he deeply admires (not least for being the richest man in Russia). So it is essential for him to be able to blame President Zelensky if no deal is brokered. Therefore, making an “offer” that is unacceptable — and Ukrainian officials have described it as “robbery” and “disgusting” — is one way of ensuring that any failure can be laid at the door of Ukraine, rather than Russia or, God forbid, the would-be Nobel peace prize winner, Trump himself.
There is another way of looking at this: as a sort of modern version of the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, in which two former deadly enemies — in that case the Soviet Union and Germany; now the US and Russia — settle their differences, enter into raw material supply agreements and carve up other countries between them. In 1939 it was Poland. In this case Ukraine is on the menu.
Putin continually portrays the present conflict as a repeat of the Soviet Union’s “Great Patriotic War”, describing Ukraine (whose president and prime minister are Jewish) as run by “Nazis” set on the persecution and even extirpation of the country’s Russian-speaking population. It’s even possible the poisoner in the Kremlin believes this; certainly he has, through control of the mass media, persuaded most of his own citizens that it is the case.
Indeed, Putin’s popularity at home has always been boosted by war. And so war has become a political necessity for him — a natural state of affairs rather than an aberration — and for millions of his people. As one of the (real) characters in Svetlana Alexievich’s astonishing book Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets tells her: “At heart, we’re built for war. We were always either fighting or preparing to fight … even in civilian life, everything was always militarised.”
Putin methodically sought to restore that Soviet mentality, starting with the children. So, in July 2000, Resolution No 551 “on military-patriotic youth and children’s associations” was adopted; now the federal agency for young people, Rosmolodezh, oversees about 36,000 military-patriotic clubs.
In June 2022 Putin delivered a speech to a selected group of young professionals in which he set out his strategy of emulating Peter the Great. Recalling some of that tsar’s territorial acquisitions, Putin told his audience: “From time immemorial, the Slavs lived there with the Finno-Ugric peoples, and this territory was under Russia’s control. The same is true of the western direction, [the siege of] Narva and his first campaigns … He was returning and reinforcing … And if we operate on the premise that these basic values constitute the basis of our existence, we will certainly succeed in achieving our goals.”
Narva is part of Estonia (and indeed the EU), and this speech caused consternation there: it was clear how Putin’s justification for the invasion of Ukraine could be adapted, with the Russian-speaking minority in Estonia next in line to be “saved” from “Nazis”. Ten days ago the Prince of Wales visited British troops from the Mercian Regiment, of which he is the colonel-in-chief, who have just started their six-month deployment in Estonia as “the lead battlegroup working alongside Nato partners”.
Yet, as The Times revealed only days later, “Britain has reduced its military force in Estonia by hundreds of troops and to fewer than ten tanks despite pledging to increase them to tackle the rising threat from Russia”. The former commander of the Estonian armed forces told the paper: “The UK has difficulties putting together one brigade to participate in operations. I see it in Estonia every day.”
This appeared in the same edition of The Times as an article in the name of the chancellor of the exchequer declaring that she was “making our country a defence industrial superpower”.
The gap between rhetoric and reality is an excruciating embarrassment. But it’s worse than that. The British government actually opposes actions by the Baltic states that would help protect their people in the event of any Russian incursion. Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia have all signalled their intent to withdraw from the Ottawa treaty, which banned anti-personnel landmines. Poland has followed suit. Finland is considering doing so. And it’s obvious why: these weapons have been vital in Ukraine’s defence.
For similar reasons Lithuania said last summer it would withdraw from the 2008 convention on cluster munitions (the other neighbours of Russia such as Finland, Estonia and Latvia never signed up, seeing which way the wind was blowing from the east). Yet Baroness Chapman of Darlington, a Foreign Office minister in the Lords, declared: “The UK regrets Lithuania’s decision … and has frequently raised concerns with Lithuania regarding withdrawal [from the convention], including with Lithuanian ministers.” A former British ambassador to Latvia, Ian Bond, audibly groaned when I rang him about this, describing it as “nuts”.
Last week, in his contribution to a vital paper advocating British withdrawal, published by Policy Exchange, Sir Ben Wallace observed: “From my time as secretary of state for defence, I have first-hand experience of how the Ottawa treaty prevented us and others from helping Ukraine. I was beset by lawyers applying old and out-of-date treaties to new capabilities which are vital to saving life and to countering Russian lethality.”
What makes it all the more absurd is that (of course) Russia, China and the US all refused to sign either of these conventions. In fact, the British military had argued fiercely but fruitlessly against Gordon Brown’s decision as PM to sign us up. Now, what do you imagine is the view of those troops on the possible front line in Estonia that Prince William visited?
Presumably the government belief in 2008 was that we could, in extremis, rely for our troops’ defence on US cluster munitions and anti-personnel mines, once we’d voluntarily destroyed our own stockpiles. If that was naive or cynical then (depending on how you view it), it looks ridiculous now.
Meanwhile, as Trump and Putin attempt to divide up the world’s natural resources, like mafia dons deciding which family has the rights to which area for rival extortion rackets, our own government says that “the world has changed” — but shows few signs of imagining what that means.
