Extract from Eureka Street
- Home
- Vol 36 No 1
- Ukraine, Greenland, and the ghost of a new Cold War
- Sergey Maidukov Sr.
- 28 January 2026
Great political fractures rarely begin with a single provocation. They begin with a shift in language, a moment when emotion breaks through the diplomatic veil. That moment was on full display last week when Democratic Governor Gavin Newsom urged global leaders to take a stand against President Donald Trump.
“People are rolling over. I should have brought a bunch of kneepads for all the world leaders,” Newsom told reporters at the World Economic Forum in Davos. “It’s just pathetic.”
As resistance grew among European leaders to what they saw as an attempt to strong-arm allies through economic and security leverage, Trump announced plans to meet NATO Secretary General Mark Rutte and others in Davos, while insisting there was “no going back” on his proposal to take control of Greenland. He also refused to rule out withdrawing from NATO, claiming that “no person or President” had done more for the alliance than himself. “If I didn’t come along, there would be no NATO right now,” he said. “It would have been in the ash heap of history.”
This confrontation over NATO is the continuation of a pattern that first became visible with the war in Ukraine, when the central question shifted from how to contain Russian aggression to calculating the price allies were willing to pay to uphold shared principles.
Following a meeting of the Coalition of the Willing in September, during which Ukrainian allies committed security guarantees to President Volodymyr Zelensky, the differences between the Old and New Worlds became clearer, with the “old” proving more forward-looking than the “new.” Europe framed the war as a test of borders, law, and restraint; an era-defining confrontation. Whereas Washington increasingly treated it as a strategic variable to be managed, traded off against other priorities, or deferred.
Emphasizing this divergence, European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen told the Davos audience that “European independence” was now essential, adding that Europe remained the right place to invest. French President Emmanuel Macron went even further. Taking the stage, he echoed von der Leyen while directly challenging Trump’s trade strategy, and making clear France's refusal to yield to coercion. “We do prefer respect to bullies. We do prefer science to conspiracies, and we do prefer rule of law to brutality,” he said.
As the Greenland crisis pushed Ukraine to the margins of news coverage, Kyiv seized the opportunity to reassert its place in Europe, not in the shadow of Capitol Hill. President Volodymyr Zelensky announced that he would not attend the World Economic Forum, choosing instead to remain in Ukraine following a new wave of Russian attacks poised to deepen the country’s energy crisis. “Undoubtedly, I choose Ukraine rather than the economic forum,” Zelensky told journalists.
“Against this backdrop, Europe’s continued support for Ukraine has become more than allied solidarity and has become a statement of European self-definition. A Ukraine that withstands aggression would stand as Europe’s defining achievement of this decade, affirming that commitment to law, restraint, and long-term resolve can still function as a credible form of power in a fractured international order.”
His decision came amid the aftermath of a mass Russian strike on Ukraine’s energy infrastructure on January 20, which left nearly half of Kyiv’s apartment buildings — around 6,000 — without heating, and caused widespread power and water outages during freezing temperatures. “For now, I have a plan to help people with energy issues,” Zelensky said.
While justified, the decision to not attend Davos also carried political weight. Zelensky’s refusal to meet with Trump could be interpreted as a response to the U.S. president’s clumsy peace initiatives and proposals that effectively sought to pressure Kyiv into capitulation. “Meetings with America should always end with concrete results — to strengthen Ukraine or to move closer to ending the war,” Zelensky said. “If the documents are ready, we will meet.”
These words underscored a rupture that has been forming since the war’s early stages. In 2022, when Russia launched its full-scale invasion, the West still acted as a unified political and strategic alliance. The United States and Europe shared the burden of supporting Ukraine not only materially, but morally. By the end of the war’s first year, Washington had committed roughly $75 billion in military, financial, and humanitarian assistance, while European countries pledged a comparable $70 billion. The message, that Ukraine was a common cause, not a regional problem to be managed, was clear.
Political language reflected that unity. Leaders across Washington, Brussels, Berlin, Paris, and London spoke in near-identical terms about defending the “rules-based international order” and rejecting rewarded aggression. When President Joe Biden pledged to stand with Ukraine “as long as it takes,” European leaders echoed him. Olaf Scholz insisted that “Ukraine must not lose this war,” while Macron stressed that “Russia must not win.” The emphasis on endurance, deterrence, and moral clarity was consistent.
But that consensus was later broken, deliberately and repeatedly. Trump accused Zelensky of responsibility for the war itself, arguing that it could have been avoided through territorial concessions or negotiations on Moscow’s terms. Moral responsibility was inverted, the aggressor faded into the background, while pressure was placed on the society that was under attack.
The European Union and the United Kingdom rejected this reframing, uniting in the face of a new challenge emerging not from the East, but, paradoxically, from the West. What began as a disagreement over tactics revealed itself as a dispute over principle.
But as the war drags on, Europe’s strategic position is increasingly under strain. As American political support for Ukraine becomes less certain, increasingly shaped by domestic fatigue, electoral calculation, and transactional diplomacy, Europe is confronting the consequences of a security architecture substantially outsourced to the United State, which it long took for granted. As American power underwrote European peace, much of the continent demilitarised its armed forces, alongside its strategic instincts.
A Europe long accustomed to American guarantees now finds itself hurriedly attempting to rearm out of belated recognition that a de-fanged continent cannot rely indefinitely on a protector whose commitments are no longer assured. Calls for strategic autonomy and increased defence spending reflect an increasing awareness of that vulnerability, and an awareness that any claims to moral clarity must eventually be matched by material capacity.
Against this backdrop, Europe’s continued support for Ukraine has become more than allied solidarity and has become a statement of European self-definition. A Ukraine that withstands aggression would stand as Europe’s defining achievement of this decade, affirming that commitment to law, restraint, and long-term resolve can still function as a credible form of power in a fractured international order.
The fate of Greenland is arguably being shaped not by world leaders in Davos, but on the battlefields of Ukraine and in freezing cities where ordinary people are setting an example of resilience. This war began in Ukraine, and it will end not with Putin’s or Trump’s triumph, but with the failure of the logic they both promote: that borders can be redrawn by force. Whether Europe can sustain that failure and translate solidarity into lasting security will determine whether this marks the renewal of the postwar order, or marks its unravelling.
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