There Will be no Peace

By nature’s curious design, I was born an optimist — though in some obscure recess of my soul a cynic curls and whispers his dry, inconvenient truths. I believe neither in immaculate conceptions nor second comings, and certainly not in the benevolence of Russian rulers. The fragile hope entertained by some, that they might one day act with reason, springs from a naïve faith in miracles, and miracles stand at odds with both nature and common sense. At all times, under all tsars, commissars, and the latest Kremlin grotesques, Russian rulers, with rare exceptions, have acted not for the benefit of their people but against it and against the peace of neighboring lands.

These summer days find the sensible world intoxicated with hope, almost giddy with expectation. There is talk, wistful and bright-eyed, of Trump’s extraordinary plan: that he might, by sheer force of his strong will, summon Ukraine’s Zelensky and Russia’s Putin to one mythical table where reason will descend like a dove and the guns will fall silent. And afterward, so the dream goes, Europe will stand shoulder to shoulder, guardians of a fragile new peace against Russia’s future temptations.

Sweet dreams indeed — but somewhere deep within me, the cynic stirs and scratches, begging to be heard, so let us give him his say.

A word, first, about Trump, a man of magnificent contradictions where virtues and vices twist like strands of the same golden thread. Judging by the results of his first seven months in office he tips toward the positive; his strengths outweigh his flaws.

He has a fierce love of country, a restless capacity for work, a quick, darting intelligence, a faultless memory, remarkable personal courage, a stubborn will, bold generosity, compassion and an instinctive grasp of the delicate machinery of economics.But flaws, too, gather around him like moths to lamplight: a narcissism without borders, an unshakable belief in his own infallibility, a poor grasp of world history, a coarse, almost theatrical brusqueness with his opponents, and a failing–perhaps his gravest–in understanding the psychology of cultures unlike his own.

Trump, a shrewd and successful businessman, mastered the craft of negotiation with those who, like him, see every bargain in terms of material gain. It is the classic logic of the Western deal maker: offer a carrot sweet enough, brandish a stick big enough, and any opponent will eventually yield. It is here his trouble begins.

As recent failures abroad such as his inability to sway Hamas and his vain attempts to force Putin’s hand have shown, the carrot-and-stick philosophy falters when faced with men for whom material gain means nothing. It does not move the zealot, the fanatic or the dictator whose singular aim is to cling to power until his final breath. Against such men, Trump’s diplomatic engine grinds and stalls.

This is the unspoken heart of Russia: almost every ruler it has known (save, perhaps, for the brief and tragic apparition of False Dmitry in the seventeenth century) has treated the will and welfare of its people as faint abstractions if not outright inconveniences. Compassion finds no foothold there. The entire machinery is designed to secure power, not to share it.

Putin is no different, save that he hides his wealth more cleverly. Some whisper he is richer even than Elon Musk, though his treasures are buried beneath a labyrinth of cutouts. His true passions, however, are not counted in gold. They are three, and they are absolute: to hold power until death, to prolong his life and to carve his name into history as the restorer of the Russian Empire.

Misunderstand this, and you misunderstand everything. To dream of peace with Ukraine is to dream against Putin’s nature, against his hunger, against the architecture of his soul. The war does not threaten his wealth or his health, but peace — peace imperils everything. Peace steals his legend; it risks his throne. He will conjure endless war if endless war serves him. There have been long wars before — the Hundred Years’ War, the War of the Roses, Russia’s own Caucasian campaigns 200 years ago that stretched for nearly half a century. Why should this one be any shorter?

When optimists speak of negotiations, my faith withers like flowers in late August heat. Even should he fail to prevent such talks, Putin will choke them with impossible demands, twisting every promise into a deadlock.

A meeting with Zelensky will end in a stalemate. I do not wish to play Cassandra, whispering calamity into the wind. And yet in the quiet of the night, my cynic leans close and murmurs: there will be no peace.

Related Topics: Geopolitics

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