One thing is clear: Trump can no longer claim that the war in Ukraine is “Biden’s war”. It is now Trump’s war as well. Months after the US President pledged to swiftly end the fighting between Ukraine and Russia, his administration has announced that the United States will no longer take part in what has often been described as shuttle diplomacy between the two sides. Last week, State Department spokeswoman Tammy Bruce confirmed that the US would no longer serve as a mediator in the negotiations. These, she said, are “now between the two parties,” adding that “now is the time that they need to present and develop concrete ideas about how this conflict is going to end. It’s going to be up to them”.
Meanwhile, in an interview with NBC, Trump struck an even more pessimistic tone, stating that “maybe it won’t be possible” to reach a peace agreement. Indeed, the conflict seems to be escalating once again — and with the White House’s approval. On 4 May, The New York Times reported that a US-supplied Patriot air defence system currently stationed in Israel is being redirected to Ukraine. Since all Patriot exports require formal US approval under American arms transfer laws, the move indicates direct White House authorisation. Just days earlier, Washington approved a possible $300-million deal for F-16 training and support. The package includes aircraft upgrades, spare parts, software, hardware and training for Ukrainian personnel. In addition, Ukrainian media reported that the White House had green-lit $50 million in new arms exports to Ukraine. The deal reportedly includes unspecified military hardware and defence-related services.
On Tuesday, Ukrainian drones targeted Moscow for the second night in a row, forcing temporary flight suspensions at four airports in the Russian capital and nine more in surrounding regions. The strikes came just days before Russia’s annual Victory Day military parade, an event expected to host international dignitaries including Chinese President Xi Jinping. In the lead-up to the celebrations, Putin announced a unilateral three-day ceasefire in Ukraine, citing “humanitarian considerations”. Zelensky, however, rejected the truce as insufficient, stating that Kyiv would only consider a ceasefire lasting at least 30 days. In a pointed message to leaders travelling to Moscow for the 9 May festivities, Zelensky warned that Ukraine “cannot be responsible for what happens on the territory of the Russian Federation” while hostilities continue.
Trump places the blame for the collapse of peace talks on Zelensky and Putin, yet he himself bears a significant share of responsibility. Upon taking office, he began the negotiations on the right footing — acknowledging that the conflict was fundamentally a proxy war between the United States and Russia, and that it could only be resolved through a direct agreement between the two powers. This is why the Europeans and Ukrainians were initially excluded from the talks. This approach, though controversial, had a certain logic: a durable settlement required engagement between the actual power brokers.
But it didn’t last. Within weeks, the administration reversed course. The US repositioned itself as a neutral mediator rather than a direct party to the conflict — despite continuing its military and intelligence support to Ukraine (following a brief pause). That contradiction was always bound to undermine the negotiation process. One cannot be both a participant and an honest broker. Following the recent arms deals, the pretence of neutrality has become even more untenable.
In a broader sense, Trump’s diplomatic efforts faltered for several reasons. First, he underestimated the unwillingness of Europe and Ukraine to accept any compromise that might be politically toxic. Both had powerful incentives to maintain the status quo. For European leaders, a peace deal that acknowledged Russian gains would be politically ruinous. The war has become a legitimising narrative, justifying economic hardship, technocratic centralisation and even authoritarian tendencies. Admitting defeat would expose their failures and embolden political opposition.
Zelensky faces even higher stakes. For him, ending the war could mean not only the end of his political career but possibly his personal safety, as he would be far more vulnerable to reprisals from his numerous political adversaries. These domestic political constraints made a negotiated peace deeply improbable without overwhelming external pressure — which the US has proven unwilling to apply.
Had the United States fully withdrawn military support for Ukraine, and acquiesced to Russia’s core demands, there arguably would have been little the Europeans could have done to sustain the war for any meaningful length of time. So why didn’t Washington take that path?
The answer lies less with Europe or Ukraine than with the internal dynamics of the United States itself. For Trump, negotiating such a deal with Moscow was always going to be politically fraught. The American national security establishment — and Trump’s own administration — is filled with hardliners committed to prolonging the conflict. While Trump and a small circle of close advisers may have been serious about reaching a deal, the internal resistance was overwhelming. Faced with this pressure, Trump appeared unwilling to take the political risk necessary to follow through.
“The American national security establishment is deeply entrenched with hardliners committed to prolonging the conflict.”
Compounding the challenge was a critical miscalculation: Trump likely underestimated the firmness of Russia’s position. He seems to have believed that offering a framework that included recognition of Russia’s territorial gains in Ukraine would be enough to secure a breakthrough. He likely expected Moscow to respond with significant concessions in return.
But from the outset, Russia made it clear that any deal had to address far more than the status of annexed Ukrainian territories. For Moscow, the war is about redrawing the global security order. Its demands have always included a new European security architecture on the model of the Helsinki Accords, with limits on Nato expansion and a broader restructuring of the international system — a restructuring that reflects the rise of new centres of power, particularly Beijing and Moscow. In this view, global governance should be based on sovereign equality, regional balances of power and negotiated spheres of influence, not on the universalisation of Western norms or the expansion of Western-led military alliances. In short, Russia is not seeking a truce on narrow terms, but the formalisation of a multipolar world order in which Western hegemony is replaced by a balance among great powers.
Given that, Trump’s insistence on an immediate ceasefire as a precondition for negotiations was never viable. Moscow has long insisted that a truce can only follow agreement on the broad contours of a settlement — not precede it. Trump also misstepped in entertaining a European proposal to deploy “peacekeeping” troops to Ukraine as a stabilising force. For Russia, such a move was unacceptable and would have been seen as a direct provocation rather than a confidence-building measure. Equally unacceptable from Russia’s standpoint was the Kellogg Plan, which envisioned a frozen conflict and deferred Nato membership.
On the Ukrainian side, moreover, the US made another strategic error by pushing Kyiv to formally accept Russian control over Crimea. That demand — which, notably, Russia never actually issued — was politically untenable for Ukraine and predictably rejected.
Achieving a settlement would have required a phased approach: a gradual normalisation of diplomatic and economic ties with Russia, a slow drawdown of support for Ukraine and carefully managed, trust-building negotiations over a prolonged period — potentially years. But Trump, in his characteristically impatient fashion, sought to force a comprehensive deal within an arbitrary 100-day window. The result was not a breakthrough, but a breakdown.
Overall, the US approach to the negotiations amounted to a textbook case of strategic and diplomatic incompetence. This is in part due to the inclusion on Trump’s team of figures like Steve Witkoff and Marco Rubio, who lack diplomatic experience and underestimated the complexity of the conflict.
However, the failure of Trump’s peace initiative also reflects deeper realities within American foreign policy thinking. While his rhetoric may appear to break with the bipartisan interventionist orthodoxy of the past, his “America First” doctrine remains grounded in a belief in US global supremacy — as evidenced by his aggressive trade tactics. This is why Washington could not engage seriously with Russia’s broader demands. As noted, Moscow does not merely want recognition of territorial changes; it seeks an acceptance of the multipolar reality of the international landscape. For the US foreign policy establishment — even under Trump — that remains an unacceptable proposition.
Thus, even though Trump may have been genuinely committed, on a rational level, to ending the war in Ukraine, the institutional culture that helped initiate and sustain the conflict remains deeply entrenched. As a result, Trump has not only failed to end the war — he has, to some extent, deepened US entanglement. This leaves him politically exposed. He cannot claim the mantle of peacemaker, yet he clearly has no appetite to serve as Biden 2.0. Walking away entirely might have preserved some consistency. But by staying in, he has made the war his own. Paradoxically, the much-criticised mineral deal may turn out to be more advantageous for Ukraine than the US. It ensures continued American involvement and shields Kyiv from complete abandonment, even if the mineral wealth in question ultimately proves illusory.
But lukewarm US military support will not reverse Ukraine’s battlefield fortunes. A Russian breakthrough remains likely, and with it, a potential Ukrainian collapse. Whether this outcome would force the West back to the negotiating table, or else drive further escalation, is uncertain. In either case, a fundamental problem remains: all parties understand that whatever is agreed on today could be overturned tomorrow. This mutual distrust means that Russia, Ukraine — and by extension, the West — are likely to remain locked in embittered relations for years to come, even if a formal deal is eventually reached.
At the same time, Russia is likely to maintain a robust military posture in the region for the foreseeable future — especially in the context of Europe’s rearmament plans and aggressive rhetoric. This, in turn, will provoke a response from Europe, prompting yet another round of Russian countermeasures. All this will unfold within a deeply toxic political environment, where distrust runs deep and the cycle of escalation remains difficult to break.
For now, then, the most likely scenario remains prolonged conflict, rising costs and deepening divisions — not only between Russia and the West, but within the West itself. The war will not end until Washington and its allies are willing to confront the core issue: the persistence of a hegemonic doctrine that brooks no rivals. Until that happens, peace will remain elusive and the bloodletting will continue. And Donald Trump, whether he likes it or not, risks being remembered not as the man who ended the war — but as the one who inherited it and let it burn.
