While my fellow Gambians remain entangled in the thorny thickets of constitutional chaos and locked in fierce combat over the tempestuous Massembeh council elections, the wider world has been caught in the throes of a geopolitical earthquake — one so profound it could redraw the very map of global power as we know it.
The return of Donald Trump — Trump 2.0, louder and more unpredictable than ever — has detonated a political tremor that’s shaking the foundations of the Western alliance, a carefully stitched tapestry woven over the past seventy years. Once a chorus of Western powers speaking in harmonious unison under America’s firm baton, that unity is now unravelling before our eyes, threads snapping one by one under the disruptive sway of Trump and his inner circle of ideologues and dealmakers.
This jarring rupture stands in stark contrast to the mood just three months ago, when Joe Biden was still at the helm and NATO stood shoulder-to-shoulder, resolute in its pledge to prop up Ukraine in its bruising war against Russia. For nearly four years, that grinding war has split global opinion like a jagged fault line — some blaming Ukraine for provoking its Herculean neighbour by dancing too closely with the West, while others decry Russia’s brazen assault on Ukraine’s sovereignty, trampling its right to chart its own destiny and join the NATO fold if it so wished.
The enmity between Russia and NATO is no recent storm. Its origins trace back to the rubble of the Soviet Union’s collapse, a moment in history sealed by the sombre handshake between Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev. Back then, the whispered understanding was that both NATO and the Soviet-led Warsaw Pact would fade into irrelevance — Cold War relics to be shelved and forgotten. But history, as ever, had other plans. The Warsaw Pact crumbled into dust, while NATO swelled like a rising tide, swallowing up former Soviet satellites and creeping ever closer to Moscow’s doorstep — a slow, deliberate march that sent icy shivers through the halls of the Kremlin.
This relentless eastward creep wasn’t just a diplomatic irritation for Russia; it was a flashing red warning light. Nowhere was this anxiety more acute than in Crimea, the jewel in Russia’s strategic crown. Sevastopol, the prized home of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet, was far too precious to lose. Without it, Russia’s access to warm waters and the Mediterranean would be severed — a strategic amputation Moscow simply couldn’t endure. When Ukraine’s westward drift became too pronounced, Russia snatched Crimea in 2014, securing its foothold at all costs.
For Putin and his war council, NATO’s encroachment was never some abstract threat or distant irritation — it was an existential dagger aimed at Russia’s heart. When Ukraine began openly flirting with NATO membership and deeper European integration, the Kremlin saw only one path forward: preemptive force. In 2022, Russian tanks roared across the border, and the grinding meat grinder of war began in earnest. To Moscow, it was a defensive war — a battle to shield Mother Russia and protect the Russian-speaking enclaves of Donetsk and Luhansk, where pro-Russian separatists had been locked in a bloody standoff with Kyiv’s forces since 2014.
Had Ukraine stood alone, the war might have been short, brutal, and already consigned to the history books. But Ukraine did not stand alone. NATO’s invisible hand stretched deep into the conflict, pouring in torrents of weapons, intelligence, and cash, turning a localized brawl into a grinding, globe-spanning conflagration. What began as a regional struggle metastasized into a global economic and humanitarian shockwave, sending tremors through fragile economies from Africa to Asia — with low-income nations like The Gambia caught squarely in the storm’s crosswinds, battered by soaring food prices, fuel shocks, and supply chain disruptions.
Yet while civilians in Ukraine cower in bomb shelters, Russian conscripts perish in muddy trenches, and ordinary families across Europe and Africa tighten their belts, there is one group toasting to this unending carnage — the ever-hungry military-industrial complex. As the bodies pile up, so do the profits. For the arms manufacturers and their well-heeled investors, every missile fired and every tank destroyed translates into another windfall. Cynics — and perhaps realists — might even wonder how many of the Western politicians now thumping their chests and demanding Ukraine fight to the bitter end have their own fingers in the honey jar, reaping the rewards of perpetual war, whether through shadowy kickbacks or the quiet promise of lucrative post-political careers.
In the end, as always, it is the common folk who bear the crushing weight of decisions made in marble halls and corporate boardrooms — from the shattered villages of Ukraine and the blighted towns of eastern Russia to the bustling markets of Banjul, where the rising cost of bread, rice, and fuel can be traced directly to this ravenous, unquenchable war machine.
The growing discontent among ordinary Europeans over the war’s negative impact on their daily lives is fuelling the rise of nationalist movements and propaganda campaigns scapegoating immigrants, who are increasingly portrayed as the real culprits. In Germany, for instance, the once-reliable supply of cheap Russian gas that kept its industrial engine running has vanished, triggering waves of unemployment and a soaring cost of living. Similar economic turmoil has gripped England, France, and other European nations, forcing them into austerity measures not seen since the global financial crash.
Despite this, European leaders and politicians continue to blame Russia’s so-called “hegemonic ambitions” for the crisis — a narrative that many critics, including renowned American economist Professor Jeffrey Sachs, have consistently challenged. According to Sachs and like-minded observers, Russia’s core demand is not territorial expansion but rather the establishment of a secure, non-hostile neighbour on its western border — a Ukraine that is not aligned with NATO and its encroaching military presence.
The Trump administration, unlike its predecessors, seemed to acknowledge the validity of Russia’s concerns. Trump’s team recognized that Ukraine’s pursuit of NATO membership posed a direct security threat to Moscow — a threat the Kremlin would never tolerate. Trump also understood the cold reality: Ukraine, a non-nuclear state, stood little chance of defeating nuclear-armed Russia in a prolonged war, a conflict that could easily spiral into a catastrophic global confrontation.
Over the past week, Trump has made it clear to European leaders that Ukraine’s NATO ambitions must be permanently shelved if any lasting ceasefire or peace agreement is to be achieved. Adding to the pressure, Trump bluntly informed Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy that the $300 billion in U.S. military aid — which many assumed was a non-repayable grant under Biden — would, in fact, need to be repaid.
However, Trump’s transactional approach to the conflict became even more evident last week when it was revealed that America’s ultimate interest in Ukraine lies in the country’s vast reserves of rare minerals, worth trillions. According to Trump, access to these resources could serve as Ukraine’s only real security guarantee — a resource-based leverage to secure future American support.
But everything seemed to unravel during the dramatic confrontation at the White House yesterday, where a heated exchange between Zelenskyy, Trump, and V.P. J.D. Vance exposed the deep fractures in their partnership. By the end of the meeting, it appeared that Zelenskyy had been unceremoniously shown the door — a public humiliation rarely witnessed at such high-level diplomacy.
One crucial mistake Zelenskyy made was trying to challenge Trump publicly — a fatal miscalculation for anyone seeking Trump’s favor. Even worse, Zelenskyy’s choice to speak in his own unpolished English may have muddled his message. He could have taken a page from the playbooks of French President Emmanuel Macron and UK Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer last week, who, despite their policy disagreements with Trump, knew how to flatter his ego and address him with the deference he craves.
The reality is stark: if the United States pulls the plug on military aid, no amount of European support can save Ukraine from eventual defeat. While U.S. intelligence and weapons support continues for now, much of the broader international aid pipeline — including 90% of USAID global assistance — has already been severed.
Following his bruising White House encounter, Zelenskyy has flown to London, where he plans to meet with his European allies on Sunday, April 2, to explore an alternative strategy — one that breaks from Trump’s ceasefire demands.
For Zelenskyy, the hope is that Trump’s frustration doesn’t escalate to the point where he cuts off the remaining lifeline of military aid entirely. For now, the fate of Ukraine’s war effort rests, uncomfortably, in the hands of a president who views every alliance through the lens of profit and loss.
