A resonant phrase during Donald Trump’s first administration was the advice to take him “seriously, but not literally”. It was a singularly detrimental expression, widely quoted by politicians and the media. Its adoption fit with the position many felt most comfortable taking: Trump was bad, but he wasn’t smart. He wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t calculated and deliberate. He sounded off, but rarely followed up with action. He was in essence a misfiring weapon that could do serious damage, but mostly by accident.
The residue of that approach still persists, even in analysis that describes Trump’s first executive orders as a campaign of “shock and awe”, as if it were just a matter of signalling rather than executing. Or that his plan for Gaza is to be taken – you guessed it – seriously, not literally. When that was suggested to Democratic senator Andy Kim, he lost it. “I understand people are bending over backwards to try to mitigate some of the fallout from these statements that are made,” he told Politico. But Trump is “the commander-in-chief of the most powerful military in the world … if I can’t take the words of the president of the United States to actually mean something, rather than needing some type of oracle to be able to explain, I just don’t know what to think about when it comes to our national security.”
Part of the problem is that people are reluctant to imbue Trump with any sort of coherence. But a Trump doctrine is emerging, most sharply in foreign policy. It has clear features, contours and a sort of unified theory of conflict. First, it is transactional, particularly when it comes to warfare in which the US is playing a role. Nothing has a history or any objective sense of right and wrong. Time starts with Trump, and his role is to end things, ideally while securing some bonus for the US.
That upside is the second feature of the Trump doctrine: financialisation, or the reduction of politics to how much things cost, what is the return and how it can be maximised. Trump sees conflicts and financial assistance that have not produced anything tangible for the US. From the Gaza war, some sort of real estate deal can be salvaged. In Ukraine, a proposal for almost four times the value of US assistance so far in minerals is like the stripping of a distressed company by a new investment manager trying to recoup the funds disbursed by predecessors.
The third feature is the junking of any notions of “soft power” – something that is seen as expensive, with questionable benefits that are abstract and unquantifiable. Soft power might even be a myth altogether, a fiction that flattered previously gullible regimes, giving them some sense of control while others fed off the US’s resources. In Gaza or Ukraine, the US was going through the motions of action without a definitive breakthrough. Where others saw soft power, Trump sees quagmires.
The features of this approach may change, and they might be shortsighted and deleterious to the US’s security. And they may not entirely come from Trump himself, but rather the intersection of different political strands of the configuration of interests that support and advise him. Channelled through Trump, the doctrine takes on the hallmarks of his character – rambling, narcissistic, ignorant. However, none of this should be confused with a lack of underlying consistency and resolve to follow through.
This leaves other leaders, particularly in Europe, in a place where their historical arrangements and understandings when it comes to US compact have been wiped out. European countries are now simply junior nations who can either dispense with their cancelled notions of the importance of rebuffing Vladimir Putin, join Trump in bringing an end to the war on his terms, or pick up the pieces themselves when the US withdraws its support.
The ensuing anger and language of “appeasement” and “capitulation” feels like a misreading of what is happening, an echo of a time when it was universally agreed upon that aggressive enemies are to be stood up to, and anything else is a moral defeat and sign of weakness. But Trump is functioning in a different value system, one where these notions don’t even apply or have different definitions.
As Europeans seethe, Trump’s plan for Ukraine is being worked out not only away from Europe in Washington, but in the Middle East, at new centres of middleman power that have always been transactional. They themselves are in the throes of redefining their relationship with the US, and have no illusions about the world that is emerging. Sergei Lavrov met with Marco Rubio in Riyadh and Volodymyr Zelenskyy flew to the region preparing for Gulf-mediated peace talks in Abu Dhabi. Those whose relationships with the US have been hard-edged, about mutual self-interest rather than shared values, and have always had to manage the US to greater or lesser extents, seem best positioned now to not freeze in moral horror.
For the rest, for the country’s more intimate friends and family, those who shared America’s values and security liabilities, the regime change is a bitter pill to swallow. It is likely that there can be no persuasion, negotiation or hope of a “transatlantic bridge”, as Keir Starmer has been described, a figure that can act as an intermediary between the US and Europe and head off rupture. Perhaps Starmer can appeal to Trump’s ego? Or “tread a diplomatic line”, or convince him that giving in to Putin makes him look weak? All that assumes some measure of impulsiveness on Trump’s part that can be reined in (and by a prime minister not exactly known for his pyrotechnic charm), and also that Trump even shares similar notions of “judgment of history” or the same understanding of “weakness”. There is no small, but still shared, middle ground.
There are now two options for the US’s former close friends and security partners: shed everything, dispense with notions of European solidarity, fast-forward the end of the postwar order, and make peace with defence vulnerability and political subordination. Or embark on a colossal power-mapping exercise. This entails rapid, closely coordinated action on a political, bureaucratic and military level to either replace the US, or at least demonstrate that they constitute a bloc that has some power, agency and agility – and challenge Trump in the only language he understands.
It is tempting to think that Trump doesn’t mean it, or needs to be managed and cajoled because all that underlies his actions is recklessness. Or that there is a way to reconcile what are now in essence two incompatible conceptions of the global order. Who wants to wake up every day and reckon with the end of the world as they know it? But it is so. And the sooner political leaders come to terms with the fact that roads back to the old way are closed, the more likely it is that this new world will not be fashioned entirely on Trump’s terms.