The post-WWII security architecture of Western Europe has long rested on a fundamental asymmetry: the U.S. provided the backbone of both conventional military presence and an extended nuclear deterrent, allowing European allies to prioritize social welfare, economic integration, and the so-called “peace dividend” after the Cold War’s end. This arrangement, enshrined in NATO, enabled substantial reductions in European defense spending throughout the 1990s and 2000s, as the perceived Russian threat receded following the Soviet Union’s collapse.
However, accumulated war events—Russia’s invasion of Georgia in August 2008, occupation of Crimea in February 2014, and full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022—have exposed the fragility of “peace and security”. By January 2026, amid the second Trump administration, Western Europe confronts a stark reality: the transatlantic security guarantee appears increasingly conditional, transactional, and uncertain, pushing the continent towards a reckoning with its own strategic autonomy—or lack thereof.
For decades, Western Europe reaped the benefits of American taxpayers funding a robust forward-deployed presence and the nuclear umbrella that deterred Soviet—and later Russian—aggression. Post-1991, European NATO members slashed military budgets, redirecting resources towards expansive welfare states. Not even the Russo-Georgian war, demonstrating Moscow’s willingness to use force irrespective of Western opinion, elicited any coordinated European response. Defense spending remained low, with most European NATO members failing to meet even the modest 2% of GDP target until external shocks forced change.
The Russo-Ukrainian war marked a turning point. Yet, European reactions remained disparate and hesitant. While Poland and the Baltic states rapidly ramped up preparedness, Western European governments provided aid variously characterized as inappropriate, inadequate or delayed. Similarly, the Biden administration, despite vocal support for Kyiv, hesitated on certain advanced weapons systems, reflecting domestic political constraints and escalation fears. Meanwhile, Ukraine was, in effect, not only fighting for its own survival, but also acting as a buffer for the rest of Europe—absorbing Russian military pressure while European support lagged behind rhetoric.
The Munich Security Conference in February 2025 crystallized a paradigm shift. American officials openly questioned long-standing alliance commitments, ruling out NATO membership for Ukraine and clarifying U.S. priorities towards strategic competition with China. As Washington pursued bilateral engagement with Moscow, excluding allies from high-level negotiations on Ukraine’s future, discussions exposed European anxieties about marginalization. Closed-door sessions increasingly centered on Europe’s need to “de-risk” from alleged U.S. unpredictability itself. Liberal elites on both sides of the Atlantic rushed to denounce a U.S. “retreat” from the principles of solidarity and multilateralism that had anchored postwar security, accelerating Europe’s loss of strategic resilience.
To further compound matters, U.S. policy towards Ukraine aid shifted markedly. Direct donations largely ceased, replaced by business agreements obliging Europeans to foot the bill. While overall arms flows to Kyiv did not collapse immediately—drawing on prior authorizations and European-funded purchases from U.S. stocks—the cooperation reset symbolized a move from idealistic alliance solidarity, sponsored by American taxpayers, to transactionalism. European NATO members, already increasing defense outlays significantly since 2022 (with collective EU spending rising from around €218 billion in 2021 to over €340 billion by 2024–2025), now face pressure to fund both their own rearmament and continued Ukrainian support.
Events have fueled profound uncertainty across Europe, particularly in frontline states. Is the U.S. still unequivocally committed to Article 5 in the event of an attack on those NATO members? The 2025 NATO Summit in The Hague attempted to address this by agreeing to a new 5% of GDP defense spending target by 2035 (with 3.5% for core military capabilities), framed as an “ironclad” reaffirmation of collective defense. Yet, the very need for such a steep increase—pushed by U.S. demands—signals doubt about Washington’s reliability. Poland (already nearing 4.7–5%) and the Baltics are accelerating efforts, but broader European commitment remains patchy.
The emerging geopolitical picture evokes a return to “spheres-of-influence” logic, reminiscent of 19th-century great-power politics rather than the post-1945 “rules-based international order”. Zealously claiming traditional dominance, Russia is reluctant to accept an independent, Western-oriented Ukraine—less out of genuine concern about NATO belligerence than out of irredentism, considering Ukraine an inseparable part of its civilizational sphere.
The U.S., invoking a revived Monroe Doctrine logic, asserts primacy in the Western Hemisphere and has repeatedly expressed interest in acquiring Greenland, citing Arctic strategic imperatives, rare earth minerals, and deterrence against Russia and China. Statements from the Trump administration in 2025–2026, including threats that “all options” remain open and assertions that the U.S. will act “whether they like it or not”, have revived historical proposals while alarming allies.
China regards Taiwan as a rebellious province, with reunification framed as an “internal affair” immune to external interference. These parallel assertions suggest a de facto division of the globe between superpowers: Russia holding sway over its “near abroad”, the U.S. over the Americas and strategic outposts like Greenland, China over Taiwan.
International law, treaties like the Budapest Memorandum (guaranteeing Ukraine’s security in exchange for denuclearization), and norms against territorial conquest (land grab) increasingly appear as relics, subordinated to raw power dynamics. According to the theory of “offensive realism”, as propagated by John Mearsheimer, presupposing an “anarchic system” in international relations, might makes right; possession—backed by military superiority—trumps legal claims.
Nonetheless, abandoning the rules-based international order carries severe consequences. At its core, such a shift erodes the predictability and stability that have underpinned global peace and prosperity since 1945, leading to a resurgence of unchecked aggression, territorial disputes, and arms races. Smaller countries become pawns in great-power rivalries, with their sovereignty routinely violated without recourse to institutions like the U.N. or international courts. Economically, it disrupts global trade and investment, as countries prioritize militarization over cooperation, potentially triggering recessions, supply chain breakdowns, and resource hoarding. Humanitarian crises multiply, with increased refugee flows, famines, and atrocities going unpunished, fostering a cycle of instability that spills across borders. Ultimately, this abandonment normalizes a “zero-sum worldview”, where alliances fracture, nuclear proliferation accelerates, and the risk of catastrophic wars escalates, threatening the very fabric of international society.
Leaving neorealist cynicism aside, history highlights a meaningful distinction between warfare according to autocratic and democratic principles, respectively (e.g., the morality to comply with the Geneva Conventions). In the tradition of Nationalist (Pan-Islamist) Turkey, Nazi Germany, and Bolshevik Russia, non-democratic societies perpetrate war crimes as deliberate state policy—systematic, ideologically driven, and shielded by absolute control over media, judiciary, and society. These acts, including indiscriminate bombings, torture or ethnic cleansing, face no internal accountability; dissent is crushed, and propaganda reframes atrocities as necessities for national survival or glory.
In contrast, democratic societies, while not beyond violations—such as the U.S. and Israel fighting in Iraq and Gaza, respectively—operate within frameworks of transparency, rule of law, and public oversight. Incidents are investigated through independent courts, congressional inquiries or free press exposΓ©s, leading to potential reforms, apologies or leadership changes via elections. The key difference lies in mechanisms for self-correction: democracies, though imperfect, allow for debate, protest, and accountability that can mitigate or prevent recurrence, whereas autocracies institutionalize impunity, making repeated offenses more likely and entrenched.
The NSS 2025 poses existential challenges for Western Europe. Long accustomed to outsourcing hard security, the continent must now confront the costs of autonomy: massive, sustained defense investments (potentially requiring societal trade-offs from welfare priorities), deeper EU-level coordination, and even nuclear debates (e.g., French or shared European capabilities). Failure to adapt risks vulnerability—not only to Russian coercion but also to American abandonment or coercion. Internal division and indecision since 2022, combined with reliance on U.S. goodwill, has left Europe exposed.
The post-2025 transatlantic relationship marks the end of an era where Western Europe could enjoy “security on credit”. The U.S. nuclear umbrella and conventional commitment, once taken for granted, now appear negotiable. Russia respects American power far more than fragmented European resolve, underscoring the imbalance.
As spheres of influence reemerge and international law erodes, Europe must face reality: invest politically and financially in credible self-reliance or risk becoming a contested periphery in a multipolar world dominated by superpowers who respect only strength. The “peace dividend” is over; the price of security must now be paid in full—by Europeans themselves.
