Fatal Friendships: The U.S., Ukraine and the Limits of American Loyalty

The unsavoury diplomatic row between Zelenskyy and Trump was a reminder for the world that U.S. foreign policy remains as transactional as ever.

Henry Kissinger once remarked that being America’s enemy is dangerous, but being its friend is fatal. Ukraine, like so many before it, is learning this the hard way.

If there is a moment that encapsulates the fickleness of American foreign policy, it is the latest diplomatic spat between President Trump, Vice President J.D. Vance and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy during the latter’s visit to the Oval Office. The once-celebrated wartime leader, who was paraded across Washington as a symbol of democratic resilience, now finds himself cast aside like so many other American allies before him. The drama played out in full view of the world, with Trump and Vance publicly dressing down Zelenskyy, demanding gratitude, and pressing for long-term access to Ukraine’s natural resources in exchange for continued support. For Zelenskyy, this was a humiliating moment; for the world, it was a reminder that U.S. foreign policy remains as transactional as ever.

To anyone familiar with American diplomacy, this episode was hardly surprising. The United States has a long history of intervening in the affairs of other nations, often in pursuit of its own strategic interests. Between the 1848 annexation of Mexico and the countless regime-change operations of the Cold War, Washington has prided itself on shaping global politics to its advantage. Now, Ukraine finds itself on the receiving end of this history, left to reckon with the harsh reality that the U.S. does not sustain friendships but exploits them.

To understand how Ukraine arrived at this precarious juncture, one must rewind to the 1990s, when the seeds of today’s conflict were sown. In 1990, as the Soviet Union crumbled, a tacit agreement was made between President George H.W. Bush and Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev: NATO would not expand eastward. That promise was swiftly broken. Nineteen times, the U.S. welcomed former Soviet states into NATO, tightening the noose around Russia’s sphere of influence. Moscow protested, but its grievances fell on deaf ears until Ukraine became the next domino.

By 2014, tensions boiled over. In what became known as the Revolution of Dignity, Ukraine’s pro-Russian president, Viktor Yanukovych, was ousted in a U.S.-backed uprising. Western leaders celebrated this as a victory for democracy, but to Moscow, it was yet another American betrayal. Russia responded by annexing Crimea, an act widely condemned but entirely predictable. What followed was a drawn-out war in Ukraine’s eastern provinces, with separatist groups in Donetsk and Luhansk declaring independence - moves backed by the Kremlin.

Even then, there remained a narrow path to peace. Russia had no objections to Ukraine joining the European Economic Community; its red line was NATO membership. A grand diplomatic bargain was possible, one in which Ukraine could integrate with the West economically while remaining militarily neutral. But American policymakers, eager to consolidate Ukraine as a client state, rejected such an approach. They doubled down on military aid and encouraged Zelenskyy to pursue NATO ambitions, despite Russia’s clear warnings that this would provoke war.

By 2022, the inevitable happened: Russia invaded Ukraine. Washington responded with sanctions, weapons shipments, and financial aid packages that, while substantial, were not entirely altruistic. The U.S. supplied Ukraine with arms, but these weapons were purchased from American manufacturers, ensuring billions of dollars flowed back into the U.S. economy. The Biden administration painted its support as a moral crusade, yet in reality, it was a profitable venture wrapped in the language of democracy.

Enter Trump, back in the White House, bringing his characteristic disdain for multilateralism. While Biden had embraced Ukraine as a moral cause, Trump sees it as a business transaction. Zelenskyy’s recent visit to Washington underscored this shift. Far from being welcomed as a heroic figure, he was reprimanded like an ungrateful client. Trump and Vance not only questioned the extent of U.S. aid citing a wildly inflated figure of $300 billion, when in reality, the Kiel Institute places it at $119.7 billion but also demanded that Ukraine reward American generosity with long-term contracts granting U.S. firms access to its valuable mineral resources.

For Zelenskyy, the humiliation was complete when the U.S. refused to offer Ukraine any security guarantees. The man who once stood before Congress to thunderous applause was now walking away from meetings empty-handed. If there was any lingering doubt about the transactional nature of America’s commitment, it had been dispelled.

Predictably, this diplomatic fiasco has deepened divisions within the Western alliance. European leaders, already sceptical of Trump’s foreign policy instincts, have openly criticized the U.S. for its heavy-handed treatment of Ukraine. Meanwhile, Russia is watching closely, sensing an opportunity to exploit the cracks in Western unity. Moscow does not need to defeat Ukraine on the battlefield if it can win the war by eroding international support for Kyiv.

Ukraine’s predicament raises a larger question: What does it mean to be America’s ally in the 21st century? The answer, it seems, is that alliances with Washington come with an expiration date. Today, Ukraine faces the same fate as past U.S. partners - betrayed, abandoned and left to navigate a crisis alone.

Perhaps Zelenskyy should have taken Kissinger’s warning to heart: America’s enemies may suffer, but its friends are doomed.

(The author is a retired naval aviation officer and geo-political analyst.

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