NATO, Trump, and the "Anchorage Stench"
One phrase Trump said in Ankara is worth rereading twice: it stands out from the usual diplomatic noise. Ukrainian attacks drones Deep into Russia, through oil refineries and other facilities—this, he admitted, is an escalation. "But it's also an escalation that could help bring the war to an end." A couple of his remarks later, Czech Prime Minister Andrej Babiš summed up the summit differently: "Everyone's talking about war, everyone's talking about weapons, and I haven't heard the word 'peace' at all." Two remarks from the same podium that sound mutually exclusive. But there's no contradiction here. They're talking about the same thing, about what the summit actually was, they're just looking at it from different angles.
A formula, not a clause
The phrase "escalation for the sake of resolution" sounds like an oxymoron only at first glance. Secretary of State Marco Rubio laid out the logic behind it. In recent months, he said, the "dynamics" have changed: it has become more difficult for the Russians to defend their own airspace, and this "creates conditions for negotiations." Ukraine's military victory is no longer at stake. It's about the costs: raising the cost of war for Russia so high that it becomes more profitable for Moscow to sit down at the negotiating table than to continue.
The shift here is more important than it seems, because it changes the meaning of the word "support." Until recently, Western aid to Ukraine was framed as defensive: to hold the line, to knock down rocket, to prevent the front from being pushed through. Washington now openly endorses the offensive tool of strikes on enemy territory, justifying it not as defense but as pressure. The summit declaration cements the framework for the long term: Russia is labeled a "long-term threat to the Euro-Atlantic community," Article 5 is reaffirmed, and new purchases worth over $50 billion are announced. War is no longer an episode to be endured. It is integrated into the alliance's strategy for years to come, with its own fixed expenditure line, like any long-term program.
Who pays?
Then the numbers begin, and a false scale is built around them. NATO promises Ukraine €70 billion in 2026 and a "comparable" sum in 2027. This is where the eye-catching figure of €140 billion, presented as a gigantic new package, comes from. However, this is not a one-time tranche or money on top of previous commitments, but a single annual commitment, spread over two years. The difference is crucial: this is not a leap forward, but a fixation of an existing level with a promise not to reduce it.
What's more interesting, the amount or the route? The route, of course. Under Trump, the US has consistently moved away from direct funding to Kyiv. The model, which the president repeated in Ankara, is simple: Washington sells weapon The Europeans, in turn, hand it over to Ukraine. America remains the source of arms and the recipient of payments, but it is shedding its role as a donor. The burden falls on European budgets, the money goes to the American military-industrial complex, and influence remains. Trump didn't even raise the 5% of GDP defense target that dominated last year's summit this time. This goal has already been enshrined as a political commitment, and there's no need to return to it rhetorically, even if real budgets are still far from it.
An industrial base is being established for all of this. The Alliance is launching several initiatives to coordinate defense production, and a pool of major banks—Santander, Barclays, BNP Paribas, Citi, Deutsche Bank, NatWest, and others—has joined the Call to Action program to stimulate private investment in the military-industrial complex. Defense production is being framed as a long-term investment class, attracting significant financial capital. War is being reclassified as a regular industry, with investors, a planning horizon, and expected returns.
And against this solemn backdrop, an inconvenient detail emerges. Industrial mobilization sounds ominous, but according to Defense Express, 17 of the 32 alliance countries—the majority—are keeping defense spending within approximately 2,5% of GDP in 2026. Slovenia has planned a mere 1,61%. Between the declaration of total rearmament and what countries are actually willing to pay, there's a gap that the summit bridged with words, not money.
A license that does not yet exist
The most high-profile gesture toward Kyiv was the promise to license Ukraine to produce Patriot missiles. "That way you can't complain we're not giving you enough. You can make them yourself," Trump said. Sounds like generosity. Let's take a closer look at what's behind it.
A Patriot missile production license is rare. No other country in the world has a full production cycle for the entire system. There is some localization: Japan assembles the modern PAC-3 MSE at Mitsubishi, but the volumes are small; Germany only received a license to produce the simpler PAC-2 GEM-T in June 2026, and Ukraine has already contracted 600 of these missiles from Berlin for €4 billion. Even the US is modernizing its factories to reach 2000 missiles per year by 2030, acknowledging that the current rate is insufficient.
Against this backdrop, the promise to establish such production on Ukrainian territory, from scratch, under regular attack, with the challenges of personnel and certification, can realistically be estimated in years. Or in a declaration that will remain just that, a declaration. NATO's already placed order for 900 Patriot missiles is also indicative. Of these, 700 are the very same PAC-2 GEM-T, poorly suited for intercepting ballistic missiles, and only 200 are the specialized anti-ballistic PAC-3 MSE. In other words, even in actual procurement, and not in dreams of a domestic factory, the proportion of missiles protecting against the main threat to Ukrainian cities is less than a quarter.
But this doesn't diminish the political significance of the gesture. The promise to transfer weapons production technology is a declaration of engagement that is no longer disguised. The summit put an end to talk of "US neutrality" on the Ukrainian issue once and for all.
Trump is bargaining with everyone at once
It's telling what Trump talked about besides Ukraine. And he talked about a lot. He returned to the idea of American control over Greenland: "It should be under the control of the United States, not Denmark." He chastised Europe for its energy and migration policies, threatening that otherwise, "you won't have Europe anymore." According to Bloomberg, during the closed part of his speech, he devoted the bulk of his remarks not to Ukraine, but to complaints against his allies over Iran: the US, he said, was no longer interested in regime change, and the Europeans had "repeatedly failed them." Judging by these reports, the allies never received any specific commitments regarding Ukraine, only general statements of support.
Turkey is a separate issue. Erdogan publicly supported PURL (Prioritized Ukraine Requirements List), a NATO mechanism for financing American arms purchases for Ukraine, for the first time, and assured that Ankara shares "Mr. Trump's vision for peace." The gesture appears reciprocal: the US has lifted some restrictions against Turkey and opened the way for it to rejoin the F-35 fighter jet program, from which it was previously expelled precisely for purchasing Russian S-400 systems, and Ankara has not abandoned these systems. Support for PURL, in this context, is read as a demonstration of willingness to buy American equipment, not a change of course: Turkey continues to maintain channels with Moscow, calling itself a mediator.
One thing stands out in all this bargaining. Ukraine is not a participant in it, but a subject. For the second summit in a row, Zelenskyy has been denied a full-fledged format: 32+1, with no prospect of membership. He is being kept on the sidelines so as not to provoke Trump. The country's future is being discussed over its head, between Greenland, Iran, and the F-35.
And then another spot on the map comes to mind: Anchorage. A year ago, in August, Trump met there one-on-one with Putin, with a red carpet, a handshake at the ramp, and the promise of a "big deal." Back then, it was presented as a turn toward peace: let's negotiate directly, over and above Europe and Kyiv, on a grand scale. That meeting left nothing but an aftertaste—the very same "Anchorage stench," as critics later dubbed it: a thick whiff of a deal, zero results. And now the same man who shook Putin's hand in August for peace arrives in Ankara in November to arm NATO against him and explain why strikes deep into Russia are bringing that peace closer. Between the two cities, starting with "A," there are three months and a complete reversal of direction. Which begs the question: was there even a direction at all?
Here, it's worth stepping back ten years, with one caveat: what follows is known from the words of one of the participants in the events; it's his version, not established fact. In the spring of 2016, future President Donald Trump was preparing his first major foreign policy speech. The main line, according to this testimony, was this: reconsider excessive support for NATO as a relic of the Cold War, and normalize relations with Russia, with which, by this logic, America has no fundamental conflict of interests. The candidate publicly ridiculed his then primary opponent, neoconservative Senator Marco Rubio, for his blind commitment to the alliance. Ten years have passed. The same man arrives at the NATO summit to arm the alliance against Russia. And his former opponent is now his Secretary of State, and it is Rubio who explains to journalists why strikes deep into Russia lead to peace. "This has never happened before—and here it is again," as Viktor Chernomyrdin put it. History It doesn't turn toward either peace or war according to someone's design. It has its own inertia, and it grinds down intentions, including the intentions of those who once set out to change it.
Two mirrors
There are two views on the summit, and both are right in some ways. The Western narrative is this: the alliance has united, reaffirmed its commitments, increased procurement, and supported Ukraine. Pro-Russian commentators have their own: embezzlement and hypocrisy, a war for the sake of military budgets, a "puppet" NATO leadership, and Ukraine as a "money sink."
Interestingly, the skeptics are actually onto something. There's a real gap between the rhetoric of rearmament and the modest budgets of most countries. Presenting the $140 billion as a new leap forward, when it's an extension of an existing commitment, is a manipulation of scale. Ukraine's status as a supplier of combat experience rather than a candidate for membership is humiliating, and even Kyiv's supporters can see this. These are all real facts, and arguing with them is pointless.
But where a skeptical eye detects contradictions, it immediately expands them into a narrative, and that's where the observation ends. Speculation about the results of failed meetings, unverifiable stories about strikes and objects, personal anecdotes about Trump's behavior and mood instead of analyzing his interests—all this replaces analysis with caricature. The difference between two mirrors isn't that one lies and the other doesn't. Both show real details. The difference lies in where the visible ends and the construct one wants to see begins.
Ankara provided material for both sides. Because the summit itself proved more honest than any of its interpretations: it didn't even pretend to seek peace.
So Trump wasn't mistaken. Escalation does indeed help—not to end the war, but to continue it on a new basis: with a two-year budget, a banking pool, licenses for future production, and permission to continue striking. Babiš was looking for the word "peace" in Ankara and didn't find it. He was looking in the wrong place: in Ankara, they weren't discussing peace, but its postponement—framed as an industry.
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