“You can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska, from an island in Alaska,” Sarah Palin said in 2008, when she was governor of Alaska and running for vice president. The line was widely mocked, yet it was geographically correct. On a clear day, Russia’s Big Diomede Island can be seen from America’s Little Diomede, just 3.8 kilometres away — about the distance from Trafalgar Square to Kensington Gardens, or from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc de Triomphe. The only thing separating them is the International Date Line: on the Russian side, it is tomorrow; on the American side, it is today. Or, depending on where you stand, yesterday.
Today, Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin are locking eyes in Anchorage, Alaska. Not a war zone, but a border you instinctively keep at arm’s length. Two world leaders discussing the fate of Ukraine — and, by extension, Europe. We are not at the table; we are on the menu. It is hard not to think of Yalta in 1945, when Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill redrew the map of a shattered Europe. Back then, the continent was exhausted; now it appears merely paralysed. Despite Trump’s warm words earlier this week, the meeting is taking place in a room without a European chair. What is he asking of Putin? What is he promising? The American president’s unpredictability has been unsettling Europe’s leaders for months.
A lesson from Homer
The Diomede Islands are named after the Greek Saint Diomede of Nicea, but they also recall another figure: Diomedes from Homer’s Iliad. This hero was renowned for his strategic cunning and boldness: he wounded Ares, the god of war, and drove Aphrodite from the battlefield. Not through brute strength (Achilles possessed that) but by forging alliances and making shrewd decisions. A more minor player who, through intelligence and courage, could beat the odds. In Homer’s tales, Diomedes is wiser than Achilles, braver than Agamemnon. He knew that true power comes not from avoiding conflict but from engaging in the right one at the right time. Europe has similar assets: economic clout, diplomatic reach, moral authority. What it lacks is the will to use them. Diomedes won through strategy and cooperation, precisely the virtues Europe likes to preach but hesitates to practise.
Meanwhile, Putin is praising America’s “sincere efforts” and hinting at nuclear arms control. The words sound conciliatory, but his record suggests they come with a price tag. When Putin offers a compliment, it is wise to keep away from open windows on high floors. Diplomats often say that as long as people talk, there is no war; yet talks can just as easily be a smokescreen. In the meantime, Europe shoulders most of the humanitarian and military burden for Ukraine: billions in weapons, millions of refugees sheltered, and sanctions biting into the Russian economy. And yet tonight we are reduced to a file on the table. Should Trump decide to grant Putin Ukrainian territory, it would wound not only Kyiv but the very foundations of European security. Alaska as the new Yalta?
Alaska as the new Yalta?
The choice of Anchorage is no accident. It is American soil, but it sits at the edge of the world. In autumn, the sun slips below the horizon and stays there for months. A place where forgetting another continent exists comes all too easily. The Diomede Islands illustrate the proximity of different worlds and the vast disparity in perspective.
There is one consolation: this is not 1945. Europe possesses the economy, technology, and, if it truly chose, the muscle to build the strongest army. It can develop its own tables and set its own rules. Today, Trump and Putin stand on their own Diomede Islands, across a table divided by a symbolic sea and a line in time. Tomorrow, Europe could choose to stop watching from afar. Diomedes would not have stood idle. He would have gathered his allies, picked his battlefield, and caught his opponent unawares.
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