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The much-anticipated meeting between U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin in Anchorage, Alaska, was billed as historic, yet it ended without tangible results. In the days that followed, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, accompanied by a group of European leaders, traveled to Washington. Their mission was clear: to gauge the stakes and align with Washington on what might unfold next. Attention has then turned toward the possibility of new summits, first between Putin and Zelenskyy directly, and then potentially a trilateral meeting including Trump. While the venue remains undecided, names circulating include Istanbul, Geneva, Austria and Hungary. However, Trump’s two-week deadline for a Zelenskyy-Putin meeting has passed, no steps have been taken to arrange it and the prospect of peace continues to diminish with each passing day.
Territory swap proposal
Central to these discussions is a highly controversial idea reportedly pushed by Trump: a land swap. But what land was to be swapped? Was Ukraine to be offered part of Russia, in exchange for the land Russia had taken? Details regarding the proposed swap are not clear.
After the Kursk campaign that began on Aug. 6, 2024, Ukraine managed to hold a limited amount of Russian territory; however, one year later, Kyiv no longer controls any Russian land. At the moment, Luhansk is almost entirely under Russian control, yet Ukraine still has key parts of Donetsk, which corresponds to around 30%, including the cities of Kramatorsk and Sloviansk and heavily fortified positions.
According to the rumored plan, in exchange for Donbas (Donetsk and Luhansk), Moscow would halt further advances and freeze the front line in the southern Ukrainian region of Kherson and Zaporizhzhia. Strikingly, Crimea, a region illegally annexed by Russia in 2014 and still one of the core disputes, was not even mentioned, as if its fate had already been quietly sealed.
If this is the plan, there is nothing for Ukraine and nothing there to be swapped; it is only ceding of Ukrainian territory to Russia.
This proposal raises profound concerns for Ukraine, prompting Zelenskyy to reject it, citing that it is against the constitution. From Kyiv’s viewpoint, giving up any territory would be akin to a political death sentence. Even if Zelenskyy accepts it, it is impossible under the country’s law. Any changes to Ukraine’s territory would have to be settled in Ukraine by a referendum, according to the constitution.
Cease-fire vs. peace treaty
A more realistic and acceptable outcome might be a cease-fire agreement rather than a peace treaty for Ukraine. A cease-fire would at least freeze hostilities without formally recognizing Russia’s territorial claims. This path allows Kyiv to avoid legitimizing its losses while keeping alive the possibility of reclaiming the occupied territories in the future, perhaps under a different Russian leadership. By contrast, a peace treaty based on territorial concessions would mean Ukraine formally accepts its diminished borders.
The implications of these negotiations stretch far beyond Ukraine. If the principle of territorial integrity is abandoned here, it risks becoming a precedent worldwide. Accepting that borders can be altered through war and coercion would erode the foundations of international law.
The danger is clear: if Ukraine can be forced into concessions, what would prevent other states from following suit? For instance, Israel might feel emboldened to expand its borders by force, citing precedent. It is already doing so de facto and might now push for recognition de jure.
In such a world, what standard would remain? Which rules would nations abide by if sovereignty can be negotiated away under pressure?
Guarantees or hollow words
Another discussion lies in security guarantees. Today, there is talk of creating an “Article 5-like” commitment, yet without NATO membership for Ukraine. Yet, a similar effort already failed with the 1994 Budapest Memorandum.
Few nations grasp the risks of hollow promises as clearly as Ukraine. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Ukraine inherited the world’s third-largest nuclear arsenal, larger than that of the U.K., France and China combined. Pressured by the international community to disarm, Ukraine agreed to give up its nuclear weapons in exchange for assurances of protection.
Through the Budapest Memorandum of 1994, Ukraine, along with Belarus and Kazakhstan, relinquished its nuclear stockpile in return for commitments from Russia, the U.S. and the U.K. to respect its sovereignty, avoid coercion and refrain from using force. China and France also offered weaker pledges. But these were political assurances rather than binding legal treaties.
Yet, when Russia violated them by annexing Crimea in 2014 and later launching a full-scale invasion in 2022, the response from the other signatories was limited to only condemnation and aid, not real protection. The lesson was clear: promises without enforcement are worthless.
American officials consistently emphasized that the memorandum offered “assurances,” not binding “guarantees,” underscoring a crucial distinction. Unlike NATO members, Ukraine was not entitled to automatic military defense.
This raises a pressing question: what will be different this time? Will Ukraine again receive only vague assurances disguised as guarantees or another play on words?
Given its experience, Ukraine now recognizes that its most reliable and effective security guarantee is its own armed forces. Since 2022, Ukraine’s military has successfully resisted one of the world’s most powerful armies.
Ukraine today stands at a perilous crossroads. Any settlement that legitimizes Russia’s territorial gains risks not just Ukraine’s independence but also the credibility of the global order itself. A cease-fire may buy time and preserve hope, but a treaty of concessions would open the door to an era where borders are redrawn by might rather than by law. The outcome of these talks will not only decide Ukraine’s fate but may also set the tone for international law in the 21st century.
