By Dritan Hila
In truth, there is nothing comedic about the tragedy of Ukrainians and Russians. Hundreds of thousands of young lives lost, maimed, and shattered now fill the cities and cemeteries of both nations. Strangely, the media, instead of making the war feel closer, has rendered it like a film in which the characters rise from the dead. Perhaps this is why the darkly comic spectacle of its protagonists—straight out of a Coen brothers’ black comedy—seems almost acceptable.
Lined up in chairs before the desk of the White House chief, each having received a slap in Trump’s past remarks, Europe bore no resemblance to what it was 80 years ago. France, represented by Macron, has nothing in common with De Gaulle. Eight decades back, even though humiliated and occupied by Germany, even as parts of it collaborated with Nazism—its fleet sunk by the British, its figures like Pétain and Darlan siding with the enemy—the Allies still extended France every possible respect. Another American of German descent, Eisenhower, Trump’s distant predecessor, ensured that De Gaulle’s troops were the first to march into Paris.
When the Germans signed the act of capitulation, Field Marshal Jodl sneered at the French delegate: “So you too have defeated us?!”
But that did not stop the Americans from treating France as an equal, fully aware that—regardless of a nation’s size or contribution—respect and loyalty are values that endure.
Some of the countries that stood on opposing sides 80 years ago now sat at the same table in Washington. Meloni represented Italy, which the Allies once went to great lengths to spare from sharing Germany’s guillotine. Mussolini’s successor found herself seated beside Roosevelt’s. An irony of fate—and proof that alliances are always fluid.
The successor of Dönitz was there too—in the Oval Office, a place unimaginable for him eight decades ago. And yet, the defeated German generals at the moment of surrender demanded more parity and respect than their modern heirs, Merz and von der Leyen.
Thankfully, Zelensky was present—the leader of a people whose fate so closely mirrors that of the Poles in World War II: fighters who gave unparalleled sacrifice on land and in the skies to defend Britain and liberate Italy, only to be served on a platter to Stalin in the end. Only this time, the former comic actor plays the final act of a national tragedy without fully grasping his role. At least, unlike the Poles of old, he was given a chair at the table.
Naturally absent was Stalin’s heir, who—despite his desperate attempts to imitate him—remains little more than a surrogate. Putin’s generals have spent three and a half years capturing as much land and as many villages as the Georgian’s generals advanced in a single day. And yet, he enjoys Trump’s admiration—a man who, had he ever met the fearsome Georgian, would surely have been enthralled.
And then, the star of the show: Trump. No predecessor of his would have treated allies with such disdain, reducing them to insignificance. After all, as the saying goes, “Tell me who you keep company with, and I’ll tell you who you are.” Trump made sure the spotlight stayed on his punchlines—not the problems; the performance, not the essence. More than a solution to the war, the Washington meeting was a gathering that reminded us: today, those who lead nations are products of spectacle—of public relations, of media, of surface over substance, of perception over reality. And as such, they struggle to make bold, long-term decisions—the kind that shaped the world for a century, such as the Allied pacts of World War II or the creation of the EU and NATO.
What remains is hope—that history, like nature, will find its own balance through paths often mysterious, as mysterious as the ways of God.