I sat through the Trump Putin spectacle in Alaska yesterday and couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen it before, not on network TV, but in a children’s book. It was The Emperor’s New Clothes, rewritten for the 21st century.
Trump strutted like Andersen’s emperor, convinced that he alone had spun some invisible garment of diplomacy. Putin, the sly tailor, flattered him with talk of “trustworthy tone” and vague hints about “bringing back business.” And Zelensky, though not even in the room, is cast as the child, the one who sees the naked truth, but who can’t shout it, because survival demands silence.
Trump called the summit “extremely productive.” He declared that “many points were agreed to,” even though he couldn’t name a single one. His magic phrase of the day was “no deal until there’s a deal,” as if tautology is a policy achievement. By his own standard, the summit was a failure. Trump had promised a ceasefire. He didn’t get one. He left Alaska empty-handed, hoping his performance would pass for substance. And like the emperor parading through town, he expected the rest of us to nod and applaud.
Putin was delighted to oblige. He wrapped Trump in threads of illusion: “If Trump had been president, there would have been no war.” “We had a trustworthy conversation.” “This is the starting point.” All empty cloth. The so called “root causes” Putin insists must be addressed are just his old justifications, that Ukraine isn’t real, that NATO is a threat, that Russia must have its vassal. He hasn’t given an inch on territory, on sovereignty, on the reality of his invasion. What he has done is what tailors of illusions do best: buy more time, flatter the client, and smirk as the crowd pretends to see fabric that isn’t there.
Zelensky wasn’t on stage yesterday, but he is at the heart of this story. He knows the emperor is naked. He knows the tailor is lying. But he cannot shout it from the crowd, because doing so risks the only lifeline his country has: American weapons and aid.
So he waits, and he listens, and he will have to respond carefully later today. He’ll walk the tightrope again, praising the effort without endorsing the illusion, and hoping that, somehow, his country doesn’t get traded away in a deal of smoke and mirrors.
Commentators confirmed what anyone with eyes could see, there was no breakthrough, no fabric, no garment, just spectacle. Former defense secretary Leon Panetta was blunt: the fundamental test of this summit was a ceasefire, and it failed. Fareed Zakaria called the atmospherics “cringeworthy,” but admitted it was better that Trump came away with nothing than with a dangerous concession. Analysts pointed out that Putin’s language of “root causes” hasn’t changed in three years.
And if the absurdity of the red carpet weren’t enough, they capped it off with what would normally thrill me. It was in essence an air show: one B-2 stealth bomber flanked by four F-35 fighters. That’s some serious star power. Air Force muscle and fifth-generation stealth all rolled out, not for NATO allies, not for democratic partners, but for Vladimir Putin. It was performance at its finest, and exactly the sort of pageantry the tailor expected for the emperor’s parade.
I’ll admit, part of me dreaded Trump walking away with a win. The idea of him basking in the glow of “peace in our time” was unbearable. But of course ultimately I hoped that maybe a ceasefire could emerge, because human lives matter more than my distaste for Trump’s ego parade.
Hillary Clinton captured the paradox when she said she’d nominate Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize if he pulled off a deal. She could say that precisely because she knew he wouldn’t. But it was also a reminder of the stakes that even those who loathe him would grit their teeth and clap if he ended the war. That’s the moral burden of leadership: sometimes you have to applaud the emperor if peace is real, even if you can see his naked backside.
And yet, if you step back from the red carpet and the flyover, the truth is simpler: Putin got what he came for. A hold on new sanctions. More time to maneuver. No ceasefire. Every day of delay is a day he can sell oil, move weapons, and dig deeper trenches.
What happens in the next few weeks, whether his forces escalate or hold steady, will tell us whether this “productive” summit was just a photo op or the prelude to something darker. My bet? The tailor knew exactly what he was weaving.
So here’s where the fairy tale leaves us: The emperor insists he is clothed in glory. The tailor whispers flattery and sells him nothing. The child sees the truth but cannot shout it. And the crowd stands in the square, half-pretending, half-gasping, all waiting for the moment the illusion collapses.
But unlike Andersen’s story, this one doesn’t end when someone blurts out the truth. The emperor keeps parading. The tailor keeps spinning. And the child has to live in a world where truth is too dangerous to say aloud.
Trump said last night: “We didn’t get there, but we have a good chance of getting there.” The problem is, no one knows where “there” is, or if it even exists.
For now, Ukraine still burns, Russia still stalls, and America still pretends. The emperor struts naked through the square, the tailor smirks, and the child watches in silence.
But the reality is that fairy tales are bedtime stories and wars are not.
Nancy's Notes 