This Friday, August 15, 2025, President Donald Trump and President Vladimir Putin will sit down at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson in Anchorage, Alaska for what the White House bills as a new round of peace negotiations. On paper, it’s an effort to halt the bloodshed. In reality, it looks more like another act in a long-running play: the stalling game Moscow has perfected since 2014.
I’ll make my position clear now—this isn’t a breakthrough.
I’ve seen this pattern before: in late March 2022, I was in Moldova, helping process waves of Ukrainian refugees fleeing the early battles, while Russian negotiators in Istanbul smiled for the cameras. That was the round of talks Turkey hosted on March 29, when Moscow pretended to scale back attacks around Kyiv while quietly shifting forces east. It felt like theater then, and it feels like theater now. It’s posturing.
Russia’s definition of “peace” has always included demands that would dismantle Ukraine’s sovereignty. In past negotiations, the Kremlin has insisted Ukraine demilitarize—an absurd proposition for a nation that’s only still independent because it had an army willing to fight in 2022. Accepting that would mean betting the country’s future on the “goodwill” of the same regime that tried to erase it from the map.
Trump has hinted at a possible “swapping of territories” between Kyiv and Moscow. Ukraine will not—cannot—legally surrender land it still holds. The Ukrainian constitution prohibits it without a national referendum. The only “givebacks” Russia might offer would be a few ruined villages in Sumy or Kharkiv oblasts—settlements reduced to rubble, militarily insignificant. Don’t expect Mariupol or the Crimean coast to be on the table.
Moscow’s long-term objectives haven’t changed. Its maximalist vision includes swallowing the rest of Ukraine’s Black Sea coastline, a move that would cripple Ukraine’s grain export economy and, by extension, its survival as a state.
The chorus of armchair strategists will weigh in—“negotiate now before it gets worse.” But for Ukrainians still on the front lines, that advice rings hollow. A good-faith deal would mean a total ceasefire, a 30-kilometer demilitarized zone along the current front, and no territorial concessions. Without that, any so-called peace is just surrender in slow motion.
Right now, Russia is pressing its advantage. The summer 2025 counteroffensive has three focal points—Pokrovsk, Kostyantynivka, and Kupiansk. These are hard targets the Kremlin has already committed men and matériel to seize before autumn mud sets in.
Pokrovsk is the most alarming. Russian forces recently made a 20-kilometer penetration on the northern axis—the largest territorial gain since 2023. It’s a thin salient, likely punched through by motorcycle-mounted assault units, and it’s unclear if they’ve consolidated. This could be a fluke, a stretch of land soon cut off by Ukrainian counterattacks, or it could be a sign Ukraine’s defensive line is fraying.
As for President Zelensky, there’s no credible evidence he’s preparing to cede land. Reports suggesting otherwise misinterpret his position: he’s repeatedly said Ukraine cannot—and will not—violate its constitutional borders. That stance hasn’t wavered.
Which brings us back to Alaska. This summit is unlikely to yield a binding peace. More likely, it’s another Kremlin play to appear reasonable while buying time for its summer campaign. For Ukraine, the only viable course is to hold what it has, bleed the Russian advance, and hope Moscow’s economy buckles before its own lines do.