Marcus Aurelius wrote that “the best revenge is not to be like your enemy.” A true leader, in his view, was not one who sought control through fear or deceit, but one who acted with wisdom, integrity, and restraint. Power, he believed, should be wielded with justice, never as a tool for coercion. Yet in the Oval Office, we saw a stark contrast to this philosophy. Trump and his allies did not engage in diplomacy; they staged a performance of dominance, gaslighting, and manipulation, twisting reality to suit their own agenda. To understand the nature of this exchange, we can turn not only to Stoicism but to myth, to the tale of Narcissus and Echo, which offers a striking lens through which to view the spectacle that unfolded.
Ovid’s tragic figures reveal timeless truths about power, control, and the silencing of the vulnerable, shedding light on a conversation that was never meant to be fair. Narcissus, entranced by his own reflection, is incapable of true connection, while Echo, cursed to repeat only the words of others, is reduced to a hollow voice, pleading in vain. Modern psychology recognises narcissism not just as self-obsession but as a pathology that thrives on control, gaslighting, and the erosion of another’s sense of self. In that room, Trump played the part of Narcissus to perfection, demanding total subservience while projecting blame onto Zelensky, whose position mirrored Echo’s: a leader trapped in a conversation where he was neither heard nor truly allowed to speak. The entire exchange was not much of a diplomatic dialogue. It was an exercise in psychological domination, where manipulation, coercion, and calculated misrepresentation shaped every word.
This kind of power dynamic is not new. History is littered with moments where stronger nations have framed their coercion as generosity, their demands as reason, and their betrayals as pragmatism. Hitler did it. In 1938, Neville Chamberlain’s negotiations with Nazi Germany over Czechoslovakia followed the same script: the strong dictating terms while the weak were expected to be grateful. Chamberlain infamously returned from Munich declaring “peace for our time,” having forced Czechoslovakia into a settlement that led not to peace, but to further aggression. Trump’s rhetoric pushed the idea that Ukraine must accept whatever was offered, no matter how fatal the consequences.
From the outset, Trump made it clear that Ukraine’s suffering was, in his view, self-inflicted. By telling Zelensky, “You have allowed yourself to be in a very bad position,” he placed the burden of Russia’s aggression squarely on the victim. This is classic abuser rhetoric: shifting responsibility away from the aggressor and onto the one being harmed. The implication was unmistakable. Ukraine was to blame for its own suffering, for its dead, for its desperation. It is a strategy that echoes the language of colonial powers, who for centuries justified conquest by blaming the conquered for their own subjugation, insisting that their fate was the result of their own weakness and lack of sophistication, rather than external greed-fed oppression.
At the same time, Trump and his allies imposed a toxic demand for gratitude. Vance’s insistence that Zelensky express thanks was not a benign request but a calculated act of coercion. Forcing someone to voice appreciation for help they have no choice but to accept is a well-documented tactic of control. It creates a debt, a power imbalance, a future justification for punishment should that gratitude ever be deemed insufficient. This was not about aid; it was about ownership. This echoes Henry Kissinger’s dealings with U.S. allies during the Cold War, where American support was often contingent on obedience. South Vietnam became expert in showing constant gratitude for U.S. military aid, while any attempt at independent policy-making was met with scorn and threats of abandonment.
Trump’s manipulation extended to the very concept of peace. When he declared that Zelensky was “not ready for peace,” he was not referring to a just resolution but to Ukraine’s surrender. Reframing capitulation as the only true path to peace is a distortion long favoured by aggressors, designed to make resistance seem unreasonable and compliance inevitable. True peace requires security guarantees and justice—none of which were on offer. The same logic was used in the Yalta Conference of 1945, where Stalin’s demands over Eastern Europe were framed as necessary for peace, even as they laid the foundation for decades of Soviet domination. What was called diplomacy was, in reality, an enforced submission to a predetermined order.
Again and again, Trump sought to reduce Zelensky’s agency to nothing. By telling him he had “no cards to play” and that “without us, you have nothing,” he was not merely stating a geopolitical reality; he was actively undermining Ukraine’s position. This was not the language of an ally but of a captor reminding the captive of their dependence. The message was clear: you exist only at our mercy.
The disregard for Ukraine’s survival was further laid bare in Trump’s approach to a ceasefire. While he framed it as a humanitarian necessity, “If you get a ceasefire, you must accept it so that bullets stop flying and your people stop dying,” he ignored the fact that a ceasefire without enforceable conditions is simply an invitation for Russia to regroup and launch an even deadlier offensive. Peace, in this context, was a mirage designed to weaken Ukraine, not to protect it.
Throughout the exchange, Trump asserted dominance not just through words but through sheer conversational control. He cut Zelensky off, dismissed his attempts to argue, and decided unilaterally when he had spoken “enough.” This was a deliberate psychological tactic, an assertion of hierarchy in which Zelensky’s role was not to negotiate but to submit. Power in that room did not belong to Ukraine’s president; it belonged solely to Trump.
The rhetoric of diplomacy was weaponised in much the same way. When Vance claimed that “the path to peace lies through diplomacy,” it was not a call for genuine negotiation but a demand for Ukraine’s compliance. The word “diplomacy” was used to mask an ultimatum: accept the terms dictated to you, or be cast aside. This is a strategy as old as empire—Rome often used the language of diplomacy to justify the subjugation of its provinces, presenting its conquests as “agreements” rather than military occupations.
Perhaps the most striking manipulation was Trump’s use of projection. In a particularly jarring moment, he accused Zelensky of “playing with the lives of millions of people.” This, from the man actively threatening to withhold support, shifting the weight of moral responsibility onto the one fighting for survival. It was an inversion of reality, a classic hallmark of gaslighting, designed to disorient and disempower.
The overarching narrative was clear: Ukraine was being framed not as a sovereign nation in need of support but as an indebted dependent whose continued survival hinged on absolute obedience. US aid was not presented as a partnership but as a form of coercion—an expectation that in return for weapons and assistance, Ukraine must forfeit its right to self-determination. Trump reinforced this further by erasing Ukraine’s own resistance, stating that without US support, “this war would have ended in two weeks.” In one sentence, he dismissed Ukraine’s sacrifices, its military success, and its unwavering determination, reducing it to nothing more than a pawn in America’s hands.
This was never about diplomacy. It was an exercise in power, a carefully orchestrated attempt to force Zelensky into a position where he could do nothing but echo back the words of his supposed benefactors. The tragedy of Echo, in Ovid’s telling, is that she fades away entirely, until only her voice remains. Eventually, even that is heard no more. The tragedy here is that Trump and his allies sought to ensure that Ukraine, too, would become nothing more than an echo—its sovereignty hollowed out, its voice reduced to repeating what it was told, its fate dictated by the whims of a self-obsessed power.
But Zelensky did not become Echo. He did not wither into silence, nor did he resign himself to repeating the words of those who sought to control him. Instead, he spoke with defiance, asserting Ukraine’s right to exist on its own terms, refusing to bow to coercion disguised as diplomacy. He did not accept the false choice between submission and annihilation, nor did he allow Trump’s attempts at psychological domination to redefine reality. In standing firm, in rejecting the demand for obedience, he reminded the world that true leadership is not about pleasing the powerful but about defending the powerless. For that, we should all be grateful, not just Ukrainians, but anyone who values sovereignty over subjugation, justice over expedience, and truth over the comforting lies of those who would rather rule than serve.
Marcus Aurelius would likely remind us that true strength is not found in coercion or manipulation but in the steadfast pursuit of justice, wisdom, and courage. He might look upon Trump’s behaviour and see it as a textbook example of what happens when a leader is ruled by ego rather than reason, one who seeks dominance over others rather than mastery over himself.
To Zelensky, Aurelius might say: “Stand firm in the face of tyranny, for no external force can truly harm the soul that remains just.” He would recognise in the Ukrainian leader the Stoic virtues of endurance and duty, the refusal to yield to fear or despair, and the understanding that true leadership is not about power but about service.
And to us, the observers of history as it unfolds, Aurelius offers a simple but profound reminder: “You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.” In other words, while we may be angered by manipulation and injustice, we must not allow it to consume us. Instead, we must act where we can, speak where we must, and hold fast to what is right, knowing that in the end, it is not deception or brute force that endures, but truth and integrity.
Consilium 