The world has felt the tremor. In a move ripped from a darker, forgotten chapter of history, the United States under President Donald Trump invaded Venezuela, abducting its leader Nicolás Maduro and his wife. The international community stood stunned. The justification was thin, the act brazen: a raw demonstration of power that seemed less a product of 21st-century statecraft and more a relapse into the law of the jungle. The clock appeared to turn backwards to an era where kings captured rival kings, holding them for ransom in a dungeon. This, we are told, is the new “greatness.” And from this audacity, a new target has been fixed: Greenland.
Trump’s initial threat to seize the vast, icy landmass has now softened, at least in rhetoric, to an offer to purchase it. However, in the context of the Venezuelan gambit, this offer rings not as a business proposition, but as an ultimatum disguised as a deal. Greenland, an autonomous territory under the Kingdom of Denmark, finds itself in the precarious position of a chess piece on a board where only one player seems to be making the rules. Its strategic location, closer to Washington than to Copenhagen, is cited as geographical logic for a political fait accompli. However, the US itself holds territories adjacent to other nations. Does proximity alone confer a right of possession? The precedent being set is chilling, a 21st-century echo of the Doctrine of Discovery, where might, not right, redraws the map.
The European response has been a predictable chorus of outrage and protest. Denmark and fellow European nations voice their disapproval. Yet, beneath the diplomatic statements lies a profound and unsettling helplessness. Europe’s capacity for meaningful resistance has atrophied. Decades of sheltering under the American security umbrella, of allowing their own martial muscles to weaken within the comfortable confines of Nato, have left them mostly strategically enfeebled. They entrusted their defence to the very power that now flexes its strength against their interests. Their protest is the formal complaint of a tenant to a landlord who has already decided to sell the building.
For the US, Greenland is like Upen’s two bighas of land. The wealthy landlord covets his poor neighbour’s small, adjacent plot not for its inherent value, but to perfect the geometry of his own estate. The irregularity offends him; its acquisition would make his property a flawless rectangle. Similarly, Greenland represents a missing piece in the puzzle of security for the US. Its acquisition is about strategic tidiness, about eliminating irregularity in the nation’s defensive perimeter.
This pursuit is primarily motivated by a strategic desire to enhance national security and establish a more robust defensive posture. By acquiring Greenland, the US could consolidate its influence over the Arctic—an increasingly important geopolitical region—and expand its network of early-warning radars and missile defence infrastructure. This move would strengthen the northern defensive perimeter and limit the ability of rival powers, such as Russia or China, to establish a strategic presence in the North Atlantic. Ultimately, such a move is designed to secure long-term American regional dominance and reduce the strategic options available to global competitors.
The conclusion echoes Upen’s landlord’s cold calculation: “If we get it, the width will be two bighas and the length will be equal, that must be given.” The “must” here is not one of mutual agreement, but of imperial will in a world where rules are for those who lack the strength to break them.
The story of Greenland, therefore, is more than a potential real estate deal. It is a litmus test for our age. It asks whether the international system built over the last 75 years can withstand the return of the kind of logic it was designed to prevent. When one partner decides to become an overlord, the fragility of alliances is revealed. The world holds its breath, watching to see if the map of the 21st century will be drawn in diplomatic ink, or etched by reckless, retrograde ambition.
Md. Firoj Alam is a development consultant.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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