Donald Trump and the Prospect of Transformational Foreign Policy Leadership

The idea that Donald J. Trump—by virtue of his unconventional style, transactional instincts, and scepticism of traditional alliances—might be remembered as the most consequential, if not the best, United States foreign policy leader in recent history is a deeply provocative one. Yet it deserves careful examination. The argument is not that Trump’s foreign policy decisions were universally wise, consistent, or grounded in long-term strategic planning. Rather it is that, paradoxically, his very disregard for diplomatic orthodoxy may have brought about—or may yet bring about—a recalibration of global power relations that ultimately proves beneficial to both the United States and her allies, particularly Europe.

A Doctrine of Disruption

Donald Trump first came to power in 2017 with a scathing critique of what he called “endless wars”—a broad condemnation of America’s prolonged military entanglements in Afghanistan, Iraq, and elsewhere. His instincts were not those of the liberal internationalist or neoconservative traditions that had dominated US foreign policy since the Cold War. Instead he was a transactional nationalist, suspicious of multilateralism, sceptical of alliance obligations, and contemptuous of international institutions. His administration was marked by abrupt withdrawals, unpredictable summitry, and an unapologetic prioritisation of what he called “America First”.

This instinctive aversion to military adventurism led to real consequences: the withdrawal from Syria (partially reversed under pressure), a drawdown in Afghanistan (subsequently completed under President Biden), and a conspicuous reluctance to engage the United States in any new wars. Critics saw this as abandonment. Supporters claimed it was long-overdue restraint. But whichever view one takes, it marked a departure from decades of interventionist orthodoxy.

More significantly, Trump’s foreign policy style, particulary in his second term, has forced American allies—particularly in Europe—to confront an uncomfortable truth: the post-1945 world order had bred a culture of dependency, in which the security of some of the world’s richest nations was underwritten disproportionately by the United States. Trump’s abrasive insistence that NATO members meet their defence spending commitments in his first term (at least 2 percent of GDP) was mocked as boorish at the time, but has since led to a striking rise to a consensus of 5% amongst NATO (European) capitals in the early months of Trump's second term. In the face of Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine and continued US political volatility, even previously neutral states like Sweden and Finland have raced into NATO, while Germany—long hesitant about military matters—has declared a Zeitenwende, or strategic turning point, committing herself to a major defence investment programme.

This suggests that Trump’s provocations may have acted as a catalyst for long-delayed reforms in Europe’s strategic posture. His rhetoric—threatening to abandon allies who failed to pay—appeared irresponsible. But his implicit challenge to the post-Cold War security arrangement had the salutary effect of forcing Europeans to take responsibility for their own defence. In this light, Trump may be seen less as a destroyer of alliances and more as a reluctant midwife to a multipolar security architecture, in which Europe matures as a full strategic actor rather than a dependent ward. Trump has ultimately proven supportive of Europe's confrontation with Russia over the latter's invasion of Ukraine, continuing international military support to Ukraine (albeit paid by European NATO member states). Indeed he has even gone further than his predecessor Biden, at the time of writing preparing to impose a set of "secondary sanctions" targeting businesses and governments worldwide that do business with Russia.

A Strategic Realignment

Another way in which Trump’s foreign policy may come to be viewed as visionary lies in his treatment of China. While every US president since Bill Clinton had nodded toward the challenge posed by China’s rise, it was Trump who decisively broke with the consensus that economic engagement would liberalise Beijing. Instead, Trump launched a multi-front confrontation: tariffs on Chinese goods, sanctions on Chinese firms and a rhetorical and strategic redefinition of China as the United States’ primary geopolitical adversary.

In retrospect, this repositioning of China as the central strategic threat of the 21st century has been embraced by both Republicans and Democrats. The Biden administration expanded and deepened Trump-era policies on export controls, semiconductor restrictions, and strategic competition in the Indo-Pacific. In this respect, Trump’s policy was not merely a disruption but a structural realignment of American foreign policy that may define the coming decades. It has also forced European governments, long wary of antagonising China, to reassess their economic dependencies and strategic priorities.

Rewriting the International Legal Order

A further, subtler legacy of Trump’s foreign policy may lie in his disregard for the international legal order as it has evolved since 1945. His first administration’s unilateral withdrawal from multilateral agreements—the Paris Climate Accord, the Iran nuclear deal (JCPOA), the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty, and the UN Human Rights Council—was widely derided as reckless. Yet each of these institutions had, by that time, become arenas of inertia, hypocrisy or strategic exploitation by authoritarian powers. Trump’s rejection of these frameworks was not always coherent or principled, but it drew attention to their dysfunction.

If Trump’s second term continues this trend, it may result in a global system that is more brutally transactional but also more grounded in the realities of power. He may demand that US military assistance, such as to Ukraine, be made conditional upon long-term industrial or trade arrangements; that NATO become less a forum for platitudes and more a system of enforceable commitments; and that aid to the Global South be tied explicitly to political alignment in a new Cold War environment. In doing so, he would reduce the hypocrisy of a values-based foreign policy that has too often been selectively applied.

Peace Through Brutal Clarity?

Trump’s preference for spectacle—summits with Kim Jong-un, rhetorical bombast with Iran—has led some to mock him as unserious. But his belief that peace can be achieved through direct personal engagement and the threat of overwhelming force may have avoided conflicts others might have provoked. He has not so far started a war, nor escalated existing ones significantly. He has recently implicitly condemned the Israeli policy of starvation of the people of Gaza. Despite assassination operations (such as the killing of Qassem Soleimani), the bombing of Iran to prevent escalation in Iran's conflict with Israel, and threats of “fire and fury”, Trump in both administrations has shown a basic aversion to full-scale war.

It is not unthinkable that, under a second Trump presidency, he could reach an ugly but durable settlement in Ukraine—not because he seeks justice, but because he seeks closure. Such a settlement might involve freezing the conflict, extracting European military guarantees for future deterrence, and turning US attention entirely to China. This would be morally unpalatable to many—but not obviously worse than the current stalemate, which is grinding Ukraine down slowly in a war of attrition with no end in sight.

Conclusion: A Paradoxical Legacy

To call Donald Trump the “best” US foreign policy leader of recent history is to stretch the definition of greatness. He lacks strategic patience, moral clarity, and consistency. He is impulsive, provocative and disdainful of diplomatic norms. Yet history is replete with unlikely disruptors whose legacy was defined not by their intentions but by the structural changes they catalysed. Lyndon Johnson escalated Vietnam disastrously but created the Great Society. Richard Nixon was reviled at home but opened China and concluded arms control treaties. Might Trump—chaotic, transactional and unorthodox—ultimately be remembered as the man who ended America’s addiction to policing the world, compelled Europe to grow up, and prepared the West for the coming confrontation with China?

It is too early to tell. But the possibility cannot be dismissed. His legacy may be that of the foreign policy leader who, by stopping wars—not through idealism but exhaustion—and by breaking taboos about alliances and law, brought about the necessary suffering that leads to institutional renewal. Whether one admires or abhors this prospect depends not on one’s views of Trump, but on one’s appetite for potentially beneficial historical rupture.