On August 15, US President Donald Trump is set to meet Russian President — and indicted war criminal — Vladimir Putin in Alaska in a bid to “end” the war in Ukraine. The meeting is, in many ways, the result of Russia’s successful “seepage” on the diplomatic front, a manoeuvre that has already exposed cracks in Moscow’s international isolation. For Russia, such a diplomatic win would far outweigh its modest battlefield gains, where the “seepage” tactic remains the only viable strategy after the war’s evolution, yet still delivers no decisive military victories.
This bilateral encounter is unlikely to produce any comprehensive peace agreements, as Ukraine will be absent. Across the ocean, the principle of “nothing about Ukraine without Ukraine” appears to have been set aside. The “territorial swaps” floated by Trump — which he himself described as “unpleasant” — would likely be just as unacceptable to Kyiv, both morally and legally, and from a military-strategic perspective. “We’re going to change the battle lines,” Trump declared.
From a moral standpoint, any order to withdraw troops from Ukraine’s sovereign territory would ignite public outrage, especially among the military. Beyond that, it would be a grave insult to those who have sacrificed their lives or health defending the country. Most residents still living in Ukrainian-controlled parts of Donbas would effectively become displaced persons “on legal grounds.” Similar maneuvers — reminiscent of the USSR’s territorial concessions to Poland and Finland in the 20th century — never brought lasting peace and instead created enduring social and economic problems.
Legally, such a move would be unconstitutional. Changes to Ukraine’s borders can only be approved through a referendum, which cannot be held under martial law. Nor can the Constitution be amended to bypass this requirement. Any Ukrainian politician pushing for such a move, no matter their current standing or political clout, would be committing political suicide—even under the guise of a fragile, illusory peace.
If debates over the independence of anti-corruption bodies could draw thousands into the streets, one can only imagine the scale of protests against surrendering territories not under occupation. Pre-emptive demonstrations — not against Kyiv, but against external pressure from Washington — could become a significant factor in future negotiations, especially given the White House’s historical underestimation of Ukrainian society and the local context. Freezing the war along the current front line is perceived very differently by the public than a “voluntary-forced” transfer of territories still under Ukrainian control.
Trump has already publicly expressed his bewilderment at President Zelensky’s stance: “I was a little bothered by the fact that Zelensky was saying, ‘I have to get constitutional approval.’ He’s got approval to go into war and kill everybody, but he needs approval to do a land swap? It will be for the good of Ukraine. There will be good things — and some bad things for both.”
From a military-strategic perspective, ceding Donbas to Russia would mean losing a vital defensive “fortress belt” that has so far held back Russian advances in the east. This belt, built since 2014, encompasses several towns — Sloviansk, Kramatorsk, Druzhkivka, Kostyantynivka — and fortified positions stretching roughly 50 kilometres, forming a crucial line for defending the Donetsk region.
The loss of Donbas would allow Russian forces to push approximately 82 kilometres westward, putting neighbouring regions — notably Kharkiv and Dnipro — at risk and giving Moscow the opportunity to resume offensive operations without the gruelling battles that have defined the fight for Donbas.
Notably, Trump, the developer, openly places different values on Ukrainian territory, likening Russian-held coastal regions to “waterfront property” — “the most valuable in the world.” Yet the greater danger of Russia’s “seep-through” tactics on the diplomatic front lies in the risk of a sharp deterioration in U.S.–Ukrainian relations. After a brief “historic” pivot by the new White House toward Kyiv, another wave of criticism over Ukraine’s inability to strike a deal could follow, along with cuts to an already diminished U.S. aid package — dealing yet another blow to transatlantic cooperation. This would further weaken Europe’s position, just as it has begun to recognise the full scope of the threats it faces.
Speaking to reporters on August 11, Trump made two unsettling remarks: that the U.S. could “step back” if talks fail, and once again invoked the mantra of “Russia’s invincibility,” citing Viktor Orbán’s words that “Russia is a massive country, and they win in life by fighting wars… China wins through trade, Russia wins through wars.” The president added: “I think we’ll have a constructive conversation [with Putin]. Right after this meeting, I’ll call European leaders… and also President Zelensky… And I might say, ‘Good luck, keep fighting,’ or ‘We can make a deal.’”
A similar readiness to scale back U.S. support for Ukraine has been voiced repeatedly by Vice President J.D. Vance, who stressed the need to shift the financial burden onto Europe, arguing that it should do more to resolve a European war. It is difficult to disagree with that second point.
So why is this meeting taking place without the participation of Ukraine’s president or European leaders? The answer likely lies in several factors. First, the White House agenda still includes major prospects for cooperation with Russia in the Arctic, efforts to draw Moscow away from Beijing, joint projects in rare earth metals, and other ambitious ventures. Washington and Moscow also have a shared interest in discussing strategic deterrence, medium-range missiles, the Middle East, and the energy market. It is clear that the new White House administration has long been searching for openings to normalise dialogue with Russia.
Second, Donald Trump has never been closer to a Nobel Peace Prize nomination. Last week, Azerbaijani President Ilham Aliyev and Armenian Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan proposed nominating the U.S. president following a peace deal brokered under Washington’s guidance. A signed ceasefire—or even a suspension of hostilities—between Ukraine and Russia would represent the crowning achievement of Trump’s first year in office and could secure him the coveted award.
Third, the U.S. is already embroiled in a tariff war and cannot easily impose new sweeping restrictions on third countries, while the bill proposing 500% tariffs had slim chances of passing from the start. If this meeting was indeed initiated by Russia, the Kremlin may have been motivated by threats of additional U.S. sanctions and potential measures against China. Given the difficulty of accurately assessing Russia’s economy, Moscow’s move could be interpreted as a promising sign for its own calculations.
Yet in Washington, there remains little appetite for pushing Russia toward economic collapse, with fears of “unpredictable consequences” somehow considered worse than the current reality. As a result, short-term economic interests may have been prioritised over the long-term security of the entire Western bloc—a classic case of shooting oneself in the foot.
And finally, the Kremlin is fully aware that the front line has barely shifted and that the new “seepage” tactic is yielding no spectacular victories on the ground. Ending this phase of the war now with concessions so substantial that Russian propaganda would scarcely need to frame them as a major victory could, in hindsight, mark a pivotal turning point. It would shield Russia from economic collapse and the slim prospect of meaningful socio-political reform, while paving the way for a renewed push to assert dominance in Europe and advance its imperial ambitions. In turn, this almost guarantees the outbreak of an even larger European war in the foreseeable future.
“Seepage” tactics on the battlefield
War is not just about weapons and soldiers—it’s about how they are employed. Tactics, in essence, are the methods used to achieve objectives on the battlefield. Think of them like a game of chess: you can play aggressively or cautiously, sacrifice pieces, or bide your time. The approach is always shaped by the situation at hand.
When Russia launched the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, the plan was textbook: smash through Ukrainian defences with powerful mechanised columns, advance tens of kilometres inland, encircle enemy forces, and seize key cities. It resembled the U.S. campaign in Iraq in 2003, where armour surged along highways, air forces dominated the skies, and resistance quickly crumbled. But the war in Ukraine unfolded very differently. Instead of a swift walk, columns of tanks and armoured vehicles ran into dense minefields and came under constant artillery, anti-tank guided missile, and FPV drone fire—yet swarm tactics were still rarely deployed. Every movement was watched by drones, and any exposure on open ground often ended in destruction. By 2023–2024, some sectors of the front saw 20–50 FPV drones operating daily over just 1–2 kilometres of line.
Under these conditions, the classic formula of “strike—breakthrough—exploit success” simply stopped working. Where a column in Iraq could cover 80 kilometres in a single day, in Ukraine a mechanised advance often ground to a halt after just two. According to Soviet–Russian military doctrine, a battalion tactical group was expected to gain 2–5 kilometres per day following a breakthrough, but in reality the pace slowed ten- to fifteenfold.
Instead of rapid armoured thrusts, the Russian army turned to a “seepage” tactic: small assault groups of five to fifteen soldiers push into the so-called “grey zone,” using tree lines, ravines, and ruined buildings for cover. They move into flanks or rear areas, fortify positions in trenches or buildings, bring up supplies, and then “bite off” another section of the defence.
The effect is a slow, methodical “gnawing” at the line: 100 metres today, 200 tomorrow, then nothing the next day under constant artillery fire. Between 2023 and 2025, advances averaged 0.1–0.5 kilometres per day against well-prepared defences, and up to 1.5 kilometres per day where defences were sparse. Even with local successes, troops could manage only 1–4 kilometres per week. Covering a depth of 10 kilometres, which classical doctrine would achieve in roughly five days, now takes one and a half to two months.
The reasons for this shift are not a matter of choice but of forced adaptation. The high density of anti-tank weapons makes large-scale manoeuvres suicidal: Javelins, NLAWs, and Stugna ATGMs can strike targets from 2–4 kilometres, FPV drones from 5–10 kilometres, with dozens deployed daily in some areas. Minefields in active sectors reach densities of 3,000–5,000 mines per square kilometre, often with remote-triggered devices. Over two years, armoured vehicle losses exceeded 2,500 tanks, eliminating the possibility of forming strike groups larger than a hundred vehicles. The lack of air superiority forces aviation to operate from long distances — dropping guided bombs from 40–50 kilometres, with no low-altitude attacks by strike aircraft or helicopters. Ukrainian forces maintain constant surveillance with drones and satellites, removing any element of surprise.
Seepage reduces simultaneous armoured losses but comes at the cost of human lives. In 2022, most losses were in equipment; from 2023 onward, infantry casualties mounted. Newly captured positions remain under constant mortar and drone fire, forcing troops to hold them at relentless risk. Assaulting a single strongpoint along a 1–2 kilometre front in a day can require 5–15 FAB-500 or FAB-1500 bombs from guided munitions, and without such artillery and air support, the advance grinds to a halt.
For the average reader, the situation is like trying to get into a shopping mall under guard. A classic breakthrough is storming in as a group, scattering the guards, and quickly reaching the exit. Seepage, by contrast, is crawling through the ventilation, sneaking in through storage rooms, hiding in closets. The risk of being seen is lower, but progress is ten times slower, and the goal remains distant. Or, put another way, it’s like chiselling through a brick wall with a spoon: brick by brick, painfully slow, while the enemy builds three more walls in the meantime.
From a strategic standpoint, seepage yields tactical gains — capturing strongpoints, advancing hundreds of metres — but it fails to achieve operational-scale objectives. It cannot encircle large forces or open a rapid route to key cities, and thus falls short of delivering a decisive breakthrough.
Instead of a swift, decisive strike, the war has settled into a grinding attrition, where each metre is hard-won over weeks and at significant cost. Success is measured not by capturing a city, but by taking a handful of trenches. As long as the battlefield remains saturated with drones, anti-tank systems, mines, and constant surveillance, Russia’s advance will continue—slowly, expensively, and with strategic outcomes far from certain.
This week, it appears that merely holding a meeting on U.S. soil at the highest level allows Russia to claim a tactical victory on the diplomatic front, regardless of the outcome of negotiations over Ukraine. Or, as has happened many times before, Ukrainians once again find themselves both witnesses to and makers of “unprecedented” events, reshaping a course of history that others are trying to write for them.
