G7 unity fractures as Trump undermines Ukraine support

While Canada used the G7 platform to pledge fresh aid for Ukraine, the summit’s true headline was what didn’t happen: no unified stance, no joint Ukraine declaration, and no bilateral moment between Zelensky and Trump. For a forum long touted as the diplomatic backbone of the Western order, this year’s G7 felt more like a staging ground for diverging strategies than a site of transatlantic cohesion.

President Trump’s premature departure, ostensibly to manage the escalating Iran-Israel conflict, signaled more than scheduling pressure. His early exit and coolness toward Ukraine—combined with open praise for Putin—exposed just how tenuous the G7’s consensus on Ukraine has become. And with Canada unable to marshal agreement for a group-wide statement, the summit marks a strategic turning point: NATO-aligned support for Ukraine is no longer a given, but a contested proposition.

Behind the scenes, Canada’s leadership under Prime Minister Mark Carney tried to steer the G7 toward a strong, unified front on Ukraine. The C$2 billion pledge for Kyiv and added financial sanctions underscored Canada’s commitment. But policy influence isn’t proportionate to moral clarity. The US remains the largest arms supplier to Ukraine, and its signaling matters most.

Yet that signal, under Trump’s leadership, is increasingly ambiguous. His support for Putin’s position on Crimea and growing skepticism of sanctions reflect not just personal views but a wider political recalibration at home. Trump’s GOP is no longer reliably Atlanticist—it’s transactional, suspicious of multilateralism, and less inclined to bankroll distant wars. And that’s already disrupting the G7’s operational rhythm.

From Ottawa to Berlin, leaders are recalibrating their Ukraine postures not on conviction, but on anticipation: How far will Trump go, and what must be preserved before he returns to office?

To fill the void left by the lack of consensus, Carney issued a “chair statement”—a diplomatic workaround that doesn’t require sign-off from other leaders. It struck a careful balance: acknowledging Ukraine’s unilateral ceasefire while pressing Russia to match it, and emphasizing support for Trump’s “efforts to achieve a just and lasting peace.”

That phrase is telling. It shifts the narrative from punishing Russia to empowering Trump as a peacebroker. And while that may flatter Washington’s instincts, it marks a departure from the sanctions-first, deterrence-driven stance that defined G7 diplomacy since 2022.

The result is a bifurcated narrative: Canada and parts of Europe still seek pressure-based containment of Russia, while the US—at least under Trump—pivots toward accommodation and reframing. For Ukraine, this creates a strategic vacuum. Zelensky is increasingly reliant on bilateral pledges rather than multilateral guardrails. And that weakens Kyiv’s bargaining position not only with Moscow but within its own coalition of supporters.

European leaders, notably Germany’s Chancellor Friedrich Merz, continue to press for stronger sanctions and unified messaging. But realpolitik is creeping in. With Trump telegraphing mixed messages, the EU cannot afford to overcommit if US support is provisional.

The cracks are already showing. Three European diplomats acknowledged that Trump had expressed interest in Senator Lindsey Graham’s sanctions bill targeting Russia—but made no promises. The hedging is clear. Leaders are “cautiously optimistic,” not confident. And that distinction matters.

While Canada reaffirmed its role as a staunch supporter of Ukraine, its ability to anchor the broader alliance is limited. Without US alignment, secondary players risk overextension without leverage. The G7 isn’t structurally designed to function without American leadership. And Trump appears less interested in leading than selectively endorsing outcomes that suit his domestic narrative.

Trump’s pushback against the 2014 expulsion of Russia from the then-G8 reflects more than historical revisionism. It’s a signal that Trump wants a different kind of Western order—one where adversaries are reclassified as counterweights, not threats. The Kremlin welcomed his comments, calling the G7 “rather useless.” And while that may be opportunistic rhetoric, it also reflects a reality: the G7’s strategic weight is diluted when its most powerful member refuses to enforce alignment.

In response, Carney invited leaders from Mexico, India, Brazil, and other non-G7 players in a move to broaden Canada’s geopolitical hedge. But even that diversification strategy speaks to a defensive posture: if the G7 can’t agree on core conflicts, it will expand its guest list to diffuse its relevance.

Trump, meanwhile, focused his diplomatic capital on securing a group statement about Israel and Iran—a crisis with direct resonance for US national security. That prioritization sent a clear signal: Ukraine, once top-of-mind, is now a secondary concern.

This summit wasn’t about unity. It was about drift—and who’s willing to fill the vacuum. For Canada, the answer was bold financial pledges and reputational consistency. For Trump, it was disengagement masked as peace-seeking. And for Europe, it was hedging in real time.

The strategic consequence? Ukraine is increasingly treated as a bilateral problem to be managed, not a collective crisis to be resolved. The risk isn't just policy incoherence—it's systemic erosion of credibility. When G7 unity frays, it’s not just Ukraine that’s left exposed. So too is the very premise of coordinated Western deterrence. This isn’t G7 fatigue—it’s the slow unravelling of strategic coherence. Ukraine may still be on the agenda, but it’s no longer the consensus. And that, more than any summit communique, tells us where the real power lines are shifting.