On August 18, 2025, Finland’s President Alexander Stubb, speaking from Washington, recalled that “Finland found a solution in 1944.” His reference to the armistice with the Soviet Union brought back to the fore the question of whether a similar formula could offer a way out of the war in Ukraine. Yet history itself shows that that “solution” came with concessions that would be hard to accept today.
In 1944, Finland signed an armistice with the Soviet Union, ceding 12% of its territory, legalizing the Communist Party and banning fascist movements, while being obliged to expel German troops—an act that brought it into war with Nazi Germany. It was not merely a ceasefire but a profound restructuring of its domestic and foreign policy on Soviet terms. Independence was preserved, but constrained, with commitments that shaped the country’s course for decades.
The comparison with Ukraine raises troubling questions. Could Europeans accept a “solution” that would require Kyiv to relinquish territory, curtail its domestic political freedoms, and align its foreign policy with Moscow’s demands? At the Alaska meeting, this question was posed implicitly. Such an arrangement might end hostilities, but the cost would extend far beyond Ukraine.
The international order after 1945 was founded on sovereignty, territorial integrity, and the prohibition of altering borders by force. A “Finnish solution” would overturn these, sending the message that power—not law—governs international life. Thucydides resonates here. In the Dialogue of the Athenians and the Melians, the Athenians remind us that “the strong do what their power allows, and the weak suffer what they must.” This is precisely the logic the postwar world sought to transcend.
If Ukraine were forced into concessions akin to Finland’s, the consequences would not be confined to Eastern Europe. Small and medium-sized states would feel the shock. Revisionist powers would be emboldened, calculating that violence pays and international guarantees are hollow. The security edifice built after World War II would be weakened—if not collapse outright.
For Greece and Cyprus, the danger is even clearer. The Cyprus question—unresolved for half a century—has always tested whether international law or the imposition of faits accomplis prevails. If Europe were to accept a “Finnish solution” for Ukraine, it would implicitly legitimize the perpetuation of the Turkish occupation in Cyprus. That would mean Greece inheriting and accepting a logic contrary to its own national position. Moreover, it would signal Europe’s retreat and a U.S. abandonment of their postwar strategy of supporting an order based on law, alliances, and stability.
A “Finnish solution” may appear practical. But it would be fragile, unjust, and corrosive. It would inaugurate a new era in which principles are set aside and power reigns. This is not only about Ukraine’s future, but about the values that define Europe and the West. History teaches that appeasing power leads to greater dangers. And Thucydides reminds us that when law collapses before force, the future belongs to the strong, not the just. That is certainly not the world to which we should return.