By now, it seems that almost every global citizen has absorbed a prevailing belief: if Donald Trump had been president, Russia would never have invaded Ukraine.  This idea permeates discussions about the ongoing war, framing Trump as a figure whose mere presence might have altered history.  Trump himself has fueled this narrative, expressing a fervent wish to halt the bloodshed and proposing measures to shore up Ukraine’s war-ravaged economy.  Among these is a rare metals deal with the United States, envisioned as a way to offset some of the billions in financial aid poured into Ukraine’s defense efforts.  Negotiations remain in flux, with specifics still hazy, but Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky’s rejection of an early draft drew sharp, scattered retorts from Trump about Ukraine’s embattled leader.  Beneath this exchange lies a more telling story, one that demands a closer look at why Zelensky pushed back, exposing a skepticism carved from Ukraine’s tumultuous past and a plea for assurances that outlast any single administration. 

On the surface, Zelensky’s dismissal could pass for a classic negotiating ploy — a refusal of the first offer to extract better terms.  Yet this explanation feels too simple.  Trump’s envoy reportedly pitched the deal as a means to deepen economic ties, suggesting that such bonds could serve as a bulwark against future Russian aggression.  Ukraine, however, views this claim through a lens hardened by experience.  For decades, American companies have planted roots in Ukraine, their presence heralded as a sign of robust economic partnership, promising mutual gains through investment, trade, and innovation.  But history tells a different tale, one where this economic foothold failed to deter Russia’s invasions — first in 2014 and again with devastating force in 2022.  This pattern of vulnerability now shapes Ukraine’s hesitancy toward deals like the rare metals pact, particularly when they arrive without firm security guarantees, a concern Zelensky has explicitly linked to the past. 

Before Russia’s 2014 invasion, which saw Crimea annexed and conflict erupt in eastern Ukraine, American firms had already woven themselves into the fabric of Ukraine’s economy.  Drawn by the country’s fertile farmland, strategic position, and expanding consumer base, they spanned a range of industries.  Cargill led the charge in agriculture, opening a Kyiv office in 1993 and launching a sunflower seed processing plant in Donetsk by 2005, capitalizing on Ukraine’s role as a global breadbasket.  Monsanto and DuPont’s Pioneer division followed, establishing seed operations in the 1990s and 2000s to tap into the same rich soil.  In the energy sector, ExxonMobil and Chevron struck deals in 2012 and 2013 to explore offshore gas fields and shale deposits, setting up offices in Kyiv to oversee their ambitions.  Manufacturing saw Amsted Rail producing railcar components in Chernihiv since 2004, while John Deere marketed tractors and machinery through a Kyiv hub.  Consumer giants like Coca-Cola and PepsiCo built bottling plants near Kyiv and in Mykolaiv, operational since the 1990s and 2008, respectively, and McDonald’s peppered the landscape with dozens of restaurants starting in 1997.  Technology firms Microsoft and IBM opened Kyiv offices in the early 2000s, joined by Citigroup’s banking branches and Eli Lilly’s pharmaceutical outreach.  Even Mary Kay carved out a niche, building a cosmetics network from 1997.  By 2014, at least sixteen major U.S. companies had a physical presence, anchored primarily in Kyiv but with operations stretching across Ukraine. 

The 2014 invasion rattled this foundation.  Cargill lost its Donetsk plant to separatist control, a significant blow to its eastern operations, though it held firm in western regions.  ExxonMobil and Chevron abandoned their energy projects as Crimea’s annexation and regional turmoil rendered them untenable, exiting Ukraine by 2015.  McDonald’s shuttered its three Crimea outlets in April 2014 and closed eastern locations as fighting spread, though it clung to safer areas.  Citigroup began a gradual retreat, scaling down its presence and ending retail banking by 2017 amid economic fallout.  Many companies adapted rather than fled entirely, with Coca-Cola, PepsiCo, and Microsoft shifting their focus to western Ukraine, away from the conflict zones.  The lesson was stark: economic ties, no matter how deep, could not halt Russia’s advance. 

The 2022 full-scale invasion magnified this truth.  On February 24, Russia’s assault turned Ukraine into a nationwide battlefield, from Kyiv’s outskirts to Kherson’s fields.  Cargill suspended its sunflower oil plant in Kakhovka as Russian forces seized the region, though it maintained some western export operations.  Monsanto, now part of Bayer, and Corteva, successor to DuPont’s Pioneer, halted commercial activities in March 2022, redirecting efforts toward humanitarian aid, such as seed donations.  Amsted Rail’s Chernihiv factory likely paused production amid early shelling, and John Deere stopped equipment sales, closing its Kyiv base temporarily.  Coca-Cola and PepsiCo shut down their plants initially as fighting raged, resuming limited production in western Ukraine by late 2022.  McDonald’s closed every restaurant on invasion day, reopening in Kyiv and safer cities by September.  Microsoft and IBM evacuated staff from Kyiv, shifting to remote support, while Citigroup shuttered its branches and ended its physical footprint.  Eli Lilly paused non-essential work, and Mary Kay halted sales as logistics crumbled.  Only Westinghouse stood apart, continuing nuclear fuel deliveries to bolster Ukraine’s energy grid.  The pattern evolved from partial disruption in 2014 to near-total upheaval in 2022, cementing a bitter reality: American investments, however substantial, offered no shield against Moscow’s aggression. 

Zelensky’s wariness springs from this history.  He raised a pointed objection, which I paraphrase: “We’ve had American companies here before, major players, and they didn’t stop Russia — not in 2014, not in 2022.  A rare metals deal without security guarantees is a legitimate worry for us.”  The deal could modernize Ukraine’s mining sector and bolster its economy, but the risks are glaring.  Russia has long viewed Western economic moves in Ukraine as a challenge to its influence, often responding with force.  Without NATO membership or a binding U.S. defense pact, Kyiv fears a familiar cycle: investment pours in, Russia strikes, companies retreat, and Ukraine is left exposed.  Zelensky underscored that Ukraine seeks peace not just backed by Trump’s word, which may fade with his administration, but for years to come, secured against future threats, regardless of who occupies the White House. 

This demand for enduring stability sets Ukraine apart.  Trump’s team might argue that economic ties build resilience, pointing to Westinghouse’s persistence or Coca-Cola’s return as evidence.  Yet this misses the core issue: Resilience has not prevented invasion, and returning firms operate in a diminished, war-torn landscape.  Ukraine’s leadership wants more than economic gestures; it craves a guarantee that transcends political cycles.  The rare metals pact could be a lifeline, but only if paired with a lasting shield.

History supports Zelensky’s caution: sixteen U.S. companies stood in Ukraine before 2014, yet their presence withered or retreated under Russian pressure in both 2014 and 2022.  For Kyiv, another deal without a backbone is a fragile hope, easily crushed by war’s brutal weight. 

As negotiations take place right now, the stakes remain high.  Zelensky’s rejection is not an insult, but a call for an agreement to carry real weight, ensuring peace that endures beyond any one leader’s tenure.  In Ukraine’s precarious reality, economic promises alone ring hollow, a lesson etched over a decade of lost ground and broken faith.

Image: Volodymyr Zelensky.  Credit: IAEA Imagebank via Flickr, CC BY 2.0.