When America Becomes Its President

At some point—and I can’t quite say when—it has become harder, at least from this side of the Atlantic, to separate our image of Donald Trump from the United States itself. The two have begun to blur in ways that feel new, and, frankly, unsettling.

Until recently, I tried to be careful about this. I love my American friends. And it’s worth saying very plainly that millions of Americans continue to oppose these policies, often loudly and at great personal cost. Any criticism here is directed at decisions made in power, not at the people who live with their consequences.

Anything critical I write about the US always comes with an internal disclaimer: this is about an administration, not a people. It felt important to hold that line. We make this distinction easily enough in other contexts—acknowledging, for instance, that many Iranians live with the consequences of decisions they did not choose.

However, as the consequences of Trump’s leadership continue to play out—not only in the Middle East but across much of Europe—that distinction has come under real strain. Not gone, but harder to sustain. In the wake of the recent escalation around Iran, the effects have been felt not just in terms of global stability, but in our energy markets, prices, daily life. And many feel they know exactly where responsibility lies. 

Which raises an uncomfortable question: at what point does responsibility stop sitting solely with those in power, and begin, however reluctantly, to extend further outwards? When do repeated political choices begin to reshape how a nation itself is perceived—fairly or not?

That question sits uneasily alongside the reality that many Americans are actively resisting this. Recent protests—including the ‘No Kings’ marches—have drawn attention to concerns about overreach and the rotting away of democratic norms. These movements complicate any easy reading of the United States as unified behind its leadership.

At stake here, ultimately, are national reputations. Since the latest tensions in the Strait of Hormuz, Richard Shirreff, NATO’s former Deputy Supreme Allied Commander Europe, has pointed out that US military planners had long considered conflict scenarios with Iran—and that in each, disruption to the Strait of Hormuz was a central risk. UK press reports suggest those concerns were deliberately downplayed at senior levels by the Americans—raising difficult questions about how avoidable risks are being handled by one of our closest allies.

I’ve also noticed something smaller, but perhaps telling. People I know—not especially ideological—continue to turn away from American films. Not loudly, not as a campaign. Just a quiet reluctance, particularly towards war or superhero films built on the assumption that Americans prevail. It feels less like a wholesale rejection than a small but noticeable shift in sentiment—subtle, but enough to register.

For those of us who grew up on Apocalypse Now, Platoon, or Salvador, that shift feels disorienting. Those films didn’t simply celebrate America—they questioned it, often brutally. They belonged to a tradition willing to look at power and say, “it ain’t me…” 

At the same time, Emmanuel Macron has begun to sound less like a partner to the US and more like a critic. He has called for a more serious and consistent approach from Washington: “This is not a show. We are talking about war and peace and the lives of men and women.” That frustration is no longer just rhetorical. France has denied overflight rights for aircraft linked to US weapons transfers to Israel—an unusually direct signal from a close ally.

The tone has shifted, too. Trump’s mockery of Macron—delivered in a caricatured accent and punctuated by personal jibes—was less like diplomacy and more like harsh verbal slapstick. The same can be said of the unseemly derision directed at Starmer. Oddly, Iran has since let a French-owned ship through the Strait of Hormuz, a move some analysts have interpreted as a signal.

Countries such as Spain and Italy have placed limits on US military operations—restricting airspace and access to bases. These are not symbolic gestures; they shape what can actually be done.

As for the war itself, Donald Trump said at the weekend, “all Hell will reign [sic] down” on Iran, despite already pounding the Persian nation every day since February 28. Pro-American sentiment was certainly not evident at a church near one of the bases used by the Americans here in England, where I popped my head round the door and saw extra chairs laid out, presumably for the Easter service. For some visitors, there was a feeling of unease directly linked to comments made by War Secretary Pete Hegseth, who had publicly called for “overwhelming violence” in God’s name.

Across Europe, the message on Iran is becoming more and more consistent: this is not Europe’s war. Several governments have declined requests to help secure the Strait of Hormuz, citing the risks of escalation and an unwillingness to commit troops. A decade ago, such a position would have been almost unthinkable.

What is emerging is not a dramatic rupture, but something quieter—and potentially more consequential. A recent UK-led summit on the Hormuz crisis brought together dozens of countries, yet Washington was not at its centre. At the same time, the EU has been advancing its own diplomatic proposals rather than simply aligning with the US.

Slowly, perhaps reluctantly, Europe is beginning to act more like an independent geopolitical actor, viewing its ally across the Atlantic with increasing wariness. Meanwhile, Trump’s by now regular remarks telling European countries to “get your own oil” have only deepened the sense of distance.

Troublingly, what is taking shape is a shift from previously easy tallying to conditional cooperation, from junior partner to a kind of cautious independence, from military support to an almost chilling diplomatic distance.

This is presumably driven by fear of escalation, by economic vulnerability, and by domestic politics—but also by something less tangible: a growing sense, across much of Europe, of not being heard.

Okay, America has not yet become its president. But from the outside, the space between the two is narrowing—at least in how the country is increasingly perceived from abroad, even if that perception does not fully reflect the diversity of views within it. Friendless could be next—though not, one hopes, in the eyes of those Americans who are themselves questioning this path.

The post When America Becomes Its President appeared first on CounterPunch.org.