Some conflicts are misremembered by accident. Others are misremembered because the simpler version is more useful. The war of 1992–1993 in Abkhazia belongs to the second category. What follows is an attempt to set aside the convenient shortcuts and look at the conflict as the Abkhazians themselves understood it: a struggle, finally, over the right to exist.

There is a particular violence in being remembered incorrectly. For the Abkhaz people, the war of 1992 and 1993 has suffered precisely this fate, refracted through interpretative frames so reductive that they obscure almost everything that matters. The conflict is routinely catalogued as an eruption of primal ethnic hatred, a separatist rebellion against a fledgling democracy, or, most conveniently of all, a proxy war engineered by Moscow against a vulnerable Tbilisi. Each of these frames has the merit of simplicity. None of them survives sustained scrutiny.

America’s closest allies are adjusting to a world in which Washington is no longer a stabilising force. The consequences are reshaping the meaning of the Western alliance itself.

For more than three-quarters of a century, the Western alliance has rested on an assumption so deeply embedded it rarely needed restating: whatever its internal frictions, the United States would not turn on its closest partners. Canada and Britain, bound to Washington by war, intelligence, trade and habit, were not merely allies but extensions of American power. That assumption is now breaking down at speed.

What happens when the sheriff decides the town was always his property, and the townspeople discover their protector has become their predator? The answer is unfolding in real time as America's second Trump presidency transforms hegemony from consensual leadership into naked extraction.

When the Canadian Prime Minister warns that “if we’re not at the table, we’re on the menu”, he is not indulging in melodrama. He is admitting, almost with a kind of professional shame, that the grammar of the post-war world has changed. Not gradually. Not politely. But decisively enough that even states once sheltered by proximity to American power now speak like vulnerable middle powers. The remark would have sounded bizarre a decade ago. Canada is a G7 economy, a NATO founding member, a country that helped write the operating manual of the Western system. Yet in early 2026, Canada’s leader speaks as if the state itself has become edible.

The world is not merely unsettled. It is being reordered, abruptly and without pretence. In the first year of Donald Trump’s second term, American foreign policy has shed what remained of its post-1945 camouflage: the language of alliances, institutions, and rules. What is emerging in its place is a stark doctrine of power, openly declared and aggressively practised. This is not an adjustment at the margins. It is the systematic dismantling of the international order the United States itself once built.