Maps Still Matter: Power, Geography, and the Quiet Reordering of the World

 “Nations have no permanent friends or allies, they only have permanent interests.”

— Lord Palmerston

In 2025, the world is once again rearranging itself—this time, quietly, unevenly, and with little of the clarity that once defined the Cold War or its end. But beneath the surface of alliances and summits, the old rules still hold. Geography, strategy, and fear remain the basic currencies of international life.

As someone trained in international relations and shaped by academic study in both England and Belgium, I often find that behind every flashy summit or sharp diplomatic statement, there is a far more enduring truth: where you are still determines who you fear, who you trust, and what you want. Nowhere is this clearer than in Eastern Europe, and perhaps no moment has revealed it more starkly than the policy drift we’ve witnessed under the second Trump administration.

The idea that geography still shapes global power may sound obvious—but for much of the past two decades, it was unfashionable in Western policy circles. Globalization was supposed to transcend maps. Technology would flatten conflict. Trade would bind rivals. That fantasy has ended. And as Europe re-learns how to live in a world of rival spheres, weak multilateralism, and power without order, the logic of terrain returns.

In Romania, geography is not metaphor—it is immediate. A long border with Ukraine. A direct dependence on NATO credibility. A constant reminder that Russia’s revisionist ambition is not theoretical, but topographical.

Western Europe might still enjoy the luxury of debating whether NATO is outdated. But here on the eastern flank, we know it is a necessity. Not because of ideology—but because of location.

What has changed in 2025 is not just Russia’s persistence, but America’s ambivalence. The Trump administration’s transactional approach to alliances has led to deep anxiety in Brussels and outright alarm in Warsaw, Bucharest, and Riga. Mutual defense commitments are now hedged. Intelligence cooperation, once routine, is politicized. And Eastern Europe is learning—again—that it cannot take shelter for granted. Having watched these changes up close, the shift is unmistakable: regional policy in Europe is no longer coordinated—it’s adaptive. Germany is recalibrating eastward policy with cautious pragmatism. France is speaking more about “strategic autonomy” than shared deterrence. The eastern states? They’re doubling down on hard power, energy diversification, and bilateral guarantees—often outside traditional EU channels. While Russia remains the immediate concern in Eastern Europe, China casts a longer, subtler shadow. Romania, like many of its neighbours, is orienting itself toward those global powers that can counterbalance both Beijing’s economic reach and Moscow’s military threat. This means closer security ties within the EU and a strategic independence in key economic sectors and future technologies and an increasingly pragmatic approach to India, Japan, and South Korea.

This is not idealism. It is not ideological loyalty. It is strategy—born of necessity, sharpened by geography. This is where Marshall’s idea of constraint resonates most. The choices of small and medium states are never limitless. They are shaped by their past, their borders, and the behavior of neighbors who do not change.

Kaplan was right about the burden of place. But in 2025, it is Marshall’s clarity that explains the pattern: Eastern Europe is shaped by its unfriendly Russian neighbor, and seeks protection through alignment with powers that make containment possible.

In this fractured order, alliances are no longer platforms for consensus—they are shelters from unpredictability. Romania’s posture reflects that. So does Poland’s. So will, increasingly, the Baltic states. The story of 2025 is not one of great ideological battles. It is about fear, leverage, and limited trust. It is about returning to geography—not as destiny, but as design constraint.

The terrain has not changed. Only our illusions about its irrelevance have. In the policy world, there is always a temptation to believe that institutions matter more than instincts. That treaties trump terrain. That cooperation can outpace conflict. But here, where memories of occupation are fresh and the Russian army remains just across a contested border, we remember the shape of vulnerability.

If geography is not destiny, it is at least discipline. And in a world of shifting allegiances, algorithmic propaganda, and frayed consensus, it is the nations that remember this discipline who will endure.