A Trip Around the World in 365 Days: Thank You for Your Incredible Loyalty
As we bring the year 2025 to a close, we have a confession to make: our counters are going wild, and that is the greatest gift you could have given us. Never, in four months, has European Security experienced such effervescence. There are now between 15,000 and 25,000 of you reading us from the United States, supported by a battalion of loyal readers in Canada and Australia (over 1,000) and in Great Britain (600). But the real geopolitical surprise of this year’s end comes from the East: for the past month, 300 Chinese visitors have been connecting every day—three times more than our French readers! Should we see this as a thirst for free analysis or increased surveillance? We prefer to see it as a sign that our writings are crossing all walls.
Thank you to you, readers from over 69 countries, for this trust that obliges us. For 2026, we have only one resolution: to try to do even better, with the same freedom of tone. Out of humility—and to avoid turning this site into an endless page of self-congratulation—we have left the comments section closed. We are undoubtedly depriving ourselves of brilliant remarks, and we regret it, but the dialogue remains open: please drop us a line at webmaster@european-security.com. We read everything, and we always reply.
Happy New Year to all!
The European-Security Editorial Team
Table of Contents
A Summit Meeting… of the Absurd
To end this year in style—and with a smile—we wanted to offer you a unique literary interlude. We have summoned in spirit two immense witnesses, undisputed masters of the human comedy, to cross their gaze and their verbe on our troubled times.
Imagine for a moment: Jean-Baptiste Poquelin (Molière) and Michel Audiard, invisible, leaning against the bar of the brand-new ballroom inaugurated by Donald Trump at the White House. Before them unfolds the spectacle of the court, the fans, and the cronies. One wields the alexandrine to skewer hypocrisy, the other uses slang to gun down stupidity, but both aim true.
Enjoy!
Scene One: The Ball of Illusions
The scene is set. A ballroom of gaudy luxury, excessive gilding, and poorly painted stucco. In the center, Donald Trump, surrounded by courtiers, gesticulates wildly. In a corner, invisible to the living, Michel Audiard, hands in his trench coat pockets, and Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, known as Molière, adjusting his wig, watch the spectacle.
Audiard (Looking at the crowd) Well, I’ll be damned… If someone had told me I’d see a circus like this one day, I would have given up Château-Margaux. Look at that, Jean-Baptiste. That’s not a ballroom anymore, that’s a Viennese pastry shop gone bad. And in the middle, the boss. The guy looks like he walked out of a casting call for selling used cars to the blind.
Molière (In a grave and poised tone) ‘Tis true, this garish pomp offends good sense, And this King for a day, in his residence, Displays a grandeur that is merely show, Hiding the void that lies beneath, below. See how he moves, and how he strikes a pose, Ignoring that Fate soon will interpose.
Audiard Interpose? Him? You’re kidding! Idiots dare to do anything, that’s actually how you recognize them. And this one, he’s a competition model. I read that paper by the experts on disinformation. The guy, it’s not just that he lies, it’s that he believes his own sales pitch! He’s the first sucker of his own scam. He fired everyone with a brain to keep only the yes-men. It’s not a government anymore, it’s a choir.
Molière You touch, Monsieur, upon a point so fine, For power makes the human soul decline. Locked in a mirror, he sees but his face, And dictates laws that have no wit nor grace. They say he is the target, and the first, Of poison subtle, by which he is cursed. Those who flatter his heart and immense pride, Know flattery opens the gates wide. He thinks he is the master, ruling hard, But serves a Tsar, distant and cold as stone, Who laughs at punishment, upon his throne.
Audiard Ah, the Tsar… Putin! Let’s talk about him. The other guy plays chess, and our friend Donald, he plays “War” with Pokémon cards. in the article on the “Sheriff of the Apocalypse,” they say it clearly: Trump thinks he’s a big shot, an Alpha Male. But when you look closely, he’s just the “Tsar’s Fool.” He acts the clown, he barks, he threatens, but in the end, who rakes in the chips? It’s Vladimir.
Molière An Opera Sheriff, hero of the stage, Who wants the world to bow before his rage. He thinks he is a God, bringing the end, But his glory is nothing, mere pretend. He chases friends, embraces every foe, And takes for truth the fake and shiny show. He calls himself a sovereign, but his soul, Is tied to shadows that create the whole. Is he mad, you ask? Or is he sly? Is this a genius plan, or a lie? No, in his eyes I see the troubling stare, Of a new Tartuffe who has no soul to bare.
Audiard Tartuffe, maybe. But a Tartuffe with the nuclear codes, that gives me the creeps. The problem, Jean-Baptiste, isn’t the guy. Guys like that, we’ve known them—the ones who love the sound of their own voice, who confuse their bank account with the State budget. No, the tragedy is the ones applauding. Did you see the poll? 70% of Americans know Russia is the aggressor, but they keep watching the show. It’s fascinating. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. You know it’s gonna hurt, but you can’t look away.
Molière The people, alas, are often led astray, By he who promises, but does not pay. They prefer the noise, the fury, and the glare, To the sad rigor of a State that’s fair. But see this “Sheriff,” with no horse or law, Treating allies like dogs with a fatal flaw. He insults Europe, scorns History’s page, Thinking ignorance is a sign of a sage. What a play, my friend, we could have written here! If the subject were not so full of fear.
Audiard You’re telling me. I would have written a scene where he tries to buy Greenland with casino chips. But reality beats fiction. As they say in the paper: “The dealer gets tired fast.” He might have the red tie and the hair in the wind, but you can feel the mechanics grinding. He’s bluffing, but he’s got nothing in his hand. That’s the worst part: an idiot who’s scared is dangerous. He shoots in every direction.
Molière So let us leave to Time, that judge so cold, To reveal the darkness that this man does hold. For every reign must end, and masks must fall, Even if lies, for now, enthrall us all. But while we wait for the curtain to descend, Let us watch this feast… which is no friend.
Audiard (Lighting an imaginary cigarette) Come on, Jean-Baptiste. Let’s beat it. I don’t want to see the end of the movie. Chances are, in the end, the good guy doesn’t win. And between us, a “Dinner of Fools” is funny for five minutes, but when it’s on a planetary scale, it kills your appetite.
(Trump raises his glass of Diet Coke to applause.)
Curtain
Scene II: The Merchants of the Temple
Trump is still in the center of the room, surrounded by his team. He proudly introduces a man with a carnivorous smile: Steve Witkoff. Audiard and Molière watch, smirking.
Audiard (Nodding towards Witkoff) Look at that number. The guy next to Donald, with the grin that scratches the floorboards. That’s Witkoff. His new Grand Chamberlain for the Middle East. Rumor has it he’s a real estate whiz. Donald thinks making peace between Israel and Palestine is like negotiating a vacant lot in Queens.
Molière (Mockingly) Behold this mind, this master of the trade, Who treats nations like deals to be made. For him, diplomacy is but a game of cheats, Selling carpets, camels, on the dusty streets. He takes a realtor for an envoy grand, Thinking salesmanship rules the land. ‘Tis the old jalopy, posing as a carriage, Thinking it can shine in a royal marriage.
Audiard A jalopy for a carriage! You said it. It’s a bazaar, Jean-Baptiste. They’re haggling over peace like it’s a set of kitchen pans. “Come on, I’ll give you a discount on the West Bank if you take two hotels in Dubai.” It’s not foreign policy anymore, it’s the Home Shopping Network. And Donald, he’s convinced it’s genius. He thinks he reinvented hot water.
Molière He thinks all can be bought, all has a price, That honor is sold like a roll of dice. He ignores history, memory, and blood, Thinking money alone stems the rising flood. But these Temple merchants, when the market closes, Will find that peace is not bought with roses.
Scene III: The Hero of The Barracks
Trump is now on a small stage, talking about his military “service”. He clumsily mimics martial gestures. Audiard snickers.
Audiard (Bursting into laughter) Oh no, now he’s crossing the line! He’s telling us about his war. His “war”! The guy went to a sandpit military school when he was a kid, and now he’s playing Rambo. While others were getting their guts spilled in Vietnam, he had “sore feet”. Bone spurs, he said! Handy things, spurs, for galloping away from the front lines.
Molière (In a scathing tone) Here stands the brave, the hero of the base, Who never looked real danger in the face. He boasts of courage, of a heart so bold, Yet hid in courtyards when the bell was tolled. He calls them “losers,” those who died for us, Who fell on beaches, in the dust and fuss. For him, to sacrifice is idiocy, The only glory is one’s own safety.
Audiard That’s the worst part. The contempt. Calling the guys who died in Normandy “losers” and “suckers” because they got killed. To him, a guy who sacrifices himself is a pigeon. The smart guy is the one who stays warm counting his cash while others get shot. It’s the morality of a grocer who thinks he’s a Constable.
Molière He understands nothing of the soul’s high flight, And thinks that courage is a fading light. His world is a desert where only gain is king, Where honor is a useless, broken thing. But History, my friend, has a memory long, And it will judge this boaster for his wrong.
Scene IV: The Racket of Petty Kings
The ballroom is still noisy. Trump is on a platform, gesticulating in front of a map of Europe where the word “PAY!” is scrawled everywhere. Audiard and Molière, invisible, are leaning against a gilded bar.
Audiard (Sipping an imaginary drink) Look at him, Jean-Baptiste. He’s explaining life to them. To him, Europe isn’t a continent, it’s a condo building that hasn’t paid its fees. He doesn’t see them as allies, but as tenants who owe him dough.
Molière (Listening to the speech) He speaks of tribute, like a Caesar old, Demanding payment in the purest gold. These kings of Europe, claims he, are too proud, To not bow down before him in the crowd. He seeks to break them, crush their dignity, To make them pay the price of liberty. He sees but ingrates in this royal band, Who ought to kiss his all-protecting hand. For him, alliance is a marketplace, Where only weakness shows its humble face.
Audiard That’s the genius of the scam. He makes them pay for protection against the danger he creates himself! It’s not politics anymore, it’s a mob shakedown in Pigalle. “Nice shop you got there, Europe, shame if something happened to it. Come on, cough up the cash.” And the worst part is, the suckers are gonna pay.
Molière He names as genius what is merely base, And takes for strength a terrible disgrace. Believing he is strictly above the law, He rules by fear, with hammer and with claw. But heed the hubris blinding every king, The harder fall, the closer clipping wing.
Scene V: The Love of The Tsar
The atmosphere changes. Trump is sitting on a sofa, looking at a photo of Vladimir Putin on his phone with a lovestruck expression. Russian courtiers are serving him champagne.
Audiard (Leaning in to see the screen) Holy cow… Did you see how he looks at him? He looks like a schoolgirl staring at a photo of a pop star. It’s not admiration, it’s a crush. He’s head over heels for the Russian.
Molière A strange passion for a chief so brute, Whose crimes are silent, and whose law is mute. All that in others is but vice and sin, Becomes a virtue he delights within. An iron fist is hailed as firm command, A cold indifference as a guiding hand. He admires the tyrant with no remorse, Who deals out death as simply matter of course. He envies power, absolute and free, And dreams in secret of such destiny.
Audiard No wonder he envies him! Putin doesn’t have a Congress to bug him, no judges to summon him, no press asking stupid questions. for Donald, it’s a manager’s paradise! He doesn’t see a dictator, he sees a guy who pulled off a hostile takeover on a whole country. It’s the ultimate Art of the Deal. He’s not in love with the man, Jean-Baptiste, he’s in love with the system.
Molière He sees within this distant Tsar’s cold glass, The image of a fate that comes to pass. A world unbound, where his desire alone, Would be the law upon a single throne. This love is but a confession, loud and clear, Of a soul sold to the tyrant he holds dear.
Scene VI: The Apotheosis of The Fiasco
Trump is back on the platform, triumphant, under a shower of golden confetti. He is holding a fake Nobel Peace Prize he made himself.
Audiard (Bursting into laughter) Now that takes the cake! The guy set the planet on fire, insulted half the Earth, almost started three wars… and he gives himself the Nobel Peace Prize. It’s magnificent. It’s not just bad faith anymore, it’s art.
Molière (Smiling sadly) Behold the Maker, Prince of Peace so grand, Who claims to fix the world with waving hand. His failures turn to victories in his speech, His coarse lies put the truth out of reach. He says he saved the world from chaos deep, While sowing winds that make the nations weep. He whines of Europe, ungrateful and so cold, Refusing homage to a hero bold. He claims a prize for destroying not a thing, In twenty-four hours, as he likes to sing.
Audiard Twenty-four hours! He can’t even boil an egg in that time. But that’s his strength, Jean-Baptiste. The nerve. He sells you a car without an engine, and when you complain, he tells you you’re lucky because you’ll save on gas. And these idiots, they applaud! Look at them. They’re ready to swallow anything, as long as it glitters.
Molière The world’s a stage where true illusion reigns, And the best actor all the praise obtains. He turns dull lead into a fool’s gold prize, And dazzled crowds believe the shiny lies. But when the lights go out upon the scene, Whatever’s left will show what might have been. The Art of the Deal is but a sad device, To hide the void beneath the edifice.
Audiard Come on, let’s go. We’ve seen enough bullshit for this century. I need a real drink, something that strips paint. Far away from this circus.
(They walk away slowly, leaving Trump waving to a delirious crowd cheering at its own reflection.)
Final curtain
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