In Thucydides’ The History of the Peloponnesian War, the Melian Dialogue records a chilling encounter between imperial but democratic Athens and the neutral island of Melos. The Melians appeal to justice, neutrality, and hope. The Athenians do not blink. “The strong do what they can, the weak suffer what they must.” The result? Bloodbath. Subjugation.
What made the Athenian position uniquely sinister was not just its power—but its paradox. Athens, after all, was the shining beacon of democracy in the ancient world. It practiced self-rule at home while waging conquest abroad. It voted for wars. Its imperialism wasn’t autocratic—it was democratic, and all the more dangerous for it.
Sound familiar?
In the white silence of the North Atlantic, where glaciers breathe and the wind carries the memory of ancestors, a scene unfolded that might have stirred even Thucydides from his grave. Not phalanxes and orators this time, but a blustering American president and an island that has long stood quiet at the edge of empires. In 2019, Donald Trump declared his intention to purchase Greenland—as if it were a casino or a golf course, not a homeland. The world scoffed. But beneath the absurdity lay something unsettling: A modern Melian Dialogue, where the language of power, cloaked in democracy, once again trampled dignity.
The United States, like Athens, is a democracy and an empire. It celebrates freedom at home while exerting dominance abroad. Its foreign adventures are often dressed in the robes of liberty, progress, or strategy. And like Athens, it must manufacture domestic consent for its imperial manoeuvres. Even Trump—whose Greenland adventure was riddled with the logic of conquest—could not bypass the democratic machinery. He needed buy-in. He had to sell the absurd as strategic. He had to frame the illicit as opportunity.
That’s the difference—and the danger. In 2019 Trump wasn’t operating during wartime. Unlike Athens, which threatened Melos in the thick of the Peloponnesian War, Trump made his offer in a time of peace. That renders the logic of acquisition all the more disconcerting. It was not driven by existential threat or desperation—it was opportunism in peacetime. A land grab masquerading as geopolitical foresight. This wasn’t without precedent. The United States has long pursued land and leverage through transactional empire: the purchase of Alaska from Russia in 1867, the annexation of Hawaii in 1898, and the spread of military bases across the Pacific under the facade of strategic necessity. Greenland was merely the next frontier in a long lineage of acquisitions—some bought, others seized—all justified after the fact.
But Trump’s mistake, perhaps, was being too blunt. Where Athens justified conquest with rhetorical finesse, Trump treated Greenland like a real estate deal. No sugar-coating, no diplomacy—just strategic and business interest and ego.
Yet Trump was only the symptom. The system of American empire—bipartisan and well-oiled—continued the courtship. Washington reopened its consulate in Nuuk. Offered aid. Ramped up military cooperation. And now, in March 2025, the project advanced. U.S. Vice President JD Vance and Second Lady Usha Vance visited the U.S. military’s Pituffik Space Base in Greenland. Though public visits were scaled down after protests and political backlash, the symbolism remained intact. Vance used the platform to present the U.S. as a better steward of Greenland’s future than Denmark—more capable, more attentive, and more deserving. He framed increased American involvement as essential, citing Russia and China’s Arctic advances as justification.
And Greenland? Like Melos, it resists—quietly but resolutely. “Greenland is not for sale,” they said in 2019. They’re still saying it in 2025. But refusal doesn’t mean immunity. Modern empires, especially democratic ones, are patient. They don’t need immediate conquest; they prefer long games, where influence replaces invasion. This is the modern Melian Dialogue. It no longer plays out in war councils but in press releases, aid packages, and high-level visits. The rhetoric is cordial; the asymmetry, intact. And so, behind each base expansion, each diplomatic courteousness, every smiling handshake—there’s that same Athenian echo: “The strong do what they can…”
Yet herein lies the contradiction. Democratic empires like Athens and America must convince their citizens to support imperial ventures. That need for domestic legitimacy is both a restraint and a danger. It means imperialism is often packaged as progress, sold to voters under banners of security or prosperity. In Trump’s case, so far he failed to rally domestic support. Yet history is replete with precedents where the implausible reenters as doctrine. With Trump in power till 2028, and the drums of great power competition beating louder, the line between parody and policy grows ever thinner.
The tragedy is that Greenland, like Melos, has no interest in war, only in sovereignty. Its people are Indigenous, proud, and slowly pushing toward independence from Denmark. They want dignity, not domination. Self-determination, not strategic absorption. But the world they live in is still ruled by the logic of empire. That logic whispers: your location is too valuable, your land too rich, your autonomy too inconvenient.
So what now?
We must expose the logic. Name the empire. Challenge the moral hypocrisy. If America truly respects sovereignty, it must accept that some places are not for sale—literally or figuratively. It must accept “no” not as a negotiation, but as a final word. It must abandon the Melian mentality.
Because this is bigger than Greenland. The Melian Dialogue plays out wherever power outweighs principle: in Yemen, where local autonomy is smothered by regional intervention. In Palestine, where international law is invoked but never enforced. In Kashmir, where India’s majoritarian nationalism overrides the promise of autonomy. In Ukraine, where Russia cloaks aggression in historical entitlement. Melos is everywhere. So is Athens.
Unless this pattern is broken, the outcome is already written: a world where power defines legitimacy, and small nations are reduced to mere pawns in a larger game.
Yet let us not forget: Athens fell. Not because it lacked strength, but because it lacked humility. It could not see that even empires are mortal. That small nations can resist. That power does not grant permanence.
Greenland may not defeat empire. But its resistance exposes the illusion that imperial reach is benevolent. The Melian Dialogue is not ancient history. It is a mirror. The real question is whether the United States still sees a partner in that reflection—or merely the outline of its own dominion.
