In 2017, President Donald Trump addressed the United Nations General Assembly, proclaiming, “I will always put America first, just like you, as the leaders of your countries, will always, and should always, put your countries first.” The statement, delivered to a room accustomed to American leaders extolling global unity, landed with a thud. It was not just words—within months, the US exited the Paris Climate Agreement, jolting allies and signalling a seismic shift. This “America First” doctrine has since redefined US foreign policy, hastening the unravelling of the post–World War II liberal order. By retreating from multilateralism—through slashed foreign aid, tariffs on allies, and disengagement from international bodies—the US has weakened global institutions and tilted power toward rivals like China and Russia.
The Pax Americana narrative paints the United States as a magnanimous postwar leader, forging a world of cooperation and prosperity. This is a half-truth. After World War II, the US did not so much design a new order as seize an opportunity. Europe lay in ruins—Britain and France, drained by war and colonial burdens, were shadows of their imperial selves. The Soviet Union, though a victor, emerged with its economy gutted and millions dead, locked in a struggle to rebuild. Into this vacuum stepped the US, its homeland unscathed and its industrial might unrivaled.
The Marshall Plan, often hailed as altruism, was strategic hardball. By funnelling $13 billion into Western Europe, the US did not just rebuild nations—it built a bulwark against Soviet influence, secured markets for American exports, and anchored its military through NATO. The UN, World Bank, and IMF, conveniently based in the US or shaped by its priorities, locked in American dominance under a veneer of universalism. This was not enlightened leadership; it was calculated opportunism, exploiting others’ weakness to cement power.
By the 21st century, cracks appeared. Globalisation enriched corporations but hollowed out American manufacturing, while China’s ascent and the draining wars in Iraq and Afghanistan eroded faith in the system. Enter Trump in 2016, wielding “America First” as a wrecking ball. His administration ditched the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), reworked NAFTA into the USMCA, and openly questioned NATO’s value. Withdrawals from the Iran nuclear deal and Paris Agreement cemented this break, rejecting interdependence for raw nationalism. What began as hegemony morphed into retreat, unraveling decades of influence.
“America First” resonated deeply at home. Trump tapped into the anger of millions of people and workers sidelined by trade deals and elites who had dismissed their plight. By framing international bodies as leeches on American sovereignty, he stoked a nationalist fire that redefined politics. This populist appeal proved so powerful that it propelled him to a second term as president in 2024.
The administration’s push to gut foreign aid—proposing cuts of up to 30%—marks a retreat from America’s stabilising role. Though Congress softened the blow, funding for USAID and programmes like PEPFAR (HIV/AIDS relief) has pretty much stopped. Historically, aid has been a geopolitical tool—shoring up allies, stabilising weak states, and countering rivals. In Africa, where China’s Belt and Road Initiative pours billions into infrastructure, US pullbacks cede influence over trade routes and resources like rare earth minerals. In Southeast Asia, nations like Vietnam—once courted as bulwarks against China—see America’s commitment wane, pushing them toward Beijing’s orbit. This erosion of soft power amplifies risks: fragile states, unmoored from US support, become breeding grounds for terrorism, piracy, and migration—crises that boomerang back to American shores.
This retreat has unleashed a power vacuum that is being filled by powers exploiting Western fissures. The liberal order’s decay ushers in a world where might trumps rules. “America First” has thus birthed a chaotic multipolarity, with the US less a leader than a bystander.
Russia and China are increasingly stepping into this geopolitical void. Driven by a shared ambition to expand their global influence and challenge the Western-led international order, both nations are seizing opportunities in regions where US presence has decreased, such as the Middle East, Africa, and parts of Asia and Latin America. China employs a soft power strategy through its Belt and Road Initiative —spanning 140 countries— investing billions in infrastructure projects that tie developing nations into its economic orbit, securing access to resources and trade routes while portraying itself as a leader in global development. Russia, conversely, relies on hard power, leveraging its military capabilities and energy resources—seen in its intervention in Syria and its control over European gas supplies via pipelines like Nord Stream 2, and the current conflict in Ukraine—to assert dominance. Their motivations are clear: by filling this void, they aim to reshape alliances, counter US hegemony, and establish themselves as indispensable players in a multipolar world. The European Union’s current vulnerabilities amplify Russia and China’s ability to gain ground. The EU is hampered by internal divisions—Brexit deeply weakened its cohesion, economic disparities between member states persist, and conflicting foreign policy priorities prevent unified action on the global stage.
This lack of decisiveness limits the EU’s capacity to counter Russia’s aggression or China’s economic expansion effectively. Furthermore, the EU’s dependence on Russian energy and Chinese trade creates strategic leverage for both powers; Russia’s gas exports bind Europe by energy necessity, leaving little room for diversification, while China’s investments in European infrastructure deepen economic ties that discourage resistance. These weaknesses make the EU an inconsistent geopolitical counterweight, allowing Russia and China to present themselves as viable alternatives to Western leadership. By offering economic benefits or security assurances—often without the democratic conditions imposed by the West—they exploit Europe’s hesitations and attract nations seeking reliable partnerships amid a shifting global landscape.
Defenders of “America First” argue it is a pragmatic reset. They point to a $600 billion trade deficit with China, jobs lost to outsourcing, and the US footing 22% of the UN budget—proof multilateralism bleeds America dry. Tariffs, they claim, revive steel towns; aid cuts prioritise taxpayers.
But these gains are illusory. Tariffs lift some sectors but hike costs. Retaliation slashes exports. Exiting deals, destabilises the world. Most critically, disengagement hands rivals the reins—China’s UN influence swells as America steps back. Short-term populism trades away long-term leverage, leaving the US isolated in a world it once shaped.
“America First” has accelerated Pax Americana’s decline, dismantling an order the US once wielded to its advantage. Slashed aid, punitive tariffs, and a retreat from institutions like the UN and NATO have shrunk American influence, emboldening China and Russia to fill the void. The result is a fragmented globe—less stable, less predictable, and less amenable to US interests.
Reversing this demands bold steps. The US must recommit to multilateralism—modernising the UN and WTO to reflect 21st century realities, doubling down on alliances, and leading on climate and health crises. Isolationism offers no refuge; it breeds conflict and cedes power to opponents. The question now is stark: Can America pivot back to cooperative leadership, or will “America First” lock in a legacy of retreat and rivalry? Global order—and America’s place in it—hinges on the answer.
