“Powerful states bend rules when they believe the price is manageable”

Trump and Chagos

Interview: Shyam Bhatia, London-based journalist and author

* ‘Small states can’t outmuscle great powers, but they can outlast their arrogance.

By framing the Chagos issue as a matter of international law and regional stability, Mauritius increases the reputational cost of disruption’

* ‘Greenland is a test case for how far an acquisitive claim can be repackaged as defensive necessity within a democratic system’

In this incisive interview, Shyam Bhatia, a London-based journalist and former Diplomatic Editor at The Observer, unpacks the shifting tectonic plates of global diplomacy. With a career forged in the war zones and high-stakes political corridors of the Middle East, Africa, and South Asia, Bhatia brings a seasoned reporter’s eye to the “New Indian Ocean Chessboard.”

The discussion centres on the sudden destabilization of the Mauritius-UK Chagos agreement following inflammatory rhetoric from the Trump administration. Shyam Bhatia explores how the archipelago has been transformed from a landmark case of decolonisation into a “transactional real-estate asset,” used as a rhetorical prop to justify a renewed American expansionism — most notably the push for Greenland. Through the lens of what he terms the “Donroe Doctrine,” Shyam Bhatia argues that we are witnessing a move away from a rules-based international order toward a world where legal principles are treated as mere “risk management” and sovereignty is negotiable for the weak.

Mauritius Times: In early 2025, the Trump administration signalled support for the Mauritius-UK Chagos deal. Why do you think he chose today (Tuesday, January 20) to characterize the deal as an ‘act of total weakness’ and ‘great stupidity’ — specifically in relation to his push for Greenland?

Shyam Bhatia: Donald Trump’s timing is rarely accidental. Chagos itself is not a domestic political issue in the United States, but it is symbolically powerful. It represents a rare case where decolonisation norms, international law and sustained moral argument combined to constrain Western strategic discretion. By denouncing Chagos at precisely the moment he is pushing the idea of acquiring Greenland, Trump constructs a simple, almost theatrical contrast between what he calls weakness — giving territory up — and what he calls strength — taking or securing territory.

The language Trump uses is revealing. “Weakness” and “stupidity” are not legal arguments; they are moral judgements designed to delegitimise the very idea of concession, even when that concession corrects a colonial injustice. This fits Trump’s long-standing political instinct: portray predecessors as naïve, depict allies as feeble, and present himself as the figure who restores dominance. In that sense, Chagos becomes a prop in a larger performance about lost power and recovered greatness.

There is also a signalling effect beyond domestic politics. Trump is warning allies that foreign-policy continuity can no longer be assumed. Agreements reached under previous administrations, even those grounded in international law, may be treated as provisional. Chagos thus becomes collateral damage in a broader attempt to normalise revisionism as a governing principle rather than an aberration.

There is also a historical echo here that Trump instinctively exploits. The language he uses — weakness, stupidity, surrender — draws on an older imperial vocabulary in which territory was the ultimate marker of status. In that world, giving land back was not moral progress but decline. Trump’s political genius, such as it is, lies in reactivating that vocabulary for a contemporary audience that feels economically and culturally insecure. Chagos, in this telling, is not about colonial history or displaced populations; it is about a West that has supposedly forgotten how to be strong.

Linking Chagos to Greenland therefore serves a strategic narrative purpose. It collapses very different cases into a single story of loss and recovery. By doing so, Trump avoids engaging with the specific legal and historical arguments behind the Chagos settlement and instead shifts the terrain onto instinct and emotion. The implication is that any leader who respects international law over territorial advantage is unfit for power. That is a dangerous lesson to normalise, because once law is framed as weakness, every future legal obligation becomes politically vulnerable.

* Donald Trump explicitly linked the Chagos “stupidity” to the “imperative” of acquiring Greenland. Is this a sign that international territories are now being treated as transactional real estate assets rather than sovereign entities governed by international law?

Yes, and it marks a deeper shift in how sovereignty itself is being discussed. Trump speaks of territory as if it were an asset on a balance sheet — valued for location, minerals or military utility — rather than as a legal and political status shaped by history, population and treaty obligations. In this worldview, sovereignty is conditional: secure for the powerful, negotiable for the weak.

Great powers have always pursued advantage, but what has changed is the disappearance of rhetorical restraint. For decades, even when states bent rules, they maintained the appearance that those rules mattered. Trump often discards that convention. He replaces legality with bargaining and consent with leverage. Territory becomes something to be “won”, “secured” or “dealt with”, not something governed by binding norms.

The danger lies in normalisation. Once publics become accustomed to territorial questions framed as transactions, the post-1945 assumption that borders and sovereign status are not simply up for negotiation weakens. International law does not vanish, but it becomes something invoked selectively rather than a discipline that constrains behaviour. Small states feel that erosion first, because their security depends most heavily on the idea that rules apply regardless of power.

What makes this moment especially consequential is that transactional language, once normalised at the top, filters down. Bureaucracies, militaries and diplomats take their cues from how leaders speak. If territory is openly described as negotiable property, then the restraint traditionally exercised by officials begins to loosen. Legal advisers become risk managers rather than guardians of principle. Negotiators draft clauses with exit ramps rather than closure.

For small states, this is profoundly unsettling. Their sovereignty has always rested less on power than on predictability. When sovereignty becomes something that can be revisited, repriced or reframed as a “deal,” the incentive structure changes. Law becomes a tactic rather than a foundation. The deeper danger is not a single transaction, but a cumulative shift in expectation: that everything is, ultimately, negotiable if sufficient pressure is applied.

* Trump claims global rivals have noticed this “weakness.” Based on your analysis of the “New Indian Ocean Chessboard,” does a Mauritian Chagos actually increase Chinese leverage, or is this merely “performative” security language used to justify US expansionism elsewhere?

A Mauritian Chagos does not automatically increase Chinese leverage in any operational sense. Mauritius lacks both the military capacity and, so far, the political inclination to alter the realities around Diego Garcia. The lease arrangements were designed precisely to preserve continuity, and there is no evidence that Port Louis seeks to turn the archipelago into a platform for rival powers.

China is therefore being invoked rhetorically rather than analytically. “China” becomes a shortcut that converts a legally grounded decolonisation settlement into a security scare. This is performative language: it compresses complexity into alarm and makes dissent appear irresponsible.

In the Indian Ocean context, the subtler risk is reputational. When Western powers appear to treat lawful decolonisation outcomes as negotiable, rivals gain narrative advantage across Africa, Asia and island states. That legitimacy gap can, over time, translate into diplomatic leverage — votes, partnerships and access — without Mauritius doing anything dramatic at all.

* Your article published in this paper last week cites Henry Kissinger’s view that the US does not allow international law to constrain its freedom of action. Does Trump’s sudden pivot on a mutually agreed treaty between the UK and Mauritius serve as the ultimate “real-world” validation of this doctrine?

It does, in a particularly stark form. Kissinger’s observation was often criticised as cynical, but it was descriptively accurate: international law constrains power only when power consents to be constrained. Trump strips away the diplomatic veneer and states the hierarchy openly — strategic preference overrides legal settlement.

What makes the Chagos case especially revealing is that the United States is not even a signatory to the agreement. Yet Trump speaks as if Washington has an inherent right to judge and delegitimise outcomes that affect its strategic environment. That reflects an expansive conception of authority in which multilateral process matters only insofar as it aligns with US discretion.

This is more than unilateralism; it is legal relativism. Treaties cease to be binding endpoints and become temporary arrangements, valid only while they remain convenient. For small states, the implication is sobering: winning a case and securing an agreement are necessary achievements, but they are not self-executing. They still require political defence in a world where power reserves the right to reinterpret legality.

Kissinger at least acknowledged this reality with a certain tragic realism. Trump goes further by celebrating it. That distinction matters. Kissinger saw the tension between law and power as something to be managed discreetly; Trump treats it as something to be performed publicly. By doing so, he weakens not only the authority of international law but also the credibility of the United States as a steward of any rules-based system.

For allies, this creates a corrosive ambiguity. If law binds only when convenient, then alignment becomes a gamble. Today’s legal settlement may be tomorrow’s strategic mistake. That uncertainty pushes states to hedge, diversify and insure themselves against sudden reversals. In that sense, Trump’s validation of Kissinger’s doctrine does not merely describe the limits of law — it actively accelerates the fragmentation of the order that law was meant to sustain.

* You also noted that in cases like Venezuela, “necessity is asserted first, legality debated later.” Do you see Trump’s “National Security” justification for Greenland as a template for how he might eventually attempt to override the legal framework of the Chagos treaty?

Yes. “National security” has become the master key. Once invoked, legal nuance is sidelined and moral hesitation is reframed as irresponsibility. Greenland is a test case for how far an acquisitive claim can be repackaged as defensive necessity within a democratic system.

If that narrative holds politically, it becomes a template. Agreements are questioned not because they are unlawful, but because “circumstances have changed” or “threats have evolved”. Legal commitments become contingent, and reinterpretation becomes routine.

Applied to Chagos, this need not involve formal repudiation. A treaty can be hollowed out through delay, re-review, new conditions or administrative obstruction — preserving the appearance of compliance while draining confidence and finality. That is how legal orders decay: exceptions multiply until they become normal practice.

* You wrote that Mauritius won its case through “moral clarity” and meticulous law. Does moral clarity hold any currency in an era where, as Robert Kagan noted, powerful nations “bend or break the rules” whenever they deem it necessary?

Moral clarity still matters, but it no longer guarantees enforcement. It matters as legitimacy, narrative and historical record. Mauritius demonstrated that a small state can win the argument even if it cannot compel compliance by force.

Moral clarity also exposes hypocrisy, raising reputational costs for Britain and, indirectly, the United States. In democratic systems, reputational costs can later become political costs. They narrow the space for quiet backsliding and force explanations that may prove uncomfortable over time.

Kagan’s point remains valid: powerful states bend rules when they believe the price is manageable. Moral clarity is therefore not a shield, but a slower, cumulative form of leverage that depends on persistence rather than immediate effect.

* The Chagos agreement is often described as a “settled and irreversible” outcome. After Trump’s intervention last Tuesday, and given the political fallout in the UK, do you still believe the deal is truly “irreversible”?

Legally, the settlement stands. Politically, it has been destabilised. Trump’s intervention shows that “irreversible” no longer means closure; it means an agreement’s capacity to withstand sustained political assault.

The greater danger is erosion rather than outright reversal. Delay, reinterpretation and bureaucratic obstruction can hollow out a settlement while preserving plausible deniability. That corrosion is often more damaging than open repudiation, because it destroys trust without triggering accountability.

When prominent figures in Britain suggest the deal has effectively been “vetoed”, they normalise the idea that decolonisation outcomes can be reopened by rhetorical force alone. That is precisely how supposedly settled questions become unsettled again.

The word “irreversible” now functions more as reassurance than as reality. It reassures domestic audiences and international partners that a difficult chapter has closed. But Trump’s intervention exposes how fragile that reassurance can be. If a single external actor can destabilise a settlement simply by denouncing it loudly enough, then irreversibility is no longer a legal condition but a political achievement that must be constantly defended.

This has implications far beyond Chagos. It suggests that decolonisation itself is never quite finished — that it remains subject to revision if strategic moods change. That is a deeply unsettling message for former colonies that believed law offered finality. It means that even success carries an afterlife of vulnerability, and that vigilance replaces closure as the price of sovereignty.

* You warned that for former colonies, formal sovereignty is often acknowledged while “substantive control” is retained through technicalities. Is Trump’s outburst a signal that Washington intends to re-assert “substantive control” regardless of the paperwork signed in 2025?

It is at least a warning that Washington is prepared to speak as if it retains decisive authority regardless of formalities. Substantive control does not require rewriting treaties; it can be exercised through security dependence, information asymmetry and political pressure.

That is why sovereignty can become symbolic rather than operational if vigilance lapses. Paper victories must be defended in practice.

* If, as you say, “law no longer enforces itself,” what diplomatic or political mechanisms does Mauritius actually have left to ensure the UK and US honour the 99-year lease agreement if the US Presidency remains hostile to it?

Mauritius’s tools are limited, but not negligible. Persistent multilateral diplomacy keeps the issue visible and imposes reputational costs, particularly on Britain, which remains sensitive to accusations of legal bad faith and neo-colonial manoeuvre.

Coalition-building with other small and middle powers can amplify Mauritius’s position, raising the diplomatic price of ignoring law. Implementation discipline also matters: regular consultations, clear benchmarks and public reaffirmations reduce the scope for quiet backsliding.

There is also a pragmatic argument Mauritius can continue to make: stability. A lawful settlement reduces long-term controversy around Diego Garcia; undermining it creates a permanent legitimacy problem around the base. Even Washington values basing arrangements that are politically defensible.

Mauritius can also think in generational terms. International disputes rarely resolve on a single timeline. What matters is how narratives harden over years. By consistently presenting itself as the party acting in good faith — implementing, consulting, documenting — Mauritius builds a record that outlives any one US administration. That record matters when political winds shift, when courts are revisited, and when new leaders seek to re-anchor legitimacy.

In this sense, patience becomes strategy. Small states cannot outmuscle great powers, but they can outlast moments of arrogance. By embedding Chagos in a broader story about lawful decolonisation, regional stability and international responsibility, Mauritius increases the reputational cost of disruption. Over time, that cost can outweigh the convenience of obstruction.

* You also mentioned that “exceptional measures normalize.” If a US administration successfully refuses to recognize a decolonization treaty backed by the ICJ and UN, what does that signal to other small nations currently negotiating “rules-based” settlements with great powers?

It signals that legality offers procedure, not protection. Even the most meticulous legal strategy cannot guarantee finality if a great power later decides the outcome is inconvenient.

Small states will conclude that legal success must be paired with political architecture — allies who will speak, votes that matter and relationships that create mutual interest. Otherwise, negotiation becomes an exercise in managed vulnerability.

Ironically, this weakens the very order powerful states claim to defend. When law loses credibility, coercion becomes normalised and predictability — the quality that prevents crises from spiralling — is eroded.

* With the recent military operation to capture Nicolás Maduro and the renewed push to acquire Greenland, are we seeing the emergence of a “Donroe Doctrine”?

Yes. It resembles a hierarchy-based doctrine that revives spheres of influence in transactional form. Success is measured by leverage and control rather than consent.

* To what extent is the administration’s interest in Greenland driven by genuine Arctic security concerns versus rare-earth minerals and symbolic “real estate” value?

Arctic security concerns are real, but they do not require acquisitive language. Minerals and supply chains matter as well. The insistence on ownership points to symbolism and status as much as defence.

* Given the EU’s threat to activate its Anti-Coercion Instrument, does Europe finally have the “teeth” to respond, or is internal fragmentation still its greatest weakness?

Europe has tools; cohesion remains the constraint. Teeth matter only if action is collective and predictable.

* Is the Kremlin successfully using this friction to weaken NATO without firing a shot?

Russia benefits from Western discord. Doubt and division do the work cheaply.

* How might Beijing retaliate if the US squeezes it out of Venezuelan oil and Greenland minerals?

China tends to respond structurally: diversification, alternative partnerships and calibrated economic pressure. Competition hardens and spreads rather than disappearing.

* Does the ability of the US to act unilaterally in Venezuela prove that we are still in a unipolar world, or is this “solo-act” diplomacy accelerating the shift toward a multipolar world?

It demonstrates capacity, not unquestioned dominance. Unilateral action may succeed tactically, but it accelerates strategic hedging by others.

This is how multipolarity advances — quietly. States diversify partners and reduce dependence. Influence erodes not because power disappears, but because trust does.

There is also a psychological dimension to this shift that often goes unnoticed. Unipolar moments depend not only on capability, but on belief — belief among allies that the dominant power’s leadership is broadly benign, predictable, and worth investing in. When unilateral action becomes habitual, that belief erodes quietly. States may continue to cooperate tactically, but they do so with shorter horizons and sharper exit strategies.

In practical terms, this means that even when Washington “wins” a confrontation, it may lose something less visible but more important: the willingness of others to internalise US preferences as their own. Instead of shaping the system from within, the United States increasingly finds itself pushing against it from outside, relying on pressure rather than attraction. That is a hallmark of transition rather than dominance.

Multipolarity, in this sense, is not announced; it accumulates. It takes the form of parallel financial channels, alternative security dialogues, and regional arrangements designed to reduce exposure to any single power. None of these moves are dramatic on their own. Together, they mark a world in which influence must be constantly renegotiated, and where unilateral success no longer translates automatically into lasting authority.

* Is there anything in the current US political or legal system that can effectively check this executive-led foreign policy?

Formally, yes. Practically, checks weaken when norms erode and security narratives dominate public debate.

* If a different administration takes office, how much of this transactional framework will remain? Has the “rules-based international order” been permanently disrupted, or is it merely on a four-year hiatus?

Some damage will endure because precedent endures. Trust takes longer to rebuild than to lose.

The order is not dead, but it is thinner and more contested. Rebuilding credibility will depend on consistent behaviour over time, not rhetoric. Allies will hedge until that consistency is proven.

The danger of describing the current moment as a “hiatus” is that it understates how habits form. Once officials, allies and rivals adapt to a more transactional United States, they do not simply revert when the rhetoric softens. Hedging strategies, alternative partnerships and parallel systems develop their own momentum. They are not dismantled out of goodwill.

Any future administration will therefore inherit a thinner, more sceptical international environment. Commitments will be tested more quickly; assurances will be discounted until proven repeatedly. That does not mean cooperation is impossible, but it does mean the cost of rebuilding trust is far higher than the cost of losing it was. The rules-based order, if it survives, will do so in a more conditional, negotiated form — less an architecture than a continuous process of repair.

Mauritius Times ePaper Friday 23 January 2026