Former right-hand man of Netanyahu and former Director of Mossad, Yossi Cohen, devotes much of his memoir, The Sword of Freedom, published last week, to lauding Donald Trump, portraying him as a disruptor of entrenched diplomatic routines whose audacity reshaped the Middle East. "Steve Witkoff, the president's Middle East envoy, wasted no time in establishing a reputation as an assertive, hard-edged mediator. Unwilling to indulge in empty negotiations or to recycle old arguments, he signalled a fundamental change in tempo and focus," Cohen writes, emphasising the deliberate speed and decisiveness that characterised the Trump administration. Cohen continues, framing the former president as a singular force: "Everything was predicated on President Trump's legacy as an unorthodox peacemaker. He wants to establish himself in the pantheon of bold, far-sighted global leaders. His idiosyncratic, unconventional thinking has given a moribund debate on the future of Gaza new impetus and an additional dimension."
He contrasts Trump with his predecessors: "Relations with President Obama were difficult and challenging for Israel, and though President Biden was a true friend of Israel, his legacy in the region is insubstantial. My experience of working with President Trump is of a man who values leadership and loyalty, which he is prepared to reciprocate." Cohen's appraisal, extravagant though it may appear, illuminates the obsession Trump has cultivated with the Nobel Peace Prize. The display of Theodore Roosevelt's 1905 medal in the Roosevelt Room becomes more than decoration; it is a talisman, a constant reminder that global recognition of decisive, audacious leadership is possible. Trump's repeated public proclamations reveal a man for whom symbolic affirmation is inseparable from his conception of historical significance. He has cast himself as the agent of resolution, the arbiter whose presence prevents conflict from metastasising, and his ambition for the Nobel is less vanity than an assertion that power and notoriety are entwined.
Yet, a sober examination of the conflicts he cites complicates the narrative. In the South Caucasus, Trump's administration proposed the so-called "Trump Route," a corridor connecting Azerbaijan to Nakhchivan, ostensibly to normalise relations with Armenia and Turkey. The reality, however, is stark: Azerbaijan annexed Nagorno-Karabakh in 2023, expelling its majority Armenian population and sparking allegations of ethnic cleansing. What Trump frames as diplomacy is, in actuality, a humanitarian disaster, highlighting the difference between headline-grabbing deals and enduring peace. Similarly, in Kashmir, Trump claimed to have brokered a ceasefire after deadly clashes between India and Pakistan.
While Pakistan endorsed the account, Indian authorities dismissed his role outright, and observers such as John Bolton noted widespread indignation among Indian officials at the presumption of American influence. Here, Trump's narrative privileges perception over substance, casting him as indispensable where his involvement was limited. In the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda, Trump credits himself with ending hostilities through promises of U.S. investment in the resource-rich Kivu region. Yet the conflict's long history, compounded by Rwanda-backed M23 rebels, renders any claim of resolution precarious. In Southeast Asia, the temporary truce between Cambodia and Thailand was brokered with tariff reductions and personal diplomatic overtures, but sporadic clashes have continued. Across these instances, the pattern is evident: Trump positions himself as a peacemaker, but outcomes remain fragile, contingent, and often symbolic.
West Asian conflicts offer further illustration. Trump invokes the Abraham Accords as proof of his diplomatic skill, yet Gaza's ongoing humanitarian crisis belies claims of meaningful resolution. Hostilities collapse, ceasefires fail, and civilians endure deprivation and death. Even Trump's alleged interventions against Iran's nuclear ambitions are more performative than substantive; no major military campaign occurred, yet he installs models of B-2 bombers in the Oval Office to commemorate imagined precision. Similarly, claims regarding Kosovo-Serbia and Egypt-Ethiopia reflect diplomacy of appearances rather than decisive conflict termination. Agreements were signed, disputes were managed, but wars were neither truly fought nor conclusively ended. His ledger of "seven wars" averted or concluded is therefore both audacious and contestable, a catalogue that invites scrutiny rather than unquestioning admiration.
The broader question this raises is not merely whether Trump merits a Nobel, but whether the award itself possesses any enduring moral authority. Historically, the prize has been politicised, awarded to individuals whose ethical credentials are ambiguous. Henry Kissinger, recognised for the Paris Peace Accords in 1973, oversaw bombing campaigns and clandestine interventions, yet remains a laureate. Barack Obama's 2009 award, granted less than a year into his presidency, later appeared premature given crises in Ukraine, Syria, and West Asia. Alfred Nobel's creation has oscillated between merit and symbolism, often rewarding ambition and influence as much as tangible peace.
In that context, can Trump's pursuit of the prize be dismissed as mere vanity? If the Nobel has historically embraced laureates with morally contestable records, then the bar for ethical purity is less rigid than often imagined. Almost every recipient has operated on morally ambiguous ground; Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama, and Martin Luther King Jr. all made compromises, sometimes reluctantly, within historical exigencies. If history judges laureates imperfectly, and if moral compromise is a prerequisite for influence, then the question of Trump's right to recognition is not straightforward. His interventions, while brash and selectively framed, may be comparatively less culpable than the deeds of those previously enshrined.
Trump's pursuit is also instructive in a broader sense: it reveals how recognition and power interlace. The Nobel Peace Prize functions not merely as an acknowledgement of deeds but as a stage for projecting historical significance. Trump's orchestration of meetings with Putin, Zelensky, Netanyahu, and leaders across Asia is as much about narrative control as it is about negotiation. By claiming victories over seven wars, however contestable, he asserts an unassailable presence in global affairs. In a world where influence is inseparable from the perception of success, and where fame often accrues to those who seize it, Trump's hunger reflects an elemental human truth: if you do not earn recognition, you grasp it when power is at hand.
The bottom line: the debate over Trump and the Nobel Peace Prize forces a confrontation with uncomfortable truths about morality, accomplishment, and legacy. The prize has never been a pure reflection of virtue; it is a nexus of ambition, ideology, and spectacle. Trump's interventions, set against enduring conflict and human suffering, lay bare the chasm between ambition and tangible impact. Perhaps the most unsettling question emerges: if every laureate has committed transgressions that history forgives or ignores, if civilisation is shaped as much by the flawed as by the virtuous, who is to declare that Trump is wrong? In this perspective, his drive for the Nobel is not vanity alone but a recognition of the perennial ambiguity at the heart of power and moral reckoning. By this logic, Trump may be among the least culpable of those who have trodden the corridors of history in pursuit of influence, and his thirst for affirmation becomes not merely understandable, but inevitable. Trump's ambition, interventions, and audacity are undeniable. As a Portuguese proverb goes, "Even the sun has spots, yet it warms the earth."
The writer is a columnist based in Colombo