The pursuit of territorial expansion has long been a hallmark of imperial powers in decline, where the drive to secure resources, strategic advantage, and prestige often intensifies as internal and external pressures mount. In the contemporary era, Donald Trump’s repeated assertions regarding Greenland exemplify a form of aggressive territorial policy rooted in national security imperatives and economic opportunism, framed within the context of American exceptionalism. This approach bears intriguing parallels to the Ottoman Empire’s final phase in Europe during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when the Sublime Porte desperately sought to retain its Balkan holdings amid rising nationalism and geopolitical encirclement. Both cases illustrate how imperial actors, facing perceived existential threats, resort to assertive policies to reclaim or maintain control over peripheral territories. Yet, the contrasts—stemming from differing historical epochs, legal frameworks, and power dynamics—reveal the evolution of imperialism from overt conquest to subtler forms of coercion. This comparison, grounded in historical facts, underscores the enduring tension between sovereignty, security, and ambition in global affairs.
Trump’s interest in Greenland emerged as a recurrent theme in his political rhetoric, blending economic calculation with strategic foresight. During his first presidency, he publicly expressed a desire to acquire the island from Denmark, describing it as a large real estate transaction essential for American interests. This notion was not novel; the United States had previously explored similar acquisitions. In the mid-19th century, American expansionism under the Manifest Destiny doctrine led to informal discussions about purchasing Greenland, though no formal proposal materialized. A more concrete attempt occurred after World War II, when the Truman administration offered Denmark a substantial sum in gold for the island, motivated by Cold War anxieties over Soviet influence in the Arctic. Denmark declined, but the episode highlighted Greenland’s perceived value as a northern bulwark.
Trump’s revival of this idea in 2019 was dismissed by Danish officials as absurd, prompting him to cancel a state visit in retaliation. The rationale he provided centered on national security: Greenland’s vast ice sheet and mineral wealth, including rare earth elements critical for technology and defense, made it a prize in the escalating great-power competition with China and Russia. By 2026, during his second term, Trump’s rhetoric had escalated. He reiterated that the United States required Greenland to counter adversarial activities in the Arctic, where melting ice was opening new shipping routes and resource opportunities. He suggested that Denmark’s stewardship was inadequate, implying that economic pressure or other measures might be employed if voluntary transfer proved unfeasible. This stance aligned with broader Trump-era policies, such as the renegotiation of trade deals and the imposition of tariffs to assert American dominance.
Greenland’s status as an autonomous territory within the Kingdom of Denmark complicated these ambitions. The island’s indigenous Inuit population, numbering around 57,000, has increasingly asserted self-determination, with a 2009 self-rule agreement granting control over internal affairs while leaving defense and foreign policy to Copenhagen. Trump’s proposals ignored this autonomy, treating Greenland as a commodity rather than a sovereign entity. Factually, the United States already maintains a significant presence through the Thule Air Base, established during World War II under a defense agreement that allowed American occupation to prevent Nazi incursions. This pact, renewed in 1951, grants the U.S. extensive military rights, including radar installations for missile defense and space surveillance. Thus, Trump’s territorial claims were not born of absolute necessity but of a desire for outright control, reflecting an imperial mindset where strategic assets must be owned to be secure.
The Ottoman Empire’s terminal phase in Europe offers a historical mirror, albeit through the lens of a decaying multi-ethnic state rather than a resurgent superpower. By the late 19th century, the empire—once spanning from Algeria to Hungary—had been reduced to a rump state in the Balkans, holding onto territories like Macedonia, Albania, and Thrace through a combination of military force, administrative reforms, and diplomatic maneuvering. The “Sick Man of Europe,” as Tsar Nicholas I dubbed it in 1853, faced internal fragmentation and external predation. The Tanzimat reforms of the mid-19th century aimed to modernize the empire and integrate non-Muslim populations, but they failed to stem the tide of nationalism fueled by Enlightenment ideas and Russian pan-Slavic agitation.
The empire’s aggressive territorial policy in this era was defensive in nature, seeking to preserve what remained of its European holdings. The Congress of Berlin in 1878 formalized the loss of significant territories: Romania, Serbia, and Montenegro gained independence, while Bosnia-Herzegovina came under Austrian administration, and Bulgaria became an autonomous principality. These concessions were extracted after the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878, where Ottoman forces suffered devastating defeats, exposing the empire’s military obsolescence. Sultan Abdul Hamid II responded with a policy of centralization and Islamization, suppressing Armenian and Bulgarian uprisings with brutal force, including the Hamidian massacres of 1894–1896 that claimed up to 300,000 lives. This aggression was not expansionist but retentive, aimed at quelling separatist movements and maintaining cohesion in a multi-ethnic realm.
The Balkan Wars of 1912–1913 marked the climax of Ottoman decline in Europe. A coalition of Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece, and Montenegro launched a coordinated assault, capitalizing on the empire’s weakness following the Italo-Turkish War. Ottoman armies, hampered by outdated equipment and internal dissent, lost nearly all remaining European territories within months. The Treaty of London in 1913 confined the empire to a sliver of eastern Thrace, while the subsequent Treaty of Bucharest redrew Balkan borders, fueling inter-allied conflicts. By World War I, the Ottomans allied with the Central Powers in a desperate bid to reclaim lost lands, but defeats in Gallipoli and the Middle East sealed their fate. The Treaty of Sèvres in 1920 formalized the dismemberment, though the Turkish War of Independence under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk salvaged Anatolia, leading to the republic’s establishment in 1923.
Parallels between Trump’s Greenland policy and the Ottoman Balkan twilight are evident in the interplay of security imperatives and imperial nostalgia. Both reflect powers grappling with perceived vulnerabilities: Trump views Greenland as a bulwark against Arctic rivals, much as the Ottomans saw the Balkans as a buffer against Russian and Austrian encroachment. In the late 19th century, the empire’s territorial aggression was driven by the need to secure supply lines, tax revenues, and military recruits from Balkan provinces, echoing Trump’s emphasis on Greenland’s rare earth minerals and strategic location for monitoring northern shipping routes. The Ottoman loss of Hungary and Transylvania after the Treaty of Karlowitz in 1699 mirrored a retreat from overextension, similar to how Trump’s proposals arise amid debates over American global commitments.
Resource control forms another thread. The Ottomans exploited Balkan mines for silver and iron, sustaining their military machine, just as Trump highlights Greenland’s lithium and cobalt deposits for electric vehicles and defense tech. Both cases involve peripheral territories with restive populations: Greenland’s Inuit seek greater autonomy, akin to Balkan nationalists who rebelled against Ottoman rule. The Ottoman response—repression and forced assimilation—failed, fostering resentment that fueled independence movements. Trump’s coercive rhetoric risks alienating Greenlanders and Danes, potentially straining NATO alliances.
Imperial decline provides a deeper lens. The Ottomans, once masters of southeastern Europe, clung to territories as symbols of past glory, even as nationalism eroded their hold. Trump’s expansionist talk evokes a similar nostalgia for American manifest destiny, where territorial acquisition reaffirms dominance in a multipolar world. Yet, the Ottomans’ aggression accelerated their collapse: the Balkan Wars depleted resources, paving the way for World War I defeats. Trump’s threats could provoke diplomatic backlash, undermining U.S. soft power.
Differences abound, highlighting imperialism’s evolution. Ottoman policy was militaristic, involving conquest and subjugation, whereas Trump’s approach is transactional—framed as a “deal” with implied economic pressure, not invasion. The Ottomans operated in a pre-Westphalian era where territorial swaps were common; today, international law under the UN Charter prohibits forcible acquisition. Greenland’s status as Danish territory invokes Article 2(4) of the Charter, barring threats to sovereignty. The Ottomans faced existential threats from multiple empires; Trump confronts peer competitors in a rules-based order.
Geopolitically, the Ottomans’ Balkan losses stemmed from internal decay—corruption, military stagnation—and external alliances like the Balkan League. Trump’s Greenland fixation arises from Arctic melting, exposing resources and routes amid U.S.-China rivalry. The Ottomans’ multi-ethnic empire fractured along ethno-religious lines; Greenland’s Inuit identity fuels independence aspirations, complicating any U.S. claim.
Intellectually, this comparison illuminates imperialism’s adaptive nature. Ottoman territorialism was extractive, relying on tribute and conscription; Trump’s is resource-driven, aligned with 21st-century security needs like rare earths for semiconductors. Both underscore periphery-center dynamics: Balkans supplied Ottoman armies, Greenland could secure U.S. supply chains. Yet, Ottoman overreach invited intervention; Trump’s unilateralism risks isolating America.
The Ottoman decline warns of hubris: aggressive retention bred resistance, hastening collapse. For Trump, coercing Greenland could erode alliances, bolstering adversaries. In a globalized world, territorial control yields to economic interdependence and soft power. The Ottomans’ fall birthed nation-states; Trump’s policies might accelerate multipolarity, where influence trumps possession.
Ultimately, these cases reveal imperialism’s persistence amid change. The Ottomans’ European retreat marked the end of medieval universalism; Trump’s ambitions signal tensions in liberal order. As climate alters geographies, territorial politics may revive, demanding nuanced diplomacy over brute force.
