Wars are not fought only with artillery and drones. They are fought with trust, in allies, in institutions, in technology and in leadership.
When that trust fractures, even unintentionally, the consequences ripple far beyond the battlefield. Recent events surrounding Starlink, political symbolism in Washington, and the optics directed toward the Kremlin represent yet another dangerous crossover point for Ukrainian confidence in the US
Starlink has been indispensable to Ukraine since the earliest days of Russia’s full-scale invasion.
When Russian missiles deliberately targeted power grids and communications infrastructure, satellite connectivity kept the state functioning, allowed military coordination, supported emergency services, and enabled civilians to stay connected under fire.
For Ukrainians, Starlink was not just technology, it was proof that the West understood the stakes.
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That is why reports suggesting Russian drones had been observed using Starlink connectivity caused immediate alarm.
The concern was not theoretical. Ukrainians have spent two years watching Western-made components, microchips, navigation systems, optics, recovered from the wreckage of Russian missiles and drones that struck their cities.
If the same communications system sustaining Ukraine’s resistance could also be exploited by the aggressor, it would mirror a familiar and painful pattern: technologies developed in the democratic world, intended for civilian or defensive use, turning up on the wrong side of the battlefield. In that moment, the moral clarity Ukrainians associated with Starlink risked collapsing in the same way trust has eroded each time Western parts were found embedded in weapons used to kill civilians.
The Ukrainian government responded swiftly. Mykhailo Fedorov, Ukraine’s Minister of Digital Transformation, confirmed that the Ministry of Defence immediately contacted SpaceX upon detecting Russian UAVs appearing to use Starlink. SpaceX, he stated, reacted quickly, proposing technical solutions to block misuse.
Fedorov publicly thanked SpaceX President Gwynne Shotwell and Elon Musk for their rapid response, emphasising that Starlink’s emergency activation and early delivery of terminals in 2022 had been “critically important for the resilience of our state.”
This clarification matters. It establishes that there is no evidence of deliberate support for Russia and that corrective action was taken without delay, but, facts alone do not repair trust once it has been strained, especially in a country where technological failure translates directly into civilian deaths.
This episode now intersects with a broader and more corrosive issue: political symbolism. Reports that a photograph depicting Donald Trump alongside Vladimir Putin has been hung in the White House may appear trivial to domestic audiences. To Ukrainians, it is anything but.
Putin is not a neutral foreign leader. He is the author of mass deportations, the destruction of cities, and systematic terror against civilians. When a US president, past or present, is visually paired with him inside the White House, it is not read as history or irony. It is read as normalisation, comfort and familiarity.
For Ukrainians, this represents another crossover of trust that seems to be ever mounting: technology ambiguity on one hand, political symbolism on the other. Together, they suggest a West increasingly willing to blur moral lines for convenience, ego, or domestic theatre.
The same lens applies to the now-discussed “clap on the runway.” Applause during diplomatic arrivals may be protocol elsewhere. In Ukraine, it is interpreted as endorsement or indifference. Ukrainians have learned to read ceremonies closely, because their survival often depends on what follows the optics: weapons deliveries, intelligence sharing, or silence.
Ukraine understands realpolitik. What it cannot afford is amnesia, or the erosion of moral clarity by gestures that suggest Putin is once again a legitimate partner rather than an international aggressor and indicted war criminal.
Trust, once fractured, is difficult to rebuild, and almost impossible to repair during peace negotiations conducted under fire. Technology must not blur the line between defence and aggression and political symbolism must take into account how it is received by those living through the consequences of war.
When presidents hang photographs, applaud diplomatic arrivals, or soften the visual language surrounding an aggressor, Ukrainians do not see harmless gestures, but they do see the signals. They catalogue them, and they factor them into their understanding of who can be relied upon when decisions turn from words to action.
For Ukraine, these are not debates about optics, they are early warnings.
