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ΔιαχειριστήςAdmin- Αριθμός μηνυμάτων : 26633
Ημερομηνία εγγραφής : 29/10/2010 
Did solidarity run its course?
22/9/2023, 19:27
By Jorge Liboreiro
It is thus all the more surprising, not to say baffling, to see an extraordinarily ordinary thing bring European unity to its knees: grain.
The dispute is well-known to the readers of this newsletter. Back in April, five Eastern European countries – Poland, Hungary, Slovakia, Romanian and Bulgaria – took aggressive measures to restrict the trade of Ukrainian cereals, which had been exempted from import tariffs as part of the bloc’s financial support for the war-torn nation. The coalition complained the grain glut was depressing prices for local farmers and distorting their national markets.
The retaliation caught the European Commission by surprise and forced an odd compromise to control the commerce of four Ukrainian products: wheat, maize, rapeseed and sunflower seed. Under the so-called “grain deal” (in practice, a trade ban) the products could move through the five Eastern countries but not stay in their territories for consumption or storage.
The ban infuriated Kyiv and caused the frustration of other member states, like France and Germany, but was nevertheless extended until 15 September. That day, the Commission announced a new “grain deal” under which the prohibitions were definitely lifted and Ukraine committed to tighten surveillance over its agricultural exports to prevent disturbances. The resolution was widely celebrated on social media as the final chapter in the endless saga.
But the joy was soon cut short. Barely a few minutes after Brussels broke the news, Poland, Hungary and Slovakia moved to impose their own bans on a unilateral basis. The go-it-alone blacklists were not coordinated (Hungary’s ban, for example, targets a wider range of products) and immediately deprived the new “grain deal” of any real effectiveness.
Overnight, we were back to square one, to the chaos of April.
If that wasn’t enough, things on Monday took a new turn for the worse: Kyiv, exasperated by the back-and-forth, filed a lawsuit at the World Trade Organization (WTO) against its three neighbouring countries. (Breaking ranks, Slovakia later made an overture to resolve the issue.)
The following day, Tuesday, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy dramatically raised the temperature of the debate with a fiery speech before the UN General Assembly. “It is alarming to see how some in Europe, some of our friends in Europe, play out solidarity in a political theatre – making a thriller from the grain,” the president said, without name-checking the alleged friends. “They may seem to play their own role but in fact they are helping set the stage to a Moscow actor.”
The public accusation of playing into Putin’s hand unleashed Warsaw’s fury. On Wednesday evening, Polish Prime Minister Mateusz Morawiecki went on TV and made an astonishing announcement.
“We are no longer transferring any weapons to Ukraine,” Morawiecki said. “We are mainly focusing on modernising and rapidly arming the Polish army, so that it becomes one of the most powerful land armies in Europe.”
The comments prompted such shock and outrage that government spokesperson Piotr Muller had to clarify: Poland will carry out military supplies that had been previously agreed upon (therefore, not new ones) and continue to operate the international hub in Rzeszow. Still, the shift in attitude was perplexing given Poland’s hitherto steadfast and outspoken support for Ukraine.
Did solidarity run its course? Or did somebody turn off the tap?
Solidarity, a word often linked with unselfish concern and limitless altruism, is fundamentally a question of priorities. To achieve solidarity, you must readjust your long-held priorities, putting somebody else’s needs above some of your interests. Solidarity rests on this equilibrium, which tends to be fragile, even precarious. It takes just a small breath of air – or an upcoming national election in which rural voters are set to play a crucial role – to make a switch and topple the entire scaffold.
Since the fateful morning of 24 February 2022, when Vladimir Putin ordered his troops to trespass Ukrainian borders, the European Union has accomplished things that not long ago would have been unimaginable: a collective pool to fund weapons, an emergency system to welcome war refugees, a price cap on Russian seaborne oil and an irreversible shift in the energy mix are among the amazing feats achieved over the past year and a half.
It is thus all the more surprising, not to say baffling, to see an extraordinarily ordinary thing bring European unity to its knees: grain.
The dispute is well-known to the readers of this newsletter. Back in April, five Eastern European countries – Poland, Hungary, Slovakia, Romanian and Bulgaria – took aggressive measures to restrict the trade of Ukrainian cereals, which had been exempted from import tariffs as part of the bloc’s financial support for the war-torn nation. The coalition complained the grain glut was depressing prices for local farmers and distorting their national markets.
The retaliation caught the European Commission by surprise and forced an odd compromise to control the commerce of four Ukrainian products: wheat, maize, rapeseed and sunflower seed. Under the so-called “grain deal” (in practice, a trade ban) the products could move through the five Eastern countries but not stay in their territories for consumption or storage.
The ban infuriated Kyiv and caused the frustration of other member states, like France and Germany, but was nevertheless extended until 15 September. That day, the Commission announced a new “grain deal” under which the prohibitions were definitely lifted and Ukraine committed to tighten surveillance over its agricultural exports to prevent disturbances. The resolution was widely celebrated on social media as the final chapter in the endless saga.
But the joy was soon cut short. Barely a few minutes after Brussels broke the news, Poland, Hungary and Slovakia moved to impose their own bans on a unilateral basis. The go-it-alone blacklists were not coordinated (Hungary’s ban, for example, targets a wider range of products) and immediately deprived the new “grain deal” of any real effectiveness.
Overnight, we were back to square one, to the chaos of April.
If that wasn’t enough, things on Monday took a new turn for the worse: Kyiv, exasperated by the back-and-forth, filed a lawsuit at the World Trade Organization (WTO) against its three neighbouring countries. (Breaking ranks, Slovakia later made an overture to resolve the issue.)
The following day, Tuesday, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy dramatically raised the temperature of the debate with a fiery speech before the UN General Assembly. “It is alarming to see how some in Europe, some of our friends in Europe, play out solidarity in a political theatre – making a thriller from the grain,” the president said, without name-checking the alleged friends. “They may seem to play their own role but in fact they are helping set the stage to a Moscow actor.”
The public accusation of playing into Putin’s hand unleashed Warsaw’s fury. On Wednesday evening, Polish Prime Minister Mateusz Morawiecki went on TV and made an astonishing announcement.
“We are no longer transferring any weapons to Ukraine,” Morawiecki said. “We are mainly focusing on modernising and rapidly arming the Polish army, so that it becomes one of the most powerful land armies in Europe.”
The comments prompted such shock and outrage that government spokesperson Piotr Muller had to clarify: Poland will carry out military supplies that had been previously agreed upon (therefore, not new ones) and continue to operate the international hub in Rzeszow. Still, the shift in attitude was perplexing given Poland’s hitherto steadfast and outspoken support for Ukraine.
Did solidarity run its course? Or did somebody turn off the tap?
Solidarity, a word often linked with unselfish concern and limitless altruism, is fundamentally a question of priorities. To achieve solidarity, you must readjust your long-held priorities, putting somebody else’s needs above some of your interests. Solidarity rests on this equilibrium, which tends to be fragile, even precarious. It takes just a small breath of air – or an upcoming national election in which rural voters are set to play a crucial role – to make a switch and topple the entire scaffold.
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