Munich, Budapest, and the High Cost of Weakness

By Joe Palaggi

The last time the world tried to buy peace by giving a dictator what he wanted, it got World War II instead. That moment was Munich, 1938. Britain and France pressured Czechoslovakia into surrendering the Sudetenland to Adolf Hitler, gambling that a small concession would calm his ambitions. Instead, within a year, Hitler had taken the rest of Czechoslovakia, rolled into Poland, and plunged the world into war.

The lesson was painful and clear: appeasement isn’t peace. It is simply an invitation to further conquest.

Fast forward nearly a century. Vladimir Putin’s war in Ukraine has already consumed Crimea, wrecked cities, and left tens of thousands dead. In his speeches, Putin portrays himself as a protector of Russian speakers and a restorer of past greatness—much as Hitler claimed he was “protecting” ethnic Germans in 1938. The question facing the West is whether we are once again drifting toward appeasement, or whether Ukraine marks the moment when democracies finally prove they’ve learned history’s lesson.

The Parallels That Haunt Us

The echoes are haunting. Then as now, a strongman autocrat, bent on rebuilding a lost empire, targets a smaller neighbor. Then as now, Western capitals are reluctant to confront aggression head-on, fearful of what a larger war might bring. And then as now, the aggressor cloaks expansion in the rhetoric of protecting “his people.”

In 1938, Hitler demanded the Sudetenland because it was home to ethnic Germans. Today, Putin insists that parts of Ukraine are forever Russian because of language and history. Both men saw weakness in hesitation and bet that boldness would be rewarded.

But there are also crucial differences. Chamberlain and Daladier didn’t just hesitate—they forced Czechoslovakia to accept dismemberment. No arms, no sanctions, no solidarity. Only pressure to surrender land. Ukraine, by contrast, is armed to the teeth by the West. Billions in weapons, intelligence, and aid flow from Washington and European capitals. Kyiv has not been abandoned.

The Temptation to “Cut a Deal”

Still, the shadow of appeasement lingers. As the war drags on, some voices whisper about compromise—Ukraine giving up Crimea or the Donbas in exchange for peace. It sounds pragmatic. It sounds like a way out of endless bloodshed. But it is also exactly the logic of Munich: give up the smaller piece, and maybe the wolf will be satisfied.

We know how that story ends. Hitler took the Sudetenland in 1938, the rest of Czechoslovakia by early 1939, and then unleashed total war. Putin has already followed a similar pattern—Crimea in 2014, Donbas in 2022, and there is no reason to think he would stop if rewarded again. A dictator who wins through force learns only one lesson: force works.

The Broken Promise of Budapest

There is another shadow hanging over Ukraine—this one more recent, and more American. In 1994, Ukraine agreed to give up the world’s third-largest nuclear arsenal, inherited from the Soviet Union. In exchange, Russia, the United States, and the United Kingdom signed the Budapest Memorandum, pledging to respect Ukraine’s sovereignty and borders and to refrain from using force against it.

Russia has now trampled that agreement twice—first in Crimea, then in the 2022 invasion. The U.S. and U.K. have offered support, but far short of the binding security Ukraine thought it had secured when it surrendered its nukes. The message to the world is chilling: if you trust Western assurances and disarm, you may be left exposed when the storm comes.

For other nations—think Iran, North Korea, or even Taiwan—the lesson is stark: nuclear weapons and self-reliance may be safer than international promises. Every broken commitment erodes not just Ukrainian security, but American credibility.

The Stakes Beyond Ukraine

This isn’t only about Ukraine. It is about whether the rules of the post–World War II order mean anything. If Russia succeeds, others will take note. Beijing will weigh Taiwan differently. Tehran will calculate its risks anew. Allies from Warsaw to Tokyo will ask whether

American assurances are any stronger than the promises made to Kyiv three decades ago.

Americans may ask why this matters so far from home. The answer is simple: the bill for weakness always comes due, and it is always higher than the upfront cost of deterrence. Chamberlain thought he was avoiding war in 1938; instead, he set the stage for the most destructive conflict in human history. Helping Ukraine defend itself may be expensive. Letting Putin succeed would be far more costly in the long run.

Choosing Between Munich and Budapest

The choice before us is stark. Either we allow Ukraine to be carved up in the name of short-term stability, or we hold the line and show that aggression earns nothing but resistance and ruin. Either we stand by the commitments we made in Budapest, or we signal to every ally that America’s word is negotiable.

History has already written the verdict on Munich. It was a tragedy dressed up as diplomacy, a temporary calm purchased at the expense of millions of lives. Ukraine offers us a chance to prove that we’ve learned that lesson—and that our word still means something.

If Ukraine is forced to concede land for peace, history will mark it as Sudetenland 2.0. But if Ukraine holds—backed by Western resolve—it could be remembered as the moment when democracies finally broke the cycle of appeasement and redeemed a broken promise.