The pattern is straightforward: threaten harsh tariffs, negotiate down to something painful but manageable, and walk away claiming a win.
During his presidency, Donald Trump made it very clear that trade wasn’t just about goods and services—it was about leverage. He flipped the traditional script, where foreign policy meant diplomacy, alliances, and sometimes conflict, and instead pushed a bold economic toolkit to achieve geopolitical goals. This wasn’t just a few random tariff hikes or trade wars. It was a full-on pivot—replacing classic geopolitics with geoeconomics as the primary way of exerting American influence.
Instead of dispatching troops or deepening treaty commitments, Trump’s White House leaned into tariffs, deals, and trade frameworks like a general wielding economic weapons. His administration threatened sweeping tariffs, then used that threat to bring countries to the negotiating table. And while critics may have called it erratic or improvisational, there was a consistent underlying tactic: use market access as both a carrot and a stick.
To understand this shift, you don’t need to look far beyond five major works that frame the thinking behind Trump’s actions. In War by Other Means (Blackwill & Harris), the idea of geoeconomics is laid out clearly—economic instruments used for geopolitical ends. Trump didn’t just read that playbook—he rewrote it in real time. Robert Gilpin’s Global Political Economy reminds us that international markets are always political, never neutral, and Trump’s tariffs were political to their core. In The Economic Weapon by Nicholas Mulder, we’re reminded that sanctions and trade restrictions can function like war—slow, grinding, often just as destructive. Henry Kissinger’s World Order hinted at this earlier: power today flows not only through armies but through the control of systems—financial, commercial, and technological. And finally, Dani Rodrik’s Straight Talk on Trade cautions about the backlash from global economic entanglement—something Trump leaned into rather than away from.
Trump’s approach was blunt but strategic. Take, for instance, the flurry of trade activity in recent days. After pausing reciprocal tariffs briefly in April, the administration vowed to close 90 trade deals in 90 days. That wasn’t just campaign bravado—it reflected a frenzied push to reset how the U.S. engages with the world. Within months, deals were struck with the UK, Indonesia, Vietnam, the Philippines, Japan, and the EU. The pattern was straightforward: threaten harsh tariffs, negotiate down to something painful but manageable, and walk away claiming a win.
One of the clearest examples was the U.S.-EU agreement framework. Initially staring down a 30% tariff, European exporters found relief when the figure was knocked down to 15%—still higher than the previous 10%, but a far cry from the doomsday scenario. Japan received similar treatment: a proposed 25% import duty shrank to 15%, again after a round of high-stakes negotiations.
Then came China. The Trump administration didn’t just pick a fight—it waged a multi-front trade battle. Tariffs soared past 100% on both sides. But beneath the headlines, both powers were still talking, still crafting frameworks, and extending temporary truces. A 90-day ceasefire in tariffs gave way to more talks—this time in Sweden, with heavyweights like Scott Bessent and He Lifeng at the table. What emerged wasn’t peace, but a managed tension, negotiated in percentages and clauses instead of ceasefires and demilitarized zones.
It wasn’t just about rivals. Even allies like Canada weren’t spared. Despite the U.S.-Mexico-Canada Agreement (USMCA), which preserved tariff-free trade on roughly half of Canadian exports, Trump’s team didn’t hesitate to threaten higher tariffs. His frustration with Canada’s digital services tax pushed him to float restrictions on lumber and other goods. The underlying message: friend or not, everyone’s fair game if it serves American interests.
In Europe, Trump similarly dangled trade penalties over transatlantic relationships, especially where tech regulation or defense spending was involved. Germany faced pressure over its car exports and Nord Stream II project. And in Southeast Asia, Trump stepped into regional crises not with UN envoys or State Department memoranda—but by wielding tariff threats. In one case, as tensions flared between Thailand and Cambodia, the U.S. president warned that neither country would see trade deals—each was staring down a potential 36% tariff—unless hostilities ended. He effectively used trade to broker a kind of regional peace talk in Malaysia. It wasn’t traditional diplomacy. But it worked, at least for a time.
This kind of policy move—where trade becomes a substitute for broader strategic policy—isn’t new in theory. But the intensity and visibility under Trump were unprecedented. For example, his administration threatened a sweeping new global tariff, targeting “the rest of the world” with a blanket rate between 15% and 20%. Even Australia, a long-standing ally, wasn’t exempt. Such policies shook the confidence of the international trading system, but also forced countries to take U.S. demands more seriously—something that multilateral diplomacy hadn’t always achieved.
Outside the examples already mentioned, other regions also felt the tremors. Brazil faced scrutiny over its meat exports, especially after environmental concerns tied to the Amazon. South Korea was pressured to revise its KORUS trade agreement, and India, once enjoying preferential trade treatment, saw its status revoked. Turkey, another NATO ally, faced tariff spikes during a diplomatic spat involving a detained American pastor. Each situation followed a similar rhythm: economic pressure first, political outcome second.
So what does this all add up to?
Essentially, Trump flipped the board. Rather than seeing trade as the outcome of strategic diplomacy, he made it the starting point. He saw tariff schedules not as dry bureaucratic details, but as chess pieces. He used them to test loyalty, punish misbehavior, and reward concessions. This strategy was risky. It disrupted global markets, spooked long-term investors, and occasionally backfired. But it was also effective in forcing faster negotiations, especially with countries that had long benefited from America’s more relaxed approach to trade enforcement.
And while critics often paint Trump’s tactics as scattershot, they missed the pattern: negotiate through confrontation, frame every trade imbalance as a threat to national security, and make sure every agreement feels like a campaign win. Even his threats of global tariffs weren’t just economic bullying—they were tools to reshape how other nations viewed their relationship with the U.S. It wasn’t diplomacy with handshakes and photo-ops; it was leverage via spreadsheets and customs duties.
In the end, Trump’s strategy blurred the lines between economic and foreign policy so thoroughly that it’s hard to tell them apart. That’s the lasting imprint. Whether future administrations follow his lead or not, the message has been delivered: in a world where every dollar counts, trade isn’t just business—it’s power.
To read the full analysis as it was published on the Eurasia Review website, click here.