There is a specific, exquisite flavor of humiliation reserved for the leaders of small, strategically vital nations in the twenty-first century. It is the taste of ash, bureaucratic letterhead, and the crushing realization that your ancestral homeland is being discussed in Washington and Brussels like a distressed asset in a foreclosure auction. We witness this theater of the absurd perfectly encapsulated in the plight of Jens-Frederik Nielsen, the Prime Minister of Greenland, who has found himself in the unenviable position of having to comment on the sale of his own country while admitting—with a candor that is almost heartbreaking—that he hasn’t actually seen the brochure yet.

According to the latest dispatch from the geopolitical circus, Mr. Nielsen has publicly stated that he is “willing to talk” to the United States to find a solution, despite admitting that he is operating in a vacuum of information. “Hardly any details are known yet about the proposed Greenland deal,” report the wires. Pause for a moment and let the sheer, cosmic absurdity of that sentence wash over you. We are discussing the potential transfer of sovereignty, or at the very least a massive realignment of control, over the world's largest island—a landmass that holds the key to the Arctic, vast mineral wealth, and the terrified gaze of climate scientists everywhere—and the man technically in charge has been left checking his spam folder for the terms and conditions.

It is the ultimate indictment of the modern diplomatic era. Sovereignty is no longer a sacred inviolable trust; it is merely a pricing negotiation that hasn't quite been finalized by the lawyers. Nielsen calls for the US to respect “red lines,” a phrase that has been so thoroughly devalued in the last decade of global conflict that it now carries the weight of a parent counting to three before doing absolutely nothing. What are these red lines? One assumes they involve the basic dignity of the Greenlandic people, a concept that historically struggles to compete with the strategic placement of radar installations and rare-earth strip mines.

Meanwhile, the European Union, that glorious, lumbering beast of procedure and paperwork, is watching from the sidelines with its usual mix of horror and impotence. The European Parliament’s trade committee chair notes that they need these elusive details “in order to decide how to proceed with the implementation of the EU-US trade deal.” It is a classically European response: faced with the raw, carnivorous appetite of American expansionism, Brussels threatens to schedule a meeting. “@EP_Trade will revisit the issue on Monday and discuss the way forward,” the dispatch reads. Monday. One imagines the glaciers melting a little faster just out of spite for such administrative lethargy. The world order is collapsing, borders are becoming fluid concepts, and the EU is checking its calendar availability for early next week.

Nielsen’s rhetoric, however, betrays the deep anxiety of the situation. He speaks of “no room for false security” and asserts that “the next threat is sure to come.” Here, at least, is a man who understands the tragedy of his role. He is not a participant in the deal; he is the scenery. His insistence on using “all available legal instruments” is the desperate cry of a civilized man facing a barbarian at the gate, brandishing a rulebook while the other party brandishes a checkbook and an aircraft carrier. It is charming, in a tragic way, to believe that legal instruments still matter in an age where international law is treated less like a code of conduct and more like a menu of optional suggestions.

To add to the surrealism of the scene, this drama plays out against the backdrop of a chaotic global news ticker. While the fate of the Arctic hangs in the balance, we are told that Zelenskyy’s speech is running late because Indonesia’s president is still speaking. The attention span of the world is fractured, jumping from one crisis to another, unable to focus on the slow-motion acquisition of a territory the size of Western Europe. It is a cacophony of noise in which the silence of the ice sheets is being sold off to the highest bidder.

Ultimately, Nielsen’s “willingness to talk” is not a choice; it is a recognition of reality. When the elephant enters the room and asks for the furniture, the mouse does not negotiate; the mouse hopes merely not to be sat upon. The US “rumoured deal”—ghostly, undefined, yet terrifyingly heavy—looms over Nuuk like a storm front. That the Prime Minister has to ask for the details of his own nation's future is not just a diplomatic faux pas; it is a signpost marking the end of the illusion of small-state autonomy. We are all just tenants now, waiting for the landlord to decide if he wants to renovate or sell.