“Imagine if Europe had a single army. Would this rich continent, with a population bigger than America’s, be the geopolitical wallflower it is today? Surely not. Unified armed forces drawing on millions of Germans, Poles and others would let nervy Europeans shrug off the fear of American abandonment. Alas, the 27 countries that form the European Union today retain 27 bonsai armies under national command, each duplicating what its neighbour is doing. Yet declaring military matters a strictly national affair was not the original blueprint for European integration. Under a treaty signed in 1952, just as the club that later became the EU was being created, France, Germany, the Netherlands and others agreed that the process of ever-closer union should start with merging their armed forces under a single command. The mind boggles at what might have been: a European superstate as comfortable projecting military power as it is regulating vacuum-cleaner wattage.
The EU missed the turn to hard power largely because of a factor that is still shaping Europe to this day: the legacy of empire. For when, in 1954, it came time for the French parliament to ratify the single-army treaty, a problem became apparent. Handing over the defence of Marseille or Paris to a military force that would be controlled in part by Germans was discomfiting enough so soon after the second world war. But a greater fear was that this Euro-army would be reluctant to do the dirty work of keeping French colonies in check. Would a Luxembourgish brigadier crack down on Algerian dissidents, or a Belgian private shoot at Indochinese rebels if ordered? Probably not. France reneged on the plan; Europe focused on integrating coal and steel instead of tanks—and to this day relies on American goodwill for its defence.
Most of Europe’s once-great powers finished recognising the independence of overseas possessions that demanded it decades ago. But the continent’s colonial past informs its present in untold ways. Having administered vast swathes of the globe—at their peak a century ago, the empires of France, Britain, Portugal, the Netherlands and others ruled over a third of the global population outside Europe—some countries found it difficult to adjust to their straitened circumstances. Occasionally those vestiges of empire make the news, as Denmark recently found with Greenland. “The fact that they had a boat land there 500 years ago doesn’t mean that they own the land,” proclaimed Donald Trump, America’s president. (It was more like 1,000 years ago, and somehow it does.) Empires die; imperial thinking sometimes lives on.
Perhaps the most enduring hangovers from colonial times are the delusions of remaining grandeur. Some (mainly western) European countries still cosplay at being global powers, long after they should have started thinking of themselves as regional ones instead. On maps a slew of far-flung territories are still painted the colours of European countries. Thanks to a few remaining possessions in the Pacific, France wants to project influence in the entire Indo-Pacific region—to the frustration of Americans who would rather it focused on defending Europe. The mirage of long-lost power has hit Britain worst of all. The links to empire kept it out of the EU for decades, as it looked to its former colonies for trading opportunities outside Europe. In 2016 Brexiteers sold voters a dreamscape in which Britain could leave the bloc and trade with the Commonwealth instead. Alas, some fell for it.
If empire is visible today, it is in the streets of Madrid, Brussels or London. Having had colonies was not a prerequisite for welcoming lots of migrants; Germany, for example, imported workers from Turkey, to which it had no colonial ties. But empire created links of language and commerce that facilitated the rapid influx of Algerians to France, Angolans to Portugal, Pakistanis to Britain and so on. To sceptics of mass migration this is a case of the Empire Striking Back, an unwelcome historical boomerang. But it is usually a boon. When Spain’s economy needed workers it allowed in lots of Spanish-speaking Venezuelans; natives had no need to start ordering their cortados in English.
The memory of empire still has the ability to divide. One rift is within countries. To many, especially on the left, the colonial era is a source of shame. Emmanuel Macron, while running for the French presidency in 2017, decried colonisation as a “crime against humanity”. Those on the right prefer to highlight the railways, schools and churches built in backwaters—never mind the repression and plunder. (A few former colonialists, including the Dutch, have apologised for their behaviour; more often there have been mealy-mouthed expressions of “regret” instead.)
Another division is between European countries, pitting the had-empires against the had-nots. For occasionally, in hushed tones, those who once held colonies still treat them as part of an informal sphere of influence. France, as the former imperial power in much of west Africa, was always more likely to send soldiers to provide security there (when invited) than, say, Sweden.
Empire un-building
One lesson of bygone imperial times which Europeans should now recall is how easy it is to fall prey to a more powerful force. For centuries, Europe shaped the outside world through conquest. Today it feels like it is the outsiders who are shaping Europe instead. Talk of the continent being a “digital colony” of America is, if anything, an understatement. The return of might-makes-right geopolitics imposed by Mr Trump is reminiscent of the era when Europeans plundered the world. But if the Age of Empire really is back, this time it may be Europe that finds itself swooped upon.” [1]
1. The ghosts of empires past. The Economist; London Vol. 458, Iss. 9484, (Jan 31, 2026): 32.
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