France's President Emmanuel Macron stood by his government and condemned violence in a much-anticipated interview over pension reforms.

Chelsea come away with a crucial victory over holders Lyon in the first leg of their Women's Champions League quarter-final in France.

“While the U.S. has many vital national interests,” Florida Governor Ron DeSantis wrote recently, “becoming further entangled in a territorial dispute between Ukraine and Russia is not one of them.”  

The comments inspired a wave of disapproval from conservatives and Republicans, including The Wall Street Journal’s editorial page and the Washington Post columnist George Will, who quipped, “If that is his settled view after the dust settles and he elaborates on this, then he’s not fit to be president, period.”

As an inveterate critic of Woodrow Wilson, Will should know better. DeSantis was merely taking a realist foreign-policy stance at a time when elites in both parties have gotten into a dangerously Wilsonian frame of mind. With support for Ukraine aid falling among Republicans, DeSantis’s comments were also more in tune with where GOP voters are, and are likely to be in the months ahead.

[Read: Zelensky has answers for DeSantis]

The legal case against Russia is open-and-shut. After the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, the Russian government recognized the borders of the new Ukraine, and further guaranteed its sovereignty in the 1994 Budapest Memorandum. Ukraine is a sovereign state, entitled to political independence and territorial integrity. Russia’s war of aggression is clearly a violation of international law.

But the matter is more complicated than that. One of the most far-reaching consequences of Wilsonian idealism has been to turn all international conflicts into primarily legal disputes in which the key question is who is right and who is wrong. The trouble with that approach is that the strategic and historical dimensions of those conflicts tend to disappear from the policy calculus, with baleful consequences.

How Ukraine Became Independent

The hard truth is this: Ukraine’s 1991 borders were partly a subterfuge of Soviet propaganda and did not fully make sense for an independent country alongside Russia. Containing large swaths of historical Russia, millions of ethnic Russians, and a crucial Russian naval base at Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula (which was transferred to Ukraine only in 1954 and is home to few ethnic Ukrainians even now), those borders actually guaranteed Russian hegemony in the short term. They’re why pro-Russia presidential candidates won almost every election in Ukraine from 1991 until the “Euromaidan” revolution of 2014. Indeed, Ukrainian-nationalist parties have ruled for the past decade partly because the electorate no longer includes residents of the Donbas or Crimea, the heavily Russian areas that either broke away or were seized by Russia after the pro-Russian government was deposed in 2014.

Hence, from Russia’s point of view, the commitments of 1991 and 1994 were mostly a formality, because Moscow expected Ukraine to remain firmly in its orbit. But those guarantees only kicked an explosive can down the road, because if a strong Ukrainian-nationalist movement should ever arise, as it has now, oriented toward Europe and bent on independence from Russia, the 1991 borders would create a fatal conflict between Ukraine’s nationhood and that of the Russians, many of whom view Ukraine—especially east of the Dnipro River—as an inseparable part of Russia.

[Max Abrahms: I teach international relations. I think we’re making a mistake in Ukraine.]

Russia may be waging a war of aggression as a matter of law, but as a matter of history and strategy it is moving to forestall a grave deterioration in its strategic position, with stakes that are almost as existential for it as they are for Ukraine. And as former Russian President Dmitry Medvedev said recently, “Nuclear powers have never lost major conflicts on which their fate depends.”

When the U.S. agreed to recognize Ukraine in 1991, it should have realized that Ukraine’s borders could prove enormously destabilizing, like the nuclear forces and Black Sea fleet that Ukraine had also accidentally inherited and which the U.S. wisely insisted be transferred to Russia in 1993–94.

The U.S. should have treated the 1991 borders as provisional and encouraged Russia and Ukraine to agree on a peaceful adjustment. With Europe flourishing on one side and Russia a moribund kleptocracy on the other, Ukrainians’ desire for independence from Russia was almost certainly inevitable. As Ukrainian nationalism gathered strength, Russia could perhaps have been persuaded to agree to a territorial adjustment.

Governor DeSantis was right on another score: The proximate cause of the war was definitely a territorial dispute, but of a very special kind. After the Euromaidan revolution, Russia felt it had no choice but to annex Crimea, because it couldn’t risk losing Sevastopol. But it still did not annex the eastern Donbas, which it was also occupying, insisting instead on its reintegration into Ukraine under the terms of the Minsk Agreements of 2014 and 2015, which it saw as vitally necessary to restoring its control over the whole of Ukraine. For the same reason, Ukraine’s nationalists soured on the Minsk Agreements: With those territories in limbo, the nationalists had been able to achieve a degree of independence that would have been impossible otherwise.

America’s Blank Check

As tensions mounted in 2020 and 2021, Germany and France grew anxious to persuade Ukraine to implement the Minsk Agreements, in which all the major issues were territorial. But, with their customary professions of high moral and legal principle, the Americans undercut those diplomatic efforts, encouraging the Ukrainians to dig in their heels and dare Russia to do something about it. It was an implicit blank check and had the same effect as when the kaiser wrote one a century ago, namely to entice the recipient to risk a catastrophic war with Russia.

It is crucial to understand the dangerous role that America is playing. The sheer scale of U.S. aid to Ukraine has become a decisive factor in the course of the war. Don’t be deceived by President Joe Biden’s claims that we are helping Ukraine without getting involved in the conflict ourselves. Even according to the Defense Department’s own Law of War Manual, the U.S. is already a de facto belligerent in the Ukraine war.

The lack of strategy behind the deluge of American missiles and tanks flowing into Ukraine is frightening. The U.S. is giving Ukraine enough aid to prevent a Russian victory, but the stated aim of liberating all of Ukraine’s territory, “as long as it takes,” isn’t remotely plausible and is contradicted by other aspects of U.S. policy. This is not the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, where the Soviets could afford to cut their losses. Even a return to the status quo ante of January 2022 would likely be unacceptable to the Russians. The Russians are almost certainly prepared to lose—and kill—millions of people before giving up the territory they have now. And because the U.S. has thus far insisted that the weapons donated to Ukraine not be used inside Russia, U.S. strategy is currently optimized for making the war last as long as possible without a decisive result.

What’s more, even if Ukraine’s war aims could be achieved, what would Ukraine do then? It could either reintegrate the Russian populations and risk once again becoming a Russian puppet, or disenfranchise them through repression or wholesale expulsion, which, besides violating international humanitarian law, would likely trigger another war. Hence, Ukraine’s stated war aim—the complete liberation of its 1991 territory—might not even be desirable from Ukraine’s point of view.

America’s Vital Interests

The overriding priority of U.S. foreign policy in the century ahead will be to tame the rising power of China. DeSantis’s observation that “the Biden administration’s policies have driven Russia into a de facto alliance with China” is a crucial one. One might add that U.S. policy is accomplishing that quite against Moscow’s will, because a brief glance at the map suffices to see that China’s increasing control over its “near abroad” puts it on a collision course with Russia along a roughly 6,000-mile front, if you include buffer states. In the century ahead, Russia’s only alternative to domination by China is very likely an alliance with the United States, and that is an alliance the U.S. cannot afford to forfeit. Allowing Russia to slip into China’s orbit would bring Chinese power into the very heart of Europe.

[Eliot A. Cohen: The shortest path to peace]

To be sure, there is a “realist” case for supporting Ukraine in its stated war aims. The linchpin of that argument is an analogy to 1938: If Vladimir Putin isn’t stopped now, then, like Hitler, he will only try to seize more territory. That argument is creditable but misses a key difference between the two situations. In the 1930s, Czechoslovakia was the central pillar of the Allies’ entire defensive strategy. It had to be defended at any price—otherwise the correlation of forces would shift overwhelmingly in Germany’s favor, and Hitler’s conquest of Europe would become unstoppable. By contrast, even if Russia can overcome its surprising military weakness and defeat Ukraine, it will be no closer to realizing Putin’s impossible dream of reincorporating the Baltic states, which, while small, are firmly under NATO’s nuclear umbrella. Putin surely knows that every inch of NATO territory is hopelessly beyond his reach, and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky must know that as well, his warnings to the contrary notwithstanding.

Ending the War

Before Woodrow Wilson left his dubious stamp on international relations, wars typically ended in peace treaties. Many of those treaties involved territorial settlements, reparations, and other inducements to stop fighting.

Scholars have noted the vertiginous decline in peace treaties in the era of the United Nations. Part of the reason is that modern international law penalizes compromise. For example, international criminal prosecutions have gravely complicated truth-and-reconciliation processes, whose amnesties are often not recognized outside the country where they were granted. Similarly, although Putin surely knew that he was committing a war crime by invading Ukraine, the International Criminal Court’s recent issuance of an arrest warrant for him can only make the stakes of the war even more apocalyptic for the Kremlin.

Wilsonian professions of high moral and legal principle can be an obstacle to compromise, particularly when they become inflexible policy positions. But they also represent what is best in Americans’ view of themselves and of the world—pacifism and benevolence tempered by the instinct to stick up for the underdog and stand up to the bully. Presidents like Ronald Reagan succeeded by finding the balance of idealism and realism, tapping into deep wellsprings of democratic sentiment to give compelling force to their realpolitik. The most important part of DeSantis’s comments signaled a similar approach: “Without question, peace should be the objective.”

Peace should be the overriding objective now, but it will require a willingness to compromise. As the great Cold War game theorist Thomas Schelling observed, parties to a conflict are always negotiating, even if tacitly. If we get beyond their maximalist positions to what each side really needs, a compromise may be possible.

The 1991 borders created a painful dilemma for Ukrainian nationalists. They could have political independence or they could have full territorial integrity, but not, in the real world, both. In the years since the rupture of 2014, Kyiv has tacitly chosen political independence over territory. Russia is facing the mirror image of that dilemma. Putin wants Ukraine to cede the territory Russia now occupies, and to pledge that it will stay out of NATO. Russia must know that it can’t have both of those things while NATO is backing Ukraine. By “annexing” Crimea and now Donbas, it has tacitly chosen territory over political control.

That should help us see the outlines of a durable peace through the fog and din of war. The U.S. should encourage Ukraine to sell the Russians the territory they now occupy in exchange for a large sum that includes reparations. Many wars have been honorably settled that way. A more homogeneously Ukrainian state would be more politically stable and could join the European Union and perhaps even NATO one day.

Absent a negotiated settlement, the most likely (and fraught) end to the war in Ukraine is a unilateral Russian cease-fire, backed by a threat of massive escalation (read: nukes) if the fighting continues. In the long run, a war that ends without a formal peace settlement could mean decades of sanctions, turning Russia into a pariah state, and almost certainly forcing it to accept de facto Chinese suzerainty. The nonrecognition of forcible territorial changes has become a bedrock principle of U.S. foreign policy, but it is another example of how an excessively rigid legalism can sometimes aggravate rather than cool international conflicts.

If Russia declares a cease-fire, the Biden administration will face the decision toward which its policy has been driving it all along: whether to break its promises to Ukraine or dramatically escalate U.S. involvement. The first would gravely damage American prestige and embolden China, while the second would almost certainly lead to a nuclear showdown. Both horns of that dilemma carry totally unacceptable risks, which is why the United States should never have gotten involved in this war to begin with.

A little realism can make idealism go a long way.

Police fired tear gas and angry demonstrators threw projectiles as violence erupted again in streets across France on Tuesday night.

In 2018, I paid a man a couple hundred dollars to repeatedly jam several needles into the skin of my right wrist. I felt as if I were being attacked by a microscopic cavalry of crabs. Into every jab went black ink, eventually forming the shape of double quotation marks. It was my first tattoo, and likely not my last.

In the thousands of years that tattoos have been around, not much has changed. The practice still involves carving wounds into permanent, inked-in shapes that we find aesthetically pleasing. But much of tattooing remains mysterious: Scientists still aren’t sure what makes certain tattoos fade fast, why others stick around when they’re supposed to disappear, or how they react to light. One of the strangest and least-studied enigmas, though, is how tattoos survive at all. Our immune system is constantly doing its darndest to destroy them—and understanding why it fails could clue us in to one of our bodies’ most important functions, even when we leave the skin blank.

When a tattoo is stamped onto skin, the body considers it an assault. The skin is the immune system’s “first barrier,” and is heavily stocked with fast-acting defensive cells that can leap into action when it’s breached, says Juliet Morrison, a virologist at UC Riverside. Those cells’ prime directive is to suss out anything foreign and destroy it so the healing process can begin.

That mission is generally quite successful—allowing burns to heal, scars to fade, and scabs to fall away—except, for some reason, when ink gets involved. The particles in pigments are bulky and difficult for an immune cell’s enzymes to degrade. So when inks get gulped down by immune cells such as skin-dwelling macrophages—which spend their lives devouring pathogens, cellular debris, and other schmutz within just a teeny patch of flesh—it can transform into a microscopic version of gum. The pigment particles lodge themselves inside macrophages’ innards, refusing to be broken down. When ink is visible at the surface of the body, it’s not just interlaced among skin cells—it’s shining out from the bellies of macrophages that can’t digest it.

[Read: The benefits of a foreign-language tattoo]

Sandrine Henri, an immunologist at France’s Center of Immunology of Marseille-Luminy, and her colleagues have found that macrophages’ taste for ink can help explain why tattoos so tenaciously stick around, even after the cells die. At the end of a macrophage’s days- or weeks-long life, it begins to come apart, releasing the pigment at its core. But that ink then immediately gets snatched up and wolfed down by another macrophage in the vicinity that more or less takes its predecessor’s place, no more than perhaps a few micrometers away—less than the width of a human hair.

Over time, the edges of tattoos may get a bit fuzzier as the ink passes from cell to cell. Some pigment may also end up shuttled to lymph nodes. Those major immunological hubs are normally off-white. But in heavily tattooed people, they can end up turning “the color of the ink,” says Gary Kobinger, an immunologist at the Galveston National Laboratory at the University of Texas Medical Branch. But by and large, the ink stays inside of macrophages, and thus stays put. This infinite relay of ingestion, regurgitation, and reingestion, Henri told me, is thought to be part of the reason it’s so difficult to laser off tattoos—and, potentially, part of the reason some new companies’ “temporary” tattoos haven’t been fading as advertised.

Scientists aren’t yet sure if the macrophages’ inky clog-up has consequences. “What if you are forcing them to take care of these foreign clumps of pigment instead of doing immune surveillance?” Morrison told me. Stopped-up macrophages might be less able to take in more dangerous substances, such as pathogens. One study published last year found that tattoo pigment might alter the proteins they produce and the signals they send to other cells. All of that might mean nothing—or that the cell starts over- or underreacting to foreign material, potentially putting the immune system at a disadvantage if a new tattoo ends up inflamed, infected, or triggering allergies.

Infections are rare with tattoos—at most, they happen 5 or 6 percent of the time—and when they do occur, they’re most commonly bacterial. But in very, very rare cases, body-art aficionados can end up with dangerous viruses, including hepatitis C. Thankfully, especially with modern advances in sanitation, most people with tattoos “do just fine,” says Danielle Tartar, a dermatologist at UC Davis.

Henri, for one, isn’t worried: The immune system is multifaceted and constantly replenishing its cells; in the event of a major attack, cells busying themselves with ink would probably be able to call in reinforcements to waylay the threat. And it’s very possible that the macrophages are only temporarily discombobulated by the ink they swallow and end up resetting to a new baseline.

[Read: Show your immune system some love]

Besides, there’s more to the immune system than the cells that love to chow down on ink. A few years ago, a team of researchers led by Jennifer Juno, an immunologist at the University of Melbourne, in Australia, mixed tattoo ink into a vaccine formulation to track where the contents of the shot ended up in mice and macaques. There was no evidence that the pigments were making immune cells on the whole “unhappy,” Juno told me, or killing them off. Nor did the ink seem to change how well the vaccine worked.

Some small bits of damage to the skin—administered by a professional using sterile, hypoallergenic equipment and materials—could even keep nearby immune cells spry. Studies are now finding that macrophages and other so-called innate immune cells might be able to briefly remember some of their past encounters with other types of foreign material and better respond to future assaults. (This, of course, is the whole point of vaccination, but vaccines target adaptive immune cells, which are much more amenable to the process.) It’s also possible—though not yet borne out by data—that learning to coexist with tattoo ink could help immune cells calibrate their reactions to other substances, perhaps even heading off autoimmune attacks, says Tatiana Segura, a biomaterials expert at Duke University. “If your body tolerates a tattoo at all, it means that the immune system adapted,” says María Daniela Hermida, a dermatologist based in Buenos Aires.

To understand some of the immune effects of tattoos, Christopher Lynn, an anthropologist at the University of Alabama, has been studying heavily inked people in different parts of the world. He and his colleagues have found that individuals who frequently get tattoos appear to have higher levels of certain immune molecules, including antibodies, in their blood than people who rarely get inked (at least for a brief time). Maybe, Lynn told me, frequent tattooing gives the immune system a regular, low-intensity workout—and keeps certain bits of our defensive armamentarium more fit.

But more antibodies is not the same as better immunity, and the researchers don’t yet have a sense for how long those effects last, says Saranya Wyles, a dermatologist at the Mayo Clinic. And because Lynn and his colleagues haven’t run a clinical trial in which they’ve assigned some people to ink up and others to not, they can’t actually prove that the antibody bump is a direct result of a tattoo. It’s possible, Lynn told me, that people with naturally higher levels of certain immune molecules are more prone to getting tons of tattoos, because they’re less likely to have bad reactions. Tattoos, in that case, would be more of a litmus test for the body—which, in some ways, checks out with the cultural impetus for body art in many cultures: flaunting one’s tolerance for pain. Either way, Lynn cautions that, even in the best-case scenario, tattooing will have its limits. “I don’t think it’s going to cure colds” or, realistically, anything else, he said.

[Read: Watching tattoos go from rebellious to mainstream]

Regardless of whether tattoos themselves boost immunity, they might inspire technology that does. Kobinger’s team is one of several tinkering with tattoo-needle techniques to administer shots—in ways that could make them more potent, more efficient, and easier to take. Most of the vaccines in our current roster are injected deep below the skin, into muscles, which aren’t well stocked with immune cells. The process takes time and decently large doses to truly rev up. The skin, by contrast, is “a formidable place to administer vaccines,” Kobinger told me. “The cells are already on site, and there is an immediate reaction.”

A skin-deep technique to administer vaccines already exists, called the “intradermal” route, which has been used for the shots against smallpox, tuberculosis, rabies, and recently, mpox. But intradermal vaccines require quite a bit of training to administer—and when needles miss their mark, the effectiveness of the shot can take a real nosedive.

Tattooing devices, outfitted with vaccine vials, could, in theory, circumvent those pitfalls, Kobinger said. In his experiments with various vaccines, the tattooing method has routinely outperformed the intradermal one; some, though not all, other studies have found similarly encouraging results. If the technology advances, Kobinger told me, people might someday need fewer injections of some multidose shots—saving time, money, effort, and discomfort. There’s no ink involved. But maybe these needles could still have the chance to leave permanent impressions on us.

France pushed through a contoversial bill in parliament by enacting article 49.3. No vote was needed. Could this happen elsewhere in Europe?