WASHINGTON

A shouting match in the Oval Office, and America cuts off the country it armed

Trump and Vance berated Zelensky in front of the world's cameras, and days later the United States suspended weapons and intelligence to Ukraine. A country fighting for its life was cut off by its indispensable ally, on live television, for refusing to be grateful enough.

The rupture between America and Ukraine became a spectacle this fortnight, and then a catastrophe. On February 28, in the Oval Office, before the world's cameras, President Trump and Vice-President Vance publicly berated President Zelensky, accusing him of ingratitude, of gambling with world war, of disrespect, in an extraordinary televised ambush that ended with the Ukrainian leader effectively ejected from the White House, a planned minerals deal unsigned, and the alliance in open rupture. Days later, the consequences landed with brutal speed: the United States suspended military aid to Ukraine on March 3, and cut off the intelligence-sharing on which Ukraine's defence depends on March 5, leaving a country in the fourth year of fighting a Russian invasion suddenly blinded and disarmed by the ally that had sustained it, as punishment, in effect, for insufficient deference.

Europe, already reeling, moved with a speed born of panic. Its leaders convened emergency summits, rallied around Zelensky, and announced plans to rearm on a scale not seen since the Cold War: a "coalition of the willing" to support Ukraine, and a European Union proposal, dubbed ReArm Europe, to mobilise some 800 billion euros for defence, as Germany moved to break its own constitutional limits on borrowing to fund a military rebuild. A continent that had assumed the American guarantee was eternal was now, at ruinous speed and cost, trying to build in months the independent defence it had neglected for decades. Whether it could do so in time to save Ukraine, or itself, was the terrible open question, as the country that had trusted America most found itself cut off by America first.

MARKETS

Tariffs bite, and the great repricing begins

The economic cost of the new order began to bite this fortnight. Trump's tariffs on Canada, Mexico and China took effect, then were partly paused, then reimposed, a chaos of on-again-off-again trade policy that sent markets tumbling and business planning into paralysis, as companies confronted an environment in which the rules of global trade could change by presidential whim overnight. Stock markets, which had cheered Trump's election on hopes of tax cuts and deregulation, began to reckon with the other half of his agenda, the tariffs, the chaos, the inflationary threat, and slid, as the recession risk that had seemed banished returned to the conversation and the great postwar edifice of predictable global trade visibly began to come apart.

IN BRIEF

A measles death; new models; an actor found

A child died of measles in Texas, the first American measles death in a decade, amid a spreading outbreak and an administration whose health secretary had built his career on vaccine scepticism, a grim marker of the cost of eroding trust in public health. The AI labs pressed on, OpenAI releasing GPT-4.5 and Anthropic its Claude 3.7, the models growing more capable amid the tumult. And the actor Gene Hackman, one of the finest of his generation, was found dead at 95 at his New Mexico home alongside his wife, in circumstances that were, for a time, a mystery.

The Column

The rules of the game, and what happens when they dissolve

Markets are convulsing not over any single policy but because the ground rules everyone built on are dissolving at once. To understand why that is a distinct and graver kind of shock, it helps to see what those rules actually were, and what they were doing.

By Rebecca Cho

The markets are convulsing this fortnight, and the striking thing is that no single policy explains it. It is not a tariff, or a rate decision, or a war, though there are those too; it is something more diffuse and more fundamental, a sense that the ground rules everyone had built upon, the reliability of American alliances, the sanctity of contracts, the independence of institutions, the predictability of a great power's basic conduct, are dissolving all at once, and that the dissolution, rather than any particular act, is what has the markets afraid. To understand why this is a distinct and graver kind of shock than any policy could be, it helps to see clearly what those ground rules actually were, and what invisible work they had been doing all along.

The economist Douglass North won a Nobel Prize for making visible the thing this fortnight is destroying: institutions, which he defined not as organisations but as the rules of the game, the formal and informal constraints that structure human interaction and, crucially, reduce uncertainty. North's insight was that economic life is impossible without a dense scaffolding of stable expectations, that every investment, every contract, every long-term commitment rests on a set of background rules the participants trust will hold, and that these institutions, precisely because they are so reliable, become invisible, taken for granted, mistaken for the natural order of things rather than seen as the fragile human construction they are. The rule of law, the enforceability of a contract, the independence of a central bank, the predictability of a government's basic conduct: these are not features of nature but institutions, painstakingly built, and their whole economic function is to let people act as though tomorrow will resemble today, to reduce the vast uncertainty of the future to something manageable enough to invest against. When they hold, they are invisible. When they dissolve, everything that was built on the assumption of their holding must be repriced at once.

Let me put the counterargument, which the disruption's defenders press: that institutions can ossify, that some of the rules being broken were sclerotic or unfair or overdue for change, and that a certain amount of institutional disruption is the necessary price of renewal, the clearing away of arrangements that had outlived their purpose. There is truth in this; not every rule deserves to survive, and reverence for institutions can shade into mere conservatism. But North's framework exposes what this defence misses: the distinction between changing a rule through the institutions that let rules be changed predictably, and dissolving the meta-rule that rules are stable and changed only through legitimate process. Reforming a bad law through the legislature strengthens the institution of law even as it changes its content; breaking laws by executive whim, ignoring courts, tearing up treaties at will, does not reform the rules but destroys the deeper institution that rules mean anything, and that deeper institution is the one whose whole value was the reduction of uncertainty. You can change the rules of a game and still have a game. What you cannot do is make the rules themselves unpredictable and still have anyone willing to play.

And that is why this fortnight's convulsion is graver than any policy shock, and why the markets are right to be more afraid than any single number would justify. A bad policy is a move within the game, costly perhaps but priceable, because the rules that let you price it still hold. What is happening now is the dissolution of the rules themselves, the meta-institution of predictability that North identified as the foundation of all economic life, and its loss cannot be priced because pricing itself depended on it. This is what the great repricing actually is: not the market absorbing a policy but the market discovering that the ground rules it assumed were permanent were institutions after all, fragile human constructions that could be dissolved, and that the invisible scaffolding which let everyone assume tomorrow would resemble today has been pulled away, leaving every long-term commitment, every investment, every contract, suddenly exposed to an uncertainty the institutions had been quietly absorbing all along. The rules were doing more than anyone noticed, precisely because no one noticed them. The markets are learning, this fortnight, what those invisible rules were worth, by watching what happens when they go.

The Ledger

GPT-4.5 and Claude 3.7 advance the frontier amid the chaos, but the strategic question DeepSeek raised, and the geopolitical rupture sharpens, now dominates: in a world where American reliability is in doubt, how much should anyone depend on American AI. The dependency question spreads from security to silicon.

Data centers & power

The tariff chaos threatens the AI build-out directly: the chips, the equipment, the materials for data centres cross the very borders the trade war disrupts. The half-trillion-dollar vision assumes a stable global supply chain that this fortnight is dissolving.

Rates

The great repricing is the story: tariffs stoke inflation while chaos threatens growth, the worst combination for a central bank. The Fed holds, trapped between an inflationary trade war and a growth scare, its tools poorly suited to either.

Real estate

US 30-year mortgage 6.63 percent (March 6), easing slightly as recession fears pull yields down even as inflation fears push them up. The housing market caught, like everything, in the crosscurrents of a repricing world.

India tech

The dissolving trade order threatens India's export-dependent technology sector directly, but the strategic vindication of Delhi's non-alignment continues: a world of unreliable guarantees rewards the country that never fully trusted any single patron, and India's hedging looks wiser by the fortnight.

What we called wrong

Nothing to retract. The repricing column extends this paper's deepest theme to the global economy itself: that the foundations we stop seeing as choices are the ones whose change hurts most, and that the whole postwar order was, it turns out, a choice that could be unmade.

The Back Page

The last scene

Gene Hackman was found dead this fortnight at 95, at his home in the New Mexico hills, alongside his wife, and for a few days the circumstances were a mystery that the tabloids worked feverishly, before the sad, ordinary truth emerged: his wife had died first, of a rare illness, and Hackman, who had Alzheimer's and may not have understood that she was gone, had died days later, alone, in the house they shared. There is a terrible poignancy in it, but set it aside for a moment and remember the work, because the work was extraordinary. Hackman was the greatest kind of actor, the kind who disappeared so completely into ordinary, difficult, fully-human men that you forgot you were watching a performance at all: the obsessed detective of "The French Connection," the paranoid surveillance man of "The Conversation," the monstrous sheriff of "Unforgiven," the coach, the villain, the father, dozens of them, each one a whole person. He was not glamorous; he was better than glamorous, he was true, and he made truth look so easy that he never quite got the reverence handed to flashier men. He walked away from Hollywood in his seventies, moved to New Mexico, wrote novels, painted, lived quietly for two decades, and asked for nothing more from the fame he had earned. He had one of the great faces and one of the great careers, and he ended it not with a farewell tour but with a long, private, ordinary retirement, which is its own kind of grace. The manner of his death was sad and strange. The life was full, and the work will last as long as people watch films and want to see what a human being, truly rendered, looks like on a screen.