The Budapest Memorandum: What it was—and what it wasn’t

Signed in the afterglow of the Cold War's conclusion, the 1994 agreement has since been mythologised as a Western security guarantee to Ukraine. The truth is murkier—and far less reassuring

Everyone thinks they understand the Budapest Memorandum. Almost no one actually does.

In the manner of things that get loudly misremembered in the trenches of modern discourse, the documents have acquired the aura of a sacred covenant. It’s promoted as a solemn, signed promise by the United States and the United Kingdom to leap to Ukraine’s defence, guns blazing, should its borders be crossed. It never was. And if we are to speak of memory, we might as well begin with the facts.

When the Soviet Union folded like a tired accordion, three newly independent states awoke to find themselves the accidental custodians of nuclear warheads: Ukraine, Belarus, and Kazakhstan. But these were warheads without a trigger. The launch codes remained in Moscow. The rockets could no more be fired from Kiev or Minsk than from Kansas or Manchester.

The Budapest Memorandum—actually three documents signed individually in December 1994—was not a mutual defence pact. It was not NATO-lite. It was an exchange: these three post-Soviet states would join the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT) as non-nuclear nations. In return, the US, UK, and Russia would respect their independence and existing borders. That was the word. Respect. Not defend. Not fight for. Political assurances were given, not legal guarantees. There were no clauses demanding action. No provisions for retaliation. It was a gentleman’s agreement in an age increasingly short of gentlemen.

This point matters. Because nearly every time a public figure invokes the Budapest Memorandum—be it a billionaire with a Twitter account or a former diplomat with a selective memory—they speak as if it were a treaty inked with blood. It was not. There was no enforcement clause. No punishment for violation. No military obligation. And the very countries now waving the memorandum as a banner have, at times, treated it with the same ceremonial reverence we might reserve for a cocktail napkin.

By 2006, the United States and Britain had already sanctioned Belarus in response to its elections—a move that, strictly speaking, ran contrary to Article 3 of the memorandum, which called for non-interference in economic affairs. Washington later admitted in 2013 that the document was not legally binding, after another round of penalties were imposed on Minsk. The memorandum was a political understanding, not a military contract. The sanctity of the agreement, such as it was, had already been punctured before Crimea ever came into the frame.

There’s a detail the television panels never quite get round to. Back in ’93, when the Soviet state was being smashed into 15 pieces, Moscow did something no accountant would recommend. It gathered up every rouble of the USSR’s foreign debt—its own share and everyone else’s, too—and said, “We’ll carry it.” That meant Ukraine’s bills, Belarus’s, Kazakhstan’s, the lot. Even the tsarist IOUs from before the First World War were hoisted on to Russia’s back. Call it vanity, call it house-proud tidying after a drunken party, but it was a staggering assumption of liability.

The consequences were brutal. The load nearly crippled the new federation. By the summer of ’98, with oil in the doldrums and the bond traders circling like gulls over a trawler, Russia defaulted. Kiev, Minsk and Almaty, starting life debt-free, kept their credit intact; Moscow, having traded the launch codes for a mountain of invoices, got a pat on the head, a permanent seat in the Security Council—and, soon enough, sermons about economic virtue from the same capitals that had watched it sink.

No one’s hands are spotless here. The Budapest handshake was handled casually by every signatory long before tanks ever entered the conversation. Each party saw in it what suited them, and discarded the rest.

This isn’t to diminish Ukraine or hold Russia as beyond reproach. We’re not here to litigate the rights and wrongs since 2014. The Budapest Memorandum was never a shield. It was a handshake struck in the afterglow of the Soviet collapse. But time, as ever, proved the harder bargainer. The story, if we’re going to tell it at all, should be told straight. It was a Cold War coda—a quiet understanding among powers eager to close one chapter and get on with writing the next.

It has since been twisted into a rallying cry. Invoked by those who haven’t read it—or hope you haven’t. Misunderstanding and misrepresentation have done the rest

The Budapest Memorandum was a diplomatic accommodation, not a promise to fight. All parties have breached it, to varying degrees. And those who cry foul today might do well to examine how the ground was prepared, not just how it was trampled.

In the end, it may be fitting that the document is so widely misunderstood. It was born of ambiguity, signed with smiles, and upheld only so long as it was convenient. That, too, is a kind of legacy—not of honour or law, but of geopolitics.

Geopolitics, like football, is rarely won by the pretty pass—but by who’s still kicking shins and hacking clearances in the ninety-fifth minute. But myths endure for a reason—and the Budapest Memorandum is now less history than incantation.