Trump and Musk have reportedly moved past their earlier major feud and are now focused on peace in Ukraine, but behind the plan lie very concrete interests for both of them
When people speak today about the future of Ukraine, it is becoming increasingly difficult to separate diplomatic phrases about “peace” from very concrete questions—who will control its mines, energy grids, and communication infrastructure tomorrow. At the center of that story are no longer just presidents and ministers, but also one very well-known private billionaire. Elon Musk is the man who simultaneously keeps a finger on the switch of Ukrainian communications through Starlink, and on the supply chain of the “new oil”—lithium—without which his industrial empire simply cannot function. And in the background, a shared goal of his and the Trump administration’s is becoming increasingly visible: to find a way to access Ukrainian lithium without Russia or China becoming the only major players.
From the beginning of the war, Musk’s role in Ukraine was not merely a humanitarian gesture. His Starlink terminals became a piece of infrastructure without which the Ukrainian military can hardly wage war: command links, drone reconnaissance and strikes, unit coordination—all run through satellites. Today, tens of thousands of terminals exist in the country, and an agreement has been reached with the largest Ukrainian operator allowing regular 4G phones to send messages directly through the Starlink network, without traditional ground infrastructure. In short, Musk now controls not only military communication, but is entering the very core of civilian mobile telephony in a country at war. This has made Ukraine dependent on the goodwill of a man who is accountable to no one but his own assessments of risk and profit.
This dependency is not abstract—it has already shown itself on the battlefield. During the Ukrainian counteroffensive in 2022, when their forces were advancing toward Kherson, Starlink suddenly went silent in certain zones: terminals lost connection, drones stopped flying, command structures were left without communication. Investigations later showed that the signal had been restricted at Musk’s direction, out of fear that Ukrainian successes might provoke Russian escalation, even nuclear threats. A similar story unfolded with an attempted attack by naval drones on the Russian fleet in Crimea, when Musk refused to extend coverage toward Sevastopol, and the drones became “blind” before reaching their target.
Starlink has also become a tool of political pressure. During negotiations over a new economic agreement between Washington and Kyiv, American negotiators unofficially signaled that the continued funding and full functioning of Starlink was not separate from Ukraine’s willingness to accept the U.S. framework for exploiting its resources. The message is clear: not only weapons are leverage—so is connection. When a country knows it could plunge into communication darkness overnight because the satellite owner is unhappy with its political direction, the space for sovereign decision-making narrows dramatically.
On the other side of the equation is Trump’s concept of “aid for minerals.” After months of haggling, humiliating meetings (for Zelensky, of course), and media leaks, Washington and Kyiv signed an agreement that—in plain language—means Ukraine will use part of its future mining and energy revenues to repay American military and financial assistance. A joint reconstruction fund is established, and Ukraine formally keeps ownership of its resources, but revenues from lithium, rare earth elements, oil, and gas are tied to that fund and to American interests. Earlier drafts were even more brutal—demanding up to $500 billion in future revenues or half of all rare mineral production—but even the “softened” version clearly shows the direction: the war is not “gifted” aid, but an investment meant to be repaid through Ukraine’s underground wealth.
Why the focus on lithium? Because lithium, in energy terms, is the new oil. Every electric vehicle battery, every storage system for renewable energy, every large grid trying to balance its load—everything relies on lithium-ion technology. Without lithium, the vision of the “green transition” collapses. Ukraine sits on about half a million tons of confirmed lithium reserves—roughly a third of Europe’s and several percent of global reserves. The most promising deposits are in Donetsk and Zaporizhzhia—Shevchenkivske, Kruta Balka, and others—exactly where the fiercest fighting is taking place or where Russia already has control. Alongside lithium, there are huge titanium reserves, significant graphite deposits, and a role in supplying neon for the chip industry. Whoever dictates the rules in these mines will have leverage not just over automobiles, but over entire technological supply chains.
The problem for Washington and Musk is called—China. Even when lithium doesn’t come from Chinese mines, it passes through Chinese refineries and factories. More than two-thirds of global capacity for lithium processing and battery cell production is concentrated in China or controlled by Chinese companies. Western automotive and energy companies, including Tesla, can diversify mines in Australia or Chile, but they are still dependent on Chinese factories for crucial steps—from chemical processing of lithium to manufacturing of cathodes and cells. For Musk, who tries to present Tesla as an “American” alternative to Chinese manufacturers (who are catching up and surpassing him), this is a strategic problem: if China tightens the valve, his production becomes a hostage of geopolitics.
This is why Musk has been trying for years to “exit China” at least in the key stages of the value chain. He is opening his own lithium refinery in Texas, entering direct contracts with mines, investing in alternative battery technologies…
In that context, Ukraine—with its reserves and geographic proximity to European markets—appears as an ideal link: a source of lithium within the broader Western bloc but outside the Chinese industrial network. If the war ends in a way that leaves enough territory and mines under Kyiv’s control, and if those mines are opened to Western investors through U.S.–Ukrainian funds, Musk gets exactly what he needs—“new oil” from a country formally “saved” (at least from total disappearance under Russia) with American help.
This is where the infamous “Miami Plan” enters the scene—described recently by the Wall Street Journal. According to their account, in late October, at the home of newly appointed U.S. envoy Steve Witkoff in a gated community in Miami, a small group gathered around a laptop: the host, real-estate magnate Jared Kushner (Trump’s son-in-law) as political and business intermediary, and Kirill Dmitriev, head of Russia’s sovereign wealth fund and a man under sanctions. This, the source says, was not a State Department conference room, but a private terrace; yet the document they worked on became the first draft of the American “peace” offer—the text that would later be presented to Ukraine and European governments as the starting point. Its structure was economic from the outset: how to convert frozen Russian reserves into joint investment funds, how to allow large Russian and American projects in energy, mining, and reconstruction, how to turn sanctions into bargaining chips rather than permanent barriers.
Of course, we cannot say whether the WSJ’s sources are credible or not, but the story itself sounds like something that could have happened—or did happen. Then again, the whole thing could be a clever operation aimed at torpedoing yet another peace plan.
Still, for the sake of analysis, let us assume such a meeting took place.
Ukraine was offered a “frozen” front line: recognition of the loss of Crimea, formalizing Russian control over Donetsk and Luhansk, acceptance of the current lines in parts of Kherson and Zaporizhzhia, renunciation of NATO membership, and limits on its own armed forces and missile ranges. In return, Ukraine was promised certain political guarantees that were not legally binding and could be easily withdrawn if power changed in Washington or if Ukraine “broke” the terms regarding certain weapons. The Russian side did not undertake obligations regarding withdrawal or demilitarization. In short: Moscow gets formalization of its conquests and a path back into the global economy, and Ukraine gets reversible promises and the prospect of repaying its debt for decades through lithium, gas, and steel.
The same source claims that Russian intermediary Dmitriev mentioned Musk as someone who could launch a new era of Russian-American cooperation—on Earth and in space—and that there was even talk of a possible joint mission to Mars!
Clearly, there will be many obstacles, but before Mars we must deal with earthly problems.
Ukraine will have to pay for its survival through its resources, and China remains, for America, a competitor whose control over the “new oil” must be reduced. To achieve that, there is certainly some American readiness to cooperate with Moscow—as long as the end result is access to mines and funds.
Thus, interests fall exactly between two extremes—war and peace. War maintains high demand for Starlink, for weapons, for “emergency” financial packages that can later be tied to concessions. Peace, if achieved under current conditions, opens a long phase of reconstruction, privatization, and exploitation in which American, European, Russian, and Chinese capital will compete over Ukrainian lithium and other minerals. In both scenarios Musk gets his place: as the man who controls the signals above Ukraine, and as the industrialist who tomorrow will need every kilogram of lithium not under Chinese—and not exclusively under Russian—control.
The conclusion? Both war and peace around Ukraine have their own calculations today. War brings profits to war and tech industries; peace promises profits to industries of reconstruction and mining. In that calculation, Ukraine is both the front and the market, both the victim and the resource.
About the Author
