Merz’s Halfway House for Ukraine Risks Creating a Permanent Waiting Room

German Chancellor Friedrich Merz has proposed a distinctly European solution to one of the continent’s most difficult strategic dilemmas: how to bring Ukraine closer to the European Union without actually admitting it.

The idea, floated in a letter to EU leaders this week, would grant Kyiv a form of “associate membership” — participation in summits and ministerial meetings, but without voting rights or full institutional power.

On paper, the proposal has a certain bureaucratic elegance. It acknowledges political reality inside the bloc, where enthusiasm for Ukraine’s eventual accession coexists uneasily with anxiety about cost, governance and security guarantees. Yet it also reflects a broader truth about the EU itself: enlargement has become strategically necessary at precisely the moment Europe feels least capable of absorbing new members.

For Brussels, Ukraine presents an almost impossible contradiction. Since Russia’s invasion in 2022, European leaders have framed Kyiv’s future as inseparable from Europe’s own security architecture. Candidate status was granted at remarkable speed, accompanied by promises that Ukraine belonged within the European family. But behind the rhetoric lies institutional caution. Full membership would require unanimity from all 27 member states, substantial reform of EU finances and agricultural policy, and a political settlement over a country still at war.

Mr Merz’s proposal attempts to bridge that gulf between symbolism and reality.

Under the plan, Ukraine could participate in EU councils, align more deeply with common policies and potentially benefit from aspects of the bloc’s mutual assistance framework, while remaining outside the formal voting structure. The arrangement resembles a geopolitical staging area: close enough to reassure Kyiv, distant enough to calm sceptics in Paris, Budapest and elsewhere.

The timing is significant. The proposal arrives amid renewed uncertainty over Western support for Ukraine and intensifying debate about the future of European security. With Washington increasingly unpredictable under President Donald Trump, European capitals are beginning to contemplate a world in which the EU itself must become a more explicit security actor. In that context, Ukraine’s integration ceases to be merely an enlargement question and becomes part of a larger strategic redesign.

That explains why Berlin is pushing so hard.

Germany has undergone a striking transformation since the start of the war. Once cautious, commercially entangled with Moscow and hesitant about military leadership, Berlin now increasingly frames itself as the central pillar of continental defence. Mr Merz, more hawkish than many predecessors, has accelerated that repositioning. His proposal for Ukraine is not simply diplomatic improvisation; it reflects Germany’s growing belief that Europe can no longer outsource its geopolitical order.

Still, associate membership carries risks of its own.

The first is that temporary arrangements in Brussels have a habit of becoming permanent. Turkey’s long and meandering relationship with the EU stands as a warning. So too do the frustrations of Balkan candidate states, many of which have spent years — in some cases decades — trapped in accession limbo. Kyiv may accept an interim formula during wartime, but Ukrainian leaders are unlikely to welcome an indefinite second-tier status once the conflict subsides.

The second danger lies in expectations. By extending elements of political solidarity and perhaps even implicit security guarantees without full institutional integration, Europe could create obligations it may later struggle to honour. The EU has historically excelled at economic integration; it has far less experience managing quasi-memberships tied directly to active geopolitical confrontation.

There is also a deeper constitutional question lurking beneath the debate. If Ukraine receives bespoke institutional privileges outside normal accession rules, other candidates will inevitably demand similar treatment. Moldova, the western Balkans and potentially even Georgia would ask why one applicant receives fast-track political integration while others remain bound by conventional procedures. Mr Merz has already hinted at parallel “intermediate” arrangements for other candidates, suggesting the EU may be edging towards a multi-tier Europe by necessity rather than design.

That may ultimately prove unavoidable.

The original architecture of EU enlargement was designed for a different era — one defined by post-Cold War optimism and relatively manageable expansion eastward. Ukraine changes the scale entirely. Integrating a vast agricultural economy of more than 30 million people would reshape budget allocations, voting balances and labour markets across the bloc. Enlargement is no longer merely about values; it is about power, resources and strategic survival.

What Mr Merz appears to understand is that Europe can no longer afford paralysis. But neither can it pretend that full Ukrainian accession is imminent. Associate membership therefore becomes an exercise in strategic ambiguity: enough integration to demonstrate commitment, enough distance to preserve political flexibility.

Whether that ambiguity stabilises Europe or merely institutionalises uncertainty will depend on what comes next. If associate membership becomes a genuine stepping stone toward accession, it may strengthen Europe’s geopolitical coherence. If it evolves into a comfortable holding pattern, however, the EU risks creating a permanent outer ring of states bound to Brussels but never fully admitted into the club.