If the Nobel Peace Prize were awarded by bookmakers and not by the Norwegians, Donald Trump would already be practicing his acceptance speech. At 13/2 odds, online punters have made him the frontrunner—edging out dissidents, widows of martyrs, and nuclear abolitionists. But the Nobel Committee does not operate by the rules of reality television or prediction markets. It is, at heart, a moral institution—however occasionally inconsistent—and therein lies the trouble for President Trump.
Trump, returning to the White House after an extraordinary political resurrection, has wasted no time marketing himself as a man of peace. Not for the first time, he insists his greatest legacy will not be in steel tariffs, conservative judges, or Truth Social, but in “wars we never got into.” He now angles to build a personal mythology: the reluctant warrior who turned swords into trade deals.
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Nobel Peace Prize for Trump?
Trump’s bid for the Nobel Peace Prize rests on his assertion that he brokered a ceasefire between India and Pakistan—a claim that New Delhi has firmly disputed. After a massacre by Pakistan-backed terrorists in Kashmir, tensions escalated rapidly. Within 72 hours, Trump, characteristically, announced a full and immediate ceasefire on Truth Social—with a flourish more befitting a boxing promoter than a statesman.
Yet, however stylised the performance, no one can deny that Americans helped bring the warring parties to the negotiating table with Saudi Arabia and Turkey playing supporting roles. A new round of bilateral talks, while far from resolving the Kashmir conundrum, at least moved the region back from the brink. If the Nobel Peace Prize were awarded for diplomatic firefighting, Trump’s application would already be under consideration.
To this, he adds the ceasefire between Russia and Ukraine, mediated with the help of European leaders. The 30-day pause may yet collapse under the weight of distrust, but it marks the first meaningful break in hostilities since the war began in 2022. Zelensky and European leaders have credited the US for pushing Putin to the table—with Trump now alternating between appeasement and threats of sanctions.
In Trump’s mind, a two-hour phone call with Vladimir Putin from a gilded Oval Office is tantamount to statesmanship, never mind that the only tangible result was a volley of 108 Russian drones over Ukrainian skies that same night. While Trump declared that ceasefire talks would begin immediately, Moscow’s response was predictably conditional and laced with ambiguity. It is, once again, diplomacy by declaration—unencumbered by outcomes, driven by optics, and dangerously indifferent to the lived consequences for those on the battlefield.
It is messy, transactional diplomacy—part arm-twist, part photo-op. But it is diplomacy nonetheless.
A Trump doctrine of peace
There is a deeper pattern that Trump’s supporters point to: his general aversion to war. He is, arguably, the most anti-interventionist president since Jimmy Carter. He refused to escalate in Syria, cancelled bombing campaigns in Yemen, and ordered a deal with the Taliban to end the war in Afghanistan—albeit one that unravelled on Biden’s watch. He has consistently criticised the Pentagon establishment, NATO obligations, and nation-building fantasies.
His approach to Iran, however, complicates the narrative. Having torpedoed the Obama-era nuclear deal in 2018, Trump now seeks to revive a variant of it. The irony is thick: what he once demonised as the worst deal ever negotiated is now the model he tentatively embraces. Iran’s new moderate President Masoud Pezeshkian has shown willingness to talk, but Trump’s demands for “total dismantlement” of nuclear infrastructure are unrealistic and would require a U-turn in Iranian strategic thinking.
The Nobel Committee knows that progress toward peace is not the same as posturing about it. The 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action, though imperfect, imposed verifiable limits on Iran’s enrichment. Trump’s new plan, as yet unwritten, is far more ambitious—and far less feasible. And so, the Iranian overture, if it ever becomes a deal, may come too late for October’s Nobel deadline.
Nobel politics and US presidential precedents
The committee has historically been selective in rewarding US presidents. Teddy Roosevelt for brokering peace between Russia and Japan; Woodrow Wilson for founding the League of Nations; Jimmy Carter after decades of post-presidency peace advocacy; Barack Obama, controversially, for aspirations rather than achievements.
Trump has been nominated multiple times, chiefly for the Abraham Accords in 2020, which normalised ties between Israel and Gulf states. But these, too, came with caveats: they were geopolitical alignments more than peace settlements—deals made in the absence of war, not in the cessation of it.
Trump’s desire for the coveted prize is sincere, to the extent of being termed obsessive. He has complained that Obama received one “in 10 seconds” and believes he has done far more. That, ironically, may be part of his problem. The Nobel Peace Prize does not reward self-promotion, and it especially does not reward vendettas disguised as statesmanship.
Moreover, the committee is unlikely to ignore the ongoing war in Gaza. Trump’s unequivocal support for Israel—even as humanitarian crises unfold—undermines his self-declared status as a unifier. Though he has snubbed Netanyahu in recent weeks and floated backchannel diplomacy with Hamas, Iran, and Syria, the damage to his peace credentials is not easily reversed. The Nobel Committee, as history shows, weighs peace in aggregate, not in isolated episodes.
A long shot dressed as a frontrunner
One can say with conviction that Trump hasn’t studied Alfred Nobel’s will; but he studies mirrors. And in every reflection, he expects to see a gold medallion pinned beside his red tie. His pitch is disarmingly simple: end three wars, pocket one prize. Never mind that his predecessors needed peace treaties, nuclear compacts or multilateral resolutions.
But Nobel jurors read dossiers, not betting slips. They prize verifiable peace over rhetorical theatrics and armistices that hold, not calendar-based halts that unravel by the next sunrise. Roosevelt’s 1906 prize came after a signed treaty; Santos received his after an accord with the FARC rebels. In contrast, Trump’s 30-day truce in Ukraine, while not insignificant, is at best an IOU, not a settled achievement. His Gaza diplomacy is mired in contradiction—military aid to Israel, a collapsed ceasefire, and shuttered Palestinian diplomatic channels. On Iran, he seeks praise for rebuilding the very agreement he dismantled—an act akin to setting fire to a treaty and then demanding applause for offering a hose.
There is sincerity in his stated desire for peace, but it is weaponised by an ego that measures history through trophy cabinets. The Nobel Committee, however, is not easily seduced. The committee did not honour Mahatma Gandhi; it will not be rushed by Trump’s timelines. The president may be the bookmakers’ favourite, but in Oslo, where deliberations weigh legacy against populism, he remains a long shot dressed as a frontrunner.
Could that calculus change? Possibly. If a durable ceasefire in Ukraine leads to comprehensive peace, if a revived nuclear deal with Iran is signed, and if Gaza’s fires are doused with diplomacy rather than munitions, Trump’s case could be revisited. Until then, his bid for the Nobel Peace Prize remains “a nice thing to hang on the wall,” not an imminent reality.
In the language of governance rather than gambling, his odds are best expressed not in betting slips, but in the widening gap between aspiration and achievement. He has five months to close that gap—and history suggests he will need every one of them.