Brussels hailed the adoption of the 21st sanctions package against Russia as a milestone, but the chaotic negotiations behind it have laid bare deepening fractures among member states. The final text, significantly diluted by a series of national veto threats, raises uncomfortable questions about how much economic pain Europe is still willing to absorb to sustain pressure on the Kremlin.
European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen framed the package as a strategic blow: "At a time when Ukraine has built military momentum, our sanctions continue to weaken the economic foundations of Russia's war effort." High Representative Kaja Kallas echoed the sentiment, saying, "We are hitting Putin where it hurts most: cutting off the financial lifelines he relies on to sustain his war."
Yet the reality on the ground in Brussels was far messier. Greece, home to the world's largest merchant fleet, wielded its veto to force a rewrite of a full ban on Russian LNG. Under the compromise, shipping services to non-EU clients can continue beyond the original 1 January 2027 cut-off. The move drew sharp criticism, particularly because Greek shipping company Dynagas—a major transporter of Russian LNG—lobbied for the exemption using arguments nearly identical to those of the Greek government.
Swedish Foreign Minister Maria Malmer Stenergard did not hide her frustration. "Energy revenues are at the heart of Russia's financing of the war, and the costs to Europe pale in comparison to the price the Ukrainian people are paying every day," she told local media.
A cascade of national carve-outs
Greece was far from alone. Bulgaria, under Prime Minister Rumen Radev, publicly threatened to veto the entire package unless Patriarch Kirill, head of the Russian Orthodox Church, and Lukoil founder Vagit Alekperov were removed from the proposed blacklist. Both names were dropped. Portugal and Germany pushed back against restrictions on Russian cod and pollock, warning of disruption to domestic fisheries; those measures were removed after consultations. France and Italy opposed a proposal to restrict Russian soldiers' access to the Schengen Area, watering it down into a largely symbolic "legal basis."
Austria secured a promise from EU ambassadors to revisit its request to lift sanctions on Rasperia, a blacklisted company, to help offset a €2.1 billion loss incurred by Raiffeisen Bank International in Russia. Unlike last year, when the petition was dismissed outright, this time the request was taken seriously—a sign of how veto threats are reshaping the negotiating landscape.
The absence of Hungary, long the bloc's habitual obstructionist under former Prime Minister Viktor Orbán, has paradoxically made national interests more visible. With Orbán gone, member states can no longer hide behind a single scapegoat. As one diplomat put it, "It's getting more and more difficult to find common ground. We saw that this week."
The European Commission, which typically gauges the political mood before tabling proposals, now faces growing scrutiny. The latest package—the 21st since the invasion began—dismantles decades of trade and investment ties, but each new round carries real-world consequences that ministries must assess. In the early stages of the war, the pain threshold was high enough to make compromise relatively straightforward. More than four years on, with no end in sight, national interests are becoming harder to reconcile.
A senior EU official defended the outcome, noting that the LNG exemption is "limited to Russian exports to third countries" and that "this is the 21st time that we have achieved unanimity on sanctions against Russia. Russia is the most sanctioned country in the world, even more than Iran. So I honestly think this is a great sign of unity."
But the pattern of last-minute vetoes and carve-outs suggests that unity is increasingly conditional. As the bloc prepares for future rounds, the question is no longer whether sanctions will be adopted, but at what cost to the EU's own cohesion. For now, the cracks are visible—and growing.
