Make no mistake, Beijing would prefer to see a frozen Russia-Ukraine conflict and a Moscow less burdened by sanctions.

When Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin meet in Alaska this Friday to discuss “ending” the war in Ukraine, Beijing will carefully study every handshake, phrase, and subtle signal that emerges from the talks. For China, such a meeting is not primarily about the performance of peace diplomacy. Rather, it is about the deeper structure of global order that could emerge afterward and especially whether the outcome will help lock in a Eurasian balance of power favorable to Beijing’s strategic ambitions. Alternatively, an agreement could bind China into a new set of constraints on sanctions enforcement and technology controls, as well as its relationships with key European states. 

Since February 2022, Xi Jinping has walked a narrow political and diplomatic ridge, publicly professing “neutrality” and respect for sovereignty while actively providing Russia with material and technological support. At the same time, Beijing has strengthened what it calls a “no limits” partnership with Moscow.

A US-Russia bargain that effectively freezes the frontlines and normalizes some of Russia’s gains would, in most respects, suit Beijing. It would preserve a strategic partner in Eurasia and avoid an outcome in which Moscow is weakened to the point of dependency on the West. Conversely, a deal that ties any ceasefire to tough, enforceable restrictions on Chinese dual-use exports to Russia would be unwelcome. This is why the choreography of the Alaska meeting—who initiates, who concedes, and what details are left vague—matters as much as the headlines.

Beijing’s conduct since the start of the war has been guided by three interlocking imperatives. The first is to ensure Russia’s survival as a functioning strategic actor. Moscow remains China’s only peer-level counterweight to Washington across the Eurasian landmass. It is also a vital supplier of discounted energy and raw materials, and a partner in constructing alternatives to a US-centric order. 

This explains Beijing’s consistent support—through expanded energy trade, dual-use technology exports, and diplomatic cover in international forums—to ensure Russia avoids a humiliating defeat. Xi and Putin have framed their partnership as a civilizational alternative to Western leadership, extending their cooperation well beyond the war into investment, space technology, and cultural exchanges that reinforce a sense of long-term alignment.

The second imperative is to erode US primacy without triggering a direct military confrontation. China’s so-called peace proposals, calling for ceasefires, negotiations, and opposition to nuclear threats, are designed to portray Beijing as a responsible global power. Simultaneously, they subtly shift blame toward NATO enlargement and Western “bloc politics.” 

These rhetorical positions are calibrated to resonate with the Global South, where Beijing’s refusal to join sanctions regimes and its economic outreach to Moscow have been noted approvingly. China has also avoided high-profile diplomatic events, such as the peace summit in Switzerland, that might corner Moscow into concessions it does not want to make. In European and transatlantic capitals, this posture has come to be described as “strategic neutrality”—neutral in name but tilted toward Russia in effect.

The third imperative is to preserve Beijing’s diplomatic space in Europe, avoiding a hard, Cold War–style split. China continues to court European leaders and present itself as an indispensable broker for global stability. By keeping open the prospect of participating in Ukraine’s eventual reconstruction, Beijing positions itself as both a pragmatic partner and a player whose cooperation is needed to resolve global crises. This balancing act has produced mixed results: in 2024–25, Xi’s high-profile visits improved dialogue but also deepened suspicion that China is complicit in prolonging the war.

The Alaska summit poses both opportunities and risks for Beijing. In the most favorable scenario, the war would be frozen with only loosely enforced conditions. This would consolidate Russian territorial gains, allowing Moscow to remain a strong partner and a distraction for Washington, while lowering the immediate risk of escalation that could disrupt China’s own priorities. Such an outcome might also trigger “sanctions fatigue,” especially in Europe, leading to softer enforcement and more room for Chinese banks and tech firms to operate in Russia. Beijing could even claim an image boost, presenting itself as supportive of renewed U.S.–Russia engagement without altering its policy in any meaningful way.

The more dangerous scenario is one in which the Alaska outcome explicitly targets China’s economic lifelines to Russia. Broad secondary sanctions could pressure Chinese financial institutions, logistics providers, and component manufacturers. Tighter enforcement on critical technology exports—such as machine tools, semiconductors, optics, and UAV components—could force Beijing into difficult choices between supporting Russia and safeguarding its own industrial policy. If the deal gains European endorsement and Kyiv’s reluctant cooperation, it could also undermine China’s narrative in the Global South that it is championing “peace without Western diktats.”

In the lead-up to Alaska, Beijing’s public messaging is likely to be supportive of “dialogue” but vague on specifics, reiterating familiar lines about indivisible security and opposition to nuclear escalation. Privately, Xi will use his influence with Putin to urge restraint, keep nuclear threats off the table, and negotiate a ceasefire that eases sanctions without loosening the strategic bond between the two states. Meanwhile, China will continue to expand its sanctions-resistant infrastructure—yuan-ruble settlements, alternative logistics corridors, and networks of intermediary firms—to insulate itself from any enforcement measures that might emerge from the talks.

Once the summit concludes, Beijing will adapt its narrative to suit the outcome. If there is a deal, it will claim this validates China’s long-standing advocacy for dialogue. If the talks fail, it will fault Washington’s overreach or Kyiv’s inflexibility, while offering to participate in reconstruction when “wiser heads prevail.” This dual-track narrative helps Beijing finesse its central paradox: insisting on sovereignty and territorial integrity in principle, while enabling Russia’s occupation of Ukrainian territory in practice. By framing any settlement as a temporary stabilization measure, China can defer the sovereignty question indefinitely—a tactic it also applies to Taiwan and disputed areas of the South China Sea.

Europe’s response to the Alaska meeting will significantly shape China’s room for maneuver. If the EU treats a ceasefire as an opportunity to “de-risk” but not decouple from China, Beijing can reinvigorate trade diplomacy and resist U.S.-led technology controls. But if European leaders perceive that China has pocketed strategic gains while enabling aggression, they could push for tighter export controls, more rigorous screening of outbound investments, and closer alignment with U.S. sanctions enforcement.

From any Trump-Putin bargain, China will try to extract three main benefits. It will seek incremental sanctions relief—enough ambiguity to allow banks, insurers, and shippers to expand higher-value transactions with Russia without fear of sudden reversal. It will value the reduced risk of sudden escalation, freeing Beijing to focus on domestic growth, industrial upgrades, and regional initiatives from the South China Sea to Central Asia. And it will seize the chance to recalibrate relations with key European states such as Germany and France, offering targeted cooperation in green technology and reconstruction that minimizes security concerns while maximizing political goodwill.

What Beijing fears most is being explicitly named and targeted in the agreement, losing its role in the geopolitical narrative to a bilateral Trump-Putin “fix,” and seeing the sanctions logic applied to broader US technology controls in Asia. If these risks emerge, China’s response will combine symbolic compliance—publicly tightening controls on a few niche items—with broader defiance, maintaining critical flows through intermediaries and alternative channels. 

It will also intensify its courtship of Europe, using business delegations, climate cooperation, and reconstruction offers to draw EU preferences away from Washington’s enforcement priorities. Simultaneously, Beijing will double down on its messaging to the Global South, stressing its consistency and contrasting its conduct with what it portrays as Western hypocrisy.

For Beijing, Alaska is not about ending the war so much as shaping the next phase of the world order. It wants a United States constrained by multiple commitments, a Russia preserved as a strategic partner, and a Europe kept within reach of Chinese diplomacy. A ceasefire that freezes the front lines, preserves Russian leverage, and leaves China’s support networks intact would mark a quiet but significant victory.

A deal that triggers a sanctions crackdown on Chinese banks and suppliers would accelerate the very containment Beijing most fears. Either way, Xi will present China as a consistent and pragmatic power in Eurasia—laying the groundwork for a geopolitical order that will matter long after the Alaska photo opportunity has faded.