Μake us preferred on Google When the question is asked what the greatest threat facing Greece is, the most common answer seems almost self-evident: Turkey. That answer is not without foundation. Ankara’s revisionist posture, tensions in the Aegean and the Eastern Mediterranean, and its persistent challenge to Greek sovereign rights are real concerns. Yet perhaps an exclusive focus on the external threat prevents us from seeing the deeper weakness. Threats have always existed, and they always will. What ultimately determines a state’s position is not only the intentions of its adversaries, but its own ability to understand developments, anticipate them, plan in time and make use of its advantages.
In this sense, the greatest weakness of Greek foreign policy lies neither in Ankara nor in any other capital. It lies in Athens. It lies in the Greek political system’s enduring difficulty in formulating a coherent, long-term and cross-party strategy—one that extends beyond the electoral cycle and commits the state to its fundamental national objectives.
Greece has failed to build a stable system for planning and conducting foreign policy with institutional continuity. Instead of maintaining a permanent strategic core, within which each government could add its own policy choices without overturning the country’s overall direction, Greece has often changed course whenever its government changed. Priorities shifted, initiatives were abandoned, relationships were redefined, and decisions requiring a long-term horizon were treated according to the political circumstances of the moment.
A cross-party strategy does not mean eliminating political disagreement or silently accepting the choices of the government of the day. It means agreement on the fundamentals: which interests the country seeks to protect, what role it wishes to play in the region, which alliances serve its long-term objectives, and which boundaries must not shift according to electoral cost. Governments will naturally differ over the means. A serious state, however, cannot redefine its strategic direction from the beginning every four years.
One institutional effort in this direction was the establishment of the National Council on Foreign Policy under Law 3132/2003. The Council was designed as an advisory body to the government, tasked with examining matters of foreign-policy strategy and including representatives of the parliamentary parties. Its creation effectively acknowledged the need for cross-party consultation and continuity. Yet establishing an institution is not enough in itself. The crucial question is whether it meets regularly, whether it produces institutional memory, and whether its work genuinely influences policymaking—or whether it is confined to briefing sessions after events have already begun to accelerate.
The delay with which Greece established such a mechanism becomes more apparent in international comparison, even though equivalent bodies do not have the same composition or powers in every country. The United States created the National Security Council as early as 1947 to coordinate foreign and defense policy and reconcile diplomatic and military commitments. The United Kingdom established its own National Security Council in 2010, together with the post of National Security Adviser, seeking a permanent mechanism for coordination across government. The comparison does not prove that a council automatically solves strategic problems. It does show, however, how early other states recognized that foreign policy and security require permanent structures of coordination, not merely the personal initiatives of each political leadership.
Since the restoration of democracy in 1974, Greek foreign policy has often appeared more person-centered and government-driven than genuinely state-driven. Procrastination, the absence of a stable strategic culture, party dominance, clientelism, populism, and distrust of meritocracy and expertise have produced a system that frequently reacts to events instead of anticipating them. Foreign policy is then conducted through spasmodic moves: a crisis triggers intense mobilization, a period of relative inertia follows, and planning returns only when the next crisis has already created less favorable conditions.
The same institutional weakness can also foster an administrative culture of excessive caution. When responsibilities are unclear, initiative is not protected, and a difficult decision can later be turned into the personal liability of a civil servant, a diplomat has a strong incentive to avoid risk. Caution is essential in diplomacy; fear of taking a decision, however, leads to paralysis. The knowledge and experience of the diplomatic service are therefore not always translated into timely advice and action, while crucial choices are passed upwards until the available time has almost run out.
In such an environment, immediate pressure and political cost acquire greater weight than strategic consistency. Decisions are delayed until the range of available options has already narrowed. Perhaps this is why Greece has repeatedly found itself accepting less favorable agreements than it might have secured had it acted earlier, with clearer objectives and stronger negotiating preparation. It is as though the country continually misses windows of opportunity and waits until circumstances dictate the choices still available to it.
This observation does not mean that every compromise amounts to failure. Diplomacy requires compromise, the prioritization of interests and a realistic assessment of the balance of power. There is, however, a fundamental difference between a deliberate compromise that forms part of a long-term plan and a retreat imposed because the state delayed, was caught unprepared or failed to develop alternative options. The latter is not an inevitable consequence of the power of others; it exposes the limits of our own strategic capacity.
And while Greece occupies one of the world’s most significant geopolitical positions—at the intersection of Europe, the Eastern Mediterranean, the Balkans, the Middle East and North Africa—it often behaves like a country of limited potential. It possesses a valuable geographic position, membership of the European Union and NATO, a maritime tradition, human capital and opportunities for regional cooperation. Despite all this, it often seems to have internalized the mentality of a small state: one that waits for the decisions of stronger powers instead of working systematically to influence how those decisions are shaped.
This outlook should not be attributed to some historical curse or to supposed “genes of subservience”. Such explanations are easy, but politically barren. There are, however, historical traumas, institutional dysfunctions and attitudes that influence how a country perceives itself. Above all, there is a strategic culture that struggles to believe in Greece’s own potential and to convert it into stable state policy.
The problem becomes deeper when foreign policy is used as a field of domestic party confrontation. The previous government’s choices are rejected not always because they have been assessed as wrong, but because they belong politically to an opponent. Each government’s need to proclaim a new beginning often leads it to undervalue institutional memory and continuity. The state therefore fails to accumulate experience as it should: it restarts, revises and improvises.
A serious foreign policy requires institutions that function beyond individuals, governments and electoral cycles. It requires effective use of the diplomatic service and academic expertise, mechanisms for forecasting and risk assessment, a clear hierarchy of objectives, and continuous preparation of alternative scenarios. Above all, it requires the political maturity to recognise that the country’s international position cannot be treated as the property of the government of the day. It is a matter of state and demands continuity.
At this point, the question also arises of who is chosen to represent the country. Greek law provides, alongside the permanent Diplomatic Service, for the appointment of up to a limited number of ambassadors drawn from distinguished public figures for specific assignments. This provision can be useful when it brings in people of demonstrable international standing and specialized experience. It becomes problematic, however, when political proximity, social access or descent from a political dynasty are treated as substitutes for knowledge, preparation and diplomatic competence. Foreign policy cannot be a training ground or an extension of a political career. Anyone entrusted with representing the country must possess the qualifications demanded by that responsibility—not merely the surname or connections that facilitated the appointment.
Perhaps, then, the greatest threat to Greek foreign policy is not Turkey alone. Turkey, an economic crisis, migration pressures or any other external challenge are the stimulus that reveals the extent of our internal preparedness. The real problem lies in our inability to respond to each such challenge with consistency, seriousness and long-term planning.
. The problem, therefore, is not only the threats we face. It is that, over time, we have failed to build a state and a strategic culture capable of turning challenges into opportunities, rather than allowing them to develop into permanent sources of insecurity.
