Europe launches tech sovereignty plan to reduce U.S. dependence

On Wednesday, June 3rd, the European Commission unveiled a sweeping plan to wrest control of its technological future from American hands. The package targets four critical vulnerabilities: semiconductors, cloud infrastructure, artificial intelligence, and open-source software. Commission President Ursula von der Leyen framed it plainly: Europe cannot afford to depend on others for the technologies that keep hospitals running, power grids stable, and services secure. The stakes, she suggested, were about protecting citizens and defending the continent's right to make its own choices.

The most aggressive piece is the Cloud and AI Development Act, which would effectively bar American cloud providers from bidding on European public contracts involving critical data. On its surface, this is straightforward protectionism dressed in the language of sovereignty. But the logic beneath it is harder to dismiss. U.S. law allows Washington to demand access to data held by American companies anywhere in the world—a legal reality that makes genuine European autonomy impossible as long as critical infrastructure depends on American servers. The tension became visible almost immediately. Even as the Commission announced its plan, the European Union's cybersecurity agency was negotiating access to Mythos, an artificial intelligence system built by the American company Anthropic, to help identify security vulnerabilities. The catch: Anthropic would gain visibility into European systems in return, replicating the very dependency the sovereignty package aims to eliminate.

The urgency of the moment crystallized on the same week in two very different places. On the night of June 2nd, Russia launched a record assault on Ukraine, firing hypersonic Zircon missiles at Kiev and Dnipro. Twenty-three people died; more than a hundred were wounded. The most effective defense against these missiles is the PAC-3 interceptor, manufactured by the American company Lockheed Martin and deployed through the Patriot system. Europe does have an alternative—the Franco-Italian SAMP/T NG system—but it has never been tested in actual combat in its latest configuration, and production cannot keep pace with demand. Denmark has already chosen it over Patriot, specifically to escape American military dependence. The irony is sharp: Europe's technological sovereignty plan is born partly from the recognition that it cannot defend itself without American weapons.

The numbers reveal the depth of the challenge. Europe produces less than 10 percent of the world's semiconductors and almost none of the most advanced ones. The Commission proposes tripling data center capacity within five to seven years, but this collides with hard constraints: insufficient electrical power, regulatory bottlenecks, and a shortage of specialized workers who do not yet exist. Siemens, the German industrial giant, has already warned that restraining AI adoption in the name of sovereignty could cripple European industry. The tension is real and will persist. Recognizing dependence is the first step toward independence, as the plan's defenders argue, but announcing ambition in a press conference is not the same as building the capacity to deliver it.

The broader European mood shifted noticeably after Donald Trump returned to the White House in January 2025. At the OECD's annual ministerial meeting in Paris that same week, the atmosphere carried an unfamiliar tension. The organization's Economic Outlook projected global growth slowing from 3.4 percent in 2025 to 2.8 percent in 2026, with energy and fertilizer costs pushing inflation higher and eroding confidence. For Brazil, the projection was 1.6 percent growth, weighed down by high interest rates. On the margins of the meeting, the American trade representative, Jamieson Greer, announced additional tariffs against Brazil and 58 other countries, plus the European Union, accusing them of failing to prevent imports made with forced labor. A day earlier, his office had concluded a 2025 investigation into Brazil and proposed a 25 percent additional tariff on Brazilian goods. When Greer crossed paths with Brazil's foreign minister, Mauro Vieira, during a break, Greer approached first, saying dialogue remained fluid and he wanted to maintain it. Vieira confirmed Brazil's willingness to negotiate, reminding him that talks needed to intensify within the 30-day window both presidents had agreed to in Washington. The awkwardness in the hallways was palpable. There are limits to what corridor diplomacy can smooth over.

Norway, which has twice rejected European Union membership—in 1972 and 1994—is now reconsidering. Foreign Minister Espen Barth Eide told the Financial Times that the "benign world" in which his country refused membership no longer exists. He had signaled this shift three weeks earlier in a parliamentary address, warning that trade, tariffs, and energy have become weapons, and that in such a world, standing alone means standing exposed. Norway participates in the EU's single market but has no seat at the table where rules are written. It must follow European law without helping to shape it. What has changed is the environment around it. Washington's tariff wars and fractures within NATO have made membership more attractive. Iceland has scheduled a referendum for August on whether to resume entry negotiations. For the European Union, Norwegian accession would be a prize: Norway is Europe's largest oil and gas producer, and the bloc already has nine candidates waiting, including Ukraine. The message from the week is unmistakable. In this chaotic new world, the European club has become a shelter. Even those who have always preferred to stand at the door are beginning to look inside.