When a politician says he met someone “through friendly channels,” it sounds innocent—until it turns out that the friend is linked to an American political dynasty and the conversation to energy and sanctions. From that moment on, the word “friendship” ceases to be personal. It becomes a screen behind which anything can be hidden: influence, mediation, the trade in access.

Boyko Borissov meets with Donald Trump Jr., the son of a man who still commands half of the American electorate and some of the most influential business and media circles in the world. Borissov is not part of the government, he does not represent the state, yet he continues to behave as if his diplomatic passport were valid by birthright. He is not part of an official delegation, not invited by an institution, but by a “friend.” And yet after the meeting he speaks about “Balkan Stream,” about sanctions, about Bulgarian–American relations.

And so, in an instant, the private visit begins to look like an act of unregistered lobbying.

American law has a very clear instrument for such cases—the Foreign Agents Registration Act (FARA). It requires any person who represents or seeks to influence on behalf of a foreign government, political party, or organization to register with the U.S. Department of Justice. A violation is not a mere formality—it is a crime that can lead to fines and imprisonment.

Borissov is not a U.S. citizen, so FARA does not apply to him directly. But if Trump Jr. participated in a conversation that had elements of brokerage—say, promises of future energy deals or hints at assistance concerning the Magnitsky Act—then that already falls into the realm of a potentially unregistered foreign contact. And for U.S. authorities, even a single such act—conscious or not—is enough to prompt an investigation.

In Bulgaria, of course, there is no equivalent law. Here, lobbying is like a storm—everyone knows it’s there, but no one wants to give the thunder a name. A lobbying law has been “under discussion” for fifteen years and remains perpetually “in preparation.” And while in the United States registering foreign influence is a requirement for transparency, in our country it is called a “diplomatic initiative.”

But the issue here is not legal; it is moral. Because if a Bulgarian politician, even out of office, tries to influence American official or business circles in a way that could affect sanctioned individuals, this is no longer a private conversation. It is the legitimization of criminal interests through personal access.

The Magnitsky Act (Global Magnitsky Human Rights Accountability Act) was created to sanction individuals involved in corruption and human-rights abuses. Bulgaria has not one but dozens of citizens under its measures—oligarchs, former ministers, members of parliament. Among them is Delyan Peevski, both a longtime ally and adversary of Borissov depending on the election cycle. It is precisely Peevski’s name that appears in the context of The Wall Street Journal article as an example of a “Bulgarian sanctions interest.”

Borissov claims he did not discuss Peevski, nor Lukoil, nor sanctions. And yet the denial is sung so melodically that one might take it for a confession in a minor key. If the topic had not been raised at all, why mention it in his defense? If the conversation was truly private, why bring up “Balkan Stream”—an infrastructure project worth over three billion euros whose financing remains under international scrutiny?

Here we reach the heart of the matter: can a man who spent years at the pinnacle of power conduct “private” talks on issues that touch national security and international sanctions regimes? The answer is simple: he cannot. Or at least not without turning himself into a walking conflict of interest.

American legal doctrine also knows another term—influence peddling. Money or a contract is not required. It suffices for someone to offer or imply access to power, resources, or decisions in exchange for political or image-based support. If Borissov spoke about Bulgarian energy projects—even in the context of a “friendly conversation”—that already constitutes a form of influence: informal, but real.

And here lies the tragicomedy of Bulgarian politics: in our country lobbying is not concealed; it is romanticized. When an American senator dines with a lobbyist, it is a scandal. When a Bulgarian politician dines with a billionaire, it is a point of pride. The moral geography of society has shifted—from responsibility to admiration for the violators.

The legal dimension is only half the problem. The other half is ethical. Because when a man with a past marked by corruption scandals attempts to present himself as a mediator between Bulgaria and the United States, he does not merely abuse the people’s trust—he uses it as a business card. This is the gravest form of moral betrayal: to wield the national interest as a personal pass to foreign circles of influence.

In a more civilized world, such a meeting would trigger a parliamentary commission. In Bulgaria, it triggered a television show. Not a single institution asked for an explanation. Neither the Prosecutor’s Office, nor the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, nor the State Agency for National Security. For them, “private conversation” is sufficient justification. And when the state accepts this silence, it effectively acknowledges that lobbying is its new foreign policy.

And yet there is a deeper consequence. Internationally, such actions undermine the efforts of the United States and the European Union to enforce sanctions against corruption networks in Eastern Europe. When figures like Borissov appear in proximity to representatives of the American conservative elite, they do more than blur moral boundaries—they send a signal that sanctions can be bypassed through personal contacts. This undermines not only laws but the very idea of the rule of law.

If we are to believe Twain, “a lie can travel around the world while the truth is still lacing up its shoes.” In the case of Borissov and Trump Jr., the shoes are still on the floor. The lie is already flying business class. And while society amuses itself with videos and jokes, the state loses face.

The case is not unique, but it is instructive. It shows how Bulgarian politics can become a craft of legitimizing past sins through future contacts. In a world where every sentence is recorded, Borissov chose to speak off the record. Perhaps because only there, in the shadow of “friendly conversations,” his words still retain value.

For Trump Jr., the meeting is likely just a note in the diary of a hunter who heard an interesting story from a distant land. For Bulgaria, however, it remains a mirror. In it, we see not only the face of one man, but an entire nation that has grown accustomed to living with the belief that humiliation can be explained away with diplomatic smiles.

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