6 hours ago
2
I hate confrontation. Even a whiff of beef can keep me up at night. As a journalist, I’ve learned to listen and to probe only gently, never raising my voice or outwardly judging. Yet, for a long time – until quite recently – I would occasionally engage in fierce political arguments with certain friends and family members.
The trigger would usually be a passing comment about, say, renewable energy, the character of Boris Johnson or the #MeToo movement. Wine often had a place at the table. It never involved swearing or insults, but there would follow a familiar spiral: a steady increase in volume, a hardening of tone, a grasping for poorly remembered evidence, an admission that “we’re just going round in circles here”, followed by another go around anyway.
Eventually, both sides would realise the futility of it all and we would move to safer conversational territory, nobody having gained ground or anything else. Or we would withdraw altogether from a dinner-table war zone strewn with failed zingers and Quality Street wrappers. Sometimes, I could hear myself saying something like: “It’s good to have these debates,” while also immediately regretting them.
So, at some point in the past year or so, I decided to quit fighting. I am always reading about terminally fractured families and friendships. I’ve seen it happen. I like to think my peacemaker instincts would have prevented permanent damage in my own circle, but if differences are aired without hope of resolution, then what’s the point? Doing so can only create stress and ill will. I don’t need that.
When triggers crop up, I hold myself back, changing the subject or laughing off an objectionable statement. I say things like: “Yeah, it’s a tricky one, isn’t it?” or: “It’s such a mess!”
It’s not surprising that ever more polarised politics these days are straining friendships and family ties. Brexit, Trump, the climate and cost of living crises, as well as widening gaps in generational thinking, have bred resentment and entrenchment. I feel like we have become more suspicious of the morals and motivations of those we disagree with.
I also think we tend to clash with the person we think sits across the aisle or the dinner table, assuming that they are more extreme in their views and political leaning than perhaps they are. Ad hominem arguments are even less effective when one’s true adversary isn’t actually in the room.
There is merit in testing our beliefs, outside our bubbles, but there are ways to do that without threatening close relationships. Ducking out may look cowardly, not least when the stakes feel so high. I prefer to see myself as a conscientious objector. I try to look for common ground, rather than the battleground, and try harder to understand where people are coming from along the way. At the risk of sounding virtuous, it feels good. I recommend it.
