I dislike confrontations intensely. The mere suggestion of conflict could keep me awake at nights. Being a journalist has taught me to listen more than speak, probing softly without ever raising my voice or appearing judgmental externally. Nonetheless, for an extended period—until fairly lately—I found myself embroiled in intense political debates with some acquaintances and relatives from time to time.
The trigger would typically be a casual remark regarding, for instance, renewable energy , the portrayal of Boris Johnson or the #MeToo movement Wine frequently graced their gatherings. Swearing and personal attacks were uncommon, yet they invariably descended into a recognizable pattern: escalating noise levels, sharpened tones, fumbling over half-remembered facts, conceding that "this conversation isn’t getting us anywhere," only to dive back in again regardless.
In time, both parties might come to see the pointlessness of our conflict and shift towards more secure topics for discussion, without either side claiming victory or achieving much else. Alternatively, we may completely disengage from this battlefield around the dining table, littered as it is with ineffective quips and discarded Quality Street wrappers. On occasion, I found myself uttering phrases such as, "It's beneficial to engage in these discussions," only to instantly feel remorseful about doing so.
At some point over the last year or so, I made up my mind to stop struggling. I often come across stories of families and friends who are irreparably broken. I've witnessed this firsthand. I believe my natural inclination towards mediation might have stopped lasting harm within my own circles. However, if disputes continue without any chance of being resolved, then why bother? Engaging in such conflicts just leads to tension and resentment. I’d rather not deal with that.
Related: The single alteration that made a difference: I detested every kind of physical activity – until I relocated to a large urban area and started walking for miles.
Whenever triggers arise, I restrain myself by shifting topics or dismissing uncomfortable remarks with a laugh. I might respond with phrases such as: "Yes, it certainly is complicated," or: "This situation really is quite messy!"
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.
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