I have always been up for a fierce debate at the dinner table – but what’s the point if differences are just laid bare without any resolution being reached? I
hate confrontation. Even a smell of beef can keep me up all night. As a journalist, I have learned to listen and probe only gently, never raising my voice or judging outwardly. Still, for a long time – until recently – I would occasionally get into fiery political debates with some friends and family members.
The trigger was usually a passing comment about renewable energy, Boris Johnson’s character or the #MeToo movement. Alcohol often took place at the table. It never involved abuse or insults, but followed a familiar spiral: a steady rise in volume, a hardening of tone, the holding up of poorly remembered evidence, the admission that “we’re just going round and round here”, followed by going round and round again.
Eventually, both sides will realize the futility of it all and we will retreat to safer negotiating territory, with no one gaining ground or anything else. Or we will withdraw from the war zone altogether to the dinner table, which is littered with failed zingers and Quality Street wrappers. Sometimes, I could hear myself say something like: “It’s good to have these arguments,” while also immediately regretting them.
So, at some point in the past year I decided to stop fighting. I’m always reading about broken families and friendships. I’ve seen it happen. I think my peace-loving instincts may have prevented permanent damage in my own circle, but what’s the point if differences are exposed without hope of resolution? Doing so will only create tension and ill will. I don’t need that.
Whenever a trigger comes up, I stop myself, change the subject or laugh off the offensive statement. I say things like: “Yeah, that’s a tough question, isn’t it?” Or: “This is so messed up!”
It’s not surprising that more polarised politics these days is weakening friendships and family ties. Brexit, Trump, the climate and cost-of-living crises, as well as growing generational differences, have fuelled resentments and strong-mindedness. I think we’ve become more suspicious of the morality and motivations of people we disagree with.
I also think we tend to go into confrontation with the person we think is sitting across the hallway or the dinner table from us, assuming that they are perhaps more extreme in their views and political leanings than we ourselves are. When one’s true opponent is not actually in the room, arguments against the person are even less effective.
There is benefit in testing your beliefs outside of your bubble, but there are ways to do so without jeopardizing close relationships. Avoiding it can feel cowardly, especially when the stakes seem high. I like to see myself as a conscientious objector. I try to look for common ground rather than a battleground, and try to understand where people are coming from along the way. Even though it may feel noble, it feels good. I recommend it.
