I think that there is a relatively small number of people who are

Hear the measured words of Fred Thompson, who once spoke with the voice of reason and restraint in a time of great tension: “I think that there is a relatively small number of people who are pushing for independence in Taiwan.” These words, though calm on their surface, conceal beneath them a storm of meaning. For they are not merely a statement of politics, but a reflection on the nature of freedom, identity, and the balance of power that governs the destinies of nations. Thompson, a man of the law and of the Senate, spoke with the wisdom of one who understood that independence is not born only of desire, but of circumstance—and that in some struggles, the loudest voices are not always the truest ones.

The island of Taiwan, like a solitary ship upon the sea, has long been caught between great winds. Once a province of China, then shaped by war and exile, it became a place where two worlds met—the past clinging to the mainland, and the future gazing outward toward the horizon. In such a place, the cry for independence is not a simple thing. It is a prayer whispered by some, a danger feared by others, and a question that divides hearts even among the same people. When Thompson said that only a “small number” pressed for it, he was not diminishing their passion; he was recognizing the quiet caution of the many—the ones who seek peace above glory, stability above strife.

History is filled with such moments, when nations stood upon the threshold of independence and weighed its price. Consider the tale of Hong Kong, that city of shining towers and deep unrest. For years, it walked the narrow path between autonomy and allegiance, between prosperity and principle. When the voices of protest rose, they were at once admired and feared—admired for their courage, feared for the chaos that might follow. So too with Taiwan: its people, wise from history’s storms, know that freedom, though sacred, can also summon peril when surrounded by powers that do not share its dream. Thompson’s insight lies in this recognition—that in the dance between freedom and survival, the truest strength often lies not in shouting for independence, but in preserving peace without surrendering dignity.

The ancients understood such wisdom well. When Solon of Athens gave his people new laws, he did not give them everything they desired, but only what they could endure. He said, “I have given them not what they wanted, but what they could bear.” For he knew that a people must grow into liberty, as the oak grows from seed—slowly, with deep roots to hold against the storm. To push too quickly toward independence, without unity or preparation, is to risk not freedom, but ruin. Thompson’s words, then, remind us that patience and prudence are not weakness—they are the guardians of endurance.

And yet, within every small group that dares to dream of independence, there lies a spark that cannot be ignored. The few who speak for freedom often carry the voice of the future. History honors them not always for their success, but for their courage. The revolutionaries of America were once few and mocked by many; the founders of India, too, began as a scattered chorus before they became a roar. So while Thompson observed that only a “relatively small number” sought separation, the wise hear in that observation not dismissal, but the beginning of a question: when does a few become a movement? And when does prudence yield to destiny?

Still, the lesson of Thompson’s words is this: independence, whether for a nation or a person, is a journey that demands not only passion, but patience; not only courage, but foresight. Freedom gained without preparation can wither like fruit picked too soon. He reminds us that a wise people know when to speak and when to wait, when to push and when to build strength in silence. For the truest freedom is not the act of separation—it is the ability to endure without losing one’s soul.

So let those who hear his words take them to heart. Do not mock the cautious, nor scorn the patient, for even restraint can be a form of wisdom. And yet, do not let the flame of independence die, for it is the light by which every generation measures its courage. Seek always the balance—the harmony between dream and duty, between vision and vigilance. For nations, like individuals, must learn not only how to rise, but how to remain standing once they have risen.

Thus, in the quiet wisdom of Fred Thompson’s reflection lies a lesson for all peoples: the measure of greatness is not in the noise of ambition, but in the steadiness of purpose. Let every land, every leader, and every soul remember that the path to freedom must be walked not only with passion—but with patience, peace, and profound understanding. For in this balance, both nations and hearts find their truest independence.