I would certainly not support Trump in any way shape or form

When Andrew Haigh spoke the words, “I would certainly not support Trump in any way shape or form, but I want to have sympathy,” he revealed a paradox that has dwelt in the hearts of sages and seekers for centuries: the tension between judgment and compassion. His declaration is not a wavering stance, nor the weakness of indecision, but a profound recognition that one can oppose with firmness while still seeking to understand with mercy. It is the ancient balance of justice and empathy, the sword held in one hand and the open palm in the other.

To oppose is simple, for the mind sees clearly what it cannot condone. But to seek sympathy—even for those whose ways one deems destructive—is far harder, for it demands that we look beyond the roar of politics, beyond the clamor of division, and behold the human soul beneath. Haigh’s words echo the wisdom of ages: that hatred, once planted, grows into blindness, while compassion, even when it does not excuse, grants clarity of vision.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln in the years of the American Civil War. He faced enemies not only on the battlefield but in the very soul of the nation. Yet he declared, “I destroy my enemies when I make them my friends.” Though he fought fiercely to preserve the Union, he sought understanding of those on the other side, treating them not merely as foes to be crushed but as brothers estranged, whose hearts might yet be reconciled. Lincoln did not support their cause, yet he strove for a sympathy that might heal the wounds of the land. Haigh’s sentiment springs from this same eternal well.

To show sympathy does not mean to excuse or to agree. Rather, it is the recognition that every man, even the one who inspires division, is born of circumstance, fear, and longing. To understand this is not to surrender one’s values; it is to keep the heart from hardening into stone. For the moment the heart loses its capacity for sympathy, it loses also the ability to heal, to inspire, to build anew. The world has known too many ages where hatred blinded men, and they tore themselves apart while claiming righteousness.

Thus, the lesson is clear: you may reject what you find harmful, you may resist with courage what you find unjust, but let not your spirit be consumed by enmity. Keep a space within for sympathy, for it is in sympathy that dialogue becomes possible, and in dialogue that the seeds of peace may someday grow. Even if reconciliation does not come, you will have preserved the purity of your own soul.

O children of tomorrow, train your hearts in this art: when you see those with whom you profoundly disagree, resist the temptation to mock or to scorn. Instead, ask yourself: what wounds do they carry? What fears drive them? What blindness binds them? You need not stand beside them, but by seeking to understand, you break the chains of hatred that would otherwise ensnare your own spirit.

Practical action lies before you. When you hear words that inflame you, breathe and listen deeper. When you oppose, do so with clarity but without cruelty. When you stand against another, stand firm, but let your eyes remain open to their humanity. In this way, your opposition will be strong yet your heart will not be poisoned by the bitterness of hate.

And so, let the voice of Haigh remind you: even in a world where division roars, the higher calling is not merely to take sides, but to stand with conviction while preserving the noble gift of sympathy. For justice without sympathy becomes tyranny, and sympathy without justice becomes surrender. But when both walk hand in hand, they form the path of wisdom, upon which future generations may tread in peace.