Trust cannot be commanded; and yet it is also correct that the

Gustav Heinemann, who once bore the weight of Germany’s presidency during an age of rebuilding and reconciliation, spoke with the gravity of lived truth: “Trust cannot be commanded; and yet it is also correct that the only one who earns trust is the one who is prepared to grant trust.” These words ring with the cadence of ancient wisdom, for they remind us that trust is no soldier to be ordered, no coin to be demanded, but a gift born of mutual surrender. It cannot be forced, but it may be given; it cannot be commanded, but it can be earned through the willingness to extend it first.

The ancients knew this law of the heart. Did not Cicero write that faith in friendship begins when one entrusts something of himself to another? Did not the covenant between leaders and peoples stand only when each side trusted the other to hold firm? Trust, like fire, is not created by decree but by the offering of sparks, one to another. Heinemann, who had seen his nation torn apart by tyranny, knew well that trust cannot rise from threats or power. The dictator demands loyalty but never receives true faith. Only the leader who first extends his hand, unarmed, can awaken trust in those who follow.

History gives us a shining example in the life of Nelson Mandela. After twenty-seven years in prison, he emerged not with a clenched fist of vengeance but with an open hand of reconciliation. He granted trust to his former enemies, believing they too could walk toward a new South Africa. In doing so, he earned their trust in return. Had he commanded obedience, the nation would have fallen back into fire; but because he first gave trust, he received it, and a new dawn rose. His life embodies Heinemann’s teaching: to be trusted, one must first be willing to trust.

There is, however, a heroic vulnerability in this truth. To grant trust is to risk betrayal. It is to walk into uncertainty, to give another the power to wound you. And yet, Heinemann reminds us that without this risk, no true bond can exist. The man who trusts no one will never be trusted himself. The leader who fears betrayal at every corner breeds only suspicion. The friend who withholds faith from others will live in loneliness. Thus, though dangerous, granting trust is the only road to its return. It is the courage of the soul, greater than the courage of the sword.

This teaching is not only for rulers and heroes, but for the daily life of every person. In marriage, trust cannot be ordered by vows alone—it must be shown in the daily giving of oneself. In friendship, it cannot be demanded by words, but proven by deeds. In work, it cannot be forced by authority, but cultivated by respect. In each of these, Heinemann’s words echo: if you would earn trust, begin by giving it.

And so the lesson is clear: do not wait for others to prove themselves before you extend your faith. Begin with generosity. To trust does not mean to be naïve, but to be open; it does not mean to ignore betrayal, but to risk relationship in spite of it. The one who dares to grant trust shows the noblest strength—for he teaches others that goodness is possible, and by his example, he creates the very trust he seeks.

Practical actions follow. In your life, choose one place where you have withheld trust—perhaps a colleague, a friend, a family member. Offer it, even in small measure. Speak honestly, share responsibility, open your heart. Show by your actions that you are willing to walk in faith, and you may find the path of trust returned to you. For though trust cannot be commanded, it can be invited, and in that invitation lies the beginning of peace.

Thus Heinemann’s words stand as both a warning and a hope: beware of trying to command trust, for it will flee from you; but be courageous in granting trust, for in doing so you become the wellspring from which trust flows back, stronger than before.