Moore-Vissing leads Public Engagement Partners and is a fellow at the Carsey School of Public Policy at the University of New Hampshire.
I traveled to Northern Ireland this summer to understand American divisiveness by looking through the eyes of another divided country. Here’s what I learned: The United States is a divided country that hasn’t accepted that we are a divided country, and that’s holding us back.
Most of us are caught in a fight-or-flight mentality when it comes to the divisions in our country right now. When we encounter someone who is on the “other side” of the political spectrum, the tendency is either to disengage from that person or to convince them why they are wrong. It can feel like those on the other side are so repugnant that they challenge our notion of what it means to be human and American.
But here’s the thing: America doesn’t have a premium on being divided. Lots of countries have grappled with divides, including Germany, North and South Korea, South Africa, and Northern Ireland. Despite our longing for American exceptionalism, we are not dissimilar from these other countries. We need to face the fact that the United States is a divided country. It’s painful and it’s difficult. And it’s not changing anytime soon.
Northern Ireland’s ability to “name the problem” by admitting it is a divided country has enabled it to move toward greater peace. This realization came at a high price – the deaths of 3,000 Northern Irish people, injuries of many more, and a history of hurt and grief that will forever be part of the consciousness of the country. But after years of pain, fear and loss, people realized that the consequences of divisiveness are much, much worse than learning to accept that the country is divided and live with that reality peacefully.
Here's the risk to Americans if we don’t come to that same conclusion. During the Troubles, many Catholics and Protestants ceased to see each other as human. We’re at that precipice now in the United States. It feels like there is no common ground between liberals and conservatives, and that people on different sides of issues cannot possibly coexist. The risk is grave and urgent, because once we lose this humanity, at best it spurns greater isolation and disconnection from anyone different from us, and at worst it lays the ground for violence and civil war.
After naming the problem, Northern Ireland was able to create programs and policies to address its dividedness. The national police force changed policy to require equal amounts of Catholics and Protestants in office so as to decrease bias and promote collaboration across differences. At Corrymeela, a nonprofit peace center that builds bridges between Protestants and Catholics, Protestant and Catholic youth come to a retreat center to meet peers different from themselves and learn about the things they have in common. For many children, this is the first time they have met someone from the other side. If we were able to name the problem in the United States, we could create policies and programs that allow people to recognize their shared humanity.
For instance, although we champion the value of conversations across differences, and these conversations indeed make huge differences in society, many of us have no desire to participate in such exchanges. If we asked a white, rural, male Trump supporter and an urban, Black, liberal female to get together and listen to each other, many people would likely decline this invitation. But these two people inevitably have things in common just by being human – they might both have young children, love fried fish, or have recently lost their fathers. However, in most contexts these people likely will not encounter each other at all, and so they won’t ever have an opportunity to discover how they both share the experience of being human – of wanting to be loved and feel safe, to feel connected and valued, to feel successful and secure.
American democracy at the national level needs major reforms. However, for most of the American public, reforming national democracy is a daunting and unreachable task, but one thing we can do is build relationships at the local level. The notion of building relationships across differences can feel quixotic – tilting at windmills and an impossible dream. But part of the beauty of being human is that we have the capacity for empathy and kindness, and these feelings can grow even in the most painful circumstances.
As evidence, at Corrymeela in Northern Ireland, I saw the magnificence of what it looks like to let go of divides. I met Eleanor Hayes, a Protestant nurse who worked in the emergency room at the height of the Troubles. Sometimes there were so many people injured in an act of political violence like a bombing that the hospital would have to put the perpetrators of incidents in beds next to the victims they had injured. Seeing humans wounded on both sides of the conflict led Eleanor to realize that people share more than they differ, and drew her toward a path of peace. The people I met in Northern Ireland were not apolitical or dispassionate. They still had their own belief systems and values. But they realized the price of divisiveness is not only too high, but also an unwinnable game. In the words of the 1980s film “War Games,” the only way to win the game was not to play.
If we want to address divides in our local communities, building relationships across differences is the place to start. We need to be able to put a face to the other side. I live in a politically purple neighborhood. I’m on one side of the political spectrum, and the people who live across the street from me are on the other. At the beginning of spring this year, I was trying to single-handedly lug a grill up the stairs to my deck. When my “other side” neighbor saw me struggling, she crossed over to give me a hand. As we lifted the grill together, I asked her how her dog was. The appearance of my neighbor with her old black lab was a staple in my daily life, and I hadn’t seen them walking lately. She shared that the dog had passed away. I felt sadness for her in that moment as well as gratitude for her help in lifting the grill.
When I watch the news and feel anger rising in my throat for the politics of the other side, I think of my neighbor’s face. It doesn’t change how I feel about my beliefs. But it does help me to realize that behind the politics, there are people.




















A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
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Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.