In a polarised world, we've forgotten how to talk – or listen to an opposing view

A year ago, at the peak of the unrest at American university campuses over the war in Gaza, I was asked to address a conference on the topic “How to Conduct Civil Discourse”. I relished the opportunity to do this because the issue of how to engage in civil discourse was (and remains) both timely and necessary.

Americans live in a deeply toxic environment in which the political and cultural gaps that separate them appear unbridgeable. Whether in the US’s foreign relations or congressional debates, in its communities or families, people on opposite sides of issues often seem more interested in scoring points than in reaching understanding.

As I began to prepare my remarks, I reflected on four important lessons I learnt from people who have mattered in my life.

In my teens, I confess, I was a bit of a precocious know-it-all. I loved ideas and would argue my beliefs with anyone who crossed my path. One afternoon, my mother and I were visiting an aunt. Before long, my aunt and I became engaged in a debate over the meaning of some New Testament story.

At one point, my mother intervened, telling me: “Stop and look at yourself. You’re sitting on the edge of your seat. You say your piece and the minute your aunt begins to respond, you’re ready to pounce. You don’t listen to a word she’s saying because all you can think of is your rebuttal. If you don’t listen to her, she won’t hear you. Because you’re talking at her and not with her.”

She would also say: “Don’t be wrong at the top of your voice.” Volume isn’t the measure of rightness. Speaking loudly may make you feel good, but because it’s off-putting to those with whom you are conversing, instead of opening ears, it often shuts down conversation.

In the same vein, early in my career, my wife Eileen would come to my speeches and sit at the back of the room, in a place where I could see her. I was young and prone to using incendiary language. When I would step over the line and say something overly harsh or just plain crude, Eileen would wince. Her point was that, while I might think using such language had shock value, in fact, it was at best a distraction, and at worst a turnoff, to many in the audience.

I learnt that if I was trying to convey the pain of a much-beleaguered people, I had the responsibility of speaking to people they would never be able to address. I had to respect the audience I was trying to reach so that they would want to hear my message.

In the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I became aware of the broader applications of these simple lessons in listening and civil discourse. I was invited to serve with a number of foreign policy experts and former elected and appointed government officials on a Council on Foreign Relations task force on public diplomacy. The issue being explored was how to relate to the Arab world in this era. For some of my colleagues, the ideas that were proposed ranged from bombing Iraq to lecturing them on democracy.

About this same time, my brother John and I were asked by foundations in the Arab world to conduct two separate polls: one to examine what Arabs think about their values and concerns, the other to measure Arabs’ attitudes about America.

What we found was that the principal concerns of most Arabs were their families and their futures. They wanted good jobs, quality health care, educational opportunities for their children, and safety and security in their communities. We also learnt that contrary to views widely held by Americans, Arabs liked the US – its people, educational system, products and its culture and values. What they didn’t like was how America treated them.

These results not only helped inform my task force discussions, but also prepared me for meetings with the undersecretaries for public diplomacy in George W Bush’s administration. I had the opportunity to meet each of the people Mr Bush appointed to this post.

When each asked me what I would recommend, I suggested that in their travels to Arab countries they shouldn’t begin by lecturing. Instead, I advised them to ask questions and listen. I would say: “Don’t presume you know what they’re thinking or what they want to hear from you.”

At about this same time, I was invited by Sheikh Abdullah bin Zayed, Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs, to meet a group of ministers from Gulf countries to discuss how they could help to heal the divide between their region and America. As the meeting progressed, a number of the ministers were critical of US efforts to engage them and had a variety of views as to what they should do to improve their image with Americans.

Through it all, Sheikh Abdullah listened and understood what many of his colleagues did not: Americans didn’t understand Arabs and Arabs didn’t understand Americans. Therefore, despite best intentions, the efforts of both sides would miss the mark.

Reflecting on failed attempts at public diplomacy on both sides, he noted: “You know, in the end, we Arabs will never be able to help Americans understand us unless we understand them first. Similarly, Americans will never succeed in their efforts to communicate to us who they are unless they take the time to know us first.”

That simple lesson must undergird any effort at civil discourse. Where differences exist, the prerequisite for any real communication must be the recognition of the importance of understanding the needs and concerns of the “other”. As the American civil rights activist and politician Rev Jesse Jackson might say: only if I attempt to understand them and directly address them, will they be able to open up to understanding me.

And so, the lessons are simple: listen before you speak, speak softly and avoid harsh rhetoric, respect your audience, and try to speak to their concerns in order to open their minds to hearing you.