Voices: In times of tragedy and fear, conversation is a civic — and moral — responsibility

This month Keith Porter, Renee Good and Alex Pretti were killed during separate altercations with ICE agents. Within hours of these tragic events, the familiar machinery of our polarized times began to turn: speculation, outrage, competing narratives, certainty delivered at high volume.

As a result of this “noise,” real human lives — a father, mother and son; a family man, poet and ICU nurse — risk being flattened into headlines before the facts have time to settle.

As Utahns, we’ve been here before. Just four months ago, Utah was at the epicenter of a high profile and tragic shooting as Charlie Kirk’s life was taken in broad daylight. In response, a coalition of national peacebuilding leaders who reside in Utah urged people to turn toward each other. Moments like this expose not only how divided we are, but how poorly equipped we’ve become to sit with complexity. Especially when fear is running the show.

We may each feel called to respond in different ways. Some of us write to petition our lawmakers or send a flurry of posts on social media. Others come out in large numbers and join protests, like the one at the capitol earlier this week.

There are also quieter ways we can show up together — to just be with each other.

We work for Living Room Conversations, an organization that brings people together across political and cultural divides to connect and talk about difficult issues, especially when fear is high and trust is low. The day after Renee Good died, we convened a national conversation about the search for truth.

That conversation mirrored what we see across the country: So many of us are talking to each other from a place of fear. And, from a deep hunger to belong.

To protect their privacy, the participants in this conversation asked to remain anonymous.

One participant named it plainly. “It’s hard to listen to a different perspective if you’re afraid. And a lot of people are really afraid right now. On both sides.”

Fear does more than raise voices. It narrows attention. It turns disagreement into a threat. And, it makes listening feel unsafe.

Again and again, the conversation returned to belonging.

“How can we bring people in so they feel they belong?” one person asked. “People don’t feel that anymore.”

Another added, “A lot of people are searching for a place to belong. And once they find it, they can become entrenched.”

When people don’t feel seen or valued, they cling tightly to identities and narratives that promise certainty. The result is not clarity, but rigidity. And, a growing inability to hear anything that challenges the story we’ve chosen.

Referring to the fast paced, subjective nature of social media, one participant observed, “Digital spaces are being weaponized to create confusion.” Another described prominent voices on social media as disinformers with “money and political agendas.” Adding, “Most of us don’t understand how powerful that machinery really is.”

A participant with 42 years of experience as a criminal investigator offered a sobering reminder: “Uncovering the truth is rarely simple. There are almost always multiple sides to a story.”

Someone else shared, “We can’t even agree on the facts anymore.” Others echoed the concern. “People offer opinions as facts without realizing that’s what they’re doing.”

These comments challenged a dangerous assumption of our moment: that facts alone are enough. We often assume that if we simply present better data, clearer evidence or the “right” sources, people will change their minds. But facts cannot persuade someone who does not feel safe enough, or respected enough, to listen. Truth requires more than information; it requires relationship.

Let’s face it: Many of us do not want to find common ground with each other right now. Exhaustion is real. Anger becomes justified more and more each day. Listening can feel like surrender.

But refusing to engage comes at a cost. When we stop talking to one another, fear fills the vacuum. And there are plenty of others who are more than willing to shape the “truth” for us.

In a culture that rewards speed, certainty and outrage, slowing down feels almost radical. But without that pause — without conversation — we surrender our power to the loudest voices in the room.

So what do we owe each other?

We owe each other more than slogans and certainty. More than instant judgment and moral posturing. More than the comfort of choosing sides without listening.

We owe each other the practice of dialogue.

That takes three things:

Towards the end of our conversation, one participant said, “I think there was a lot of common ground.”

That matters. It reminds us that connection is still possible. Even now.

So where do we go from here? We can resist the urge to amplify unverified narratives. We can ask better questions before taking sides. We can choose to talk to people we don’t fully understand rather than about them. And we can come together through programs like Living Room Conversations.

In moments like this, choosing conversation is a civic responsibility. And it’s ultimately a moral responsibility. Because we owe each other our humanity as we search for truth together.

Annie Caplan is the Director of Engagement at Living Room Conversations — a national organization that equips communities across the country with skills to engage in respectful dialogue on some of the most polarizing issues of our time. She believes that in order to create a better future, we have to be able to talk about the issues we’re facing today. Her intention is to connect people back to the truth of our shared humanity, one conversation at a time.

Becca Kearl is the Executive Director of Living Room Conversations working to shift social and cultural norms toward respect and connection as a solution for isolation, toxic polarization and violence. In addition to her role at LRC, she dedicates time to coalition work at the city, state, and national levels. Becca lives in Provo with her husband and five children.

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