There’s a certain kind of conversation I’ve had more than once — the kind where both people genuinely mean well but are standing on opposite cliffs, shouting the same word into different winds.
In this case, that word was law.
My debate partner wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t stupid. He was thoughtful, deliberate, and sincere.
He believed — deeply — in personal accountability.
In the idea that every choice has a consequence, and that consequence is the thread holding civilization together.
And I believe in that too.
But I also believe that if the system administering those consequences starts violating its own rules, then what we’re calling “law” might just be the costume power wears when it wants to look righteous.
Rule of Law vs. Law of Rules
When he said, “We’re a country of laws,” I agreed in principle.
Where we diverged was in what that actually means.
He saw it as a matter of consistency — if you break the rule, you face the result.
I saw it as a matter of integrity — if the system breaks its own rule, it forfeits its moral standing to judge others.
Because that’s what’s happening at our borders.
People who follow every requirement of the asylum process — register through the official app, appear at their hearings, bring documentation, follow instructions — are being deported anyway.
Their cases are dismissed without evidence being reviewed, not because they broke the law, but because someone in power decided it’s easier to meet a deportation quota than to honor a promise.
That’s not the rule of law.
That’s the law of power.
The Bank Robber Analogy
At one point, he used an analogy:
“If someone robs a bank and later gives the money back, they still get arrested.”
I get the sentiment — accountability matters.
But it’s a false equivalence.
Crossing a border without papers isn’t armed robbery. It’s a misdemeanor, often committed out of desperation or confusion, not malice or greed.
And in many cases, asylum seekers aren’t breaking the law at all — international law protects their right to present themselves to an official by any means necessary.
That’s the part that hurts to keep repeating.
Because once you know the law, and you see the law ignored, it’s hard to keep pretending the issue is about “following the rules.”
The System and the Scoreboard
He said he supports “the things Trump did that uphold the rule of law.”
I asked which things.
He brought up immigration and border security.
That’s where we hit the wall.
Because the data — and the lived stories — tell a different story.
The system isn’t catching dangerous criminals; it’s sweeping up veterans, students, families, and workers who entered legally and are now being reclassified as “illegal” because the process changed midstream.
It’s a numbers game.
Deportations are the metric. Humanity is the margin of error.
The Heart of the Divide
What I respect about him is that he’s not afraid to talk.
He grew up in a time when you could argue politics and still share a beer afterward.
That’s rare now. And precious.
We both agreed that our culture is drowning in confirmation bias — algorithmic bubbles that reinforce what we already think.
He admitted he doesn’t blindly trust anyone.
Neither do I.
But trust isn’t the same as faith.
He has faith in the system until it proves him wrong.
I’ve seen enough to believe the system’s already proving itself wrong — one quiet injustice at a time.
Accountability and Compassion
I told him:
If “personal accountability” means owning your actions, then it also applies to nations.
If the United States violates its own asylum laws, then it too should be accountable.
He didn’t disagree out of malice. He disagreed because he truly believes order is the last line between civilization and chaos.
And he’s not wrong about that — order does matter.
But so does justice.
Without justice, order is just fear in uniform.
Why It Still Matters
By the end, we weren’t trying to win.
We were just trying to understand each other — and that’s what makes conversations like this worth having.
He wants a country that rewards responsibility.
I want a country that practices empathy without losing its backbone.
Maybe those aren’t opposite goals.
Maybe they’re two sides of the same flag — one blue for structure, one red for struggle, held together by a field of stars that remind us: no one shines alone.
Try this:
Next time someone says, “We’re a nation of laws,” ask them:
“Does that law serve the people, or do the people serve the law?”
That’s not a “gotcha.”
It’s the beginning of a conversation we still need to have — with each other, not just about each other.
