We Americans like to think of ourselves as compassionate people. We teach our children to be kind, help those less fortunate, stand up for the vulnerable, and treat others as we would want to be treated.
We celebrate family values, profess religious convictions, and speak proudly of our nation’s moral character.
But do we live by those principles? Or have we reached a point where we extend compassion only to people who agree with us?
By now, you already know what is happening in Ohio.
Vivek Ramaswamy, the Republican candidate for governor, produced a television advertisement featuring the estranged mother of his Democratic opponent, Dr. Amy Acton. In the ad, Acton’s mother calls her daughter a liar.
What the advertisement leaves out is essential to understanding the story.
Acton has spoken publicly about being sexually abused by her stepfather as a child. Her mother remained married to the man Acton accused of abusing her. Mother and daughter have been estranged for almost 40 years.
Acton went on to become a physician, Ohio’s public health director, and eventually a candidate for governor.
Now, decades after that childhood abuse, her estranged mother has joined a political campaign’s attack on her credibility.
The Ramaswamy campaign defended the advertisement and committed millions of dollars to promoting it.
Think about that for a moment.
A political campaign has turned a woman’s painful childhood and fractured family relationships into material for an advertisement.
And apparently, someone believes that is an effective way to win votes.
I look at this situation through three lenses.
As a journalist, I wonder what happened to our obligation to tell the truth, including the facts that complicate the story we want people to believe.
The advertisement presents an accusation without providing the family history voters need to evaluate its credibility. A responsible journalist would investigate that history and provide the relevant context. Fortunately, journalists are doing that work, helping the public understand how this campaign has turned a survivor’s trauma into a political weapon.
Political advertising is not journalism. But does that excuse campaigns from the ethical responsibilities that come with communicating with the public?
As a trustee of The Shelter for Abused Women & Children, I am especially mindful of the challenges survivors of domestic violence and sexual abuse face. I speak only for myself here, not on behalf of The Shelter. From that perspective, another aspect of this story deeply troubles me.
One of the greatest obstacles facing victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse is the fear that others will not believe them.
Imagine being a frightened child who finally finds the courage to report abuse, only to discover that a parent or another trusted adult refuses to believe you.
Now imagine growing up, building a productive life, and discovering decades later that a political campaign has turned the painful circumstances of your childhood into ammunition for a public attack on your character.
What message does that send to victims struggling to find their own voices?
Does it encourage them to speak out? Or does it reinforce the fear that reporting abuse may bring a lifetime of humiliation, disbelief, and punishment?
Finally, I consider this controversy as someone who believes morality should be horizontal.
By that, I mean our moral obligations should extend equally across society, regardless of political affiliation, religion, race, wealth, gender, or social standing.
We should not have one set of ethical standards for people we like and another for those we oppose.
You don’t have to support Amy Acton’s candidacy to believe that a survivor of childhood sexual abuse deserves dignity and compassion.
You don’t have to agree with her political positions to recognize the potential harm in exploiting her childhood experiences.
And if the political parties were reversed, our moral judgment should remain the same.
That is what makes morality a principle rather than a political convenience.
What troubles me most is not simply the advertisement itself. It is what the advertisement asks us to accept as normal.
Have we become so accustomed to political warfare that we see another person’s suffering as merely another opportunity to score points?
Have we confused toughness with cruelty?
Have we decided that winning justifies almost anything?
The advertisement drew criticism from Republicans as well as Democrats, suggesting that many Americans still recognize ethical boundaries. But the campaign’s defense raises another question: What happens when political effectiveness becomes more important than human decency?
We hear a great deal these days about religious values, particularly from politicians who invoke Christianity as a foundation for public life.
Yet Christianity’s fundamental moral teachings are clear. Love your neighbor. Care for the vulnerable. Protect children. Feed the hungry. Help those who suffer.
Those teachings do not come with an exemption for political opponents.
Nor should empathy and compassion require religious belief. They are basic obligations of living together in a civilized society.
Empathy means recognizing another person’s suffering. Compassion means caring enough to respond with humanity.
But what happens when we recognize that suffering and choose to exploit it anyway?
Perhaps the problem is not that Americans have forgotten the meaning of compassion.
Perhaps the more troubling possibility is that we have become increasingly comfortable setting compassion aside when it interferes with something we want.
A political victory. A personal advantage. A moment of public attention. The satisfaction of humiliating someone we dislike.
There is nothing wrong with vigorous political debate. Candidates should face tough questions about their records, qualifications, judgment, and plans for governing.
But there must be room in our democracy for fierce disagreement without abandoning our common humanity.
We should be able to oppose someone’s political beliefs without treating that person’s suffering as entertainment or ammunition.
We should be able to demand accountability without sacrificing decency.
And we should recognize that the way we treat vulnerable people says far more about our moral character than the values we proclaim in speeches, advertisements, and Sunday sermons.
I do not believe the Ramaswamy advertisement proves America has lost its compassion. The public criticism it generated suggests otherwise.
But it does present us with a test.
Are our moral principles strong enough to survive our political disagreements?
Or are they simply words we use when convenient?
As a journalist, I believe the truth matters.
As a Shelter trustee, I believe the dignity and safety of abuse survivors matter.
And as someone who believes morality should extend equally to everyone, I believe those obligations include people whose politics we oppose.
The real question is not whether we know the difference between right and wrong.
It is whether we are willing to act on what we know.
A society’s moral character is not measured solely by how compassionately it treats the people it loves. It is also measured by how it treats the people it doesn’t.