We live at a time when more information is available to us than ever before. Almost anyone can read news from around the world, watch politicians’ speeches in full, follow interviews, look up statistics, and compare competing political positions.
And yet we seem to live in completely different realities.
This increasingly troubles me.
When I see and hear Donald Trump, the picture that forms in my mind could hardly be more negative. To put it deliberately bluntly: I regard him as one of the stupidest, most unscrupulous, and most dangerous presidents the United States has ever had. I see a man who lies constantly, belittles people, places personal loyalty above institutions, treats democratic rules as obstacles, and not only admires authoritarian rule but aspires to it himself.
Other people see the same Donald Trump — and apparently perceive something entirely different.
They consider him intelligent, decisive, courageous, patriotic, business-minded, or authentic. Some even regard him as an exceptionally successful president.
Where I see narcissism, they see self-confidence. Where I see ruthlessness, they see determination. Where I hear crude insults, they hear a politician who finally speaks plainly. Where I see attacks on democratic institutions, they see a struggle against a corrupt establishment.
How is that possible?
Do we really have the same information?
The obvious answer is: no.
We read different newspapers, watch different television channels, and follow different people on Facebook, YouTube, X, and other platforms. Algorithms reinforce this selection: once we click on certain kinds of content, we are offered more of the same.
But that explanation is not enough for me.
In principle, much of the same information is available to all of us. A Trump supporter could read Reuters. I could watch a pro-Trump YouTube channel. We could both watch the same speech in full.
So why do we choose different sources? Why do I trust Reuters, the New York Times, the Washington Post, public-service media, or scientific institutions more than a Facebook post or a partisan YouTube channel? And why might someone else do precisely the opposite?
By what criteria do we decide whom to believe?
Of course there are criteria for assessing source quality. Journalistic standards, verifiable evidence, transparency, corrections, and independent confirmation are not equivalent to an unsupported claim on social media.
It would therefore be wrong to conclude that every source and every account is equally reliable.
But the problem does not disappear. I, too, decide which sources I trust.
What am I not seeing?
Perhaps I should not direct the question only at other people.
What might I be failing to see?
If I am convinced that Donald Trump is a danger to democracy, which information do I accept especially readily? Which information do I overlook? Which do I immediately interpret in a way that fits the picture I already have?
If I read a report that confirms my judgement, do I scrutinize it as critically as a report that contradicts it?
Or am I subject to the same confirmation bias that I can so easily recognize in others?
That is an uncomfortable question. Naturally I believe my own judgement is well founded; otherwise I would not hold it. But presumably the same is true of people whose judgement I consider completely wrong.
This does not mean: everyone has their own truth
There is another trap here. Recognizing that we select and interpret information differently must not lead us to conclude that there is no objectively testable reality: “You have your truth; I have mine.”
I consider that dangerous.
There are facts. A politician said something or did not. An election had a particular result. An economic indicator has a particular value. A court issued a particular ruling. A claim can be supported by documents — or it cannot.
Statements can be true or false. Sources can be reliable or unreliable. Evidence can be strong or weak.
Critical thinking therefore does not mean treating every claim as equally valid. The real difficulty begins where thousands of individual facts combine into an overall picture.
The same facts — different significance
Perhaps an important difference lies not in which facts we know, but in how much significance we attach to them.
A Trump voter need not believe that Trump always tells the truth. He might say:
Yes, of course he exaggerates and lies. But the others lie too. At least he fights for us.
At that point we are no longer arguing about whether Trump lies. We are assigning different weight to the fact. What is decisive to me when judging a president may be secondary to someone else.
And that brings me to Germany.
And the AfD?
For readers outside Germany: the Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) is a right-wing populist party founded in 2013. It began primarily as a Eurosceptic party but moved substantially further to the right, with immigration, national identity, and opposition to the political establishment becoming central themes. Parts of the party and a number of prominent figures have been classified or described by German domestic-intelligence authorities as right-wing extremist; the party disputes such assessments and has challenged them in court. The AfD has nevertheless become a major electoral force.
With the AfD, something similar happens to me.
When I listen to many of its leading politicians, what I see above all is a far-right danger. I hear nationalism and exclusion. I see deliberate attempts to shift the boundaries of acceptable political language. I find some statements frighteningly lacking in empathy. I see attacks on the media, democratic institutions, and social minorities.
And I ask myself: how can people hear this and still vote for the party? Or sometimes vote for it precisely because of it?
But once again the uncomfortable question arises:
What do these people see that I do not?
Perhaps some of them see something entirely different first. They see immigration that they regard as uncontrolled. They see a state they no longer trust to enforce its own rules. They see economic insecurity, increasing burdens, bureaucracy, or an energy policy they consider misguided. They see crime and believe it cannot be discussed openly. They encounter a political and media vocabulary in which they no longer recognize themselves. Or they simply feel that the established parties are not listening to them.
I can investigate these perceptions, disagree with them, or even consider some of them demonstrably wrong. But first I should try to understand them.
Perhaps I see Björn Höcke, one of the AfD’s best-known and most controversial figures, and think first of the far right. Someone else sees Höcke and thinks: Finally someone is talking about what the others refuse to discuss.
I hear a dehumanizing formulation. He hears plain speaking. I see the danger of an authoritarian shift. He sees the hope of a state regaining control.
We heard the same words. And apparently we did not hear the same thing.
Information is not the same as reality
Perhaps our model of political opinion-forming is too simple. We do not gather all available information, place it on a large table, and then arrive at a perfectly rational judgement.
There are many steps between information and conviction:
Information → selection → trust → interpretation → weighting → judgement
Selection itself is not neutral. We prefer to read things that interest us. We trust people and institutions because of previous experience. We interpret new information against the background of what we already believe.
Personal experience, social environment, fear, hope, group identity, and moral values are added to the mix.
And probably none of us is free of these influences. Neither am I.
Why do I always recognize error in other people first?
Confirmation bias is wonderfully easy to observe in others. Trump supporters ignore information that does not fit their worldview. AfD supporters believe unreliable sources. Conspiracy theorists search only for confirmation.
But perhaps that list is itself suspicious. Where am I in it?
Which of my convictions seem self-evident only because almost everyone I trust shares them? Which information do I discard before seriously engaging with it? Which mistakes by politicians or political positions closer to my own do I judge more leniently than comparable mistakes on the other side?
With which sources is a headline enough for me because it confirms what I already believe?
And when did I last change an important political belief because of new information?
Understanding does not mean justifying
One distinction seems especially important to me.
If I want to understand why someone admires Donald Trump or votes for the AfD, that does not mean I consider the decision right.
Understanding is not the same as justifying.
I can try to understand why people fear immigration without accepting xenophobic positions. I can try to understand why someone has lost trust in traditional media without treating a fabricated Facebook story as equivalent to carefully researched journalism.
I can try to understand why someone feels represented by Donald Trump and still consider him a danger to democracy.
Perhaps the opposite is even true: if I genuinely consider a political development dangerous, I should be especially interested in understanding why other people do not consider it dangerous.
And how could I discover that I am wrong?
In the end, all of this leads me to a question that I increasingly regard as one of the most important questions in critical thinking:
What could convince me that my belief is wrong?
About Trump. About the AfD. But also about every other subject on which I feel particularly certain.
If my answer is nothing, I am no longer testing my belief. I am defending it.
That does not mean that after such self-examination I must suddenly regard Donald Trump as a great president or the AfD as a harmless party. Perhaps, after careful examination, I reach exactly the same conclusion as before.
But then I should understand better why.
And perhaps I will also discover things that do not fit my previous picture.
What am I not seeing?
Perhaps that is therefore the more important question than:
Why don't the others see what I see?
That question is easy. It leaves me untouched.
Harder is:
What do the others see that I do not?
And harder still:
What am I not seeing because I do not want to see it?
I do not know whether this can overcome political polarization.
But perhaps something would already be gained if we tried more often not only to recognize the errors in our opponents’ thinking, but also to take seriously the possibility that we ourselves may be wrong.