"I understand the harsh feelings and sentiments from my opponents and their supporters because I myself have been defeated twice in my political life in the past and I understand very well it is hard to accept your own failure"
About this Quote
The voice here is not of a triumphant winner but of someone trying to lower the temperature of a polarized public square. By stressing personal experience with loss, Chen Shui-bian frames political defeat as a human, not merely partisan, ordeal. The admission that it is hard to accept your own failure performs two moves at once: it legitimizes the emotions of the losing side and models the maturity expected in a democracy that prizes peaceful transfer of power.
Taiwan’s path from martial law to competitive elections was swift and often combative, and Chen’s career tracked that transformation. He knew both ascent and reversal, including his high-profile loss of the Taipei mayoralty in 1998, before winning the presidency. Drawing on those memories, he converts what could be read as gloating into empathy. The repeated I understand is not just consolation; it is a political strategy that seeks to move opponents from grievance toward acceptance without dismissing their pain.
There is also a cultural resonance. In societies where saving face matters, public acknowledgment of failure is rare and risky. Chen turns that vulnerability into credibility, signaling that the measure of a political actor is not permanent victory but the grace with which one faces setbacks. That stance underlines a core democratic insight: losers are not enemies to be humiliated but citizens who must be heard if the system is to retain legitimacy.
The statement carries an implicit warning and a promise. The warning: unprocessed defeat can curdle into delegitimization of institutions. The promise: shared recognition of loss can become common ground, a way to stabilize the public sphere after razor-thin contests and bitter campaigns. Empathy here is not sentimentality; it is statecraft, a reminder that the health of a young democracy depends as much on how people lose as on how they win.
Taiwan’s path from martial law to competitive elections was swift and often combative, and Chen’s career tracked that transformation. He knew both ascent and reversal, including his high-profile loss of the Taipei mayoralty in 1998, before winning the presidency. Drawing on those memories, he converts what could be read as gloating into empathy. The repeated I understand is not just consolation; it is a political strategy that seeks to move opponents from grievance toward acceptance without dismissing their pain.
There is also a cultural resonance. In societies where saving face matters, public acknowledgment of failure is rare and risky. Chen turns that vulnerability into credibility, signaling that the measure of a political actor is not permanent victory but the grace with which one faces setbacks. That stance underlines a core democratic insight: losers are not enemies to be humiliated but citizens who must be heard if the system is to retain legitimacy.
The statement carries an implicit warning and a promise. The warning: unprocessed defeat can curdle into delegitimization of institutions. The promise: shared recognition of loss can become common ground, a way to stabilize the public sphere after razor-thin contests and bitter campaigns. Empathy here is not sentimentality; it is statecraft, a reminder that the health of a young democracy depends as much on how people lose as on how they win.
Quote Details
| Topic | Failure |
|---|
More Quotes by Chen
Add to List
