Donald Trump sometimes appears to be a warm individual. His policies indicate otherwise.
You often hear visitors say that Swedes are cold. What’s usually meant is that Swedes are emotionally distant, reserved, or hard to get to know.
I’ve heard this observation most often from Americans, and lately I’ve been thinking about what it says, less about Swedes perhaps, and more about the people making the comment.
At the same time I’ve been grappling with another thought – how someone as morally bankrupt as Donald Trump could rise to such power and popularity in the United States.
On the surface, these ideas might seem unrelated, but to me, they’re part of the same thread - how we define goodness, morality, and character, both in ourselves and others, and how that is different between our two cultures.
One thing I’ve noticed is that Trump, for all his blustering cruelty, often tries to behave in socially acceptable ways when he’s in more personal or intimate settings.
He’ll smile, extend niceties, perform gestures of politeness. And people, especially Americans, seem to take these moments at face value.
There’s a strong, cultural tendency in the US to equate politeness with goodness, as if being kind on the surface is the same as being good deep down.
But is it?
What’s the difference between a genuinely good person and someone who merely behaves as if they are? Is goodness a matter of internal intention? Or is it about how our actions affect the world and the people around us?
Can we judge someone as good because they are nice in a conversation? Or does it matter more what they do when nobody's watching? What policies they push. What power they pursue. What harm they allow or encourage.
In a world full of curated social media profiles and political theatre, it’s easy to mistake surface for substance. We’re often encouraged to focus on manners instead of meaning. Tone instead of impact. But politeness is not the same as empathy.
A smile does not equal compassion. Decency is far more than a tone of voice.
This brings me back to the idea of cultural difference and why some Americans might call Swedes cold.
Perhaps it’s not coldness at all. Perhaps it’s just a different way of expressing emotion. A different rhythm of connection. If we equate quietness for coldness or reserve for rudeness, it might say more about our own expectations than about the people we’re judging.
If we assume that warmth only looks like loud friendliness, we will overlook the quiet, consistent kindness of those who don’t fit that mould.
Beneath Sweden's quiet surface is a society built on collective care: paid parental leave, childcare, universal healthcare, and a strong social safety net
From a distance, Swedes may come off as cool, especially to someone raised in a culture that prizes extroversion, small talk, and outward displays of warmth. But beneath that quiet surface is a society built on collective care: paid parental leave, childcare, universal healthcare, a strong social safety net, and a cultural emphasis on fairness and responsibility to others.
The warmth isn’t loud but it’s real. It’s built into the structure of everyday life.
Swedes often won’t acknowledge a stranger’s presence. Not because they are rude, but because they find it rude to impose themselves on you.
Contrast this with the United States where people are outwardly friendly - chatty, outgoing, eager to connect.
Yet beneath that warmth is a society where millions lack basic healthcare, where workers are burned out and underpaid, where systemic inequality is not only tolerated but often defended.
It’s a place where politeness can coexist with policies that harm the most vulnerable, and where charisma is too often mistaken for character.
Real goodness doesn’t need to be loud. It just needs to show up - in the systems we build, in the harm we refuse to ignore, and in the quiet, consistent ways we choose to care for one another.