I’m not gonna bullshit you. I’m no Trump disciple. I’m not out there marching with MAGA flags or chanting conspiracies from some cosmic underbelly. Hell, the man’s last four years left me feeling like I’d swallowed a hornet’s nest on a daily basis. But here’s the thing—and it’s a big, nasty thing, bigger than my personal politics or your neighbor’s righteous activism: people WERE dying in Gaza. Not figurative, not hypothetical, not some cable news cycle filler. Real, honest-to-God human souls, including women, children—innocents—being ground into dust, day after day.

And that’s the shit that steals my sleep at night, you know? Not Trump’s idiot tweets, not the new flavor of scandal swirling in Washington. It’s the bodies piling up in places I’ve never been but can’t stop seeing when I close my eyes. And that’s a raw, unshakable horror that dwarfs all the rhetorical posturing. Left, right, red, blue—none of that means a damn thing when the street is stained with blood and the screams echo across the horizon.

So, yeah, call me crazy, call me a traitor to my typical stance, but when Trump—even Trump—manages to orchestrate some form of a ceasefire before the new day’s dawn, that is not empty political theater. That is blood saved, families preserved. That, my friend, is flesh and blood, literal life over the typical fireworks of posturing and tribal nonsense. I don’t care if you hate the man with every fiber of your being, or you love him like a messiah, or if you’re somewhere in that pit of confusion between. You can’t deny that less carnage in the Middle East is a net positive for the entire damned planet.

We can debate policy and personality until we’re all blue in the face. We can pick apart his motives, his ego, his questionable alliances, or his love for gold-plated everything. But do not confuse those debates with the raw, unstoppable fact that every life spared in Gaza matters. Every day that the bombs don’t fall on kids is a day we inch closer to preserving whatever shred of humanity we’ve got left in us.

So yeah, I’m handing out a shred of respect. I’ll fling some praise into the ether for a guy I never thought I’d praise—because if you’re telling me he pulled a ceasefire out of the swirling madness, I’ll raise a drink to that and I don’t drink. I don’t give a damn who gets credit if it means fewer funerals, fewer grieving parents, and fewer nights of me lying awake, feeling like my skull’s about to crack under the weight of senseless death.

That’s where I stand. Let’s keep going, keep pushing, keep raging for peace—even if it’s delivered by the unlikeliest messenger. Because at the end of the day, the scoreboard of politics is dwarfed by the infinite magnitude of a single saved life. And if Trump’s got a piece in that puzzle—even by accident—I say that’s one hell of a better accident than we’ve seen in a long damn time.