GATINEAU, QUE.—One of the unusual, and little-remarked, aspects of Justin Trudeau’s personality—and, perhaps, of his enduring political appeal—is his tendency to cry when he is emotionally moved.

Even if the tough-guy culture of politics is fading in Canada, Trudeau is remarkably empathetic and, more than his predecessors, unwilling, or unable, to disguise his feelings. His speeches may be tedious and careful, and his delivery overly rehearsed, but he reacts spontaneously, and often tenderly, when confronted with human pain, or joy.

That tendency was on display last week, when he met in Toronto with the first Syrian refugee family he welcomed here a year ago. As gynaecologist Vanig Garabedian recalled his first encounter with Canada and the prime minister, Trudeau—quietly reliving the moment when Garabedian and his three daughters walked off the plane—wiped away tears. He later told reporters that this family’s arrival “was a moment in which I understood just the kind of things we can do as a country.”

That sounds a little rehearsed, but Trudeau’s emotion was undoubtedly sincere. Critics will point out that Garabedian, like many refugees whose private sponsorship is ending soon, still hasn’t found a job in Canada. Trudeau should be asked why not, and why the doctor isn’t, at least, getting more help to have his skills upgraded. These are legitimate questions, but they don’t invalidate Trudeau’s reaction. They simply make it more urgent that he follow up fine sentiments with action.

Trudeau also wept on a walking tour through Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp in Poland in July (as would almost anyone). The prime minister was accompanied by Nate Leipciger, an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor from Toronto who lost family in the camp. Said Leipciger of the prime minister: “He cried with me. He shed tears with me. That’s the greatest expression of understanding and feelings that he could have done.”

Indigenous Canadians have also been touched by the prime minister’s tears at various solemn events—especially when he struggled to contain his feelings on seeing video footage depicting the suffering of children in residential schools. This is one case in which tears are definitely not enough—something Trudeau acknowledges with his repeated warnings that the road to true reconciliation will be long and difficult. Initial enthusiasm among indigenous Canadians is already fading with the recent pipeline approvals and delays in addressing the well-known problems facing so many indigenous communities.

If Trudeau’s government fails them, it will be an especially bitter setback in a long history of disappointments. Nor is it true that other prime ministers—including Stephen Harper and Jean Chrétien—haven’t taken this issue to heart. But neither embraced it as passionately, and feelingly, as Trudeau has.

Trudeau’s tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve dates back to 2000 and his weepy eulogy at the coffin of his father—a performance some criticized as overly dramatic. But any reference to his father can still leave him struggling for composure. He choked up, momentarily, at the mention of his father’s final weeks of life during the assisted dying debate.

And, when a former security guard who worked for Pierre Trudeau, presented Justin with a photograph of a young prime minister and his father, Justin was moved to tears. Later, he apologized to onlookers at the 2013 stop in Belleville, Ont.: “I tried hard not to cry, but today I couldn’t help it. I apologize for that, I am not a crybaby, but today is Valentine’s Day and this just left me very emotional.”

There has been little open criticism of Trudeau’s occasional outbursts—perhaps because crying, including by men, is no longer seen as a sign of weakness, or failure. American president Barack Obama’s speeches, particularly those delivered in the wake of school shootings, have been accompanied by tears—tears of frustration and, as the president has admitted, regret for his inability to stop the random killings. These moments of naked emotion tend to provoke sympathy, and a deeper understanding of the pressures that leaders face, as much as contempt.

Interim Conservative leader Rona Ambrose is another politician whose natural sense of compassion sometimes overwhelms her talking points. When she was a minister in Stephen Harper’s government, she once could barely get through a routine anti-bullying press conference so moved was she by the issue. She also struggled with tears in the Commons in the aftermath of the Fort McMurray fire and, later, on the death of her colleague, and friend, Jim Prentice.

These moments humanize politics and politicians. They silence, even if briefly, the harsh and hateful know-it-alls who trade in personal insults and cruel caricatures on social media. And they give pause to journalists—at least, to those who think that everything is strategy, that every emotion is faked, every utterance is focus-grouped. That cynical calculation still happens, but, in this first year of the new government, not as much as it used to. (If the Liberals were better at strategy, they wouldn’t have bungled the electoral reform file so badly.)

Trudeau’s emotional openness, of course, doesn’t compensate for his political and policy blunders: his prolonged and self-defeating refusal to end those suspect Liberal fundraisers, his unproven and implausible claim that new pipelines can co-exist with effective action to contain climate change, and, his still unfulfilled promises to new refugees and indigenous Canadians. Actions speak louder than tears.

His new style hasn’t changed the political culture, either. It co-exists with the deep cynicism of Kellie Leitch’s campaign for the Conservative leadership—her teary regret that the barbaric culture practises tip-line was so misunderstood, followed by a campaign animated by the same dark suspicions of newcomers. And, the coarse and combative tone of Trumpian politics down south, suggests that the old, false and manipulative spirit of Politics Past is still alive and thriving.

One photo of a solemn and caring prime minister embracing dying Canadian icon and indigenous peoples champion, Gord Downie, will not change politics, or rescue one indigenous child from a life of violence and despair. But it is a reminder to everyone to focus on what really matters.

Susan Riley is a veteran political columnist who writes regularly for The Hill Times.

The Hill Times