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Triangulation II
22″ x 30″
Body color, sanguine, sepia, and white out on paper
2008
Societies rarely recognize when language begins to prepare the conditions for hatred. Long before violence appears, speech has already changed how people see what is in front of them. A group is no longer described by what it does, but by what it is made to stand for: a “threat,” an “invasion,” a “corruption.” Description yields to designation.
In “Language, Judgment, and Freedom of Conscience: On the Architecture of an Intellectual Position,” I examined how freedom of conscience depends on a steady link between what is seen, what is said, and how it is judged. That link is not sustained by itself. Seeing something does not ensure naming it precisely, and naming it does not ensure judging it clearly. When that link breaks, language stops following experience and begins to direct it. Words no longer come after what happens; they tell people in advance what they are supposed to see, think, or conclude. In that shift, the ability to judge for oneself begins to weaken, long before courts are bypassed or rights are set aside.
Once perception is shaped in advance, judgment no longer moves on its own. Hostility no longer appears as a break but as something already contained in the way things are said. A neighbor becomes “one of them.” A disagreement becomes “an attack.”
Societies speak easily about hatred, yet rarely ask where it begins. When violence becomes visible, the instinct is to find someone to blame. The tyrant appears sufficient. Yet this explanation soothes more than it explains. It confines wrongdoing to individuals while leaving intact what made it possible: repeated phrases, accepted labels, words no longer questioned.
A distinction is required. To see clearly is not to hate. To name brutality is not resentment but clarity. To say “this act destroys a life” remains a description. Hatred begins when the person is reduced to what must be removed. Whoever speaks in that way adopts the same language he claims to reject.
Ideologies that organize hostility do not arise in isolation. They differ in name but share a simple rule: people define who they are by pushing others out. Where this rule governs how people define themselves, human worth no longer serves as a shared measure. Public life divides between those who belong and those who do not. Nazism in Europe, Chavismo in Venezuela, the MAGA movement in the United States, and forms of theocracy show how entire populations come to speak of others as enemies and to treat that division as necessary for order or purity.
What appears in Trump is not new. It is what no longer needs to disguise itself.
Once this way of speaking is taken up and repeated, it does not remain confined to leaders or doctrine. It spreads. Some repeat it because they believe it. Others repeat it to avoid trouble, to fit in, or to protect themselves. Language changes. Words stop pointing to people and begin to assign them a place. The adversary becomes a threat; the threat becomes someone to despise. A person is no longer called by name but by a label: “illegal,” “traitor,” “infidel,” “enemy.”
Another confusion follows. In the name of understanding, some begin to describe those who defend such ideas as misunderstood or wounded. This posture appears balanced, yet it shifts attention toward those who exercise power and away from those who live under it.
This confusion rests on a deeper habit of thought. Violence is often explained by pointing to personal wounds or exclusion. There is truth in this. Yet when applied everywhere, it removes responsibility. Everyone is vulnerable. Not everyone participates in organized harm. That requires decisions, repeated words, and people willing to act on them.
The difference between ethics and moralizing appears here. Moralizing sorts people into good and bad. Ethics looks at what allows certain actions to take place and spread. It does not turn the adversary into a monster, but it does not excuse what is done.
Those who suffer the consequences rarely appear in these arguments. They do not belong to factions or slogans. They are those who must live with what others decide: the family forced to move, the worker shut out, the person who learns to remain silent.
The question, then, cannot be answered by pointing to a tyrant. Hatred is fed when people accept the lowering of language, treat humiliation as normal, and allow their judgment to be replaced by ready-made explanations.
At that point, hatred no longer appears exceptional. It becomes a habit. It repeats itself in ordinary speech: “that is how things work,” “everyone does it,” “we have no choice,” “we were forced,” “it is for the nation.” It appears in the language of order and protection: “to restore order,” “for your safety,” and in the steady stirring of fear: fear of losing place, fear of difference, fear of those seen as outsiders, even in societies shaped by mixture.
These expressions do not simply describe what is happening. They shape how it is understood. They make exclusion seem reasonable. What once required justification begins to sound like common sense.
When this way of speaking settles in, hostility no longer needs to be defended. It becomes expected, repeated, routine. Responsibility does not vanish through denial; it fades through repetition: through explanations that excuse and fears no one stops to question.
This is how hatred continues: not only through those who declare it, but through those who repeat it, accept it, or let it pass without objection.
The question remains.
Who feeds hatred?
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Ricardo F. Morín, March 16, 2026, Oakland Park, Florida.
Observations On Perception 