Hatred is bought, not taught

What does your country’s flag mean to you?

For some, it is a symbol of pride, of belonging. For others, a culture, people, a place, a meal, a laugh and a cheer. A handful would go as far as to say that they find themselves in it, willing to murder and die for it. Another group would say they see God in it. And many would say they see the Devil in its details.

Yet, regardless of the colors it dons, is it not just a piece of cloth? Sustained atop a pole, soaring only and exclusively due to nature’s wind that blows. We instill its meaning. We transform its fabric into semantics, bleed consequences at its behest, feel its embrace and, in turn, make it feel us.

A flag is valuable not for what it is, but for what it means. It is that meaning that spurs us into action.

Is that how it ought to be?

What about your school’s songs? Your company’s mottos? Your family’s crest? Your team’s dances? These are naught but symbols, artificial idols to pray to and, above all else, represent you. Critical sections to denominate your groups, to demonstrate to the world who you are. But one ought to realize that it, too, does the opposite. In the process of begetting membership one, too, must discriminate. One cannot belong to a non-universal group without excluding another. We seek to clearly distinguish between “you” and the “others.” Your companions, and the rest.

Of course, to create groupings is a natural facet of existence, to turn blind to dissimilarities would be ridiculous. Truly, I don’t speak of “not seeing race,” but rather, I acknowledge that, in the material world, there is nothing beyond these arbitrary distinctions we actively choose to value. I merely wish to ponder the fact that my being part of a group means nothing, at least, not in any materially meaningful way. I may give it as much or as little meaning as I wish, but while that amount is up to me to decide, that does not modify my standing as opposed to the rest of humankind. To think otherwise would be genuinely ridiculous. And thus, I can only keep asking questions.

What does a dollar bill on hand mean to you?

For some, it is a symbol of power, of being. For others, an opportunity, a future — hope. A handful would go as far as to say they find themselves in it, willing to kill and die for it. Another group would say they see God in it. And many would say they see the Devil in its details.

And yet, it is a sheet of paper with silly drawings and numbers atop it, is it not?

How curious that we have designed such a world of abstraction.

What does another human life mean to you?

For some, it is all we got. For others, it is worth nothing at all.

Why?

People have, again and again, demonstrated that, on average, the lucid are not born hateful. Hatred is not an inherent, innate quality of human existence. It is sown within us as a product of our environment. Nevertheless, I would like to take it a step further and admit that hatred is bought, not taught. Not purchased with money — for money is only a vehicle of this evil — but by something arguably much more powerful: a promise. A desperate, self-whispered promise to belong, a promise of survival and thriving which is only possible by the oppression of others, a blind, unilateral protection of our own group following a narrative spawned from thin air. And thus, we attain our cursed fruit, the inevitable child of division: institutionalized hatred.

We draw sporadic lines in the sand, distinguish ourselves into groups at our own discretion and are promised that hating those on the other side will bring safety into our lives. We see it in politics, we see it in sports, we see it in the big and the small: our simian impulse to always be part of something and fight against something else. What a disgrace to our human potential.

Who are we to select such a story? Who are others to be robbed of choice? And yet, we must realize that we, too, are “others.” There is no true difference.

The state of the world, with limitless variables and parameters, will always overwhelm our senses. To care for every living being in this universe is too much for our hearts to bear. Groups are illusions meant to assist our weak disposition. And yet, we must attempt to care. Are we not creatures of reason? To overcome our instincts carved onto our flesh, to willingly become more, to embrace thine enemy, is that not what we are capable of?

How funny to pretend a piece of cloth or a sheet of paper matters more than your fellow man.