Myth, Morality, and Empire: Jorge Majfud’s Rewriting of the Western Frontier

Alexandere H. Hunter

2025

© Alexandere H. Hunter 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher.

Abstract

This thesis examines Jorge Majfud’s The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America as a philosophical and historical critique of the moral foundations of Modern Western civilization. Drawing from theoretical frameworks rooted in postcolonial, decolonial, and critical theory, it explores Majfud’s concept of the ‘frontier’ as a moral and ideological construction. The study situates Majfud in dialogue with thinkers such as Frantz Fanon, Edward Said, Michel Foucault, Hannah Arendt, and José Martí, revealing how the frontier myth serves as both a geographic and psychological boundary that legitimizes domination and exclusion. Through interpretive methodology, this research traces the continuity of imperial ideology from the colonial era to contemporary global capitalism. Ultimately, the thesis argues that Majfud’s work provides a unique synthesis of critical theory and ethical humanism, offering a moral framework to understand and transcend the violence embedded in Western modernity.

Table of Contents

Abstract 5

Introduction. 9

Theoretical Framework. 10

Methodology. 11

Analysis. 12

Comparative Discussion. 13

Introduction. 14

Analysis. 17

The Myth of the Frontier 17

Religion, Morality, and Empire. 18

The Frontier Within. 18

Colonial Violence and Economic Expansion. 19

The American Century. 20

The Frontier Today. 20

By land, by sea, by air 25

God, race, and guns. 31

We were attacked first 37

Banana Wars and the new Era of protectorates. 45

An Era of psychological warfare and media manipulation. 53

The role of the CIA: the pen and the sword. 63

A project for the New American Century. 71

Conlcusion. 79

Intellectual and Philosophical Contexts. 89

Majfud and Related Thinkers. 97

Synthesis: Majfud’s Place in Critical Thought 100

Conclusion: The Frontier as a Moral Framework. 102

References. 104

 

Introduction

Jorge Majfud’s The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America represents a profound philosophical inquiry into the moral architecture of Western civilization. This thesis seeks to interpret Majfud’s work as a sustained critique of the ideological mechanisms that have defined and justified imperial expansion, racial hierarchies, and the myth of progress. Through historical and textual analysis, this research examines the frontier not merely as a territorial boundary but as a cultural and psychological construct that organizes Western identity around violence, faith, and self-justification. The study explores how these myths have evolved from the early colonial conquests to modern globalization, sustaining a moral duality that allows domination to be recast as virtue.

 

Theoretical Framework

This study situates Majfud’s work within a constellation of critical thinkers who have examined the intersection of power, knowledge, and morality. It draws on Frantz Fanon’s notion of colonial violence, Edward Said’s theory of Orientalism, Michel Foucault’s genealogy of power, and Walter Mignolo’s decolonial critique of modernity. Majfud extends these discourses by integrating them into a moral and literary framework, emphasizing the ethical dimensions of historical violence. His synthesis of philosophy, history, and literature positions him at the crossroads of critical theory and humanist ethics. This theoretical foundation allows for an interpretation of the ‘frontier’ as both an epistemological and psychological boundary that defines who is human and who is expendable.

 

Methodology

The methodology adopted in this thesis is interpretive and hermeneutical, grounded in philosophical analysis rather than empirical observation. The research involves a close reading of The Wild Frontier and related writings by Majfud, contextualized within broader intellectual traditions. The approach follows a genealogical method inspired by Foucault, tracing the historical evolution of the frontier myth as a discourse of power. It also applies a moral hermeneutic framework, seeking to uncover the ethical implications of ideological narratives. Comparative analysis is used to place Majfud in dialogue with other critical thinkers, allowing the synthesis of diverse intellectual traditions into a coherent interpretive model.

 

Analysis

Majfud’s central argument is that the Western concept of the frontier is not merely geographical but metaphysical―a moral line dividing civilization from barbarism, self from other. This line has historically justified conquest and violence while sustaining the illusion of progress. The frontier myth, originating in Puritan theology and colonial ideology, transforms domination into divine mission. From the extermination of Indigenous peoples to modern imperial interventions, Majfud demonstrates that the logic of the frontier persists under changing forms: religious salvation, economic development, and national security. His work exposes how this logic creates a self-reinforcing moral blindness that sanctifies aggression as defense and exploitation as freedom.

 

Comparative Discussion

Majfud’s analysis resonates deeply with Fanon’s concept of colonial alienation and Said’s critique of Western representation. Like Fanon, Majfud perceives violence as the constitutive act of Western civilization; like Said, he identifies the production of the ‘Other’ as central to imperial identity. However, Majfud introduces a distinct ethical dimension by merging structural critique with moral reflection. His work recalls Hannah Arendt’s notion of the banality of evil, showing how ordinary citizens become participants in systemic violence through ideological faith. In conversation with decolonial thinkers such as Mignolo and Dussel, Majfud broadens the critique of modernity to include psychological and spiritual complicity, proposing that true decolonization requires moral awareness.

 

 

Introduction

Jorge Majfud’s The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America offers a far-reaching historical and philosophical investigation into the entanglement of violence, ideology, and power in shaping Western identity—particularly that of the United States and Latin America. Through the notion of the “wild frontier,” Majfud interrogates the symbolic and material boundaries that have defined the dichotomies of civilization and barbarism, progress and destruction, self and other. The “frontier,” he argues, functions not merely as a territorial limit but as a moral and cultural paradigm that has historically justified conquest, slavery, and imperial expansion under the guise of liberty, democracy, and divine purpose.

Drawing upon historical evidence, political critique, and literary reflection, Majfud revisits critical junctures—from the European colonization of the Americas and the genocide of Indigenous peoples to the ideological battles of globalization—to reveal the enduring logic of domination beneath shifting political languages. At the same time, he foregrounds the voices of resistance that challenge these hegemonic narratives, exposing the ethical contradictions embedded within the “civilizing mission.”

Ultimately, The Wild Frontier functions as both a historical critique and a philosophical meditation on the persistence of violence masked as virtue. Majfud’s prose oscillates between analytical precision and lyrical reflection, offering an interdisciplinary synthesis of history, philosophy, and literary insight. His work dismantles the comforting myths of Western exceptionalism, situating modern civilization within a genealogy of conquest, self-deception, and moral blindness.

 

Analysis

Majfud’s central thesis situates the frontier as a multidimensional construct—geographical, cultural, religious, and psychological—that continues to shape Western consciousness. The frontier, he contends, is the locus where moral justification and material expansion intersect, legitimizing domination through narratives of faith, reason, and progress. The following sections examine the major thematic axes of his argument.

The Myth of the Frontier

Majfud begins by revisiting the mythological status of the frontier in U.S. historiography, from the Puritans’ settler ethos to Frederick Jackson Turner’s “frontier thesis.” He deconstructs the popular notion that the frontier fostered democracy and individualism, revealing instead a history of extermination, enslavement, and ideological rationalization of expansion. For Majfud, the frontier is less a space of liberation than a theater of conquest in which violence becomes a civic virtue and moral imperative.

Religion, Morality, and Empire

A crucial dimension of Majfud’s analysis lies in his treatment of religious discourse as a legitimizing force for empire. The Puritan notion of a “New Israel” endowed colonial expansion with divine sanction, transforming conquest into a sacred duty. Majfud identifies this theological rhetoric as the precursor to American exceptionalism—a narrative through which moral certainty conceals systemic violence. The fusion of faith and politics, he argues, produced a cultural self-image incapable of recognizing its own brutality.

The Frontier Within

Moving from geography to psychology, Majfud theorizes the frontier as an internal phenomenon—a symbolic struggle between the civilized and the wild, the rational and the emotional. This inner frontier perpetuates moral dualisms such as good versus evil or order versus chaos. The repression of the “wild” elements of the self—often gendered, emotional, or foreign—projects otherness onto colonized peoples, providing ideological justification for their subjugation.

Colonial Violence and Economic Expansion

Majfud links economic exploitation to the ideological discourse of civilization. European imperialism, he argues, cloaked commercial and territorial ambitions in moral and religious rhetoric. The industrialization of slavery, the fabrication of racial hierarchies, and the myth of “progress” all served to naturalize systemic exploitation. This colonial logic persists in contemporary capitalism, where global inequality continues to reproduce the same moral justifications under new economic terms.

The American Century

The twentieth century, for Majfud, represents the global extension of the frontier mentality. U.S. interventions in Latin America, the Cold War, and the Middle East illustrate how the defense of “freedom” repeatedly translates into campaigns of domination. Majfud analyzes the role of media, consumerism, and technology in constructing a moralized imperialism—one that operates through persuasion and representation rather than overt conquest but remains equally violent in its effects.

The Frontier Today

In contemporary contexts, Majfud identifies new manifestations of the frontier: the digital frontier of surveillance and data control, the economic frontier of global inequality, and the moral frontier separating “civilized nations” from “failed states.” Though the rhetoric has evolved—invoking democracy, security, or markets—the logic of domination persists. Majfud calls for dismantling these moral illusions through critical self-awareness and compassion, proposing that the true frontier lies within human consciousness rather than between nations.

Original Spanish cover of the first 2021 edition

By land, by sea, by air

The Wild Frontier is not a chronological history but a moral cartography of imperial power. Divided into three great movements—By Land, By Sea, and By Air—the book traces how the United States transformed its expansionist mission from the physical conquest of territories to the ideological and psychological domination of entire nations. Each stage marks an evolution in the methods of control, yet the underlying logic remains constant: the pursuit of power through a fanatical belief in divine exceptionalism and racial superiority. The frontier, for Majfud, is not merely a line on a map but a state of mind—a moral boundary that continually expands under new disguises.

By Land begins with the birth of the United States and the conquest of its first frontier: the continent itself. It is the story of expansion through rifles and treaties, through settlers who called themselves victims while annihilating Indigenous nations. Majfud reconstructs this history through letters, speeches, and confessions that reveal how every invasion was justified as self-defense. The extermination of Native Americans, the annexation of half of Mexico, and the institution of slavery were all acts of “liberation” in the language of the victors. Andrew Jackson, Stephen Austin, and John C. Calhoun appear not only as political figures but as prophets of a new faith—the faith that violence, when baptized by the word “freedom,” becomes virtue. In these pages, Majfud unearths the mythology that made possible the transformation of genocide into destiny. The land was not merely conquered; it was rewritten. To possess the continent was to invent a new kind of truth: that the aggressor is always the defender, and that liberty belongs only to those who already possess power.

By Sea follows the empire’s expansion beyond its continental borders. When the land was no longer enough, the ocean became the next frontier. Here Majfud shows how the same logic of domination, once applied to the plains and deserts, migrated to the Caribbean, Central America, and the Pacific. The age of gunboats replaced the age of pioneers, but the language remained the same. The Spanish-American War, the occupations of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, the installation of protectorates in Cuba and Panama—all were carried out under the banner of civilization. The rhetoric of “liberation” concealed the raw mechanics of corporate capitalism. The Marine Corps became the army of United Fruit, Standard Oil, and National City Bank. Through these case studies, Majfud paints a vivid portrait of how private companies and public institutions merged into a single imperial organism. In this maritime phase, the frontier ceases to be geographic and becomes economic; the sea connects not just lands but markets. The ocean is freedom’s new metaphor, yet its waters are filled with corpses. “The flag follows the dollar,” Majfud writes, “and the soldiers follow the flag.”

By Air represents the culmination of this process, where physical occupation gives way to psychological and technological domination. After World War II, the empire no longer needed to seize land or ports; it needed to control minds. The frontier now floats in the invisible space of ideology, information, and fear. The CIA emerges as the new conquistador, replacing armies with agents, and cannons with communication networks. Airplanes bombed not only cities but imaginations. Propaganda became a weapon as powerful as napalm. Majfud recounts the coups in Guatemala, Brazil, and Chile, not as isolated political events but as expressions of a broader transformation: the empire of land and sea had evolved into an empire of air—weightless, invisible, omnipresent. He shows how Operation Condor, the network of dictatorships coordinated under Washington’s supervision, turned the southern hemisphere into an experimental field for the politics of terror. Through radio, television, and later digital media, the imperial narrative reached everywhere, teaching entire populations to see their own suffering as a necessary sacrifice for “freedom.” The air frontier is, in essence, the conquest of perception itself.

Majfud structures his book this way not for stylistic convenience but to reveal a deep historical pattern. Each frontier—land, sea, air—represents a stage in the sophistication of domination. The instruments change, but the psychology remains. The first frontier kills bodies, the second enslaves economies, and the third colonizes consciousness. Together they form a complete system of control, rooted in the same moral contradiction that has haunted the United States since its birth: the simultaneous worship of liberty and submission to empire. The book’s architecture mirrors the evolution of imperial technology—from muskets to markets to media—while exposing the unbroken continuity of the ideology that justifies them.

Yet Majfud’s purpose is not only to denounce; it is to diagnose. By understanding these frontiers as interconnected phases of the same historical disease, he invites readers to see beyond the surface of political events and into the anatomy of power itself. The savage frontier, he suggests, is not the wilderness that lies beyond civilization—it is civilization’s own shadow. The violence that once operated through the body now operates through the image. The invasion no longer begins with armies crossing borders but with words crossing screens. And still, as in the 19th century, the invader calls himself the victim.

In the end, The Wild Frontier is a meditation on the persistence of empire under the illusion of progress. “By Land,” “By Sea,” and “By Air” are not just historical divisions but moral allegories of how power reinvents itself to survive. From the rifles of Texas to the drones of the Middle East, from the plantation to the multinational corporation, from the cross to the corporate logo, the same logic continues to breathe: the belief that domination is destiny and that God, or freedom, or democracy will always bless the conqueror. Majfud’s brilliance lies in exposing the continuity beneath the change—the same frontier endlessly reborn, moving from soil to sea to sky, until it reaches the most intimate territory of all: the human mind.

God, race, and guns

Majfud unravels one of the most revealing contradictions in the history of the United States: the same racist ideology that justified the conquest of half of Mexico also forced the conquerors to stop at the Rio Grande. The logic of domination that drove the expansion of slavery, the extermination of Indigenous nations, and the annexation of territories met its own limit—not in morality or resistance, but in fear of racial contamination. The war against Mexico, which Majfud presents as both a continuation and a mutation of the ideology of slavery, exposes the dark heart of Manifest Destiny: a project that claimed divine sanction to spread freedom while depending on the enslavement of others to sustain itself.

The expansion of slavery was not a regional anomaly or a moral misstep, but the economic and spiritual engine of the American nation in the 19th century. From Virginia to Texas, slavery was the foundation upon which the “empire of liberty” was built. The southern elite saw no contradiction between the Declaration of Independence and human bondage, because liberty, in their language, meant the liberty to own, exploit, and conquer. For them, freedom was not a universal right but a privilege of race. Majfud shows how this perverse logic made the invasion of Mexico inevitable. Texas, wrested from Mexican sovereignty in 1836, was the first experiment in a larger design to expand the “peculiar institution” westward and southward. The Mexican Republic, which had abolished slavery in 1829, was therefore not merely a neighboring nation—it was an ideological affront. Its very existence challenged the racial and theological foundations of the United States. The war that followed, beginning in 1846, was not fought for security or self-defense, as American politicians claimed, but to restore the balance of a racial order that could not tolerate a free, mixed, and Catholic neighbor.

Majfud resurrects the voices of that era—letters from soldiers, speeches in Congress, and editorials from the American press—to reveal the psychological machinery of the conquest. The invaders declared themselves the invaded, insisting that Mexico had attacked first. They spoke of civilization triumphing over barbarism, of God’s will guiding them to spread democracy, while privately admitting, as Senator John C. Calhoun did, that the real issue was racial. “We have never dreamt of incorporating into our Union any but the Caucasian race,” Calhoun told Congress. “The great misfortunes of Spanish America are due to the fatal error of placing colored races on an equality with the white race.” It was not greed that stopped the conquerors at the gates of Mexico City; it was terror—the terror of inclusion, of diluting the purity of the white republic. The American army could take all of Mexico, but the American imagination could not absorb it.

The Rio Grande thus became more than a border; it became a moral quarantine. The same ideology that demanded expansion also demanded exclusion. The Anglo-Saxon republic needed new lands to exploit, but only if those lands could be emptied of people or filled with slaves. Once conquest threatened to merge with equality, it ceased to be desirable. Majfud notes that after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848, the United States possessed the means to annex all of Mexico but refused. Not because of fatigue or diplomacy, but because absorbing millions of mestizos and Indians would violate the racial architecture of the nation. The idea of freedom, built on exclusion, could not survive contact with the Other. The war achieved its goal—to seize the richest territories and reestablish slavery where it had been abolished—but it also revealed the fragile psychological limits of the empire.

This same fear later defined Washington’s attitude toward the Caribbean and Central America. After the Civil War and the abolition of slavery, the economic model changed, but the racial logic persisted. The Caribbean islands, with their Black and mixed populations, and the Central American republics, ruled by Indigenous and mestizo majorities, were seen as too dark, too impure, too foreign to be part of the “nation of the free.” Instead of annexation, Washington developed a new system: domination without absorption. Protectorates, puppet governments, and corporate empires replaced territorial expansion. The banana republics were the logical continuation of the slave plantations—still exploited, still subordinate, but kept safely at a racial distance. The empire learned to project power without contamination.

Majfud interprets this historical transition not as progress, but as a mutation of the same disease. The frontier shifted from physical to ideological space, but the underlying fear remained: the fear of equality. The very word “union,” sacred in American political mythology, was racialized from its inception. To keep the union pure, the conquered had to remain outside. This is why, in the 20th century, even as Washington preached democracy, it supported white oligarchies and dictatorships in Latin America; they preserved the racial hierarchy that annexation would have destroyed. The empire’s moral order depended on separation—on maintaining the illusion that freedom could coexist with domination as long as the dominated remained invisible.

Majfud’s insight into this contradiction is devastating. The same racism that justified conquest also set its boundaries. Expansion was never an expression of strength alone; it was an expression of fear disguised as destiny. The frontier could expand only so far before it touched what the empire most dreaded: the humanity of the conquered. In that sense, the border was not drawn by geography or diplomacy, but by the psychology of supremacy. The Rio Grande, the Caribbean Sea, and the invisible lines of modern foreign policy all trace the same circle of exclusion, the same anxiety that built a “nation for the Caucasian race” and called it the land of the free.

For Majfud, the tragedy of this history lies in its continuity. The empire that once stopped at the Rio Grande continues to patrol its new frontiers—not to prevent invasion, but to preserve illusion. The language has changed, the enemies have changed, but the logic endures. What was once the fear of the Black or the Indian is now the fear of the immigrant, the socialist, the Other who reminds the empire of its origins. The frontier remains savage not because of those who live beyond it, but because of those who built it. In the end, Majfud’s history is not about borders between nations, but about the borders within the human heart—where freedom and domination, love and fear, are still fighting the same war.

We were attacked first

One of the most enduring psychological pillars of Anglo-American expansion is the myth of self-victimization. From the earliest Puritan settlements to the modern CIA interventions, the aggressor has spoken the language of the threatened, the conqueror has worn the mask of the invaded. The United States, Majfud argues, was not only built through conquest but through narrative control—the ability to turn every act of aggression into an act of defense. This “sacred right to self-defense” became the moral foundation of empire, the formula that justified everything from genocide to preemptive war.

Majfud opens his chronicle with the earliest treaties between white settlers and Native nations, agreements conceived not as peace offerings but as instruments of deception. Every treaty was temporary, designed to be broken as soon as the settlers grew strong enough to expand. The Indian Removal Act of 1830, signed by President Andrew Jackson, came after decades of solemn promises to respect Native sovereignty. The Cherokee, the Choctaw, and the Creek had all signed treaties recognizing their lands as independent territories. Yet when gold was discovered or cotton required more soil, the agreements were erased by a familiar justification: “they attacked us first.” Reports of fabricated ambushes, staged provocations, or exaggerated threats appeared in newspapers and official correspondence to legitimize the next round of expulsions. Majfud notes that this rhetorical pattern—declaring innocence while committing violence—was not an accident but the founding grammar of a national identity built on conquest.

The Trail of Tears, where thousands of Indigenous men, women, and children were forced to march westward under brutal conditions, was defended in Congress as a humanitarian act, a necessary removal to protect both sides from “inevitable conflict.” Jackson himself insisted that the measure would prevent bloodshed, reversing the roles of killer and victim. The violence of the state was presented as an act of mercy. In this moral inversion, the victim’s resistance became aggression, and the conqueror’s expansion became peacekeeping. “Every massacre was a defense of liberty,” Majfud writes, “and every broken treaty a new promise of civilization.”

The same script repeated itself on the Mexican border. In 1836, when American settlers in Texas—many of them slaveholders—rebelled against the Mexican Republic, they claimed that Mexico had violated their rights and persecuted them for their religion and freedom. In truth, as Majfud reminds us, Mexico had simply enforced its abolition of slavery. Yet within a few years, the rebellion was celebrated as the triumph of freedom over tyranny. When the U.S. Army invaded Mexico in 1846, President James K. Polk announced to Congress that “American blood has been shed upon American soil,” a deliberate falsehood meant to provoke patriotic outrage. The skirmish that served as the pretext for war had occurred on disputed land that Mexico never ceded. The pattern was identical to the broken Indian treaties: invent an offense, claim the moral high ground, and let righteousness conceal greed. The result was the annexation of half of Mexico, baptized not as theft but as destiny.

Majfud lingers on the irony that the same politicians who justified the war in moral terms often admitted their motives in private. Senator Lewis Cass confessed that the United States had no intention of incorporating Mexico’s people, only its land. John C. Calhoun warned that annexing a “mongrel race” would corrupt the purity of the republic. They wanted territory, not Mexicans—resources without responsibility. The doctrine of self-defense provided the perfect alibi: they could take everything and still believe themselves innocent. “It is the genius of American imperialism,” Majfud writes, “to kill with one hand and pray with the other.”

The cycle continued into the twentieth century, where the moral vocabulary of self-defense evolved into that of humanitarian intervention. The occupation of Cuba in 1898, the invasion of Nicaragua in 1912, and the repeated landings of Marines in Haiti and the Dominican Republic were all justified as responses to disorder, instability, or threats to American citizens abroad. The sinking of the USS Maine in Havana harbor—likely an accident—became the rallying cry “Remember the Maine,” the false flag that transformed public opinion and ignited the Spanish-American War. Once again, the empire declared itself under attack, acting not as invader but as protector. In Majfud’s account, this event marks the industrialization of the old frontier myth: the mass production of self-victimization through media. The press no longer reported lies; it manufactured them.

During the Cold War, the same pattern reappeared with new technology and a new enemy. Guatemala in 1954, Chile in 1973, and countless covert operations across Latin America were all executed under the banner of defense—defense against communism, against instability, against chaos. Majfud shows how the CIA perfected the logic of the false flag, orchestrating coups and assassinations while claiming to preserve democracy. The illusion of danger replaced the need for actual threat. The empire no longer needed Mexico or the Sioux to shoot first; it could invent the shot itself. What had begun as a frontier myth evolved into a global ideology: the permanent right to act in self-defense, even when no attack existed.

At the core of this long tradition, Majfud identifies a theological impulse. The American empire inherited from its Puritan ancestors the belief that suffering is a sign of virtue. To be attacked—or to believe one is attacked—confers moral superiority. Thus, each war, each invasion, each coup d’état could be sanctified as an act of reluctant righteousness. The aggressor becomes the martyr, the destroyer becomes the savior. This self-image, Majfud argues, is more dangerous than weapons, because it transforms violence into faith. “A myth,” he writes, “is stronger than an army, because it fights inside us.”

The broken treaties, the false flags, and the permanent claim to self-defense are not isolated episodes but variations of a single melody. The United States, born from a rebellion against empire, recreated the very empire it once denounced, sustained by the same logic of divine exception. From the Cherokee lands to Baghdad, from the Rio Grande to the Caribbean, the justification remains unchanged: we were attacked, therefore we must defend ourselves. Majfud concludes that this is the true genius of the American narrative—not the power to conquer, but the power to feel innocent while conquering.

In the end, The Wild Frontier leaves us with a haunting truth. The history of empire is not a sequence of wars and treaties, but a series of stories—stories in which the most powerful nation on earth convinces itself, again and again, that it is the victim. To recognize this inversion is to see the empire for what it truly is: not a defender of freedom, but the author of its own perpetual attack. Only when that myth collapses, Majfud suggests, can peace become more than another broken promise.

Banana Wars and the new Era of protectorates

One of the most grotesque chapters of modern imperial history is the creation of the “Banana Republics.” Behind the euphemistic term lies the perfect embodiment of the Anglo-Saxon logic of domination: the merging of corporate greed, military violence, and moral hypocrisy under the flag of civilization. The so-called Banana Wars of the early twentieth century, stretching from the Caribbean to Central America, were not mere episodes of foreign policy but the industrialization of conquest. They marked the transition from territorial imperialism to economic colonization—a system where Marines replaced missionaries, and Wall Street replaced the Bible as the sacred text of the new faith.

Majfud situates this phenomenon in the continuum of the American frontier. After the continental expansion had exhausted its physical limits, the empire turned outward, driven by the same racial and economic impulses that had annihilated Indigenous nations and seized half of Mexico. The rhetoric of freedom traveled south, carried by warships and corporate contracts. In countries like Honduras, Nicaragua, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic, the United States imposed a new order through violence disguised as stability, democracy, and protection. But as Majfud insists, what Washington called “protection” meant protection for American property, not for human beings.

The emblem of this system was the United Fruit Company—“El Pulpo,” as Latin Americans called it, the Octopus whose tentacles strangled entire nations. Its plantations dictated national policy; its railways and ports became instruments of occupation. When workers protested starvation wages or governments attempted to tax foreign profits, the Marines landed. The supposed goal was to preserve order, but Majfud shows that order meant submission. The “protectorates” established in this period were laboratories of imperial governance: puppet regimes ruled by local elites loyal to American interests and backed by military force. Majfud calls these rulers “the psychopaths of empire”—men trained to mimic civilization while serving barbarism, sociopaths who repressed their own people with pious speeches about liberty.

Among the most revealing voices of this era was that of U.S. Marine Corps Major General Smedley Butler, a soldier who became the empire’s most honest witness. Butler, who participated in interventions in Mexico, Haiti, Cuba, Nicaragua, and Honduras, later confessed: “I spent 33 years being a high-class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer for capitalism.” He described how the Marines overthrew governments, installed dictators, and massacred resistors to secure profits for corporations like United Fruit, Standard Oil, and the National City Bank. In Haiti, Butler oversaw the occupation that dismantled the constitution, reintroduced forced labor, and transferred the national treasury to New York banks—all under the banner of civilization. For Majfud, Butler’s testimony is not merely an indictment of a system but a moment of moral awakening inside the machine. “The empire,” Majfud writes, “is most visible when one of its own dares to speak.”

The Banana Wars followed a precise choreography. A local government would attempt a reform—perhaps a minimum wage, a tax, or the regulation of foreign land ownership. The U.S. press, often financed by the very corporations at stake, would report “chaos” or “revolution.” The Marines would then arrive to “restore order,” and once the rebels were crushed, a treaty would be signed guaranteeing “free trade” and “stability.” Within weeks, the profits of the foreign companies would rise, and the country’s sovereignty would disappear. Honduras, invaded repeatedly between 1903 and 1925, became a protectorate without the name. Nicaragua was occupied for twenty years, its elections manipulated to install Anastasio Somoza, one of the psychopaths Majfud describes—a man who called himself the guardian of democracy while torturing and murdering his people with American support.

Majfud connects these events not to a specific policy but to a moral pathology: the conviction that domination is benevolence. The U.S. Marines were told they were spreading order and progress; the bankers believed they were bringing development; the presidents who authorized the invasions proclaimed that they were defending freedom. The result was a continent turned into a plantation, a geography of submission maintained by rhetoric. “The greatest success of empire,” Majfud writes, “is not to impose its will, but to make its victims speak its language.” The Banana Republic was born not only through violence but through imitation—when local elites internalized the empire’s moral inversion and reproduced it upon their own people.

Haiti offers one of the starkest examples. After the Marines invaded in 1915, they rewrote the constitution to allow foreign ownership of land, suppressing the revolution that had once inspired enslaved peoples across the world. The occupation built roads and schools, but for American companies, not for Haitians. Peasants who resisted were branded as bandits and executed. When the United States finally withdrew in 1934, it left behind a centralized army that would later sustain the Duvalier dictatorship—a regime that embodied what Majfud calls the “psychopathy of power,” the transformation of submission into cruelty. Similar patterns unfolded in the Dominican Republic, Cuba, and Panama, each a reflection of the same logic: military occupation, corporate exploitation, local tyranny, and moral denial.

Majfud interprets this history as the natural evolution of the Anglo-Saxon frontier ethos. The Puritan settlers who once claimed to bring light to the wilderness now claimed to bring order to the tropics. The language of salvation remained intact; only the geography changed. “Every empire,” Majfud writes, “needs to believe that its violence is a mission.” The Marines who marched through Managua and Port-au-Prince carried the same spirit as those who crossed the Mississippi: a mixture of religious zeal, racial arrogance, and commercial appetite. The difference was that now the empire had perfected its instruments—it could destroy nations and call it reform.

The psychopaths Majfud denounces are not only the local dictators but the architects in Washington who saw the world as a marketplace and people as obstacles. They believed that the hemisphere belonged to them not by law but by nature. Their coldness was not madness but ideology—the belief that suffering was the cost of progress, that exploitation was civilization. In this sense, the Banana Republics were not deviations from the American ideal; they were its fulfillment. They made visible the essence of a system that confuses domination with destiny.

Majfud’s indictment culminates in a paradox. The empire that claimed to free the world from tyranny became the greatest producer of tyrants. The marines who landed to protect democracy created a generation of dictators trained in obedience and cruelty. The corporations that promised development left behind poverty, resentment, and ruins. And yet, the myth of benevolence survived. It continues to survive, transmuted into humanitarian wars, economic sanctions, and development aid. The banana may have lost its symbolic power, but the logic of the Banana Republic endures—the logic of empire without responsibility, conquest without conscience.

Smedley Butler’s confession remains the conscience of that era, the whisper of guilt inside the machine of virtue. “War is a racket,” he said, but in Majfud’s reading, the racket was not limited to war—it was the entire civilizational project that justified it. The Banana Wars were not accidents of policy; they were the essence of a system that cannot exist without lying to itself. The empire, Majfud concludes, is not defeated when it loses territory but when it loses its story. To reclaim truth, then, is the first act of liberation. And as long as nations continue to repeat the empire’s language—to call exploitation freedom and subjugation peace—the Banana Republic will never die; it will simply change its fruit.

An Era of psychological warfare and media manipulation

Majfud identifies a brief and tragic chapter in the continent’s modern history: the fleeting recovery of democracy in Latin America during the 1930s and 1940s, followed by its systematic destruction under the shadow of the Cold War. It was a rare moment when Washington looked away—distracted by its own crises, first the Great Depression, then World War II—and for the first time in decades, the nations of the South began to breathe. Reformist governments emerged, unions grew, literacy campaigns expanded, and people who had long been ruled by foreign corporations and local oligarchs began to believe that independence was not only a dream but a right. Yet, as Majfud warns, this interval of freedom was not permitted to last. Once the empire reawakened, it returned not with soldiers but with financiers, instructors, and intelligence officers. The result was one of the most paradoxical episodes in modern history: the birth of dozens of dictatorships in the name of defending democracy.

Majfud explains that during World War II, the United States needed Latin America not as a colony but as an ally. To secure raw materials and political loyalty, Washington temporarily tolerated progressive regimes. Presidents like Lázaro Cárdenas in Mexico, Getúlio Vargas in Brazil, and Juan José Arévalo in Guatemala pursued nationalist and social reforms with unprecedented freedom. The war economy made U.S. capital less dominant; European powers were broken; and the region experienced a fragile window of autonomy. But beneath this brief tolerance lay the same old racial and economic contempt. The Anglo-Saxon establishment, Majfud notes, viewed these experiments not as legitimate expressions of democracy but as “dangerous outbreaks of immaturity”—childish nations playing at self-rule until the adults returned to restore order.

The war ended, and the empire returned with new weapons. The language of Manifest Destiny was replaced by the language of the Cold War. “Communism” became the new heresy, the new justification for the old interventions. Washington began to rebuild the mechanisms of control it had neglected during the global conflict. Through the creation of the School of the Americas, the CIA, and an expanding network of economic “assistance,” the United States financed, trained, and ideologically armed a generation of Latin American officers who would soon become dictators. Majfud calls them “the Cold War conquistadors”—men taught to see their own people as enemies, their patriotism as subversion, and their loyalty as submission to a foreign master.

The most emblematic of these reversals occurred in Guatemala. After years of military dictatorship, the election of Juan José Arévalo in 1945 and then Jacobo Árbenz in 1951 represented the culmination of a decade-long democratic awakening. Árbenz’s program was modest: land reform, social welfare, and the assertion of national sovereignty against the monopolies of the United Fruit Company, the symbol of U.S. corporate imperialism. But to Washington, this was intolerable. The same government that had tolerated Stalin as an ally against Hitler could not tolerate an agrarian reformer in Central America. Majfud highlights how the United Fruit Company, with deep ties to the Eisenhower administration, orchestrated a campaign of hysteria, branding Árbenz a communist puppet. The CIA responded with Operation PBSUCCESS—a textbook case of imperial subversion disguised as liberation. A fabricated “liberation army,” led by Carlos Castillo Armas, invaded from Honduras; radio broadcasts spread false reports of massive uprisings; and a sovereign government collapsed under the weight of lies.

Majfud sees in Guatemala 1954 the birth of the modern Latin American dictatorship: not the caudillo born from civil war, but the puppet born from strategy. The CIA not only destroyed a democracy—it invented a model. The success of this operation convinced Washington that covert manipulation was cheaper and more effective than open invasion. What followed was a continent-wide experiment in controlled repression. From Brazil in 1964 to Chile in 1973, from Uruguay to Argentina, the United States provided funding, training, and ideological justification for regimes that called themselves “national security states.” These regimes tortured in the name of freedom, censored in the name of truth, and disappeared thousands in the name of order. The same generals who studied democracy at American academies returned to destroy it in their own countries.

The fall of Árbenz also set in motion another historical reaction: the radicalization of Latin American youth. Among them was a young Argentine doctor named Ernesto Guevara, who had witnessed the coup firsthand while traveling through Guatemala. Majfud interprets this moment as a turning point in hemispheric consciousness. The betrayal of Guatemala taught Guevara and many others that peaceful reform under U.S. hegemony was impossible. The Cuban Revolution, born a few years later, was in many ways the child of 1954—a rebellion not only against the local oligarchy but against the imperial lie that democracy could coexist with dependency. Fidel Castro’s victory in 1959 was, to Majfud, both a continuation of and a response to Washington’s own hypocrisy. It forced the empire to confront a version of Latin America it could no longer control through illusion.

The reaction was swift and predictable. The same logic that had overthrown Árbenz now sought to crush Castro. In 1961, the CIA organized the invasion of Cuba by exiled mercenaries trained in Guatemala—the same ground where ten years earlier it had rehearsed its first coup. The Bay of Pigs invasion became a spectacular failure, exposing the limits of American omnipotence. But for Majfud, its significance lay less in the military fiasco than in the moral blindness it revealed. The empire could not comprehend why its rhetoric of liberation no longer seduced the oppressed. The Cubans, like the Guatemalans before them, refused to accept the role of grateful victims. In the eyes of Washington, their defiance could only be madness or treason. In the eyes of history, it was dignity.

Majfud connects this cycle of hope and betrayal to the deeper pathology of empire. The United States, he argues, cannot tolerate autonomous democracy in its periphery because its own myth of exceptionalism requires the existence of dependents. When Latin America governs itself, it ceases to serve as the empire’s mirror of moral superiority. Thus, every democratic awakening must be framed as a threat—first to commerce, then to security, and finally to civilization itself. The rhetoric changes, but the structure of fear endures. In the nineteenth century, the empire feared “the savage”; in the twentieth, “the communist”; in the twenty-first, “the terrorist.” In each case, the Other justifies the empire’s control.

By the end of the 1960s, almost every Latin American democracy born during the wartime interlude had fallen. Guatemala’s reformers were dead or exiled; Brazil’s generals ruled by decree; Argentina was under military control; Uruguay’s prisons overflowed with political prisoners; Chile’s future teetered on the edge of intervention. Washington called it stability. Majfud calls it regression—the restoration of the frontier mentality through modern technology. The CIA replaced the cavalry; the torture chamber replaced the reservation; the economic embargo replaced the bayonet. The method changed, but the faith remained: that the world must be governed by the chosen, and that disobedience is sin.

Yet Majfud does not end this chapter in despair. He insists that each cycle of repression produces its opposite. The same dictatorship that silences one generation gives birth to another that remembers. The Guatemalan coup led to the Cuban Revolution; the Cuban Revolution inspired the liberation movements of the 1960s and 1970s; and even the failed revolutions of those decades planted seeds of resistance that survive beneath the surface of contemporary politics. The empire’s greatest weapon—its ability to disguise domination as virtue—is also its greatest weakness, for once the disguise falls, its power begins to dissolve. “The frontier,” Majfud writes, “is a lie that needs constant violence to survive. And every lie, like every empire, eventually runs out of breath.”

Thus, the story of Latin America’s lost democracies is not only a tragedy but a diagnosis of imperial fragility. The interlude of freedom during the 1940s revealed what was possible; its destruction revealed what the empire feared most: nations capable of governing themselves, peoples who no longer needed to believe in the mythology of protection. The history that followed—from Guatemala to the Bay of Pigs—was not merely a Cold War drama but the repetition of an ancient pattern: the empire striking back at the very freedom it claims to defend. In Majfud’s hands, it becomes a parable about the cost of innocence and the price of awakening. The hemisphere’s tragedy is not that it was conquered, but that it was taught to call its conquest peace.

The role of the CIA: the pen and the sword

According to Majfud, the CIA is not merely an intelligence agency but a central mechanism of an empire that learned to mask conquest behind new vocabularies of virtue. His argument is unflinching: after World War II, the United States did not abandon its old racial and colonial logic—it simply changed the words. Where the 19th century invoked the “savage” and the N-word to justify slavery, land theft, and genocide, the 20th century replaced those terms with “communism.” The mission was the same; only the banner was new. Under this substitution, the CIA became the modern conquistador, extending the “savage frontier” across Latin America with the same moral certainty that had once sanctified Manifest Destiny.

Majfud insists that this linguistic metamorphosis was not accidental but strategic. When racism became publicly unacceptable after the defeat of Nazi Germany, the empire could no longer speak the language of racial superiority. It needed a new myth that could rally domestic support and provide moral cover abroad. “Communism” became that myth—a universal enemy flexible enough to include democratically elected leaders, poor farmers demanding land reform, and priests preaching liberation theology. The CIA, armed with money, media, and manipulation, served as the invisible hand transforming that myth into reality.

In Guatemala in 1954, the Agency orchestrated the fall of President Jacobo Árbenz, who had dared to challenge the United Fruit Company’s vast holdings. The campaign painted Árbenz not as a nationalist or reformer but as a communist threat to hemispheric security. Majfud sees this as one of the first major acts in a new linguistic war: freedom versus communism was the updated version of civilization versus barbarism. The bombers that roared over Guatemala City carried not just explosives but words—the words that would make the crime sound like salvation.

The same script was repeated in Brazil in 1964, when João Goulart was deposed for proposing modest social reforms. CIA cables and corporate memos show a perfect alignment of interests between Washington, multinational corporations, and local elites. Once again, the accusation of communism provided the pretext for repression. What was really being defended, Majfud argues, was not democracy but hierarchy—the old racial and economic order dressed up in Cold War rhetoric. The military dictatorship that followed was presented to the world as a bulwark of liberty, even as it tortured, censored, and murdered in the name of that liberty.

Chile’s tragedy in 1973, with the overthrow of Salvador Allende, marks for Majfud the full maturity of this imperial vocabulary. CIA-financed strikes, propaganda, and economic sabotage paved the way for General Pinochet’s coup. Washington declared victory for democracy while celebrating the disappearance of the democratic process itself. Majfud calls this “the perfect inversion of meaning,” a triumph of the word over the world. Just as the slaveholders of the past had invoked “freedom” to defend slavery, the modern empire invoked “democracy” to justify dictatorship. The result was the same structure of domination, now sanitized by the language of the Cold War.

In Bolivia, the CIA’s pursuit and execution of Che Guevara epitomized this moral inversion. The operation was sold as a defense against communist subversion, yet it was, in essence, the ritual killing of an idea—the idea that the oppressed could resist. Majfud interprets the photograph of Guevara’s corpse, displayed by his captors like a trophy, as a modern echo of colonial rituals: the public exhibition of the defeated “enemy of civilization.” What had changed were the uniforms and the words, not the logic of conquest.

The Nicaraguan Contras of the 1980s brought this pattern to its grotesque conclusion. Trained and funded by the CIA, they committed atrocities while being described in Washington as “freedom fighters.” Majfud underlines the cynical genius of this rebranding: by calling violence “defense” and terror “liberation,” the empire not only justified its crimes but erased them from memory. The Iran-Contra scandal, with its labyrinth of secret funding and drug trafficking, revealed a deeper truth—that the CIA had evolved into what Majfud calls a “parallel government,” unbound by law, morality, or democratic oversight. It was, he writes, “the natural heir of two centuries of Anglo-Saxon fanaticism—self-righteous, expansionist, and incapable of seeing the other as equal.”

Majfud’s critique goes beyond politics. He sees in the CIA’s operations a cultural project aimed at shaping consciousness itself. Through propaganda campaigns, covert media influence, and the funding of intellectual elites, the Agency helped construct a worldview in which U.S. intervention always meant salvation. The Operation Mockingbird of the 1950s became the algorithmic manipulation of the 21st century. The method changed, but the purpose remained: to create a world where power defines truth. The empire, Majfud writes, no longer needs to invade with armies when it can occupy the mind.

He highlights a chilling continuity between the Puritan settlers and the modern intelligence officer. Both act with a sense of divine mission, both believe their violence is redemptive, and both are driven by an unexamined conviction of moral superiority. When former CIA Director Mike Pompeo declared, “We lied, we cheated, we stole,” and called it “the glory of the American experiment,” Majfud saw not a confession but a celebration—a moment when the mask slipped, revealing the old face of the frontier beneath the polished language of democracy.

In Majfud’s reading, the CIA is not an anomaly within American democracy; it is its logical expression. The same empire that once sent soldiers to kill “savages” now sends agents to fight “communists” and “terrorists.” The vocabulary shifts, but the structure endures: the United States as chosen nation, the rest of the world as its moral testing ground. What changes is only the justification—the myth that makes domination feel like destiny.

Ultimately, The Wild Frontier is not just a history of interventions but a study of language as a weapon. Majfud demonstrates how a single word—first “savage,” later “communist”—can transform aggression into virtue, racism into patriotism, and theft into freedom. The CIA, in his analysis, stands as both agent and symbol of this transformation: a machine built to rewrite reality in the empire’s image. And yet, Majfud insists, the empire’s tragedy is spiritual as much as political. “All the weapons in the world,” he writes, “cannot subjugate dignity.” The frontier, after all, is not endless; it ends where words lose their power and the truth begins to speak again.

A project for the New American Century

In modern phase of the hegemonic superpower, bayonets gave way to microphones, and coups were launched not only from barracks but from television studios and corporate boardrooms. The 1970s and 1980s marked a new sophistication in the old art of domination. Washington no longer needed to invade directly; it could destabilize, manipulate, and rewrite reality itself. The empire had learned that the most efficient conquest is not of territory but of perception. In this new frontier, the CIA and its allies in the media and financial sectors became the architects of invisible wars—wars fought in the name of freedom, masked by the language of democracy, and broadcast as truth.

Majfud traces this evolution through two of the most emblematic operations of the twentieth century: Operation Mockingbird and Operation Condor. The first, created in the 1950s, institutionalized the manipulation of information. Journalists, editors, and cultural figures across the Western Hemisphere were recruited or coerced into repeating Washington’s script. The goal was not only to censor inconvenient facts but to fabricate a moral universe where the empire was always virtuous and its victims always guilty. The Cold War provided the perfect moral alibi. “In the new era,” Majfud writes, “the bullet was replaced by the headline.” The empire no longer had to silence; it could drown truth in noise. This system of psychological warfare, he argues, extended far beyond the press. Universities, publishing houses, and even religious institutions became channels for propaganda disguised as enlightenment.

Operation Condor, born in the 1970s, was the violent counterpart of this cultural machinery. It unified the intelligence services of the Southern Cone—Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Paraguay, Bolivia, and Brazil—into a single transnational apparatus of repression, financed, advised, and coordinated by the CIA. Majfud calls it “the globalization of terror before globalization had a name.” Tens of thousands were tortured, disappeared, or exiled. The dictators who carried out these crimes—Videla, Pinochet, Stroessner, and others—believed themselves to be soldiers of civilization, defending Christian values and Western freedom. Washington rewarded them as allies. The same empire that condemned tyranny in Eastern Europe celebrated it in Latin America, as long as the tyrants protected the flow of capital. Majfud sees in this double standard the moral DNA of empire: a capacity to proclaim virtue while practicing horror.

But the frontier of manipulation did not end with ideology. In the 1980s, the empire refined its methods again through a fusion of covert warfare and organized crime. The Iran-Contra affair exposed how the CIA financed and armed the Contras, a counterrevolutionary army in Nicaragua trained to overthrow the Sandinista government. Majfud presents this as one of the most cynical chapters in modern history: terrorists rebranded as freedom fighters, paid with money obtained through the illegal sale of weapons to Iran and through the trafficking of drugs into the United States itself. The same agency that claimed to defend American youth from narcotics was using cocaine profits to finance death squads abroad. “The empire,” Majfud writes, “was no longer only exporting violence; it was importing its own corruption.” The war on drugs became another mask, a moral crusade concealing economic and geopolitical control.

The Contras were not an exception but the continuation of a pattern that stretched from Guatemala 1954 to Chile 1973. The empire needed enemies to justify its existence, and when those enemies did not exist, it created them. The CIA trained mercenaries and paramilitaries who burned villages, raped women, and assassinated teachers—all under the flag of liberty. In Majfud’s analysis, this moral inversion reached its grotesque climax when the same propaganda that once demonized “communists” began to demonize “terrorists.” The names changed, the targets changed, but the logic endured. Violence, if carried out by the empire or its proxies, was called security. Violence by others was called evil.

Majfud sees the transition from the Cold War to the neoliberal era as the digitalization of the frontier. The empire’s new weapons were no longer only rifles and spies but cameras, markets, and social media. The control of perception, perfected during Operation Mockingbird, now reached planetary scale. “Reality itself,” he writes, “became a product to be sold and consumed.” The twenty-first century interventions in Venezuela and Bolivia followed this formula to perfection. When Washington failed to control these nations through diplomacy or economic pressure, it turned again to the old tools of chaos: disinformation, financial warfare, and the orchestration of coups under democratic disguises.

In Venezuela, the coup attempt of April 2002 against Hugo Chávez exposed how modern interventions functioned. Corporate media channels broadcast falsified footage of government repression while private business elites coordinated strikes and street violence. A group of military officers, backed by the U.S. embassy and regional allies, kidnapped the president and installed a self-proclaimed “transitional government.” Within forty-eight hours, massive popular mobilization and loyal soldiers reversed the coup. Yet the narrative in Washington and much of the Western press portrayed it as a victory for democracy rather than its negation. Majfud interprets this episode as the digital echo of Guatemala 1954—an old script replayed with new technology. The lie remained the same; only the medium had changed.

Seventeen years later, in Bolivia, the same pattern unfolded. The 2019 coup against President Evo Morales—justified through allegations of electoral fraud amplified by international media and the Organization of American States—was, in Majfud’s view, another product of this imperial algorithm. When Morales’s government defied U.S. corporate interests in lithium and hydrocarbons, the familiar chorus began: democracy was in danger, the elections were rigged, and intervention was necessary. A coalition of military officers, conservative politicians, and religious extremists seized power amid violent repression. Once again, Washington applauded. Once again, the global media sanctified the usurpers as defenders of freedom. Once again, the frontier moved forward without crossing a border.

Majfud insists that these modern coups are not relics of the past but expressions of a perfected imperial intelligence—one capable of manipulating consciousness itself. In his analysis, the empire’s greatest innovation has been its ability to internalize control. Nations no longer need to be occupied when their elites think like occupiers and their citizens consume the empire’s fears as entertainment. “Operation Mockingbird never ended,” he writes. “It simply learned to sing in a thousand voices at once.”

The connection between propaganda, terror, and finance—visible in the Contras, the narcotics trade, and the corporate media—reveals, for Majfud, the moral symmetry of the modern empire. It fights corruption by funding it, combats terrorism by creating it, and defends democracy by destroying it. What began as the frontier’s violent expansion across the land has become a frontier of information and illusion, expanding endlessly through invisible means. In this system, truth itself becomes a casualty, and freedom becomes the empire’s most effective disguise.

Majfud concludes that Latin America’s struggle against these modern interventions is not merely political but existential. It is the struggle to recover reality from the empire’s narrative. From Operation Condor to the coups of the twenty-first century, the pattern remains unbroken: domination masked as salvation, chaos sold as order, and the victim transformed into the aggressor. The frontier, once carved with guns and maps, is now drawn with algorithms and headlines—but it is the same frontier, animated by the same belief that one race, one nation, and one truth must rule them all. The resistance, therefore, must begin not only in the streets but in the mind, where the empire first builds its invisible walls.

Conlcusion

In The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America, Jorge Majfud constructs a panoramic vision of domination, resistance, and myth that stretches from the genocidal wars of conquest to the covert interventions of the twenty-first century. The story begins with the land—where the ideology of expansion was first sanctified—and moves through the sea and the air, tracing how the same moral logic reinvented itself through centuries. What began as the violent expansion of settlers across the continent evolved into corporate imperialism, covert warfare, and the colonization of minds through propaganda. From the genocide of Native peoples to the coups of the CIA, Majfud sees not a succession of events but a continuous project: an empire sustained by its need to believe that its violence is virtue.

The frontier, in Majfud’s view, is not a geographical boundary but a psychological and moral system. It is the frontier of self-deception—where conquest calls itself freedom and theft calls itself civilization. The same Puritan zeal that once justified the extermination of Indigenous nations reappeared in the language of the Cold War, when the empire declared a new holy mission to defend the world from communism. After World War II, as Washington turned its gaze outward again, the old racial logic reemerged in new forms. During the war, Latin America had experienced a rare interlude of democracy. Nations long suffocated by dictators and foreign monopolies rediscovered their voices. Mexico’s Cárdenas nationalized oil; Brazil’s Vargas expanded labor rights; Guatemala’s Arévalo launched social reforms. But these experiments in sovereignty were tolerated only because the empire was distracted. Once the war ended, the tolerance ended too.

The return of Washington’s attention brought the return of control—this time more subtle, more global, and more efficient. The language of liberty was replaced by the language of fear. Communism became the universal enemy, the moral key that unlocked every intervention. The School of the Americas and the CIA became the new temples of empire, training Latin American officers not to defend their countries but to defend Washington’s interests against their own people. These men—Majfud’s “Cold War conquistadors”—were the children of a psychological empire. They learned to see dissent as subversion, nationalism as treason, and repression as duty.

Guatemala 1954 became the prototype of this new imperial architecture. A reformist government, led by Jacobo Árbenz, sought modest land redistribution and independence from the United Fruit Company—a corporation so entangled with Washington that its board members and the CIA director shared family and financial ties. The company launched a campaign branding Árbenz a communist. The CIA orchestrated a coup under the pretext of liberation. Fake radio stations, fabricated reports of rebellion, and a mercenary invasion from Honduras toppled a sovereign democracy. What followed was decades of slaughter under successive dictatorships. The empire called it a triumph of freedom. Majfud calls it the invention of the modern puppet state.

From Guatemala, the model spread. The dictatorships of the 1960s and 1970s—from Brazil to Chile, Argentina to Uruguay—were not spontaneous eruptions of tyranny but components of a hemispheric strategy. Operation Condor coordinated their intelligence and terror networks, turning the continent into an open-air prison for its thinkers, teachers, and students. The empire financed, trained, and directed them in the name of defending the West. What it created instead was a machinery of disappearance—a technological extension of the frontier’s oldest logic: eliminate what resists, and call it order. The victims were branded terrorists, the torturers patriots, the silence patriotic duty.

But every act of domination produces its own counterhistory. The fall of Árbenz inspired a young Ernesto Guevara, who saw in the destruction of Guatemala the impossibility of peaceful reform. His journey from observer to revolutionary, from Guatemala to Havana, was the moral inversion of the empire’s project. The Cuban Revolution was not merely an act of rebellion; it was the response of a continent that had been told it was incapable of dignity. Its triumph in 1959 marked the first time in modern history that a Latin American nation defied Washington and survived. The response came swiftly: embargoes, sabotage, assassination attempts, and in 1961, the Bay of Pigs invasion—a recycled script, born in Guatemala, restaged in Cuba. When the invasion failed, it exposed the empire’s arrogance and its inability to understand resistance not as foreign manipulation but as human will.

After Cuba, the empire adapted once more. If direct invasion failed, covert war would continue. The 1970s brought Operation Condor’s assassins; the 1980s brought the CIA’s proxy armies. In Nicaragua, the Contras—financed through illegal arms sales and cocaine trafficking—became the new missionaries of freedom, committing massacres in the name of democracy. Smedley Butler, the Marine general turned whistleblower decades earlier, had already defined the system with brutal clarity: “War is a racket.” For Majfud, the Contras were proof that the racket had evolved; it was now transnational, sanitized, and televised. The CIA funded terrorism while declaring a war on terror, and the world believed because the media repeated it. Operation Mockingbird, conceived in the 1950s, had matured into a global chorus: newspapers, networks, and cultural institutions that framed imperial violence as humanitarian duty.

Majfud calls this the digitalization of the frontier—the transformation of conquest into narrative. The United States no longer needed to occupy nations physically when it could occupy their imagination. In Venezuela, the 2002 coup against Hugo Chávez unfolded on television screens before it unfolded in the streets. Corporate media declared his resignation while he was being held captive, legitimizing the coup as if it were a democratic correction. Within two days, millions of Venezuelans rose up and restored their elected president. The event revealed the empire’s new weapon: control of perception. The same formula reappeared in Bolivia in 2019, when Evo Morales was forced from power under accusations of electoral fraud later discredited by independent analyses. Washington applauded, media sanctified the coup leaders as liberators, and violence was again baptized as peace.

These modern coups are, for Majfud, the logical descendants of the frontier myth. The empire’s narrative remains unchanged: the barbarians must be tamed, whether they are Indigenous nations, socialist reformers, or environmentalists who dare to control their own resources. What has evolved is the technique. Where once the justification was race, it is now democracy; where once the weapon was the rifle, it is now information. The empire’s genius lies not in its brutality but in its storytelling—in its ability to make domination appear inevitable, even desirable. This is why, Majfud argues, propaganda has replaced theology as the moral language of power.

Operation Mockingbird’s heirs dominate digital networks; Operation Condor’s heirs control financial markets; the frontier survives, reborn as globalization. The United States no longer needs to colonize by force when debt, disinformation, and desire achieve the same effect. Yet even in this new configuration, the old pathology endures: the belief that the world exists to serve the chosen, that every rebellion is a threat to divine order. In this sense, Majfud’s “wild frontier” is not history—it is the present.

The pattern is circular and tragic. Each time Latin America rises in hope, the empire rediscovers a new language of fear. Each time it claims to defend democracy, it extinguishes it. And yet, the story refuses to end in despair. Majfud insists that truth, though fragile, has the same persistence as resistance. Every coup breeds memory; every propaganda campaign eventually exposes its lies. From the ruins of Guatemala to the defiance of Havana, from the graves of the disappeared to the streets of Caracas and La Paz, the voices of the silenced return, refusing to forget. The frontier, he reminds us, is not endless. It ends where conscience begins.

In the end, the history of the Americas is the history of that confrontation: empire and dignity, domination and memory, myth and truth. The weapons change; the arrogance remains. But so does the will to survive. Majfud’s final lesson is that the empire’s greatest power—the ability to disguise its violence as virtue—is also its greatest weakness, for when the disguise falls, the empire stands naked before the world, revealed not as destiny, but as fear. And fear, no matter how powerful, cannot govern forever.

Intellectual and Philosophical Contexts

The Moral Frontier: Ethics and Critical Consciousness in Modern Thought

The work of Jorge Majfud resonates with several major traditions of critical thought, extending and transforming them through a distinctly moral-philosophical lens. His writing situates the frontier not merely as a historical or geopolitical concept but as a moral and psychological condition of modernity itself. Through this lens, he reframes the theories of Fanon, Said, Foucault, Mignolo, Arendt, Martí, and others into a coherent meditation on power, violence, and conscience.

Like Frantz Fanon, Majfud exposes how violence is not an accidental feature of the modern world but one of its founding principles. Modernity, in this sense, is inseparable from the colonial project that gave birth to it. Yet while Fanon sees revolutionary action as the necessary path toward liberation, Majfud turns inward, seeking emancipation through the cultivation of moral and historical consciousness. Violence, he suggests, can only be transcended when societies confront their own complicity—when they recognize that the oppressed and the oppressor are both dehumanized by the same system.

His analysis also echoes Edward Said’s critique of Orientalism, revealing how Western identity was constructed through narratives of otherness. But Majfud expands Said’s framework beyond the East–West binary to encompass the entire hemisphere. In his reading, the Americas themselves became the first great laboratory of alterity, where Indigenous and African peoples were cast as civilizational foils against which the West defined its own innocence. The frontier thus emerges as a global discourse of exclusion and representation, a symbolic geography that shaped the modern imagination of power.

In dialogue with Walter Mignolo and Aníbal Quijano, Majfud also situates his thought within the broader tradition of decolonial theory, recognizing that modernity and coloniality are two sides of the same historical process. Yet he departs from purely theoretical approaches by infusing his critique with literary and ethical sensibility. His writing does not merely expose epistemic violence—it transforms it into moral reflection, translating complex theoretical ideas into accessible meditations on conscience and responsibility.

This moral dimension also marks his engagement with Michel Foucault. Like Foucault, Majfud understands that power produces knowledge, morality, and the very categories through which reality is perceived. The frontier, in his interpretation, is one such disciplinary mechanism, defining what is considered “civilized” and what must be excluded as barbaric. But where Foucault maintains a genealogical distance, Majfud introduces an ethical demand. Knowledge, for him, is never neutral; it must confront its own complicity in the systems of domination it describes. His work transforms the study of power into a call for moral awakening.

Nowhere is this moral inversion more evident than in his reinterpretation of Frederick Jackson Turner’s frontier thesis. For Turner, the frontier was the crucible of American democracy, the place where freedom was reborn. For Majfud, it is precisely the opposite: the frontier represents the original moral rupture of the American project—a founding myth of innocence erected upon genocide and slavery. The frontier, rather than a symbol of progress, becomes the site of disavowal, where violence is rewritten as virtue and conquest as destiny.

Majfud’s ethical critique also resonates with Hannah Arendt’s reflections on the “banality of evil.” Like Arendt, he sees modern systems of violence as dependent not on cruelty but on moral distance. In imperial democracies, domination is often bureaucratic, rationalized, and technologically mediated. Violence no longer requires hatred; it simply requires obedience and detachment. His writing exposes the quiet mechanisms that allow societies to believe in their innocence while benefiting from oppression—a theme that runs throughout his interpretation of modernity.

At the same time, his thought is rooted in the humanist tradition of Latin America. He inherits the moral vision of José Martí, as well as the narrative sensibility of Eduardo Galeano and Rodolfo Kusch. Literature, for him, is not an ornament to theory but a form of ethical intervention—a means of reclaiming dignity from the margins. Through storytelling, irony, and moral reflection, Majfud transforms historical critique into a meditation on conscience. His prose seeks not only to reveal injustice but to awaken empathy, to recover a human voice from beneath the ruins of ideology.

The originality of Majfud’s contribution lies in this synthesis of structural critique and ethical introspection. He bridges the theoretical rigor of thinkers like Foucault, Said, and Fanon with the humanist pathos of Martí and Galeano, uniting critical theory and moral philosophy in a single narrative. The frontier, as he redefines it, becomes a moral and psychological metaphor for the modern condition—an endless expansion outward that mirrors an unexamined void within. Modernity’s drive to conquer new territories, he suggests, reflects a deeper emptiness of spirit, a refusal to confront the violence embedded in its own foundations.

By reintroducing conscience into the discourse of power, Majfud reframes decolonial thought as both a philosophical and spiritual endeavor. His work demands not only the deconstruction of ideology but the reconstruction of moral sensibility. What distinguishes his approach is a rare fusion of philosophical critique with moral empathy. He does not stop at exposing the structures of domination; he seeks to understand the psychological and spiritual mechanisms that allow societies to sustain them, the illusions that make oppression appear virtuous.

In this vision, the frontier becomes the ultimate metaphor for the modern soul—always expanding outward while ignoring its internal emptiness. The result is a work that bridges the analytical depth of critical theory with the ethical urgency of humanism, offering a rare synthesis between the structural lucidity of Foucault and Said and the moral insight of Fanon and Arendt. Through this convergence, Majfud not only critiques the moral blindness of modernity but also gestures toward a new humanism—one grounded in conscience, compassion, and the recognition that freedom begins not at the frontier but within the self.

Comparative Table:

Majfud and Related Thinkers

ThinkerMain Idea / ContributionPoints of Convergence with MajfudPoints of Divergence / Majfud’s Innovation
Frantz Fanon (The Wretched of the Earth)Colonialism as a system of psychological and physical violence; liberation as both political and existential.Both see violence as the moral core of modern civilization and critique the hypocrisy of “civilizing missions.” Both explore the internalization of the oppressor’s logic.Fanon focuses on the colonial subject’s liberation through revolutionary violence; Majfud emphasizes moral and historical consciousness as a path to healing.
Edward Said (Orientalism)Western culture constructs the “Orient” as its inferior opposite to define itself.Majfud extends Said’s idea of the “Other” to the entire Western hemisphere—Native Americans, Africans, and Latin Americans as projected barbarisms.While Said focuses on discourse and textual representation, Majfud combines this with a moral-philosophical reading of history and a broader sociopolitical critique.
Walter Mignolo / Aníbal Quijano (Decolonial Theory)Modernity is inseparable from coloniality; knowledge and power are Eurocentric constructs.Majfud shares the decolonial call to dismantle Western epistemologies and reveal colonial violence behind “progress.”Majfud fuses decolonial analysis with literary narrative and moral reflection, seeking not only epistemic justice but ethical transformation.
Michel Foucault (Discipline and Punish, History of Sexuality)Power operates through discourse, institutions, and normalization rather than overt coercion.Both analyze how power defines what is “civilized,” “normal,” or “rational,” masking domination as morality.Majfud adds an explicit ethical dimension — he doesn’t just map power but judges it morally; he reintroduces conscience where Foucault remains descriptive.
Frederick Jackson Turner (The Frontier Thesis)The American frontier produced democracy, innovation, and individualism.Majfud engages Turner critically to reveal how this “democracy” was built upon genocide, slavery, and expansionism.Turner sees the frontier as creation; Majfud sees it as destruction disguised as creation — the origin of the American myth of innocence.
Hannah Arendt (Eichmann in Jerusalem)Evil can appear banal — committed by ordinary people within bureaucratic systems.Both expose how ordinary citizens participate in structural violence with moral self-deception.Arendt analyzes totalitarianism; Majfud applies the concept to imperial democracies and global capitalism.
José Martí (Nuestra América)Latin America must develop its own identity and moral consciousness beyond colonial influence.Majfud inherits Martí’s humanist tone and emphasis on ethical awakening and intellectual independence.Martí wrote as a 19th-century nationalist; Majfud globalizes this moral project, addressing humanity as a whole rather than a single region.
Eduardo Galeano (Open Veins of Latin America)History as narrative of exploitation and resistance; poetic historical critique.Both combine history, ethics, and storytelling; both expose the violence of progress and give voice to the silenced.Majfud’s tone is more philosophical and comparative — connecting Latin American suffering with universal patterns of moral blindness.

Synthesis: Majfud’s Place in Critical Thought

DimensionMajfud’s ApproachDistinctive Element
Historical AnalysisTraces continuity of violence from colonization to modern globalization.Integrates economic, political, and cultural frontiers into one moral framework.
Philosophical DepthQuestions not only systems but the moral psychology of domination.Blends historical critique with existential ethics.
Literary StyleUses narrative, metaphor, and reflection rather than pure theory.Accessible yet profound; crosses boundaries between scholarship and art.
Ethical VisionAdvocates for self-awareness, compassion, and moral coherence beyond ideological divides.Positions ethics as the new “frontier” humanity must cross.

Conclusion: The Frontier as a Moral Framework

The Wild Frontier stands as a profound contribution to the study of Western modernity, coloniality, and moral philosophy. Majfud transforms the frontier from a historical trope into a critical lens for analyzing how societies justify domination in the name of virtue. Engaging in dialogue with Fanon, Said, Foucault, and decolonial theorists, he exposes the enduring continuity of violence—whether material, epistemic, or symbolic—beneath the rhetoric of civilization and progress.

Yet Majfud’s intervention goes further: he restores to critique an ethical dimension often absent from postmodern thought. The challenge he poses is not only political but existential—to dismantle the internal frontiers that sustain collective blindness and to imagine a civilization founded on empathy rather than conquest. His work thus contributes to the ongoing project of decolonizing not only knowledge but conscience itself.

The Wild Frontier stands as a critical intervention in contemporary thought. Majfud redefines the concept of the frontier as an ethical frontier—between self-deception and consciousness, between myth and truth. His work challenges both the imperial narrative of Western modernity and the academic detachment of critical theory by reintroducing moral responsibility as the center of human inquiry. This thesis concludes that Majfud’s synthesis of philosophy, history, and ethics offers a pathway beyond the dualism of civilization and barbarism, proposing instead a vision of humanity grounded in empathy, self-critique, and shared dignity.

 

References

Arendt, H. (1963). Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. Viking Press.

Arendt, Hannah. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. Penguin Books, 2006.

Dussel, Enrique. The Invention of the Americas: Eclipse of “the Other” and the Myth of Modernity. Translated by Michael D. Barber, Continuum, 1995.

Fanon, F. (1961). The Wretched of the Earth. Grove Press.

Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Translated by Charles Lam Markmann, Grove Press, 2008.

Fanon, Frantz. The Wretched of the Earth. Translated by Richard Philcox, Grove Press, 2004.

Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and Punish. Pantheon Books.

Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by Alan Sheridan, Vintage Books, 1995.

Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction. Translated by Robert Hurley, Vintage Books, 1990.

Galeano, Eduardo. Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent. Translated by Cedric Belfrage, Monthly Review Press, 1997.

Kusch, Rodolfo. Indigenous and Popular Thinking in América. Edited and translated by María Lugones and Joshua M. Price, Duke University Press, 2010.

Majfud, J. (2025). The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America. Humanus Publishing.

Majfud, Jorge. Crisis. Baile del Sol, 2009.

Majfud, Jorge. La ciudad de la luna. Editorial Baile del Sol, 2018.

Majfud, Jorge. The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America. Katakrak Liburuak, 2023.

Martí, José. Nuestra América y otros ensayos. Ediciones Cátedra, 2011.

Mignolo, W. (2011). The Darker Side of Western Modernity. Duke University Press.

Mignolo, Walter D. The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options. Duke University Press, 2011.

Quijano, Aníbal. “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America.” Nepantla: Views from South, vol. 1, no. 3, 2000, pp. 533–580.

Said, E. (1978). Orientalism. Pantheon Books.

Said, Edward W. Culture and Imperialism. Vintage Books, 1994.

Said, Edward W. Orientalism. Vintage Books, 1979.

Turner, Frederick Jackson. The Frontier in American History. Henry Holt and Company, 1920.

Weber, Max. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Translated by Talcott Parsons, Routledge, 2001.

Williams, Raymond. Culture and Materialism: Selected Essays. Verso, 2005.

Wynter, Sylvia. “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom.” The New Centennial Review, vol. 3, no. 3, 2003, pp. 257–337.

II. Prehistory: The Psychological Framework

From Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means, by Jorge Majfud

A neurology of propaganda

Caveman strengths; cybernetic weaknesses

(16 neural fossils)

The central idea of this chapter could be summarized as follows: what helped us survive as a species for thousands of years has become our greatest weakness. These ancestral traits are exploited as vulnerabilities by the current social power structure. Today, organized economically and culturally by the capitalist system (especially financial and consumer capitalism). Just as industrialization (not necessarily capitalist) represented a strength and human progress just three centuries ago, it has now become one of the main factors of capitalism, which has quickly become the only social system in history capable of casting doubt on the existence of the human species and even the rest of life on the planet.

But beyond this reality that turns a virtue into a weakness, we will briefly focus on some characteristics of human psychology that were once developed to benefit us as a species and are now exploited by an elite of cannibals against us. Although individuals tend to have an overly generous image of themselves and believe we are rational beings, we are generally the opposite. In the individual, familial, social, and political arenas, we tend to act on irrational impulses, much more like the behavior of a soccer fan in a stadium than that of a scientist observing and manipulating mice in a lab or a calculator determining the concrete dosage and the amount of iron needed for a reinforced concrete beam.

Let’s review those constitutional components of our ancestral psyche, those ahistorical traits our species developed for its own survival and that each historical moment (in our case, the capitalist system) exploits to the fullest for its own benefit, like a spider extracting the juice from flies trapped in the web where their own desires led them. I understand this is a personal list that can and should be improved by other contributions:

1. Fear and desire

Our societies are shaped by the commercialization of life, which, in the United States, existed long before (what was the slave system if not that?) but began to radicalize into its current forms in the early 20th century. The market and its media pulpit are based on two basic and primitive feelings that made the survival of the species possible: fear and desire. Two strengths that are now weaknesses. For the market, desire focuses on its sexual impulse (without sex, neither cars nor songs are sold) and on the promotion of fear.

In hijacked democracies, politics is a market, not only of power but in service to the financial market. Therefore, fear and desire are also its two fundamental components. Desire (utopia) has been a bastion of the left, just as fear (dystopia) has been for the right. Since we are in a clearly dystopian historical moment (we no longer try to imagine a just and happy world, but to save it from social and climate catastrophe), the right sells more easily.

This is what is happening across much of the West and, in particular, in the ideological center of that commercialized world, prone to the irrational narrative of commercial propaganda and religious sermons, detached from all evidence. Hence, for example, election deniers are usually right-wing parties. What is more denialist than a religion or consumer culture?

Political ads from the American right focus on instilling fear of immigrants, “gender ideology,” and any group perceived as weaker for some reason: the threat from below (translation: the fear of those below). The ten million illegal immigrants, the most selfless workers in the country, collectively have a much lower crime rate than the rest of society, but they are the perfect target for the fear industry because not only can they not lobby like the Florida mafia, but they also don’t vote. On the other hand, “gender ideology” is not a recent evil that will destroy humanity, as these politicians claim, but is older than the pyramids of Egypt: it is the age-old machismo, with its need for power and its sexual fears. If they knew that the European aristocracy wore wigs, tights, and high heels (a symbol of masculinity, due to their use in horseback riding by the Arabs), that upper-class boys were dressed as girls until recently, as in the case of President F. D. Roosevelt, and that the colors pink and blue for gender were a recent invention of American stores, they would fall over backward. Or, more likely, they would deny it.

In politics, as in the market, there are two fundamental engines: fear and desire. Even more so in a culture based on consumption and a mercantile and success-driven system, almost always presented as if it were a natural organism governed by a single law, the Law of Supply and Demand. This same culture feeds on the idea that both the market and its primary Law are logical, abstract, and universal expressions; not a system and a law regulated and directed by a hegemonic ideology and its different local policies.

Capitalism promotes desire and punishes pleasure. Desire is at the root of all commercial advertising, but the fear market is also important, from the sale of private security services to antivirus software. In politics, as a strategy and creator of reality from fiction, fear is even stronger than desire or hope. Looking at the most important phenomena of the last two hundred years, we could say that perhaps the left focused more on liberal claims regarding the desires of the underprivileged, from the abolition of slavery to the claims of sexual, racial, or national minorities. Fear, on the other hand, has been the central component of fascism, which not only, in the name of freedom, required the individual to submit to a leader or an ethnic or nationalist group, with the gaze always fixed on the past (a common factor with religions) to save their existence from the “dangerous others” whom we must fight and invade before they do it to us. That is, the real fear of the upper class adopted as the imaginary fear of the lower class against others even lower, due to their economic, military, numerical, or legal status: peasants, artisans, Jews, blacks, Indians, immigrants, homosexuals, Muslims, the poor, the homeless… The middle class has always feared a possible revolt from below more than a constant and natural dispossession from above, which is why fascist fear takes hold so easily every so often, even among those at the very bottom who have risen a step to the lower middle class.

Art, though with a different purpose, is also full of works that combine these two powerful engines of psychological and social life. The most raw examples are found in fairy tales and stories about mysterious beings on all continents. In ancient Greece, this fear-desire impulse was illustrated with satyrs. A thousand years later, the oldest surreal story we know today as the tales of the Brothers Grimm but which preceded them by many centuries, is that of Little Red Riding Hood. Like in a dream, this story (especially in its original versions before the Brothers Grimm and Disney sanitized it with bleach) mixes sex, cruelty, mystery, deception, and death in ways as implausible as they are powerful, as evidenced by the age of the tale: in 2023, the innocent Little Red Riding Hood will turn a thousand years old, surviving the danger of the wolf in the forest and in the country house. But of the erotic pair fear-desire, the first term represents the moralization of others to repress the second pair, which leads to temptation and the breaking of the prohibition. The prohibition represents civilization, the law, civil or religious. Self-denial, self-repression, renunciation are these same laws internalized.[1] For these same reasons, in public expressions, from literature, cinema to political sermons, fear is the visible face of the moon. On the other side is desire, the need for transgression, for change.

Fear and desire also fill detective novels, mystery stories, commercial films, and even art-house cinema. Crimes, rapes, beauty and the beast, vampires sinking their teeth into the sensual neck of the defenseless woman… Not to mention the always recurring ancient Greece, with its sexual stereotypes: rational men had small penises, like Michelangelo’s David or Adam, while the dangerous and lazy satyrs of the forest (Dionysian, irrational fantasies) were depicted with penises the size of a pack mule. The same perception is evident in the letters of 19th-century white slaveholders, who feared that the liberation of Black slaves would lead to the mass rape of white women, when the reality indicated the opposite: not only did Black men suffer under the whip and the gun, but the rapes were committed by the masters and employers against their Black female slaves or servants, who were almost always underage, as was the case with the Founding Father of American democracy, Thomas Jefferson, and practically all other honorable slaveholders from Canada to Argentina. This pornographic fear-desire led to the lynching of thousands of freed Black people after the Civil War in the United States. Preventive—and legal—lynchings, as recommended by the educator, feminist, and first female senator from Georgia, Rebecca Latimer Felton, who in 1898 advised lynching Black men who won elections in North Carolina, arguing that the more educated and politically involved Black men became, the greater the threat they posed to the virginity of white women.[i]

The same pattern has been exploited for generations by the powerful pornography industry, which thrives on depictions of Black men with white women. In other words, the fear of power opens a release valve in its own imagination. It is the tradition of the festival that breaks social rules and overturns the political order once or twice a year, in contrast to the need for ritual, which, both in religions and psychological tics, requires the repetition of a certain order to feel some control over the uncertain future, the unexpected, the feared, and what is truly beyond control.

 According to Stephens-Davidowitz in his analysis of Big Data (Everybody Lies, 2017), women consume twice as much pornography featuring violence against women as men do. It’s unnecessary to clarify that this does not imply any moral or ethical judgment, as it refers to psychological phenomena.[2] One of the characters in my novel Crisis (2012), one of those characters detested by their own author, summarized it this way: “In the end, after all this nonsense passes, the bored housewives, the proper feminist professionals, desire a man who will humiliate them in bed. Only then do they recover their forgotten orgasmic capacities, desiring everything their education and good morals abhor…”[ii] It’s in the index of any Freudian book: in fiction, in folk tales, sex has been covered by a thick layer of symbolism, as in dreams. It must be added: covered by the most visible and repressive term: fear.

This constitutive factor of fear and desire also has an explanation in the deepest prehistory. In 2008, psychology professor at the University of Michigan (a member of the Biopsychology and Affective Neuroscience Laboratory) Kent Berridge observed that dopamine, originating from the nucleus accumbens (a central area of the hypothalamus) and motivating animals in their search for pleasurable rewards (food, sex, drugs), is also responsible for the production of fear. Once the Michigan team inhibited dopamine production in mice, not only did their desire for rewards decrease, but so did the anxieties produced by fear, simultaneously. The same team managed to identify the areas of the brain that are actually related to fear and desire, and found that they were separated by mere millimeters.[iii] Both pleasure and fear are responsible for the survival success of the species.

Once again, it is no coincidence that the powers of the moment, from classic authoritarian regimes to liberal democracies dominated by market ideology and a small number of feudal lords called corporations, have exploited and amplified these two constitutional reactions of each individual for their own benefit. From political speeches to massive advertising campaigns and, more recently, the algorithmic dynamics of social media.

2. The Attraction to Bad News

We’re driving on a highway and, suddenly, another damn traffic jam. We’re annoyed by the inability to move at maximum speed. We vent that anger by imagining and insulting someone who, in trying to go faster than everyone else, ended up scraping another car and, as a result, hundreds, if not thousands, of other responsible drivers have to move at a snail’s pace for ten, twenty minutes. When the flow of cars begins to return to its normal speed, we suddenly see two or three wrecked cars on the side of the highway.

What is the most rational thing we can do in this situation? The police and paramedics have already taken care of the situation. There is nothing we can do to help someone who is no longer there or someone whose life will be forever marked by that place and, above all, by that day which will return again and again for the rest of their days. The rational thing for us to do is to look ahead, focus on the traffic, and avoid another accident…

But no. It’s impossible not to look at the tragic scene. A person lies on the ground, apparently covered by a sheet or something similar. Another is being carried on a stretcher to the ambulance. Why do we have to look at a scene that from the start promised nothing good? We look once, twice, three times until, by inches, we almost hit another car, whose driver was also looking at the wrecked cars and the bodies on the side. The rational thing is to focus on the road, on the heavy traffic of the highway, but we choose the irrational: to look at the bad news, the crime reports, the updates on the latest war.

We do the same thing every day. News programs dedicate entire sections to accidents, murders, shootings, wars, and all kinds of toxic information that in no way serves to reduce crime in a city or, doubtfully, to raise pacifist awareness in the rest of the world. From a political, ideological point of view, it will be used to amplify or minimize a reality, but in any case, the building material comes from the deepest human nature.

This fundamental irrationality has no exceptions because it comes from our genes, which evolved over tens of thousands of years thanks to this attraction to bad news. Back then, this attention-attraction to bad news had a utility for the survival of the individual, the family, and the group. If people had focused more on what was going well, perhaps they could have lived better, but to survive, they had to pay more attention to the negative: a beast prowling around the village; a foreign tribe approaching ours; a stranger coming near the farm; a plague that took the neighbor or a city on the other side of the river.

For hundreds of thousands of years, our survival depended on paying attention to bad news, not good news. It didn’t make us happier, but evolution doesn’t care about our happiness, only the preservation of the group or the species. Those who, by genetic accident, were born with the ability to be happy with little died before reproducing. Those who were obsessive, sometimes paranoid, sometimes fanatical about some impossible story, were more prepared, more alert, and took the women left by the happy, naive ones. And they reproduced like rabbits.

The culture that later emerged in complex societies, societies of hundreds of millions of individuals, tried to correct this genetic reality that, for hundreds of thousands of years, had emerged from smaller tribes. It was probably the first contradiction between our good prehistoric genes and our bad responses to the new reality of the first civilizations. But the remnants of the attraction to violence, along with sex, remain and are the primary material for work in a hyper-commercialized culture and a civilization based on consumerism. Among them are the media, which have ceased to be a public service and have become a business. In countries composed of several countries, like the United States, local channels, often owned by national conglomerates, prioritize crime reporting.[3] National or international networks don’t do anything very different: they report wars or promote the eternal fears that sooner or later lead countries and peoples to wars or all kinds of civil violence, almost always with a strong racist, classist, or nationalist component (largely, three variations of the same).

But if this negativity helped us as a species for fifty thousand or hundreds of thousands of years, in our time it not only serves to poison our lives but also allows a few companies (in this case, in the information industry) to reap all the benefits by exploiting, amplifying, and translating into monetary gains a constitutional weakness of the human species that, for the most part, goes unnoticed.

In the United States, the mecca of media controlled by private corporations, the business of this evolutionary weakness is unquestionable. According to the Center for Communication and Social Policy at the University of California, by 1998, television programs centered on violence already accounted for 60 percent of all programming, and the trend was on the rise.[iv] By 2012, Indiana University recorded that 70 percent of television programs for children contained violent content.[v]

This same research concluded that children could consume non-violent programs if the market were capable of creating them. In other words, beyond the easy exploitation of human weaknesses by market ideology and its profits, there is something called education and culture that could translate ancestral energies into a higher level of civilization, essential for the survival of individuals and the human species.

3. Toxic Masculinity

This prehistoric reality can also be observed in the repeated persistence of certain elements in the new digital culture. One of them, for example, consists of thousands of short videos about a boy who is bullied by a bully, often defending the vulnerable woman. The boy is sometimes a prisoner, a beer drinker in a bar, or a pre-university student. The boy is good. That is, he is either us or a member of our tribe, who are always good and are attacked without reason.

The formula is not an invention of TikTok or of videos from other social networks. It already existed in the era of cinema and Hollywood films, like Rocky Marciano. The same formula has been in practice for thousands of years. For the purposes of this study, let us recall the speech of Andrew Jackson in 1832 and many other presidents, newspapers, magazines, and television channels: “we were attacked without provocation”; “we had to defend ourselves”; “we will never forget.”

After receiving mockery and several humiliating blows from “the other,” our tribal hero (our alter ego) reacts and ends up delivering several devastating blows. The spectators, without exception (neither religious, nor political, nor ideological, nor social class), enjoy it. We enjoy the violence and justify it as the only way to respond to a prior aggression. Beyond whether we judge each situation separately and it is reasonable to think this way, what matters for this analysis is the popularity and repetition of the same formula with few variations. Why? Because the scene appeals to basic, primitive, prehistoric instincts, which say a lot about ourselves, who are unwilling to be analyzed in this way.

The masculinity of the gladiator, of the tribal warrior (later sublimated in the idol of soccer and the genocidal general of some distant war) was functional for the salvation of the tribe, of our group against the group of others. In the more complex societies of recent centuries, it is merely toxic masculinity that produces more problems than solutions. Like patriarchy: if it was ever justified in some form of feudal organization, for centuries it has been an obstacle to the functioning of more contemporary societies.

The software that once served a system called Windows 95 has now become an obstacle, if not a virus. Thus, the genetic software that once served a human survival system is now a virus, an obstacle to progress or, simply, the organization of a functional society that aspires to survival as a species.

4. Sadism and Pleasure. The Weak Must Be Eliminated

For millions of years, nature has used pleasure to drive individuals to take risks, to invest energy that initially did not result in any gain, unlike defense or alertness in the face of imminent danger, which we discussed earlier. An action that does not provide an immediate benefit must be rewarded with pleasure. This has been the case with sex (thanks to genetic diversity, faster evolution and, therefore, more effective adaptation to environmental changes were possible) and, very likely, we can speculate, it has also been the case with sadism and mockery.

Sadism, the pleasure derived from others’ pain, is another primitive impulse that has leaped from the marginal corners of civilized society (from the dark corners of some poor neighborhood or the illuminated corners of some rich office) to the screens of the entire world.

Except in the secret prisons maintained by dictatorships and democracies, this sadism is not about the physical sadism of torture, but rather a low-intensity sadism. However, this low intensity is the requirement to keep those dark energies within the legal and even moral frameworks of societies. At the same time, these two factors (low intensity and legality) turn sadism into a ubiquitous and transparent phenomenon, so much so that it becomes normalized and spreads until it becomes a global and transcultural phenomenon.

Like the previous reflexes, this weakness is also exploited by the market and by those in power. With an added incentive: in a ruthless world where all individuals are desperate to find a source of survival, sadism, the bully is no longer a gratuitous exercise but often transforms into a source of income. I’m referring to the YouTubers who have developed and multiplied this market. The YouTubers, whether they are millions of failures who spend years trying to make a hundred dollars or those few successful ones who make thousands of dollars with each video mocking someone else, still represent and are part of the lower strata of the power pyramid. At the top are the platform owners, the big investors who find better utility in this culture of permanent mockery and insatiable frivolity. This empty culture provides a sense of freedom and satisfaction, not unlike what a drug addict might feel. In fact, several studies show or demonstrate that the overstimulation of video games or similar limitless activities is as addictive as cocaine. This culture of emptiness and perpetual entertainment not only avoids critical thinking in a sufficient percentage of society (especially among the young) but also destroys their habit of unfragmented thinking.

Another virtue that in the past must have served to save the tribe from the burden of the weak and to reproduce the genes of the strongest has now turned into a toxic weakness, exploited by the powerful of the moment according to the rules and laws of the dominant system (capitalism), in favor of their own class tribes and against the rest of humanity.

5. The Need to Fight: My Tribe or Theirs

In the 21st century, identity politics has colonized both the left and the right, from the demands of majority minorities to the fanaticism of the hordes of minority majorities, from race and gender consciousness to racism and nationalisms. Although the phenomenon is new, it is not something entirely novel. The cultural war around identities has the force of visibility and the most primitive instinct, like identification with a tribe, a clan, an emotional center, whether religious, political, or sports-related.

The problem in complex societies, like modern ones, is that it serves to invisibilize larger conflicts through arbitrary opposites like city and countryside, civilization and barbarism, which the educator and later Argentine president Domingo F. Sarmiento made famous in the 19th century and which, even in the 21st century, makes even the poorest and most marginalized peons feel identified with their landowners, just as slaves identified with their masters to the extent that most African Americans today carry the surnames of their ancestors’ owners and not a few fought for the Confederacy during the American Civil War. In other regions, like South America, peons identify with a culture, such as that of the gaucho, which leads the overwhelming majority of them to vote and be unconditional supporters of their wealthier employers who monopolize the top spots on electoral lists, while hating the poor members of the opposing party who identify with the cities. The same goes for the North and the South, whites and blacks… The exploitation of the master over the slave, the defense of the interests of those above and those below, becomes invisible or disappears. A rural peon and an industrial peon become players on rival soccer teams, while the general and the soldier identify with the common cause of fighting the other army composed of other generals and soldiers they don’t know.

On the other hand, apart from this arbitrary and irrational but millennial grouping, it is very likely that there is a universal conditioning of human beings to mobilize through preaching, sermons, harangues, and the more recent “motivational speech.” Otherwise, it would be impossible to explain how traditionally, peasants have gone by the thousands (militia) to die in the wars of the nobles, of the elite who received and still receive the material and moral benefits from the spoils of their own and foreign lands. It is possible that the dynamic proselytism-action also has its roots in the long prehistory of humanity. That is, the vulnerability of the basic emotions described earlier, especially the negative ones like fear and anger, to the narrative of the chief or the leader of the family (the father), of the clan (the patriarch), of the tribe (the chief), and of the nation (the religious leader, the political leader).

None of the aforementioned groups, nor any of the administrators of the narrative-power of each, have disappeared. Just as a child learns to obey the word of the father (though in this case, it is a justified obedience) with periods of rebellion; just as the various tribal and religious leaders had the power to send entire peoples to war, so do our more civilized societies function with varying degrees of violence, depending on the historical moment of the inverse Progression curve. In all cases, the power of direct physical coercion, as in war or in a torture chamber, has been far less persistent and less ubiquitous than the omnipresent force of narrative. Through the narrative established by a prior tradition, a leader or a group articulates the comprehensibility of the world for the rest of their people, pushing them toward periods of greater peace or to war. Beyond weapons, the abstraction of money restricts and amplifies the freedom of one group over others, but social cohesion (for example, to carry out an act of collective fanaticism like a massacre or the defense of their own enslavement) almost always stems from the narrative of power. In some cases, counter-narratives to that power have reproduced that same cohesive power but on a smaller scale.

This is likely because for hundreds of thousands of years, both the understanding of the world and the organization of society were not based on any rational analysis but on the emotional acceptance of a totalizing narrative, generally myths, simple legends, and more complex religions. Within this framework (which, for example, in medieval Europe was Christianity, while in the then-first world, the Arab and Persian world, it was Islam) the unifying narratives later became economic theories, racial ideologies, and ideologies of various kinds. All supported by propaganda. Propaganda acts as a missionary factor of the general framework, most often confirming it (the politically correct) and less frequently questioning it (rebellions, revolutions).[4]

In the chapters that make up the sections of this book called “History” and “Posthistory,” we will delve into more detail on this phenomenon.

6. The Need (and Obligation) to Believe

For at least fifty thousand years, myths and legends explained the world, organized groups, tribes, societies, and promoted non-existent futures—like all futures.[5] Common sense was reserved for immediate things, like keeping a vessel horizontal so its contents wouldn’t spill. For everything beyond, from society (mostly invisible, incomprehensible, and uncontrollable) to life after the death of the individual, there was imagination. Not individual imagination but collective imagination. In fact, the Neanderthals were surpassed and, to some extent, exterminated by the prehistoric Westerners, the Cro-Magnons, due to their realism, their inability to imagine fantasies at the same level as our direct ancestors.

It is perhaps for this evolutionary reason (if things had been different, we wouldn’t be here) that the need to believe in the impossible can be explained. Ramses II living forever; Moses parting the Red Sea in two; Noah placing a male and female of each of the billions of animal species on a wooden boat; Nostradamus predicting the fall of the Twin Towers centuries in advance… Beyond the millennial tradition (for some ancestral and perhaps neurological reason) of occupying children’s intellects with fairy tales and more commercial fantasies like Santa Claus and the Three Wise Men. Isn’t it simpler to tell children that their parents bought the gifts? Why this need and this pleasure in lying? Why all this expenditure of time and energy setting up scenes and false stories for children, if not for a conditioning that goes beyond cultures to the roots of a shared past?

Why? Because the impossible was called miracles, and miracles are not a product of uncontrollable chance but of divine intervention, of an absolute power with a superior human intelligence but devoid of higher emotions, with which one could establish a dialogue and negotiation. But that dialogue could not be rational. The superior intelligence of all and each of the gods and goddesses also lacked a single superior feeling or emotion. On the contrary, the gods reproduced the same human miseries that concerned humans: jealousy, selfishness, theft and legitimized plunder; racism and sexism without feelings of guilt; desires for revenge and extermination; promises of wealth, power, and eternal health to enjoy them. Perhaps some moments in the Gospels reveal an exception to this rule, such as the feeling and prescription to love even one’s enemies; a prescription that was never, ever taken into account by their most fanatical followers, but quite the opposite. Generally, the gods were not much different from the Superheroes of 20th-century American popular culture: they all had superpowers, but not super intelligence and even less super feelings.

Therefore, the dialogue between the gods and the suffering creatures had to be based on faith, as faith is rooted in the deepest component of the human and animal psyche: the fear-desire. Moreover, in some cases, as in the biblical Genesis, understanding became a symbol of sin, the forbidden fruit. In not a few cases, as in the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition, doubt, the lack of faith was considered a danger (sin) that had to be eradicated through conversion, the threat of hell, and persecution or proselytism to prevent the contagion of bad examples from others.

This ancestral component (the need to believe in an impossible or improbable story) must be taken into account, like all the others, to explain contemporary phenomena. In this case, not only political, ideological, and commercial propaganda but even the most spontaneous fake news. Otherwise, it would be impossible to understand why, according to the studies we will see later, fake news are six times more likely to go viral than real news. One might think that fake news are funded by large conspiratorial organizations, which in many cases is true, but that does not explain why in the rest of the cases, when there is no organization behind it, the fake news spreads more and faster than verifiable news. Traditionally, it is a phenomenon similar to the rumor, the village gossip spread by a modest neighbor. It is possible that the suspicion or perception that the story is not entirely true triggers and enhances its viral nature.

7. The Literature of Power

When Homo sapiens left the trees first and the savannas later to enter a new complexity created by themselves, the cities, they had to learn and adapt to the new rules of the new nature. Something similar is happening now: sapiens are leaving the three-dimensional cities to enter a new nature with its own laws. What has not changed is their vocation for power, when they have it, and for justice, when they lack that power. That ancestral need to turn others into “happy slaves.”

Since the most primitive societies needed a unifying myth for a more complex exogamous functioning, the struggle to manage the foundational and teleological narratives, the means and propaganda were created simultaneously. Religions brought these two components to maturity thousands of years ago with proselytism and punishments for those who strayed from the dominant dogma of the victorious totem.

For thousands of years, stories were the primary means of transmitting knowledge, whether moral or practical, usually through emotion and aesthetics. They still are. Now, if the unifying myth (religious, ideological) had the functionality of organizing unity and power in a society, the instrument to capture the individual’s attention lay in its opposite, in novelty. This instrument is central both in literature and in news production. The goal of both is to capture attention with a referenced fact, a fact that is transmitted by the word and announces an important or vital event or describes it as past, that is, exposed to contemplation once stripped of the anxiety of uncertainty and danger. A story, a novel, or a film must capture the reader’s attention and curiosity with the aim of delving into some human passion or, simply, to increase consumption. But while the goal of fiction and honest journalism is not to deceive the reader, the goal of propaganda and advertising, whether consciously or inadvertently, is precisely that. It is likely that in the origin of the stories told by our ancestors in Africa and later in Asia, fiction and non-fiction were one and the same. The greater sophistication of written history must have distinguished one from the other until, ironically, they were deliberately reunited with the development of modern technology. Religious narratives remained the exception, as the distinction between fiction and reality never depended on material facts but on faith.

At the beginning of the 17th century, the Catholic Church reached a new level of sophistication in understanding and producing propaganda. Not by chance, this instrument developed by the Vatican at the start of the great expansion of European powers across the world had a proselytizing and imperialist root. The narrative shifted from tribe and nation to a global narrative. On June 22, 1622, Pope Gregory XV issued the bull Inscrutabili Divinae, which established the “Congregatio de propaganda fide,” an office known as “Propaganda,” whose area of action was those countries where Catholicism was not the majority.

One of the Catholic Church’s enemies, Protestantism, from its inception made intensive use of theological propaganda through the new technology of movable type and the mass publication of books and pamphlets.

Shortly after, in the secular era of the European Enlightenment, this function, freed from myths or religious beliefs, shifted to the press and secular ideologies of reason, liberty, and equality. In any case, both in their prehistoric and religious periods, the media responded to the political power of the time, whether it was an absolute monarchy or a democratic republic. It is obvious that in a democracy, the media and propaganda are more important than in a personal dictatorship, as they must overcome more institutional obstacles. Concentrated powers have always been able to easily buy the dominant media, but they have not been able to as easily buy democracies, which is why they have used the media to manipulate democracies and adapt them to their interests. History shows that democracies have always been an obstacle to concentrated powers, which in our Western world have been, for at least a couple of centuries, the great capitals.

The seizure of indigenous territories by the Thirteen Colonies, the purchase of Louisiana without consulting its population (that is, the indigenous population), the taking of half of Mexican territory, and later, overseas expansion, could never have been carried out without this mechanism of conviction or unifying fanaticism, such as the myth of Manifest Destiny, invented by a journalist, John O’Sullivan, in the mid-19th century. Later came other myths, such as the myth of white genocide at the end of the 19th century in Australia and the United States, to justify the genocide of Black peoples around the world, a myth that inspired Adolf Hitler in Europe.

For all of this, the hijacking of technological innovations in media by the elites in power at the time was always necessary. It would suffice to recall one of the most classic and influential hijackings in history, such as the hijacking of the sacred books of the great religions. Without entering into religious and theological evaluations, one could say that the most effective narrative manipulation apparatus were books like the Bible and ideas like “we, the chosen people of God,” which justified various political actions against other peoples, not to mention the Quran and the realization of the Muslim empire during the European Middle Ages. Later, the same Bible, and especially the monopoly of its interpretation by the Roman Empire first and then by European nations, justified the Crusades against Muslims and various massacres in Europe against other Christians and in other continents against pagans and idolaters, which served as moral support for the sword and cannon of the superior race.

In this last case, the hijacked technology was Gutenberg’s movable type printing press, which began by democratizing culture and continued by legitimizing the militaristic barbarism of European colonizers. In fact, pocket books emerged as practical war manuals for the battlefields. The same goes for newspapers in the 19th century, radio and television in the 20th century, and especially the internet in the early 21st century.

In 1833, The Sun in New York began selling newspapers for a penny (a phenomenon known as the penny press), which made newspaper production far exceed previous levels. By the mid-19th century, the rotary press was perfected, enabling the spread not only of fake news but also of foundational myths like the myth of Manifest Destiny. The self-congratulatory storm of fake but patriotic news, largely originating from the government itself, became an addiction impossible to stop. Various newspapers began baselessly accusing Mexicans of offending the honor of the United States, calling on all young men to enlist as volunteers to fight thousands of miles away from the taverns where they got drunk on cheap liquor and patriotic songs. Once the theft of more than half of Mexican territory was accomplished, accompanied by massacres and rapes, there was no shortage of artists promoted by the complicity of the next generation. The most iconic painting of the period was “American Progress” by artist John Gast, completed in 1872. A kitschy allegory depicting a blonde, sexy woman (white women never fully expose their breasts, like the fleeing Native woman, but suggest them delicately behind a tunic that never quite falls) floating in the air, representing civilization. In front of her, wild beasts, Native Americans, and darkness flee, while behind her follow light, agriculture, and technological progress, such as the railroad. In one hand, she carries a “school book” while in the other, she unrolls a telegraph wire.

By then, the latest invention was the telegraph. Samuel Morse had discovered this technique of transmitting signals in binary code in 1838 and, in 1844, had successfully transmitted the first message from Washington to Baltimore: “What God hath wrought.”[6] By 1880, there were over a million kilometers of telegraph cables worldwide. Samuel Morse’s brother, Sidney, wrote him a prophetic letter: “Your invention, measured by the power it will give man to carry out his plans, is not only the greatest invention of this age but the greatest invention of any age. I see… that the surface of the earth will be interconnected, and every wire will be a nerve, carrying to different parts of the world the knowledge of what each is doing. This invention is invaluable!”[vi] Soon, Samuel Morse would be recognized as “The Peacemaker of His Time.” In 1858, after completing the transatlantic cable between Washington and London, President James Buchanan confirmed the same optimism, never devoid of messianism: “May the Atlantic Telegraph, under the blessing of Heaven, prove to be a bond of perpetual peace and friendship between the kindred nations, and an instrument designed by Divine Providence to diffuse religion, civilization, liberty, and law throughout the world.”[vii] To avoid disappointing expectations, the telegraph soon became another tool for new wars.

But the maturation of the power of the press would come with the hijacking of the Cuban War of Independence and the Spanish-American War in 1898, alongside the invention of yellow journalism. Three years earlier, on February 17, 1895, from the New York World Building, the tallest building in the city, Joseph Pulitzer had flooded the streets with a million copies of the New York World featuring a comic strip about a character named Mickey Dugan. On May 5, the homeless, barefoot, drunk, and foul-mouthed boy appeared dressed in a yellow tunic in the first full-color comic strip the world had ever seen. What was new was that the old was now represented in a mass medium. At the time, foul-mouthed and drunk children were not uncommon. Boys became men with whiskey at home, and men became brave with more whiskey in taverns. Soon, the lying boy would move, likely for money, to William Randolph Hearst’s New York Journal. As quantum physics proves, for a time, the character continued to exist simultaneously in his old home and the new one.

But the New York World and the New York Journal also dedicated more serious pages to politics and the coming war. The competition between the two was a fight to the death, so they had to resort to sensationalism and the fabrication of facts that inflamed primitive emotions like anger and patriotism. The New York Press, a modest newspaper in the city, dismissively labeled the persuasive work of the two major newspapers in the country as “yellow journalism.”

When the illustrator Frederic Remington asked William Randolph Hearst to return home due to a lack of news (“there is no war here,” he had reported), Hearst ordered him to stay: “you furnish the pictures, and I’ll furnish the war.”[viii] Fake news, big private businesses, and wars have always been intertwined. The enemies, Pulitzer (the future paradigm of ethical journalism) and Hearst (the future media mogul pro-Hitler), were businessmen and knew that nothing sold better than war, misinformation, and the exacerbation of tavern patriotism. By early 1898, the New York Journal had sold an impressive 30,000 copies per day. By the time the war against Spain broke out, which wasn’t really a war, the Journal was selling over a million copies a day. By then, it could reduce the price of the newspaper by half (one cent) in an effort to attract “less sophisticated” readers. Among the favorite stories that would later be reproduced in hundreds of other local newspapers across the country, the most appealing were those that depicted the Spanish as barbaric criminals, depraved men pursuing defenseless, nearly naked Cuban women. This war wasn’t the first war in which the media justified the ends, but it was the first in history encouraged by the media in pursuit of increasing their sales. The absurdity reached such proportions that other minor newspapers, like the St. Paul Globe in Minnesota, began advertising themselves as “The latest news. Reliable. No fake War News.”[ix]

When the telephone replaced the telegraph, as it had to, history repeated itself. In 1876, Alexander Graham Bell got President Rutherford Hayes to accept the first telephone in the White House with the number 1, the national code for the United States today. Bell’s company became AT&T. An extension of this form of voice transmission was Marconi’s radio, which began with wireless communication and continued with the broadcast of the same wave to more than one receiver. According to Marconi, radio was going to be “a herald of peace and civilization among nations.”[x] Marconi himself sold it as a tool of communication and propaganda to the British for their colonial wars and to the Belgians for their brutal capitalist exploitation of the Congo (which, under the supervision of King Leopold II alone, left ten million dead), and to the Russians and Japanese so they could fight each other.[xi]

In 1906, the first radio program was broadcast in the United States. Soon, political speeches were reduced from one hour to ten minutes. The American politician who best knew how to use the new medium was Franklin D. Roosevelt. In Germany, it was the Nazis. Hitler not only drew inspiration from the racist tradition of slaveholders and theorists like Madison Grant, but his propaganda minister learned from the books of Edward Bernays. Hitler had no doubts and didn’t beat around the bush: “When a war is unleashed, what matters is not being right, but achieving victory.”

Bernays systematized propaganda just as his uncle, Sigmund Freud, had systematized psychoanalysis. His theories and successful practices not only inspired the Nazi propagandists of the Third Reich but also served to sell one of the biggest fake news stories of the 20th century: the idea that the democratically elected president of Guatemala was a communist, which the CIA used to protect one of its favorite companies. They succeeded not only by replacing Árbenz in 1954 with a military coup (similar to the one in Iran in 1953) but also by producing a series of military dictatorships that, over the next forty years, left more than 200,000 dead in that small country alone. All, as always, in the name of democracy and freedom.

More recently, during the war in Ukraine, Western media and governments accused Russian media of being part of the Russian government’s propaganda. Direct censorship, as in China or Saudi Arabia, is not the business of Western media or megacapitalists, who always justify their abuses of power with the argument that they are the defenders of freedom. Although history shows that the defenders of “free enterprise” have almost always supported dictatorships or unpopular policies, for linguistic reasons they cannot be against “freedom” in the abstract while defending the freedom that truly matters to them. Who could be against freedom in the centuries of the Enlightenment paradigm? If we convince the majority of those at the bottom that when we speak of freedom, we are not referring only to our freedom, the business is a done deal. No different from the American slaveholders who invented the Republic of Texas in 1836 to reinstate slavery in that Mexican territory and then continued expanding slavery westward, always under the narrative of freedom. Just as when the slaveholders spoke of “freedom,” they meant the freedom of “the free race” (a detail lost in the translation of their speeches into primary and secondary school textbooks, films, and mainstream media), the hijackers of democracy after the Civil War in the United States, that is, the big businessmen and corporations, began to refer to “freedom of enterprise,” which led to the establishment of dozens of dictatorships in Latin America from the late 19th century to protect it, first from the Indians, the Blacks, and the poor, and then from the witch of communism, which they themselves created twice, first as a popular reaction and then as an illusion designed in the CIA offices in Virginia.

Western censorship has always focused on true propaganda, that is, the inoculated idea that leads a significant majority to think and act according to the interests of an elite to which they do not belong, nor do their own interests. The great explosion of this strategy occurred with the independence of the Thirteen Colonies, promoted by an elite of enlightened philosophers who fought against a monarch across the ocean but also did not want to fully implement their own ideals, such as “We the People” and “all men are created equal.” Similarly, as we exposed in The Savage Frontier (2021), the obsession with union arose from the fear of territorial fragmentation and the social and racial fragmentation on which the entire idealistic discourse of the Founding Fathers was based. A central part of all propaganda is not only convincing a group of people to do something they would not do on their own but, in the long term, convincing them to think in a certain way until they become its main defenders. For this, the colonization of language is of central importance.[xii]

One of the mechanisms by which this semantic colonization is carried out consists of the fossilization of a narrative in unconditional support of a dominant dogma. It is much easier and more immediate to inoculate a dogma into a social group (like a mosquito inoculating a parasite into another animal) than to remove it from the collective unconscious. For example, during the early years of the Cold War, the power of Latin American communists and the possibilities of Soviet interference on the continent were virtually irrelevant. Washington and the CIA knew this. Nevertheless, the Agency planned the narrative of “the fight against communism” and, not without irony, “against foreign influence” to destroy democracies and plant puppets in friendly dictatorships, just as it planted articles in the mainstream press. Once the CIA acknowledged that it had been a fabrication, the believers who had little or nothing to gain from this dogma continued to be its greatest defenders and passed it on to the next generations. Something similar happened with the more recent invasion of Iraq. Once Presidents George W. Bush and José María Aznar acknowledged “the intelligence error” regarding the existence of weapons of mass destruction in the hands of Saddam Hussein, apart from his alleged links to Al Qaeda, the majority of American consumers of the conservative network Fox News continued to assert that the existence of the prohibited weapons was real.[7]

Just as Franklin D. Roosevelt won four presidential elections thanks to his mastery of the radio, John F. Kennedy won the 1960 election against Nixon thanks to his better mastery of television, and Barack Obama did so in 2008 through his mastery of the internet, and Donald Trump in 2016 through his mastery of social media.

The birth and development of the internet were no different from all the communication media that preceded it: communication tools and military instruments, means of deliberation and oppression. Media hijacked by the powers that be.

During the war in Ukraine, those of us who held NATO responsible for the military escalation that led to the Russian invasion were immediately accused of being “pro-Putin,” even though we directly and explicitly denied it multiple times. Newspapers like Le Monde in Paris echoed this form of moral censorship, diverting the focus of criticism away from the root causes.[xiii] Almost unanimously, the large and respected networks of Western governments, such as DW, PBS, and BBC, along with numerous private corporations, presented only one viewpoint: that of the Ukrainian victims. This viewpoint was based on an irrefutable moral fact (innocent victims are innocent victims), but, like all claims of objectivity, it consisted of a selective representation of reality to conveniently distort it. Perspectives contrary to NATO’s interests were conspicuously absent.

When the congresses of certain countries have questioned mega-platforms like Twitter or Facebook for allowing hate speech or failing to control the massive production of fake news, their owners have always defended themselves by claiming that they are not “the arbiters of truth.” Once again, the Anglo-Saxon mask covers and distracts from reality. To mention just one recent conflict, let’s recall that platforms like Twitter accompanied every link to RT with the warning, “This tweet is related to a site dependent on the Russian government.” Of course, in all other cases, they do not label or mention the affiliations of Western media with aligned governments. Major opinion-forming networks, such as Fox News or CNN, responsible for supporting massive wars and concealing their crimes against humanity, are not more independent because they are private; on the contrary, their empires do not depend on readers but on their million-dollar advertisers and the powerful interests of their micro social class. Their news should be preceded with the warning: “this media outlet is affiliated with or serves the special interests of lobbies, corporations, and transnational entities.”

To a large extent, channels that do not hide their affiliation with a government, a union, or an ideology are more honest than those with international reach and devastating influence that pose as independent and champions of journalistic objectivity.

Moreover, media objectivity does not exist, and neutrality is mere cowardice, if not cynicism. What exists and should be valued is honesty, finally acknowledging which worldview we support and whether that worldview depends on our personal interests, class interests, or something broader called humanity.

The war in Cuba in 1898 (print media), the destruction of Guatemalan democracy in 1954, the failed invasion of Cuba in 1961 (radio), the destruction of Chilean democracy in 1973 (print, radio, and television), and so many others, were direct products of PR manipulations (Press release) and media used as propaganda tools were complex operations but much simpler than the reality we face today. The internet has increased the diversity, reach, and complexity of the same manipulation of public opinion. With the internet and social media, the participation of the reader has increased the idea of consumer freedom and independence.

The central reason for the manipulation of public opinion (of its emotions and feelings) must be sought in the empire of corporate powers. All political and social campaigns require money. The more money, the more media power. The fact that today a handful of men in the United States possess as much wealth as half the country’s population is not a minor detail. That wealth depends on and grows with investments, and one of the most important investments, on which their very existence and the world order depend, lies in investments in public opinion. For example, by attributing their own practices to their adversaries: the danger lies in the propaganda of socialists, unions, etc.

Artificial intelligence will exacerbate this situation.

8. Give me an enemy, and I’ll make you my vassal

On the other hand, it is also possible that we retain cultural and even genetic remnants of all that history, just as we retain the allergies of the Neanderthals, who were disappeared or eliminated by our ancestors 40,000 years ago.[xiv] I am referring to the need to relate to an enemy. Even more than the tribal feeling of belonging to a group, tribal paranoia requires an enemy. This is the constitutional reason behind every flag, every array of symbols, whether they are stickers on cars or tattoos on arms and the back of the neck. Otherwise, if someone feels part of a confederated group, why would they need to wave their flag at us on a street in Jacksonville or Philadelphia? The same reflection applies to any other fanatic of racial or nationalist sects on any other continent, a fanaticism that those in power know and exploit very well, whether in personal dictatorships or in the dictatorships of hijacked democracies.

I believe it is not far-fetched to think that the evolutionary adaptation to protect the tribe has left the legacy of a permanent predisposition to antagonism, to the combat of some other. The problem is that this “tribal legacy,” now expressed in fascism, Nazism, racism, and all their variations, has the same effect as our antibodies in a hyper-hygienic world: the antibodies begin to recognize our own body as the invading enemy and attack it, producing all kinds of serious illnesses that end up killing us.

The “need for an enemy” or for “an antagonist” permeates almost all social interactions in today’s digital world. Consequently, it is exploited and maximized by corporations whose goal is economic profit, “free competition” (on a large scale, read “the elimination of competition”).[xv]

This operates at the popular level, that is, in basic, primitive, reptilian emotions. But the same logic works and dominates at the higher levels of society and power, where it truly has a concrete benefit.

The enemy never rests… Your mission is ours.” Thus, and on the front page, Lockheed Martin, a private company that sells war weaponry (always referencing the “right to defense” and “national security”) advertises in the New York Times, in case there is any other buyer besides the government. 50,000,000,000 dollars in search of new enemies. On December 31, 2021, the Wall Street Journal published an extensive analysis. The title alone begins with a question and ends with the answer: ”Who Won in Afghanistan? Private Contractors. The U.S. military spent 14 trillion dollars ($14 trillions) over two decades of war; those who benefited range from major manufacturers to entrepreneurs.” After the new military fiasco in Afghanistan, and after such a fortune invested by Washington in war companies, in the merchants of death, it is urgent to find a new enemy and a new conflict. Before a major adventure with China, the option is clear: continue violating the treaties of non-armament expansion of NATO to the East, pressure Russia to react by deploying its army on the border with Ukraine, and then accuse it of attempting to invade the neighboring country. Hasn’t this been exactly the story of the treaties signed with Native Americans since the late 18th century?

As Edward Snowden reveals in his book Permanent Record, based on the NSA documents he himself leaked, the “Black Budget” of 2013 consisted of 52.6 billion solely for the Intelligence Community composed of 107,035 employees (of which 21,800 were outsourced contracts). According to Snowden himself, “most of the intelligence work has been privatized.”[xvi] Something that journalist Ross Gelbspan had already warned about in 1991 as a process initiated by Ronald Reagan while promoting any conservative group to Intelligence offices.[xvii]

9. The Leader

The leader is the depository of what in economics is known as “rational ignorance”: we cannot investigate or know everything, so we make uninformed decisions knowing that the benefits of more information are less than the costs of an uninformed decision. For this, we must delegate our decision-making power to someone who knows something about the subject. The problem is that in major social issues, the costs of an uninformed decision always exceed the costs of a greater effort of investigation.

In politics, in the formation of public or collective opinion, individuals often delegate their decision-making power to a leader. In religions, this functions as a repository for all possible errors: if we don’t know what’s best, let’s do as the leader or prophet says, who is never wrong. After all, they are either God or a messenger of God.

In politics, it’s no different. Leaving our decision-making power in the hands of a Leader X relieves us of moral and intellectual effort, but the price is supporting and defending them, helping the leader to help us, regardless of whether they or we are wrong.

When in 1971 inflation in the United States approached seven percent, President Richard Nixon decided to go against the conservative-mercantilist dogma of his own party and its loyal voters and imposed price controls. Gallup polls and surveys from Columbia University in New York showed that the announcement of price controls had no impact on Democratic Party voters, who had long been in favor of such measures, but among Republican followers, support for price controls rose from 37 percent to 82 percent in just a few hours.

This constitutional weakness is distilled in fairy tales, where the poor peasant, the humble artisan dreams of one day reaching—or imagining every day—the blessing of royalty. Cinderella who finally marries the prince, the office worker who reads magazines about the Rich and Famous. In recent centuries, this has been exploited by political realism, by U.S. governments like that of Ronald Reagan, and by almost all the puppets planted by Washington and private transnational corporations in the Republics south of the Rio Grande since the 19th century.

10. We are exceptional, the chosen people

No one can love an abstract and largely fictional entity like “the homeland” or any country in the same way they love a person or a specific group of people, like family or friends. We may like a place, our own home, but there’s a difference between that and feeling love. Love for a country is a fabrication, a cultural and ideological product, and a narcissistic sublimation that, as Bernard Shaw said, “patriotism is the conviction that this country is superior to all others because you were born there.” This paradox is even clearer in the sudden patriotism of immigrants who were not “born there,” who, upon arriving in a global superpower, wrap themselves in its flag, all in the name of “love for this great country” and similar rationalizations that assume that martyrs for human rights and their assassins have something in common that unites them and must be loved and defended with the patriot’s life. It’s not love-love. It’s self-love. Patriotism is the reflection of self-love in the mirror of altruism.

Long before countries existed with their flags (some taken from a religious sect and others, like that of the United States, from a private English company), as we conceive them now and for not many centuries, from before the Sumerians and Egyptians to the Bible and the various nations that followed (Romans, Pygmies, English), each tribe, each people considered themselves “the true men,” “the people chosen by the gods”—by their god or gods, it goes without saying—”the evolved race,” “the civilized people,” or “the correct culture.” In all cases, it was an arbitrary and merely arrogant declaration of superiority and special rights of one people over others. If for some material reason that people, nation, or country managed to subjugate others and impose their own fantasies, the belief of having been favored or chosen by their gods proved itself, and those who questioned it were not only associated with the losers but with evil—the devil, the dangerous ideology, the enemy.

It’s unnecessary to clarify which American nation has played this role in the last two centuries. After gaining independence from Britain to break the European empire’s agreement with Indigenous nations and thus cross the Appalachians to exercise their “right of exploration” and take by gunpoint the lands of the savages who “were too selfish and didn’t want to share them with the whites,” the Anglo-Saxon settlers dedicated themselves to repelling the defenses of the dispossessed and calling attack the Indigenous defense and defense their own attacks.[xviii] After President Andrew Jackson, known by the nickname “Indian Killer,” signed the last law for the Removal of Native peoples, on December 4, 1832, he addressed Congress and reported: “The Indians were completely defeated, and the band of discontent was expelled or destroyed… Although we had to act harshly, it was necessary; they attacked us without provocation, and we hope they have learned a healthy lesson forever.”[xix]

This psycho-cultural pattern would repeat itself countless times for at least two centuries: (1) we intervene, invade, take, and subjugate, legitimized by our laws; for ourselves and for the world, we repeat: (2) “we were attacked without provocation”; (3) “we had to defend ourselves”; (4) “we will never forget.” Later, the self-victimization due to the misunderstanding of inferior races, peoples, and cultures found its echo in the flattering poem by the Englishman Rudyard Kipling, which went viral in 1899 during the U.S. invasion of the Philippines: “The White Man’s Burden.”

The idea of an exceptional nation (blacks and other inferior races were not part of that nation) matured and articulated its ideology in the myth of Manifest Destiny, invented by journalist John O’Sullivan in 1845. Not coincidentally, this new narrative emerged shortly before President James Polk fabricated, out of thin air, a war against Mexico, based on a supposed offense and following a forced “they attacked us first,” with the goal of taking all Mexican territory stretching to California and thus bringing “the blessing of slavery to the rest of the world.” To the north, it had not been possible. In Canada, they had been defeated in their previous attempt to obtain the Fourteenth State, and even Britain had responded by burning Washington in 1812, which was later sold to historians as an unjustified aggression, supported by enslaved blacks who were cast into the verses of the National Anthem as unpatriotic traitors. To the South and West were the inferior races. O’Sullivan himself wrote in 1852 that “this continent and its adjacent islands belong to the whites; the blacks must remain slaves…”[xx]

According to the new dogma of Manifest Destiny, God had commanded the superior race to expand westward. For this, they needed to invent more advanced war machines, like the Colt-Walker revolver.[8] This cult of American exceptionalism was simultaneously confirmed in one of its still-dominant cultural traits: its anti-intellectualism. Especially after the “Founding Fathers,” the generation of enlightened intellectuals, had already died, and in 1829, a military man with minimal education and maximum fanaticism, named Andrew Jackson, refounded the country in the cult of the power of arms and the “conquest of the frontier” by the superior race, lovers of freedom.

This imprint of Protestant violence, divine wrath, the gun-loving and capital-thirsty Jesus at any cost, would have multiple translations, but all very similar. In 1897, shortly after being appointed Assistant Secretary of the Navy by President McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt wrote to a friend: “I am in favor of almost any war, and I believe this country needs one.”[xxi] Roosevelt was another aristocrat who never overcame the trauma of his parents paying another young man to go to the Civil War in his place. During his years at Harvard, he took up boxing, but it wasn’t enough to calm his white male complexes. Before reaching the White House as president, he often posed dressed as Daniel Boone in New York studios and repeated, every other day, that those who did not dare to go to war in distant lands were not men and did not honor the Teutonic race. Reluctantly, President William McKinley sent the USS Maine to Havana to silence the voices that doubted his masculinity for not wanting to start another war. A decision that, although not the original intention of the president, would end up provoking the war against Spain that the new yellow press of Pulitzer and Hearst desperately desired. War and power are addictive. Finally, McKinley would acknowledge in 1898: “We need Hawaii as we need California; it is Manifest Destiny.” Shortly after, McKinley received a visit from God, asking him to also save the Philippines with another invasion, which would not only leave 200,000 dead, the invention of the sport of hunting blacks, and new forms of torture, like the submarine, but also an interesting access to the markets of the always-desired China. On June 17, 1902, soldier Robert E. Austill wrote to his friend Herbert Welsh: “Our compatriots in America are asking us to kill all the men here and rape the women to improve the race on these islands.” This was not an exception but a repetition found in dozens of similar letters from his comrades. In 1914, the progressive President Woodrow Wilson, after intervening in the Caribbean and Central America, declared: “I am going to teach the South Americans to elect decent governments.” This was almost a copy of the future words of Henry Kissinger on September 12, 1971, when the CIA failed to make Salvador Allende lose the election, as it had in previous opportunities, and he stated: “I don’t see why we should stand by and watch a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its own people.” The CIA director, Richard Helms, responded with the solution: “A sudden economic disaster will be the logical pretext to justify military action.”[xxii]

Throughout the 20th century, and before the medieval return of the 21st century along the same path of capitalism, the superheroes of American pop culture, the products of the cultural industry and commerce, expressed and reproduced this primitive impulse, highly effective and, not by mere coincidence, easily consumable. All the classic heroes (all white men with a hidden frustration) like the Lone Ranger, Superman, Batman, Captain America, or the Hulk possess a dual personality, that is, what they are and what people believe they are. In no case are they distinguished by their intelligence, which is a radical reversal of the positivist and scientistic literature of the previous century, represented by detectives like Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes in England or Edgar Allan Poe in the United States. In fact, the superheroes are often quite foolish and naive, that is, very different from their original and manipulated origin in Zorro, who, aside from not being an Anglo-Saxon hero, operates from the margins, not from the center like all his successors.[9] Like Moses, none of them have a father or mother but stepfathers or substitutes. But in the commercial superhero, not only has the father disappeared but also God. The superpowers of religious leaders that once derived from God have now passed, in a moment of maximum abstraction, to the material and mechanical superpowers of the masked hero (the hero with two faces, the dual personality). He is the extreme representative of the alienated individual, without spirit and almost without intelligence, in the same way that, although religions insist that their gods are the maximum intelligence, creators of the Universe, they never demonstrate it: miracles are expressions of power, not rational demonstrations of a phenomenon. Like any father, he does not need and should not give too many explanations to his young children about the reasons for his decisions. It is the authority and power that is exercised and protected by avoiding any dialectical exposure, any hint of questioning.

Imperial governments and their angels, the secret agencies like the CIA, were the real expression of these secular superheroes, demigods of material power capable of seeing everything, hearing everything, intimidating, imposing their narratives, and disposing of the lives of millions of people, deciding on the death of their infidels (“who want to take over the world”) above any human justice. Demigods, superheroes with special powers: the power of capital and technology, inaccessible to the rest of mortals.

In Anglo-Saxon culture, and especially in Anglo-American culture, problems are solved by force. But since muscular strength is never exceptional in any race, except for exceptions like Hercules or Samson, and despite the exceptionalism of a race considered superior, the special powers of the superhero were necessary, fantastic sublimations of weapons. The cult of weapons was born during slavery (just as the police emerged from slave militias) and was consolidated with each dispossession of peoples “on the frontier,” that is, the rest of the world: Indians, Mexicans, Latin Americans, Filipinos, Africans, Asians…

The confession of Theodore Roosevelt in 1897 (“I am in favor of almost any war, and I believe this country needs one”) was neither new nor the last of its kind. To mention just one more example, it would suffice to recall the words of then-Senator, later President, and responsible for the atomic bombs on Japan and other even worse wars in the region, Harry Truman. “If we see that Germany is winning the war, we should help Russia; and if it is Russia that is winning, we should help Germany; in that way, we will let them kill each other as much as possible,” Truman affirmed, with the conviction of leaders, in 1941.[xxiii]

11. Ancestral Pornography, Intellectual Obesity

Aside from the big news of the “external threat,” the other element of survival always came from within. That is, the conflict of possession and control. Probably one of the most important centers of conflict within the group was sex. This is why any deviation from rigid norms like exogamy or monogamy was always a powerful magnet for public attention and, therefore, a valuable product for capitalist media. In some cultures more than others. Especially in more repressive cultures like the Protestant one.

On May 22, 2022, the world’s richest man, African American Elon Musk, lost $10,000,000,000 (ten billion) dollars, that is, the entire economy of Haiti in a single day, due to the suspicion of an inappropriate sexual incident. According to various sources, a flight attendant at SpaceX had received $250,000 to refrain from revealing that Mr. Musk had proposed having sex with her. For the same reason, the powerful director of the IMF, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, had to resign from his position and his aspirations for the presidency of France when, in 2011, he touched the buttocks of a maid at an American hotel. In other words, the fate of millions of people decided in a bedroom (in a first-class airplane seat, in a hotel bed) as in the Middle Ages.

The obsession with sex and the repression of all things sexual is characteristic of Protestant-Anglo-Saxon culture, which is why a president can launch a bloody war without congressional authorization (and without UN approval, although this is a symbolic detail), as George W. Bush did, but cannot have an extramarital affair, as his predecessor, Bill Clinton, did. War is something that happens far from the village. Sex, even if it occurs thousands of kilometers away, has something to do with us, with the tribe. The history of the United States is full of similar examples, but let’s briefly look at the case of President Clinton.

Just as in 2016 one of the most corrupt congresses in Brasília impeached the president of Brazil, Dilma Rousseff, on unproven corruption charges (or, in any case, quite minor ones), in February 1999 the U.S. Congress sought to remove President Clinton for sexual sins of which many of its members were just a stone’s throw away from throwing a stone at the adulterer. But Clinton’s defenders were more cunning than Rousseff’s.

In 1999, the U.S. House of Representatives approved the impeachment process of President Clinton for his sexual scandal with intern Monica Lewinsky. The decision and certain removal of the president went to the Senate, dominated by the Republican Party. For this, two-thirds of the votes were needed, a number assured by the manifest intentions of the senators who wanted to see the president exiting through the back door of history.

With nothing left to lose, the president’s defense hired Larry Flynt, the mogul of global pornography, owner of magazines and producer of adult films. Almost immediately, Flynt paid for a full-page ad in the Washington Post offering a million dollars to those who could prove similar stories to the president’s, involving members of Congress. Thousands of calls and recordings came in immediately. Flynt didn’t even bother to listen to them.

Fearful of public scandals, some legislators began confessing infidelities to their wives. The most important voice in favor of impeachment, the Speaker of the House and representative of the ultra-conservative state of Louisiana, Bob Livingston, mysteriously resigned on the same day the vote was to take place. Since then and to this day, Bobby has been dedicated to lobbying in Washington (that is, visiting legislators in their offices and inviting them to parties to talk business). Suddenly, the condemning majority in the upper house became a minority. Ten Republican senators voted in favor of pardoning the Democratic president. From the obligation to stone the adulterer, legislated in the Old Testament, it shifted, in a few days, to the love of the New Testament: “Go, son, and sin no more.” The president was pardoned.

But it is likely that this excessive obsession with sex and, above all, with the sexual stories of others, has an even deeper ancestral root than the repressive Anglo-Saxon culture itself. It may be a component developed over many thousands of years of evolution, something that social networks and the rest of social power exploit without realizing it.

The Oxford Internet Institute conducted a study on 22 million tweets and concluded that, during the analyzed period, users had shared more false and conspiratorial information than true information. The researchers labeled these news items as junk news (“junk news”).[xxiv] Singer and Brooking took up this metaphor and summarized these observations as follows: “just as junk food lacks nutritional value, these stories lack informational value. Like junk food, they have been made with artificial ingredients and overly sweetened to make them tempting.” At the end of 2009, sociologist Danah Boyd gave a lecture in New York titled “Streams of Content, Limited Attention” in which, prophetically, she observed: “Our bodies are programmed to consume fats and sugars because they are rare in nature. Similarly, we are biologically programmed to pay attention to stimulating content such as information that is brutal, violent, humiliating, shameful, and offensive. If we are not careful, we will develop the psychological equivalent of obesity. At some point, we will find ourselves consuming content that is harmful to us as individuals and to the rest of society.”[xxv]

 On the other hand, there is also a need to believe in a reality that one desires, regardless of whether it is real or not. In other words, there is a deep need to lie to oneself to deny a painful reality, especially when it has not yet manifested itself clearly. This psychological mechanism of denial is common in cases of complicated or terminal illnesses. Not only the patient and their family members but the entire medical structure invests enormous resources with the sole goal of keeping hope for recovery alive. The same, we can speculate, occurs in social psychology.

The combination of two ancestral impulses, (1) the threat of the other, of the other tribe, and (2) the ancestral tendency to consume news that breaks the routine, initially for evolutionary survival reasons, was turned into a product by capitalism through one of its main instruments: the media.

Social networks only reinvented this traditional obsession with sex and the dirty, taken to the extreme by puritan culture, for example, through “shitposts (shitposts),” that is, extremely negative and offensive memes.[10]

12. The Ping-pong Culture

Another constitutional weakness, ancestral and probably universal, is the ego. For a long time, it could be expressed in (1) physical disputes, which later translated into medieval jousting and, later, into football or any other sports-tribal fanaticism in the 20th century, and (2) dialectical disputes, the battle between two egos that need to be right about anything they assert and uphold in political or nationalist tribalism. Perhaps the first ancestral weakness better represents the subjects, and the second the masters, although in matters of power they have nothing of masters or leaders but in their mere psychological constitution. Few, if any, can resist criticism from someone, for example, on a social network like Twitter or Facebook. Even when it comes to friends, mere acquaintances, followers, or any individual who has been on good terms with the offended party due to a trivial opinion. The dialectical dispute usually ends in insults and one of the worst enmities that any civilized person can imagine. This love-hate mechanism is amplified, like alcohol, by the media distance that turns our “virtual friends” into tribal enemies.

The virtual distance of digital media easily turns “one of us” into “one of them.” The other, even if they continue to belong to the same ideological bubble, is always an “imperfect us,” an almost-other who, at the slightest dialectical or ideological difference, automatically becomes an absolute enemy. The only reason lies in the sensitivity of the wounded ego, that is, the complex of the ancient tribal leader who has been questioned by the words of a beta male, a candidate for alpha male.

Now, the complexity of this ancestral nature is complicated a thousandfold because in the political or ideological battle (the battle for power), a fundamental argument is never truly lost or won, as it is at this frontier where politics and religion overlap. Factual discussions can only be limited to very precise and narrow data (inflation, crime rates, or inequality), none of which could affect the partisan faith of those involved. Suppose we are in a meeting, and suddenly someone presents factual data that goes against the proposals of a political party, whether in government or in opposition. No one would change their allegiance, affiliation, or sympathy, just as no one would stop being Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, or atheist because someone appeared with the worst possible evidence against any of these beliefs. There is no discussion that could be of any value, even though humanity has invested centuries in this absurdity. This only proves one aspect of our human condition.

In this sense, no rational idea holds any value. It is a matter of emotions, and the stronger and more widespread the emotion (usually a negative one), the better for those in power. Being furious does not mean being right. At any other point in history, this would be a truism. Not in our time. A characteristic of the current social media culture is the “culture of argumentation.” In Spanish, a “discusión” in a family context often has a negative connotation, implying a dispute or fight. In English, “to have an argument” (dispute or fight) is incorrectly translated as “to argue.” On social media and beyond, the “culture of argumentation” is a mix of the two interpretations, though we wouldn’t risk much by saying it’s the empty game of a dialectical struggle. Something like a discursive ping-pong. Just causes are never lacking, and for this reason, it is impossible or very difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff. But it is useful to observe the fundamental characteristic of the new culture to understand where we stand in the mire.

It is very likely that, due to our evolutionary adaptation over at least the last hundred thousand years, it is impossible to completely eradicate our propensity for conflict. Those who don’t have problems create them. This is a reason to think that even if, in the future, humanity no longer needs to work to survive due to automated technology and a universal income (assuming we don’t destroy the planet first), individuals and societies will always need a certain level of conflict, a struggle against an adversary or a problem. Otherwise, what happens at the cellular level to antibodies might occur: in an excessively hygienic environment, they don’t stop their fight and, instead of combating infections, they turn to attacking our own bodies, as is the case with allergies, some forms of arthritis, and other contemporary issues. The same can be predicted when we analyze the future of societies.

But there can always be an option B. In this case, it would be the redirection of conflictive and combative energies toward just causes. Instead of fighting others over the color of their skin, their language, their sexuality, their economic status, or their lifestyle preferences, we could channel these energies into more creative struggles, such as the fight for social justice, artistic creativity, and scientific innovation. After all, what is the passion for soccer if not the sublimation of hunting and war? This controlled sublimation on the playing field often spills over into the stands in a much more primitive expression of violence. To illustrate this, one need only consider the brawls in some Buenos Aires stadiums or the vandalistic fury of hooligans in Europe. Of course, this possible solution is, for now, a utopia. The irrational reaction is a return to prehistoric, tribal instincts, masked with high technology. To make matters worse, the media and the market exploit these ancestral impulses, just as fast-food chains and soda companies have become multibillion-dollar corporations by exploiting a biological condition that dates back to prehistory: the overvaluation of fat and sugar.

Shortly before the 2016 presidential elections, a Twitter account associated with white supremacists claimed that the New York City Police Department had uncovered a pedophilia network linked to members of the Democratic Party. This rumor grew when, in November, WikiLeaks published emails from John Podesta, Hillary Clinton’s campaign manager, which were interpreted through twisted religious lenses. An anonymous user on the 4chan network claimed that the phrase “cheese pizza” (pizza with mozzarella) was a reference to “c. p.,” meaning “child pornography.” The same emails revealed that John Podesta had corresponded with the owner of Comet Pizza, James Alefantis, a chef who owns two restaurants and an art gallery in Washington DC, is affiliated with the Democratic Party, and identifies as gay.[xxvi] These kinds of hermetic codes, more typical of the Middle Ages, are common among the social media platforms frequented by the “alt-right” (the post-Tea Party far-right), according to which a hot dog or frankfurtermeans boy, “cheese” girl, “ice cream” prostitute, and “nut,” apparently, black person. All of this, as is tradition in the repressed, sectarian, and religious far-right, is overflowing with sexual content and fixations.[11]

According to the fevered imagination of these internet crusaders, the place where these criminal acts against minors were carried out, accompanied by satanic rituals, was a small pizzeria named Comet Ping Pong, located at 5037 Connecticut Avenue in Washington DC.

Days before the election, on October 19, in a rural town near Columbus, Ohio, candidate Donald Trump had declared in his speech, surrounded by cameras and microphones, that he would “totally accept” the election results “only if I win.”[xxvii] On Tuesday, November 8, he received nearly three million fewer votes (two percent of the total) than his opponent, Hillary Clinton. Nevertheless, due to the electoral system inherited from the era of slavery, Trump became president. However, he continued to insist for years that the election had been rigged because many illegal immigrants had voted for Clinton. Naturally, the same logic, but with more “stamina,” was used to explain his defeat in 2020 against Democrat Joe Biden. Naturally, his followers bought into (an expression that originated in the United States and is now used even in Latin America) what they wanted to believe, culminating in the violent assault on the Capitol on January 6, 2021.

Donald Trump’s victory on November 8, 2016, did not calm the spirits of his supporters. Quite the opposite. One example was Pizzagate, which occurred shortly after the election. On December 4, Edgar Maddison Welch, a resident of North Carolina, traveled to DC, entered the Devil’s pizzeria, and fired his AR-15. Once he had created terror, he began searching for the basement where children were being abused (a kind of concrete bunker, as depicted in an Instagram image) but found only narrow storage rooms with cleaning supplies. According to Welch’s statement to the police, his mission was to save children, though he didn’t care that at that moment there were families with children enjoying a peaceful time. Although he claimed his intention was to conduct an investigation and raid the place on his own, and although his actions revealed or confirmed no suspicions, neither Welch nor the thousands of consumers of 4chan and other digital cults stopped doubting the truth of his delusional reality.

All the allegations were debunked by the police department itself, but this did not calm the spirits of the white racists or make them change their minds about what is true and what is fiction. On the contrary, anonymous chat platforms like 4chan and various fake news outlets, such as Your News Wire, worked to normalize and confirm this false story.[12]

Consistent with the same tradition and like the covers of TIME, sexual scandals that could end the Universe must have concrete faces. For this reason, QAnon and other digital cults need stories like Pizzagate. In the United States, the consumption of child pornography is punishable by years in prison, but the imagination of pedophiles (from the letters of slaveholders who feared the end of their legal supremacy to pseudo-feminist women like Rebecca Latimer Felton) has at least two centuries of history and is not punished. It is rewarded and vindicated.

Today, the specialty of major media outlets, for professional reasons, is not usually fake news, as was the invention of the attack and sinking of the USS Maine in Havana in 1898 by the yellow press of New York, but rather the manipulation of real news. In the Age of social media, the direct creation of fake news has returned, with one key difference: its creators and promoters are not powerful media directors seeking to boost sales. Their primary motivation is their own fanaticism, meaning they are the first to convince themselves of a fiction before convincing others, much like the history of religious proselytism. The benefits accrue to other social levels, which at least raises the suspicion that, in addition to being a natural consequence of socio-economic degradation, it is also a natural outcome of a macroeconomic plan, such as neoliberalism. Without giving too much credit to the owners of the world’s largest capitals and attributing to them a detailed intentionality in the current cultural catastrophe.

13. The Urgent News

According to one historical account, in the year 490 BC, the Athenian athlete Pheidippides ran forty kilometers from Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians of King Darius I had landed at Marathon. Another version mentions that the Athenians had sent him to Sparta to request help against the invasion. Along the way, the hero reportedly encountered the god Pan, who reproached the Athenians for their neglect due to their Olympic ego. In later versions, the impossible feat of Pheidippides is recounted, claiming he ran 230 kilometers in a single day from Sparta to Athens to announce the Greek army’s victory in the battle, after which he died.

Assuming this event actually occurred, it is nonetheless embellished with the necessary components of any myth that withstands time. Beyond the classic divine rebuke of a people on the brink of catastrophe, beyond the predictable and necessary tragic element of the protagonist’s death in fulfilling a moral mission, what endures is the importance of the news, whether in a real or imaginary community.

From prehistory to the present day, predictable and routine events lack impact both on the attention of individuals and communities as well as on their memory. The survival of individuals and the human species has always depended on extraordinary events such as natural disasters or the more frequent threats from other tribes and nations. In the face of a natural disaster (a hurricane, a volcano, or an earthquake), a people respond with humility for their own sins before the wrath of a god, but in the face of threats from other humans, they must respond with more intense emotions, such as outrage and the call to arms.

As Professor Joseph Campbell, author of the classic The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), might have said, the archetype of the story fits perfectly into many others. For example, that of the silversmith Paul Revere of Massachusetts, 1775, during the colonists’ rebellion against the administrators of London. The silversmith and amateur dentist, like many other rebellious colonists, was in economic decline and suffering from the economic recession of the time. According to this foundational myth, Paul Revere rode through the night to warn of the arrival of British troops. The famous phrase “The British are coming (The English are coming)!”, though repeated in schools, high schools, and the press, is another of the many American myths. At the time, all the whites in the colonies, including the modest silversmith, were considered English. English businessmen. English colonists. Englishmen in the land of savages… For centuries, the true enemies had been and continued to be the “Americans,” a name then reserved for the indigenous people, the true enemies of the colonists and the primary reason for the American Revolution of 1775-1783. The myth presents and portrays Revere riding for hours on a horse he never owned to deliver the crucial treasure to his people: the great news.

The lesser versions of these stories are the countless gossips, the bearers of rumors, the announcers of important deaths, of scandalous infidelities. All of this is part of the genetic and psychological material of humanity (on novelty survival depends), but, at every moment, the powers that be have been able to capitalize on it in more elegant and powerful ways than the mere rumor from a neighbor gossiping about a woman who entered the mayor’s house late at night or the troubled son of the town doctor who got the maid pregnant—who turned out to be a friend of a friend. Old stories of injustices, needless to say, but which have played petty roles independent of any real social struggle, of any human progress toward less-pain.

No news, good news (No news is good news)” is one of the most popular sayings in English. That is, news is only news if it’s bad. Beyond the cultural factor, this has a much more general root, likely embedded in the evolutionary biology of the human species and any other species. The orbitofrontal cortex and the anterior cingulate gyrus are the areas of the brain that carry the perception of the new toward consciousness. When a stimulus is repeated too much, this traffic is interrupted until the stimulus (for example, a background sound) disappears and becomes perceptible by its sudden absence.

Probably, medical research is among the few types of news with a somewhat positive profile that is published and consumed in the media (research on the current state of the environment is exactly the opposite). However, the very idea of news and science are incompatible. The resource of “a new scientific study shows that…” is heresy for any scientific community. “If you eat more avocados and drink less whiskey, you’ll extend your life by 2.4 years.” Etcetera. News needs to sell novelty, but no scientific study that is published aims to be the final word. In fact, it’s common for it to be an advance subject to further testing by other scientists, to whom scientific publications are truly dedicated. That is, when it’s not research funded by mafia-like corporations, such as big pharma.

The need for news and to pay attention to exceptional events, not routine ones, is at the root of our survival instinct. And the powers that be, in our case those at the top of the capitalist pyramid, exploit it like no one else to their advantage. Not the gossipy neighbor, the rumor-monger, or the trafficker of scandals.

14. The Oracle

We are made of the past. We inhabit the cities of the dead, and their ideas inhabit us. However, unlike the physical universe where its future (the trajectory of a comet, an eclipse) can be calculated with precision, the human universe cannot. The difficulty in predicting the human future lies in the unstable, non-deterministic variables, and these largely stem from the fact that our present is not explained solely by our past but also by our ideas about the future. As in quantum physics, the observer modifies the observed phenomenon. Once our analysis of the present changes, so does our vision of the future, and in turn, our present actions that will impact the future, and so on. We are sitting in a classroom because we’ve met years of prerequisites but, above all, because we have a life project.

The other constituent factor lies in the fact that we can see the past better than the future. The idea that the future is ahead and the past is behind is an imaginary construct that stems from the movement of the human body: we walk forward, rarely backward. The same when driving a car. If we add to that the fact that since the ancient Egyptians, the representation of time ceased to be circular and became a line on which we walk toward death, since then every great civilization has fossilized in language the idea of time as something that comes to us from ahead and goes behind. However, not all cultures and civilizations understood time in the same way. For those cultures more contemplative than obsessed with action, like the ancient Greeks or the Quechua or other American and Asian peoples, time was circular where everything repeated: what happened once will appear before us again. In other cases, it was like a flowing river. The observer could look downstream, that is, they could see the past, which naturally was ahead, while the future was something in process that came from behind and could only be guessed by its rumors without any precision.

Hence the anxiety about the future. In all religions, the future matters more than the past. The past condemns but does not determine. In the future lay pain, death, reward, or punishment beyond. One way to act upon it was through morality. The good are saved, the evil are condemned. However, no human action was an absolute guarantee of a desired future. How to completely please the gods? How to win a war? How to achieve prosperity?

In the case of the ancient Greeks, this anxiety was directed toward the oracle. This is where the semantic shift of the idea of a prophet in the Christian tradition, as it passed through Greece, originates. In the Old Testament, prophets are not fortune-tellers but social critics, like Amos, who pointed out the social injustices and moral corruptions of their people. Today, the word prophet is more heavily loaded with its Greek meaning: the prophet is someone who can divine, see the future, and thus help people act upon the present. Typically, this type of prophet aligns with the myth of Cassandra, the goddess who could predict the future but (due to a curse from Apollo, the god of reason and truth) no one believed her.

In the secular world of humanism and the Enlightenment, the prophet became the philosopher of history. Particularly, the economists.

Today, economists, burdened by the deterministic world of the sciences and the material needs of business, presume that economics is a semi-hard science. Hence the many equations and graphs that never serve one of the central objectives of economics, which is to predict the future. They don’t call it economic philosophy but Economic Sciences, yet, like the CIA avoiding supposed terrorist attacks, they never or almost never predict the major economic crises that their most prominent professionals create. The case of economist Nouriel Roubini is often mentioned, as he was one of the few economists capable of predicting the 2008 crisis in the United States, while the rest of the experts in the field insisted on the solidity of the economic fundamentals. This is like saying someone won the lottery because they played a number they dreamed of the night before, and they call that coincidence a premonition and attribute it to an intervention from beyond. The proof is that the same Roubini predicted another catastrophe for 2012, and it never came.

The same Roubini, at the peak of his fame as a prophet, described his prediction method as a holistic perception, free of mathematical formulas, more like someone who “uses their nose,” he said, to evaluate “a big enchilada” made of history, literature, and economic variables, which is why some economists described his method as akin to that of a shaman, that is, a sorcerer or fortune-teller that the industrial and post-industrial world often calls primitive.

In any case, the future, its prediction, or action upon it remains one of the most important themes and justifications of economics, as it was in the case of Adam Smith, Karl Marx, John Keynes, or Milton Friedman: we are at point C (the present, which not everyone understands) and to reach point G (pleasure, prosperity, the future solution) we must first pass through point F (the painful changes). In almost all cases, from the Great Depression, through Soviet economists to the magical formulas of neoliberalism more recently, a specialty of economic experts, especially those with the ability to create the future rather than predict it (IMF, World Bank), has been at least catastrophic.

In any case, one thing seems clear: the future, the anxiety about the future, is another constitutive element of the human condition. That is, it is another ahistorical component of history, and both orbit each other like two stars, like two tango dancers.

15. Propaganda by Repetition, Censorship by Forgetting

Looking at the political changes in different countries around the world, I suspect there is a psychological rule that weighs on political and cultural phenomena: those who, in their early adolescence, lived under a certain political regime, will soon become supporters of the opposite. This phenomenon (if it is indeed true) I have observed in different countries in Latin America, the United States, or Europe, although reality is so intertwined with different dimensions that each case becomes a particular one. Just as Chomsky managed to demonstrate that there is a Universal Grammar rooted in the human brain, it is very possible that there is a political and ideological dynamic in the neurological nature of every human being. This says nothing about justice or the logic of power, but it does say a lot about why individuals and peoples are capable of mass behaviors that the logic of circumstances cannot explain. But this is not the central theme of this book. Let’s return to the analysis of propaganda.

Information is a process that appeals to the rationality of the consumer, to put it in modern terms. On the other hand, both (commercial) advertising and (political) propaganda target the unconscious, the most primitive instincts. In the case of advertising, it is desire, plain and pure, like sexual desire; in the case of propaganda, it arises from two basic and primitive emotions, the first more basic, primitive, and powerful than the second: fear and hope. Advertising and propaganda target the unconscious, the most primitive instincts, the reptilian brain that lies deep within all of us, beneath the rational cortex: hunger, sex, fear.

But, although actions arise from this deep unconscious, no one wants to admit it. No one wants to accept that their political ideas, for example, those deep passions from tribal prehistory, are not based on reason, let alone on a logical analysis of reality. Therefore, these irrational decisions are rationalized with elements and discourses that refer to and appeal to supposed rational thoughts, to external facts, and not to individual dreams and nightmares. All of which they call Truth.

From a philosophical and analytical perspective, there is a spectrum whose extremes are occupied on one side by critical thinking and on the other by propaganda. In psychological terms, propaganda finds fertile ground among conservative groups, as they are the ones who have been intellectually trained from a very early age to believe. Faith in what comes from above is a virtue, while questioning a given order, a revelation, is seen as the work of dark forces that seek to change moral values and turn the world upside down. Faith is a virtue in itself. If logic contradicts the story of Noah, the more virtuous the believer who believes it while denying any possibility of the evolution of species from a small number of animals saved from the universal flood.

Without a propensity to believe, no propaganda can succeed. Skepticism is not its strength. A single contradiction could destroy a scientific theory, but a thousand contradictions will never destroy a religious text. Quite the opposite. If one believes despite logical and dialectical contradictions, they have passed the test. Belief is based on fragmented and repetitive discourses, like a rosary, like a Sunday sermon in any church, whether Catholic, Protestant; whether a Muslim mosque, a Jewish temple, Buddhist or Hindu. For any form of critical thinking, doubt is necessary. This is not to say that the left cannot harbor dogmatic individuals with a religious form of thinking, but rather that the left or progressive groups are more trained in the articulation of unfragmented thoughts, in more sophisticated and holistic theories and narratives in their explanation of reality.

To the psychological dimension, we must add the historical dimension, which depends on a cultural process. In this sense, to understand our time, it is necessary to compare it with two major previous periods that, although they developed in the West, were spread through the colonization and imperialism of European and North American powers in recent centuries. One is the Middle Ages, and the other is the Modern Age. Our time resembles the former more than the latter. Our time reacts to and distances itself from the latter, dominated, in its intellectual and institutional elite, by the philosophies of the Enlightenment that introduced secular governments and struggles for equality against their own dominant colonial powers. We are approaching the former, a new Middle Ages where reality is increasingly less material and factual and increasingly more virtual, where social epistemology moves away from rational analysis and admiration for the scientific method to understand the world and societies and moves closer to medieval faith as a way of creating its own reality through fragmented, repetitive discourses typical of sermons and propaganda.

But our Neo-feudalism is not the feudalism of a thousand years ago. Although the religious paradigm begins to replace the secular one, a new dimension foreign to the Middle Ages emerges: the believer is not a selfless worker, an austere vassal. They are a consumer of both material and virtual realities. They are a consumer of excitements. They are a pornographic spirit who needs to buy a reality to replace their own, a story they know is false but want to believe is true. The only flaw of such a product is not that it is false, but that it is not believable. It is no coincidence that new deep fake technologies are primarily used in politics and pornography; both are closely related.[xxviii] On the other hand, sophisticated technologies to deceive people are not strictly necessary when a large portion of the population is not even sophisticated.[13] This, which might be read as an insult, is merely an observation about the two major poles of opinion creation: education and media entertainment. As access to information has been democratized with the internet, the solution has been to lower the level of education in favor of an increase in entertainment, that is, in distraction. Societies are sick because they have moved away from art and closer to amusement.

In past centuries, this distraction was largely exercised in circuses and churches. I am not making a judgment about the metaphysical truth of any religion but rather its political use. The more social misery, the more social injustice, the more prayer and donations. Reality did not change, but its perception did.

Postmodernity meant an abandonment of the paradigm of critical skepticism, analysis, and reason as substitutes for authority and a return to religious faith as the legitimization of truth or a representation of the world (shortly before, and during the Modern Era, occupied by faith in science and technology).[14] We have progressively entered a new Middle Ages, albeit illuminated with neon signs and plasma screens. To the hyper-fragmentation of narratives, to the repetition of prayers and advertising rosaries, we must add the logic of image consumption. Although in its early days the internet meant a timid return to written culture, it did not take long to return to images and, even more, to images as a way of creating junk sensibilities (as false as fake news) and something akin to disjointed thinking. Just as the bas-reliefs of Gothic churches told stories to an illiterate and brutalized people, worn out by work outside and sermons inside, the internet, through its “influencers” on YouTube or TikTok, are the new shepherds of a McDonaldized world. But if history rhymes, it does not repeat itself. That religious faith has undergone some significant changes.

According to PEW, religious affiliation in the United States has declined, from 63 percent in 1970 to 38 percent in 2018. This does not mean that the religious spirit has given way to critical thinking, but quite the opposite. Faith has migrated from traditional churches to digital sects like 4chan. The most contemporary “War on Science” explains why only four out of ten Americans trust science.

In the Protestant world, everything is atomized, even monotheism, which brings us back to the pre-Christian religions of the Teutonic peoples. One of the new sects, one of the most well-known and powerful in terms of followers, is QAnon. This sect, born from an alternative social network dominated by Nazis and fascists, called 4chan, fulfills the requirements of a centuries-old Christian tradition. For QAnon, as for the Christians of the Middle Ages, the world is ruled by the Devil, and the devil is not concerned with the outrageous ambitions of capitalists who concentrate all the wealth of the impoverished and frustrated faithful but with something related to sexuality. Something horrible, like pornography, homosexuality, and, worse, pedophilia. Their cause and banner, defined as “The Great Awakening” (Deep State), knows nothing about imperialist massacres and abuses around the world, nor about the theft from workers in the most powerful country in the world, but about those things between the legs that, according to them, God condemned because Creation came out a bit flawed. Since our century follows the Political Century, witches and heretics can no longer be burned but political opponents, that is, leftists, progressives, and liberals (in American terminology). Since our century comes after the great trauma of the Second World War, old Nazi theories can no longer be repeated (not yet) and even less so European traditions from previous centuries about Jews eating children on Friday nights and more recent American traditions about the sexual potency of Black men who could deflower all the innocent blondes, some tempted by pleasure according to the pornographic imagination of the masters, and for whom lynching was recommended just in case.

16. The Curve of Excitement

One of the most repeated phrases among voters of the so-called “Free World” is that they prefer a “businessman” as president, because he is someone who knows how to manage a company. We won’t revisit the obvious fact that a country is not a business, nor are its citizens employees, which explains the utter failure of so many presidents who were “successful businessmen.” The exceptions of the capitalist system, the “successful men,” are promoted in all media as proof of the system’s virtues. Even during slavery, there were Black slave owners, but no one in their right mind would present these exceptional cases as proof of the slave system today. Another cliché deeply rooted in popular narrative is the assertion and belief that citizens vote for “someone who represents them,” for “someone who resembles them,” or for “someone who understands their needs.”

Not without irony, this majority of industrial or service workers who barely make ends meet, who hardly have health insurance, who can only exceptionally afford vacations in the hated Mexico and don’t even have enough savings to retire decently, who mostly live in debt (whether for the sin of studying or for being lawnmowers with the Confederate flag on their trucks) passionately and furiously vote for billionaires like Donald Trump—because he truly represents them.

But this is not just a curious peculiarity of Republicans in the United States. For some reason, the Senate and the “House of Representatives” are full of millionaires. In fact, 66 percent of senators and more than half of the representatives in the lower house belong to the top one percent of the country’s wealthiest. When the conclusion is that the poor need the rich to represent their rights, anyone would reasonably understand that there is a very fine and persistent propaganda effort at work, like the one in the 19th century that led slaves to defend their masters to the death.

One must either accept it or fight a war already lost; to a large extent, social media is entertainment. That is, among other things, political distraction material. There are other spaces moving in the same direction. The path of money and power. The path of dehumanization.

New technologies, like Augmented Reality or Virtual Reality, are not so different from their predecessors. Overstimulating the consumer’s senses is what humanity has been investing in for the past 150 years through new media, from the rotary press in 1843 to the internet, passing through radio, cinema, and television. All of them act on the senses. In reality, the investment of so many millions of dollars to develop augmented reality technology for various uses, whether military or mere entertainment, is not so different from the old and until recently forbidden effect of marijuana. Users of Augmented Reality and marijuana smokers report exactly the same thing: an increased sensitivity to the world as we know it. In Mozambique, where (at least in the 90s) marijuana was a wild herb, a Cuban doctor friend said that after his first “Mueda cigar” he could hear jazz, and a Swiss journalist friend assured me she could feel the moonlight on her skin. For my part, the absence of electric light in the abandoned cities of the Portuguese settlers was more impressive (let’s say, exciting) than the excess of lighting in Western shopping malls.

Like any drug, consumption produces an effect opposite to the desired one: insensitivity, anesthesia, if not depression. The effect produced by this overstimulation may be similar to that of alcohol and other stimulant drugs, represented by the Gaussian curve: after a rise toward euphoria, comes the descent into depression. In many cases, at this point, the individual becomes aggressive at the slightest stimulus contrary to their desires. From a sociological perspective, we are at that historical moment when the need for antagonism and combat is no longer a private matter but a collective one, with a reality augmented by social media. Like everything collective, it has a political translation, and power knows it. The phenomenon has migrated from a bookish struggle in the rational cortex to an emotional struggle in the reptilian center. That is, from an ideological translation, it is a shift from the left to the right; from a sense of collectivity and solidarity for others who do not directly and immediately benefit me, to the tribal combat of “the losers” who want to take away what belongs to us by our own merit: some privilege that sets us apart, elevates, and distances us from the common folk.

Like insects, we are dazzled by neon lights. We believe ourselves superior to the mwani of Mozambique for the simple reason of appearances. But the strategy of investing in new and better technologies to excite the senses is old and does not consider what both the Enlightenment and older cultures took into account: the elevation of the intellect (sometimes referred to as spirit, knowledge, or enlightenment). Only the excitation and over-excitation of the senses is futile. Its ultimate destination is addiction and the need for ever-increasing stimulation and, finally, depression. To prevent this from happening, it would be necessary to modify the genetic code of human beings, a result of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution and adaptation—and this would never be possible without running an extremely high risk of self-annihilation as a species.

Art and thought require a certain austerity of means. When too much is invested in special effects and artificial plot twists in cinema, the viewer’s ability to feel and reflect is destroyed. This was essentially the proposal of the so-called “Imperfect Cinema” in Latin America, as a critical alternative to the dominance of Hollywood. The same happens in philosophy, in the sciences, and in democracy in general: when the means become the ends, the spectacle, the entertainment, the distraction, critical thinking comes under attack, under the bombardment of distraction and fragmentation. This is what happens on the Internet, on social media, to the point that not only a book but even a more austere medium like radio (often an instrument of political manipulation, especially in the 20th century) becomes a pause to the anxiety of interrupting a reflection or a perception due not only to the anxiety of stimulation but also to the urgency of expressing an opinion on practically everything, that is, nothing.

The freedom of the photocopier

As we have seen, the media, communications, and religious, political, and ideological ideas have a neurological basis. But the way this inherited condition functions or is manipulated and exploited to the extreme by the market or by a personal dictator depends on a culture and a historical paradigm, that framework from which perhaps—if we are not too optimistic—only radical critical thought can escape to some extent. Psychosocial manipulation is also not limited to a simple advertising agency and a consumer audience but depends on an ideological and civilizational system.

Let us briefly look at a current example. The most important factor in the monetization of a YouTuber (domestic video producer, called a “creator”) is their own analysis of the popularity of their videos, data that the platform itself provides in detail. In this sense, all experts agree on the need to see “what the audience wants” so that “the creator” can focus on that topic, that aspect, and that style. This is then sold as a response of supply to demand. Over time, “the creator” of content will have specialized in satisfying a specific audience that was not created by them—just as the fleeting popularity of phenomena like the Minions was not a decision of the global children’s guild but rather a publicity campaign that cost nearly a billion dollars.

The artisanal video creator, without the capital of Universal Studios and McDonald’s, will educate and develop themselves based on this demand without realizing that the demand, the audience’s sensitivity, was previously created by a mega digital industry that, in turn, is framed within the paradigm of its time, that is, within capitalism and post-capitalism, which considers success to be popularity, money, and the commodification of existence.

All very creative.

From Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means, by Jorge Majfud

Majfud, Jorge. Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means. Humanus, 2023, 2025, p. 17-25


[1] Regarding the tension between ethics and aesthetics, between religious renunciation and the Dionysian experimentation with the world, we paused in Critique of Pure Passion (1998).

[2] A possible discussion about how this consumption encourages or perpetuates macho violence remains open, but far from the logic that leads to prohibiting and criminalizing the consumption of pedophilic images.

[3] Various studies show that local channels dedicate between 25 and 50 percent of their news to coverage of violent crimes, which creates the effect of making the population believe that crime is always on the rise, even when it is decreasing in police statistics. (Lipschultz, J. H., Hilt, M. L. (2003). Race and Local Television News Crime Coverage and O’hear, M. Marquette Law Review Marquette Law Review Violent Crime and Media Coverage In One City, etc.)

[4] In The Narration of the Invisible (2005) we referred to this factor as “a narration of a virtual reality [a] logos that makes the world intelligible for the subject reflecting on it. It is what we will call ‘metaphysical space’ […] a narration about metaphysical space with the corresponding use of a progressive definition of semantic boundaries, of defining as clearly as possible the limit between C(+) and C(-) […] what is seen in the metaphysical space of speculation as if it were an objective observation that a chronicler makes of a sports event or a scientist makes in their laboratory […] Language arises from physical space and only through metaphors and signic transfers can it reach to describe metaphysical space. However, in a reciprocal and symbiotic manner, metaphysical space will act on physical space in the form of myths, ideologies, cultural paradigms, etc.”

[5] Currently, this idea is attributed to the great historian Yuval Harari, although it is not difficult to find similar proposals in the history of thought. In an article titled “The Bombardment of Symbols” (Alai, May 20, 2008) we cited the study of a group of Spanish researchers who had arrived at the core of this idea: “the extinction of the Neanderthals more than twenty thousand years ago —those gnomes and big-nosed dwarves that populate the traditional tales of Europe— was due to a fundamental inferiority compared to the Cro-Magnons. According to José Carrión from the University of Murcia, our Homo sapiens ancestors possessed a greater symbolic capacity, while the Neanderthals were more realistic and therefore inferior as a society. No one would believe in the myths of those ancestors of ours today, although their utility resembles that of Ptolemaic geocentrism, which in its time served to predict eclipses”.

[6] That same year, in the United States, the fixed drum of rotary printing was patented. Around the same year, two other Samuels invented the six-shot drum, the Colt Walker revolver. In 1847, the captain of the Texas rangers Samuel Walker, after patenting, along with Samuel Colt, the most perfect killing tool, died from the shot of an obsolete shotgun fifty kilometers from Puebla, Mexico, where he had gone to defend his country from the Mexicans who did not want to cede more territory to the cause of slavery.

[7] In April 2022, former President George W. Bush added a new confession, one of his many Freudian slips: he admitted that the Iraq War was “completely unjustified; a brutal invasion” (The Guardian. “George W Bush accidentally admits Iraq war was ‘unjustified and brutal’ in gaffe”. May 19, 2022. )

[8] In reality, neither Samuel Colt nor Samuel Walker invented the revolver, but they patented it in 1836. Walker died in 1847, the same year his dream of commercializing a super-powerful revolver became a reality with the invention and trademark Colt-Walker. Someone, probably a woman, shot him from a balcony in Mexico, with an obsolete shotgun, as a way to avenge the massacres and rapes of the invaders chosen by God in the War of Dispossession.

[9] Superman was born in the 1930s, that is, during the Great Depression, as a champion of the working class against the plunder of the millionaires, but this perspective is quickly demonized by the owners of the major press and the cultural industry, like William R. Hearst, with his pro-Nazi and anti-communist campaign, which is why Superman quickly moves to the center and begins to fight against the “bandits” on the margins, those who “want to take over the world”—a world that already has an owner.

[10] It is interesting to note through a simple Ngram analysis how, as verbal expressions have lost sophistication, at the same time insults and expressions of frustration like “fuck” and “shit” have exponentially increased in usage in English-speaking societies since 1960. Something similar can be observed in other languages, such as Spanish.

[11] The delirium of “overinterpretations,” as Umberto Eco would say, continued with the analysis of stars and crescent moons in the restaurant’s signage, which can be found in “satanic drawings” as well as in the Turkish flag, the American flag, or the flag of South Carolina. A heart-shaped logo from the St. Jude Children’s Hospital that appeared on the business’s website was considered a secret pedophilic symbol. Then a photograph of Obama playing “Ping Pong” with a child was added. Ping Pong → pizzeria → Cheese PizzaChild Pornography → devilish rituals. Another of the “irrefutable proofs” was a photograph of the owner of another restaurant, L’Enfant Cafe-Bar, who appeared wearing a T-shirt that said “I ♥ L’Enfant” (in French, “I love the child”). Half of Trump’s voters believed that Hillary Clinton had participated in orgies with minors at this pizzeria.

[12] In 2018, Your News Wire was renamed NewsPunch

[13] With the rise of deep fake videos where we see well-known politicians saying things they never said, various labs have responded with other software that detects this manipulation, mainly based on details such as the fact that there are few photographs on the Internet of public figures with their eyes closed, which is why deep fakes fail to realistically reproduce their blinking. Of course, in technology, it’s all a matter of time (see Condie, Bill, and Leigh Dayton. “Four AI Technologies That Could Transform the Way We Live and Work.” Nature, vol. 588, no. 7837, Dec. 2020, pp. S126–28).

[14] Postmodernism ended, among other things, the revolutionary spirit of the humanists of Constantinople and, much earlier, the critique of thinkers like the Arab philosopher Averroes or the Englishman Adelard of Bath, translator of scientific works from Arabic and one of the first modernus in the 12th century.


[i] Majfud, Jorge. La frontera salvaje. 200 años de fanatismo anglosajón en América Latina. Rebelde Editores, febrero 2021, p. 161.

[ii] Majfud, Jorge. Crisis. Colectivo Cultural Baile del Sol, 2012, p. 61.

[iii] “Thin line between desire and dread: Dopamine controls both”. (2008, July 14). University of Michigan: news.umich.edu/thin-line-between-desire-and-dread-dopamine-controls-both/ Ver también: Baumgartner, H. M., Cole, S. L., Olney, J. J., & Berridge, K. C. (2020). Desire or Dread from Nucleus Accumbens Inhibitions: Reversed by Same-Site Optogenetic Excitations. The Journal of Neuroscience40(13), 2737–2752. https://doi.org/10.1523/jneurosci.2902-19.2020

[iv] McChesney, Robert W. Rich Media, Poor Democracy: Communication Politics in Dubious Times. New Press, 2016, p. 34.

[v] “New study finds that violence doesn’t add to children’s enjoyment of TV shows, movies”. Indiana University. (2012): newsinfo.iu.edu/web/page/normal/18805.html

[vi] Bachman, Frank Puterbaugh. Great Inventors and Their Inventions. United Kingdom, American Book Company, 1918, p. 222.

[vii] Schlenoff, Daniel C. “50, 100 & 150 Years Ago: Ads Go Subliminal, Wrights Soar and Continents Connect.” Scientific American, Aug. 2008, https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/50-100-150-first-transatlantic-telegraph/.

[viii] Creelman, James. On the great highway: the wanderings and adventures of a special correspondent. Boston, Lothrop, 1901.

[ix] Singer, Peter W., and Emerson T. Brooking. Likewar: The Weaponization of Social Media. Eamon Dolan Books, 2018.

[x] Idem.

[xi] Idem, p. 32.

[xii] Majfud, Jorge. Narracion de lo invisible. Una teoría política de los Campos semánticos. Editorial Académica España, 2018.

[xiii] Bourcier, Nicolas, et al. “En Amérique Latine, Les Accents pro-Poutine De La Gauche.” Le Monde.fr, Le Monde, 27 Mar. 2022, https://www.lemonde.fr/international/article/2022/03/27/en-amerique-latine-les-accents-pro-poutine-de-la-gauche_6119309_3210.html.

[xiv] “Neanderthals Boosted Our Immune System.” Www.mpg.de, 2016, http://www.mpg.de/9819763/neanderthal-genes-immune-system.

[xv] Majfud, Jorge. “La libertad vigilada de los Libertarios. ALAI.” ALAI, 22 Apr. 2022, http://www.alai.info/la-libertad-vigilada-de-los-libertarios/.

[xvi] Snowden, Edward. Permanent Reocrod. Picador, 2019, Pg. 113.

[xvii] Gelbspan, Ross. Break-ins, Death Threats and the FBI: The Covert War Against the Central America Movement. South End P, 1991, p. 22.

[xviii] Alter, C. (2016, April 29). “California Rejects John Wayne Day Because of Actor’s Comments on Race”. Time: time.com/4312343/california-john-wayne-day-race/

[xix] “President’s Message. Message From the President of the United Stales, to the two Houses of Congress, at the commencement of the Second Session of the Twenty-Second Congress”. David V. Culley. Indiana Paladium, Volume 8, Number 49, Lawrenceburg, Dearborn County. 22 de diciembre de 1932. No. 49.

[xx] The United States Magazine and Democratic Review. United States, Langtree and O’Sullivan, 1852.

[xxi] “Crucible of Empire” PBS. http://www.pbs.org/crucible/tl7.html

[xxii] “Allende Wins”. National Security Archive. (2020, September 4). nsarchive.gwu.edu/briefing-book/chile/2020-09-04/allende-wins

[xxiii] “Harry S. Truman: Decisive President” The Lightning’ Strikes in War. Alden Whitman. The New York Times, 27 de diciembre de 1972, p 46-47. https://timesmachine.nytimes.com/timesmachine/1972/12/27/84161748.pdf?pdf_redirect=true&ip=0

[xxiv] Howard, Philip, et al. Social Media, News and Political Information during the US Election: Was Polarizing Content Concentrated in Swing States? 2017, arxiv.org/ftp/arxiv/papers/1802/1802.03573.pdf.

[xxv] “Streams of Content, Limited Attention: The Flow of Information through Social Media.” Danah.org, 2022, http://www.danah.org/papers/talks/Web2Expo.html.

[xxvi] “Dissecting the #PizzaGate Conspiracy Theories (Published 2016).” The New York Times, 2022, http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/12/10/business/media/pizzagate.html.

[xxvii] Diamond, Jeremy. “Donald Trump: ‘I Will Totally Accept’ Election Results ‘If I Win.’” CNN, CNN, 20 Oct. 2016, http://www.cnn.com/2016/10/20/politics/donald-trump-i-will-totally-accept-election-results-if-i-win/index.html.

[xxviii] “La Pornografía Política”. Rebelion.org, 1 octubre 2016, rebelion.org/la-pornografia-politica/.

From Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means, by Jorge Majfud

Majfud, Jorge. Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means. Humanus, 2023, 2025, p. 17-25

I. Model of Inverse Progression

Alternate Variation of History

Although the Western representation of time continues to be a line where the future is forward and the past is backward, reality insists on proving older, more contemplative cultures right: the past is forward and the future is backward, which is why we can only see the former and not the latter. But predicting the future has been more important to humanity than finding the goose that lays the golden eggs.

In the work routine, for example, the most important element in any job application is the resume and the reference letters of the individual or the applying company. In any case, the section on projects and objectives is much smaller and less relevant than the rest, which refers to the applicant’s background, whether ethical or professional. Even though the employer is interested in what the candidate has to contribute in the future, when reading the resume and references, they always focus on analyzing the applicant’s past to form a vague idea of the future. Even artificial intelligence systems that read applications, whose goal is to predict a candidate’s behavior, do so exclusively based on their background.

On a larger scale, sociology and economics do the same: their main tools of understanding and prediction are not in equations but in history. This was already recognized by John Maynard Keynes when, after predicting the tragic consequences of the impositions on defeated Germany in World War I, he failed to foresee the great collapse of markets and economies in 1929. From his obsessive search for a pattern in the stock market, he came to recognize that the unpredictability of the economy is due to the “animal factor” of human psychology. Of course, he did not observe that the animal factor in humans is far more complex and unpredictable than in other animals.

Economists themselves have observed that even today, when one of them manages to predict a crisis, it is due to luck, not to any objective calculation. Out of hundreds and thousands of predictions made by economists before the great crisis of 2008, few specialists were correct. One of them was the economist Nouriel Roubini, who, after becoming famous for his prediction (which he attributed to his intuition, not to a mathematical calculation), continued making predictions that never materialized—even the nose can be wrong.

However, human history is not a succession of chaotic and disconnected events. It not only rhymes but also allows for the identification of certain common elements, certain patterns, such as the cyclical crises of capitalism described by Marx. It is also true that the search for patterns has its dangers, not because patterns do not exist (like the physical and psychological stages of human beings) but because their simplifications often lead to wrong and even opposite conclusions.

One of the simplest and most general abstractions derived from this study is a model we might call the inverse progression model.

(figure 1)

For reasons of space, for this model of history, we will limit ourselves to considering the last thousand years, analyzing only the last five centuries and focusing in more detail on our time. In this sense, we can observe that each period reacts against the previous one and crystallizes its demands, but, in all cases, it is a matter of opposing ideological narratives that serve the same goal: the accumulation of power in a dominant minority, usually the one percent of the population, through the exploitation of the rest by the exercise of physical coercion first, followed by narrative proselytism and, finally, consolidated by “common sense” and the obvious truths created by the media. Once the economic system convenient to the minority is exhausted by the growing inverse consensus of the majority (Christianity in the time of Constantine) or a new minority with growing power (the capitalist bourgeoisie of the 17th century), it is replaced by the alternative claimed by those below (movements against racism, sexism) and, finally, captured, hijacked, and colonized by the dominant minority. In this way, we can see a continuity between opposing ideologies, such as, for example, feudalism and liberalism, rural slavery and industrial corporatism, monarchical absolutism and Soviet statism.

We start from the axiom that the human condition is the result of a dialectic between a historical component and an ahistorical one that precedes it. We will focus mainly on the observation of the first element of the pair, history, but we will consider its ahistorical component as always present, as are psychic and physiological needs.

On the other hand, this model of reading history is based on another ahistorical component, denied for more than half a century by poststructuralist thought: the dualism of action and reaction in human action and perception. For example, in liberal democracies, elections are almost always decided by a coin toss, that is, by two or three percent of the votes. If not by one percent. In many other aspects of individual and social life, the complexity of reality is often reduced to a pair of opposites, from religions (good-evil, angel-demon, yin-yang), politics (right-left, state-private enterprise, socialism-capitalism, liberal-conservative, rich-poor) to any other aspect of intellectual and emotional life: up-down, white-black, forward-backward, cold-hot, pleasure-pain, inside-outside, euphoria-depression, etc.

In June 2016, in an interview about the possibilities of Donald Trump’s victory in the November elections, we mentioned this pattern and this emotional component in political elections, whereby if a goat were to compete with Mahatma Gandhi, after a certain period of electoral campaigning, the goat would close the supposed logical advantage of the rival candidate.[i] In June 2016, most polls and analysts dismissed a Trump victory. As in the 1844 elections, when everyone laughed at the intellectual shortcomings of candidate James Polk. In 2016, the difference in favor of Hillary Clinton was two percent of the total votes (though Trump was elected president due to the electoral college system inherited from the slaveholding era). In 1844, James Polk won the election by one percent, which ultimately led to a radical change in the history of the world in the following century.[1]

Capitalism emerges as a novelty and reaction (though neither intentional nor planned) against monarchical absolutism, which in turn had arisen as a reaction to feudalism and the power of the landowners. Its economic and ideological system opposes the feudal and absolutist systems while simultaneously drawing from both, and later, it ends up reproducing them with the consolidation of economic and financial corporations, through a radically different culture: the oligopolistic power of transnational corporations served by weaker neocolonial states and protected by central metropolises with almost absolute powers, expressions of democratic political systems indebted to dictatorial economic systems.

The new capitalist class, the bourgeoisie, founds and grounds its revolution in democratic opposition to kings and absolutism, but once it becomes the dominant class, spider-like, it does not abandon the tradition of minority accumulation over the majority. Since its banner is democracy, it cannot abandon it once power is monopolized, but must disguise it to continue the dynamic of appropriating the wealth-power of the majority. In this way, it was possible that throughout the Modern Age, the most brutal empires in the world were democracies. Its ideology, liberalism and more recently neoliberalism, also emerges as a critique of the power of the minority of its time (monarchical absolutism) and becomes the narrative that justifies the dominant power of the new minority, corporate and imperial, articulated by economists functional to the current power with a veneer of science and material objectivity. At the center of the new neoliberal narratives lies a purely ideological and cultural component: the reduction of human existence to a single goal: the pursuit of individual profit at any cost, even at the price of the most radical dehumanization, the simplification of the human being as a producing-consuming machine, and the destruction of the planet. All in the name of democracy and freedom.

Liberals are the continuation of feudal lords, opposed to absolutist kings (to central governments), but they cannot renounce the banner of freedom and democracy, even though they only have the words of these two principles, repeated mechanically like a rosary. By freedom, they mean the freedom of capitalist lords, of the minorities in financial power. By democracy, they mean that electoral system that can be bought every two or four years or, as Edward Bernays, the inventor of modern propaganda, will summarize, that system that tells people what to think for their own good.

In all cases, we will see a progressive divorce between narrative and reality until a new super crisis, a social and civilizational paradigm shift, causes both to collapse. The more words like freedom and democracy are hijacked and repeated, the less relevance they have. A reality creates a dominant narrative-web, and this narrative sustains the reality so that it does not dissolve in its own contradictions. To achieve this, the narrative resorts to religious sermonizing, in our time dominated by mass media.

In this study, we will analyze the most significant moments of the last four centuries of this dynamic. Based on the “Inverse Progression” proposal illustrated earlier, we will begin by projecting the same logic to earlier periods in the following scheme, which, without a doubt, must be adjusted in its details for greater clarity for different readers.

Scheme of Ideological Pairs

PeriodsDominantResistant
MonocraticPolycraticMonocraticPolycratic
Antiquity PolytheismsMonotheisms 
Classical Middle AgesEmpires  Tribes/Provinces
 Confederation Republics CaliphatesDictatorships Empires regional 
Catholic Church  Non-canonical Christianities
 FeudalismMonarchy 
Modern EraCatholic Monarchy  Protestantism Liberalism
 Liberalism FederalismMonarchy Centralism 
Imperialism  Anti-colonialism
 Slavery ConfederationNation, Union 
19th CenturyNation-Empire  Colonies
20th Century Corporate CapitalismState Capitalism 
Fascism Stalinism  Socialism Anarchism
 Liberal CapitalismState Socialism 
State Capitalism  Social Democracies, Unionism
 Neoliberalism NeofeudalismCapitalist Socialism 
21st CenturyMilitarist Capitalism  Cooperative Democracy
 Cooperative DemocracyCommunist Capitalism 

Descriptive Examples

Before we begin, let’s provide a few brief examples. When capitalism emerged, feudalism simultaneously transformed into anti-monarchical liberalism in Europe and, later, into slavery against the central government in the United States. This ideocultural tradition persists today in the Southern principle of “defending state independence,” the same principle that led to the Civil War to maintain slavery over a century ago and later the transformation of slaveholders into CEOs and boards of dominant corporations.

Today, neoliberals repeat the imperial rhetoric of the free market when, in reality, they refer to the earlier school they refuted, mercantilism. Mercantilism was a system of currency accumulation that, to a large extent, practiced the interventionism of imperial states to protect their own economies and destroy those of their colonies through protectionist policies and forced purchases at gunpoint. Not without irony, the ideology of the capitalist free market ended the free market. What we have today, five centuries later, is corporate mercantilism, where corporations are no longer medieval guilds but the same feudal lords who accumulate more power than monarchies. Today, the surplus (capital accumulation) prescribed by the mercantilists of the past does not reside in national governments but in the neo-feudal lords of finance. Conversely, countries manage debts.

In the United States, as in other countries, the competition between two political parties will eventually lead to a role reversal, as with the Southern slaveholding Democrats and the Northern liberal Republicans in the past. The inverse identification of Southern Confederates with the Republican Party, to some extent starting with Franklin D. Roosevelt, or perhaps earlier during the Progressive Era, and of the leftist Democrats, follows this model and leads us to predict that it will eventually reverse again, especially given some demands of the Republican right that align with old demands of the Democratic left. I suspect this crossover and inflection will occur sooner in their disputes over international policy, which have never been very antagonistic. In chapters like “Social Networks Are Right-Wing,” we will provide a more recent case.

If we consider the immediate present and a projection into the future, we can see the case of the United States during Postcapitalism. Only in the last century, the superpower experienced the sine wave of the Inverse Progression in an accelerated manner, with periods of fifty years. During the Great Depression of the 1930s, progressive policies not only migrated from the Republicans to the Democrats but also established the paradigm for the next fifty years. This paradigm strengthened unions, made possible the creation of State Social Security, and allowed government intervention in the economy without major questioning. This cycle ended with the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980 and the triumph of the neoconservative-neoliberal reaction, also a consequence of the global crisis of the 1970s. In all cases, ideological changes were followed by transmutations and travesties of the elites at the top of the social power pyramid to maintain continuity amidst change.

Today, fifty years later, the system is once again in crisis for the third time, with minor symptoms but major causes. For the United States, it is not yet a massive economic crisis, but it is already a crisis of hegemony that will end its monetary privileges and, later, geopolitical ones. As happened with the crisis of the Spanish Empire in 1898, this country will have to turn to deep introspection.

This megacrisis will likely occur in the 2030s or 2040s, and it will be a new opportunity, judging by the dynamics of the Inverse Progression, for new generations to reorganize themselves into a system removed from neoliberalism, from capitalism as an existential framework, and to question the postcapitalist dictatorship with atomized options but with the common factor of a less consumerist and more cooperative politics and philosophy. The death of the capitalist paradigm will not mean the automatic disappearance of its institutions, but rather a new way of seeing and living in the world. Extending the theory of the Inverse Progression, it would not be an exaggeration to predict that, even if the two-party system remains, the current Republican Party, hijacked by the nationalist far-right, could even switch roles again in a few decades and represent these new aspirations that in the past century were associated with the left, while the Democratic Party would return to its 19th-century role of representing the conservative, corporate, and Eurocentric South. But this last point would be a detail.

In the 21st century, another pair begins to invert: a large number of center-left politicians and governments position themselves in favor of the “free market” and trade agreements (which have little to nothing to do with a free market but rather guarantee, in secret agreements like the TPP, the freedom of investors) while other conservative right-wing governments, such as that of Donald Trump, align with the traditional protectionist line of the left. While in the West the neo-feudal model represented by mega-companies and corporations whose powers surpass those of the states signifies not only the death of classical capitalism but also a return to its socioeconomic predecessor, feudalism, in China the system of state capitalism centered on the Communist Party is a confirmation of the monarchical model, where the fiefdoms (the corporations) are subordinated to the State.

Corollary

In a Cartesian graph we can place on the x-axis a progression ranging from (a) absolute government (x=0) to (z) absolute and self-regulated anarchy (x=10) and on the y-axis we distribute the degree of religious fanaticism, starting from (a’) a radically secular or atheist society (y=0) to another (z’) theocratic or sectarian society (y=10). We could speculate that in secular societies with centralized governments, like China, their position would be: x→0; y→0. The Middle Ages or Feudal period could be placed at the top of the curve (x→5; y→10) with a fragmented political power, that of the feudal lords, but not anarchic-democratic. The extreme x→10; y→0 signifies a break with the Middle Ages where the fragmentation of power has surpassed the maximum curve of religious sectarianism to render it ineffective as a ligament (religion, re-ligare) of the concentrated and independent powers of the feudal lords of the Middle Ages or the financial elites of our time. Obviously, the crossing of this critical point (x→5; y→10) cannot occur without a general upheaval, a conflict likely on a global scale.

(figure 2)


[1] We explained this in The Wild Frontier (2021).


[i] Radio Uruguay. (2016). “La teoría de la cabra de Majfud”. 14 de junio de 2016: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1DXbl2MvIA

From Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means, by Jorge Majfud

Majfud, Jorge. Flies in the Spiderweb: History of the Commercialization of Existence—and Its Means. Humanus, 2023, 2025, p. 17-25

«Narcissism and Political Sadomasochism»

On Desocialization

Research indicates that children’s self-esteem has surged since 1980. In my 1998 book, Crítica de la pasión pura, I argued that parents were obsessively encouraging their children to believe they were as exceptional as Newton, Picasso, or Marilyn Monroe because they feared failure in a hyper-competitive society. The proliferation of self-help books served to enrich their authors, feeding the self-help narrative while boosting sales.

Increasingly, the emphasis is on the belief that happiness is tied to individual success, epitomized by phrases like “yes, you can” and “before anything, love yourself,” implying competence is crucial. Success and self-esteem, intertwined with failure and humiliation, pave the way for electing narcissistic leaders who personify these ideals.

How did we arrive here? Historically, private property was limited to essentials, like a home or the tools of an heir. The existence of trade throughout centuries underscores a primitive form of property: trading a cedar from China for an amber with an ant trapped inside, a contraceptive plant like silphium for an aphrodisiac, or a goat for ten shekels in Sumer. In many societies, private property was restricted or non-existent, especially in terms of lowlands or abstract assets, until the 17th century’s global trading ventures. 

In medieval Europe, private property was primarily held by the nobility. Peasants, artisans, and soldiers had little: no land, no surnames. Yet they possessed more rights than chattel slaves, including security to occupy their lord’s lands—not out of altruism, but because they were valued labor. The introduction of money as a societal tool and the rise of the bourgeoisie democratized access to property, untethering individuals from the constraints of land and class.

Medieval noblemen transformed into liberals, opposing centralized power structures—monarchies, socialist states—that threatened their freedom to trade and wield power over people. In France, they opposed monarchies; in England, they allied with them. Modern states, theoretically created to protect common citizens, were swiftly commanded by powerful elites who monopolized capital and finance, buying control over military might.

Capitalism, distinct from previous economic systems, introduced abstract exchange values divorced from tangible use values, driving a wedge between economy and production, and later between economy and finance. This abstraction culminated in phenomena like virtual currencies and capital generation from nothing, as symbolic as medieval cathedrals or pyramids were extravagant displays of power.

Historically, private property was the domain of the noble elite. While capitalism broke class-based property concentration, liberalism exploited new technologies to re-establish similar hierarchies. Universal property ownership ironically enabled new minorities to consolidate power. In late 19th century Mexico, land privatization dispossessed 80% of peasants, as property bought could also be lost financially. Similar dynamics played out on U.S. indigenous reservations. Following the official end of chattel slavery, salaried slavery emerged, maintaining hierarchical control over blacks and poor whites alike. As Britons and Americans noted, consumerism had to replace direct subjugation, fueling desires for unnecessary possessions.

Let us consider the psychological impact. The focus rests not just on desire, but critically on fear. This anxiety over private property ownership fostered a new individual, one obsessed with accumulation for personal and familial survival. The ensuing anxiety and fanaticism spurred a painful cycle of sadomasochistic behaviors.

Reflecting on social structures like those of pre-colonial Native Americans—more socially advanced than their European counterparts before their destruction—reveals societies where individual identity was intimately tied to collective life. Plans and dreams could hold political significance. The advent of private property doctrine and survival predicated on individual gain (“one person’s greed is everyone’s prosperity”) catalyzed the individual’s desocialization. Social interactions became refracted through a lens of self-interest and accumulation. Even those less driven by greed conformed to these cannibalistic norms.

Consequently, individuals became desocialized, and in their desocialization, they became dehumanized.

Jorge Majfud. Summary of a chapter from an upcoming book to be published in 2025

The Wild Frontier: 200 Years of Anglo-Saxon Fanaticism in Latin America

«Simply powerful.» Noam Chomsky
The Wild Frontier is a book written with courage and dazzling lucidity. One of the best I’ve ever read.» Víctor Hugo Morales
Fifty years after the publication of How to Read Donald Duck, I am pleased to read a book like The Wild Frontier that explores in detail the less subtle ways in which the United States, for two hundred years, has sought to influence and distort the destiny of our Latin America.» Ariel Dorfman

The Wild Frontier is not only a journey through the most important events of the last two hundred years that marked the expansion of the Thirteen Colonies over the Indigenous nations and over that vast territory we now call Latin America but also the revelation of the logic of their endless wars, of their expansion, and their systematic interventions, direct or secret, in the diverse peoples of the South. These military, economic, political, and narrative practices were the beginning and the continuation of Washington’s imperialism in the rest of the world. These practices and narratives (based on the economic interests of those at the top and the fanaticism instilled in those at the bottom) were the beginning and continuation of American imperialism in the rest of the world, always under other names and excuses. That deep past, as at other moments in history, explains the present and predicts the future of the world superpower. It explains the rise and fall of capitalism and the last Anglo-Saxon empire, like any other empire, based on violence in the name of peace.

George Monbiot y los crímenes olvidados del Imperio Británico

George Monbiot and the forgotten crimes of the British Empire

Argentina: Milei in the Ireland of wonders

In his end-of-year message, the president of Argentina Javier Milei once again insisted on his speech about turning Argentina into a new Ireland―within 45 years. Like everything, Irish reality does not correspond to Milei’s imagination: free public services, from transport to health and education, all as a member of a regional community…

But let’s look at Ireland’s history before it understood that being a colony is not part of any development plan, according to which Argentina would need 150 years before changing course―I will summarize here a more extensive explanation of the book Moscas en la telaraña.

For the Industrial Revolution to occur, the colonies were forced to export basic foodstuffs to Europe, which assured their proletarian class a subsistence that European fields could not provide. The Indo-Bengali industrial development process was interrupted by English protectionist laws, economic sanctions, and for the powerful reason of the imperial cannon, that is, what would later be called freedom and free markets.

Once Ireland adopted the new rules imposed and became a competition for England, London resorted to the old resource of contradicting its sermon to impose restrictions preventing any independence of its first colony. The Irish had to sell themselves as indentured slaves in the North American colonies—today’s illegal immigrants.

England not only imposed its enclosure (privatization by enclosure) on Ireland and North America but also on India and Bengal, with the same result: while the minorities became richer, the peoples who lost their communal lands, and their way of life, suffered. famines with tens of millions of deaths.

This novel idea of private property according to market exchange value and its right to expropriation spread rapidly. 29 years after the creation of the transnational East India Company in 1599 (whose flag had thirteen red and white stripes), the Puritan son of English landowners and first governor of Massachusetts, John Winthrop, summed it up this way: “God has given the men a natural right and a civil right. The first right was natural when men owned the land in common… Then, as the men and their livestock increased, they appropriated certain parcels by enclosure and were granted a civil right… Native Americans do not enclose any land … If we leave them enough to use, we can legitimately take the rest.”

Although there is neither private property nor the free market as the social order in the Bible, according to Milei “the State is the Evil One (Satan) and the free market is God’s system.” The repeated reference to him, Moses, was the State, an undisputed dictator, and the Promised Land was collective property, taken from other peoples by force, not by the laws of the market.

Milei’s superstitions arose in 17th-century England, when the richest enclosed common lands, parliaments legalized dispossession, and power intellectuals (John Locke and other liberals) legitimized it for posterity. Some farmers had to compete for the lease. The rest sank into misery or emigrated to the cities where, later, they would become the proletariat.

The market (now trapped in the stock markets) became the supreme dictator. Social differences in each country and national differences globally increased. By 1800, the differences between countries reached an imbalance of three to one. In the second half of the century, the disproportion was 35 to one. This translated into hundreds of millions of deaths due to the new capitalist system and the never achieved (rather destroyed) “freedom of the market.”

Ireland was the first banana republic—not Honduras. By 1840, it had a population of eight million. In 2023, it barely reaches seven. Modern mythology attributes this phenomenon to The Potato Plague, but the cause of almost two million Irish deaths and millions of other emigrants was not a fungus, but capitalism. The plague originated in Mexico and spread from the United States to Europe. Neither these countries nor continental Europe suffered famines because they had more diversified agriculture.

Ireland was England’s first imperialist laboratory, just as the banana republics were the United States’ first laboratory. As Western empires promoted monoculture in their colonies (gold, silver, sugar, tobacco, cotton, bananas, coffee, copper, meat, immigrants, tourists), Ireland became a European colony with the Peruvian potato as a monoculture and main source of calories of its population. Before the plague, various observers had denounced the poor living conditions of Irish peasants. The peasants’ profits were used to pay rents, defined in London by the sacred Law of supply and demand.

When the famine broke out, London claimed that the problem would be solved by the magic of the free market, while landowners exported other products from Ireland, such as meat and milk, to meet market needs in England. William Smith O’Brien of Limerick, in 1846, observed: “what is most outrageous is that people are starving amid plenty.” A history well known to other colonies, such as India or Bangladesh.

Not coincidentally, the person in charge of the Irish crisis, Sir Charles Trevelyan, was a returnee from the brutal administration of India and, not coincidentally, he initiated anti-Irish racism, which would cross the Atlantic after his victims. Trevelyan was a fervent defender of the free market and laissez-faire, a superstition convenient for a few. Like almost all free-market zealots, he turned to God to explain the mysterious failures: he blamed the victims: “God sent this calamity to teach the Irish a lesson,” he declared. If China lost three percent of its population in the 1958-62 famine, Ireland alone lost 12 percent a century earlier.

In much less than the 45 years promised by Milei, China went from being (economically speaking) Mongolia to being Japan. The radical change did not occur in a country of ten or fifty million inhabitants but in one with one thousand two hundred million and, although a large part of its economy is a capitalism different from Anglo-Saxon war capitalism, it was carried out by a communist government. I understand that China’s secret was that it could not be fragmented and indebted (neocolonized) in time, as in the Opium War, as in any other case of independence threat.

No, I do not propose China as a model of anything, but as a refutation. The point is, why not let Argentina be Argentina, with all its possible variations? Isn’t that the true principle of prosperity, well-being, and dignity of any country that prides itself on not being a damn colony? Come on, Javier, reflect; Reliable sources have told me that you read this back cover.

jorge majfud, 2023

Do we really owe modernity to capitalism?

The narrature of capitalism

 

One of the claims that the apologists of capitalism most repeat and last question is that which has been the system that has created the most wealth and progress in history. We owe you the Internet, the planes, YouTube, the computers from which we write and all the medical advancement and social and individual freedoms we can find today. Capitalism is not the worst or the least criminal of the systems that have existed, but this arrogant interpretation is also a kidnapping that ignorance makes history.

In absolute terms, capitalism is the period (not the system) that has produced more wealth in history. This truth would be enough if we do not consider it as misleading as when in the 1990s a Uruguayan minister boasted that his government had sold more mobile phones than in the rest of the country’s history.

The arrival of man on the moon was not a simple consequence of capitalism. To begin with, neither public nor private universities are, in their foundations, capitalist enterprises (except for a few examples, such as the Trump University fiasco). NASA was also never a private but a state-owned enterprise and was further developed through the hiring of more than a thousand German engineers, including Wernher von Braun, who had experimented and perfected rocket technology in Hitler’s laboratories. Invested fortunes (certainly, with some economic and moral aid from the great American companies). Everything, money and planning, were state. The Soviet Union, especially under the command of a dictator like Stalin, won the space race by putting for the first time in history the first satellite, the first dog and even the first man in orbit twelve years before Apollo 11 and just forty years after the revolution that turned a backward, rural country like Russia into a military and industrial power in a few decades. None of this is understood as capitalist.

Of course, the Soviet system was responsible for many moral sins. Crimes. But it is not the moral deficiencies that distinguished bureaucratic communism from capitalism. Capitalism is only associated with democracies and human rights by a narrative, repetitive and overwhelming (theorized by the Friedman and practiced by the Pinochets), but history shows that it can coexist perfectly with a liberal democracy; With the genocidal Latin American dictatorships that preceded the excuse of the war against communism; With communist governments like China or Vietnam; With racist systems such as South Africa; With destructive empires of democracies and millions of people in Asia, Africa and Latin America, as in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries were England, Belgium, the United States, France, etc.

The arrival on the Moon as the creation of the Internet and the computers that are attributed to capitalism were basically (and, in cases, only) government projects, not companies like Apple or Microsoft. None of the scientists who worked on such revolutionary technological programs did it as an entrepreneur or seeking to become rich. In fact, many of them were ideologically anti-capitalist, such as Einstein, etc. Most were salaried teachers, not the now revered entrepreneurs.
To this reality must be added other facts and a basic concept: none of this emerged from scratch in the nineteenth century or the twentieth century. Atomic energy and bombs are direct daughters of Albert Einstein’s speculations and imaginary experiments, followed by other wage geniuses. The arrival of man on the Moon would have been impossible without basic concepts such as Newton’s Third Law. Neither Einstein nor Newton had developed their wonderful superior mathematics (none of them due to capitalism) without a plethora of mathematical discoveries introduced by other cultures centuries earlier. Does anyone imagine infinitesimal calculus without the concept of zero, without Arabic numerals and without algebra (al-jabr ), to name a few?

The algorithms used by computers and internet systems were not created by a capitalist or in any capitalist period but centuries ago. Conceptually it was developed in Baghdad, the capital of the sciences, by a Muslim mathematician of Persian origin in the ninth century called, precisely, Al-Juarismi. According to Oriana Fallaci, that culture gave nothing to the sciences (ironically, capitalism is born in the Muslim world and the Christian world develops it).

Neither the Phoenician alphabet, nor commerce, nor republics, nor democracies arose in the capitalist period but tens of centuries before. Not even the printing press in its different German or Chinese versions, an invention more revolutionary than Google, were thanks to capitalism. Neither gunpowder, nor money, nor checks, nor freedom of expression.

Although Marx and Edison are the consequence of capitalism, no great scientific revolution of the Renaissance and Modern Age (Averroes, Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, Pascal, Newton, Einstein, Turing, Hawking) owed that system. Wild capitalism produced a lot of capital and many Donad Trump, but very few geniuses.

Not to mention more practical discoveries, such as the lever, screw or hydrostatic of Archimedes, discovered 2300 years ago. Or the IX century compass, one of the most transcendent discoveries in the history of mankind, by far more transcendent than any smartphone. Or the wheel, which has been used in the East for six thousand years and has not yet gone out of style.
Of course between the invention of the wheel and the invention of the compass passed several centuries. But the so vaunted «vertiginous progress» of the capitalist period is nothing new. Except for periods of catastrophe such as the Black Death during the fourteenth century, mankind has been accelerating the emergence of new technologies and resources available to a growing part of the population, such as the different agricultural revolutions. It is not necessary to be a genius to realize that this acceleration is due to the accumulation of knowledge and intellectual freedom.
In Europe, money and capitalism meant social progress before the static feudal order of the Middle Ages. But soon they became the engine of colonial genocides and then a new form of feudalism, like that of the twenty-first century, with a financial aristocracy (a handful of families accumulate most of the wealth in rich and poor countries), with dukes and political counts and villains and demobilized vassals.

Capitalism capitalized (and capitalists sequestered) centuries of social, scientific, and technological progress. For that reason, and being the dominant global system, it was able to produce more wealth than previous systems.

Capitalism is not the system of some countries. It is the hegemonic system of the world. Its problems can be mitigated, its myths can be dismantled, but it cannot be eliminated until it enters its crisis or decline like feudalism. Until it is replaced by another system. That in case there is a planet or humanity. Because capitalism is also the only system that has put the human species on the brink of global catastrophe.

 

JM, July 2017

Rebelión has published this article with the author’s permission under a Creative Commons license , respecting its freedom to publish it in other sources.

http://www.tlaxcala-int.org/article.asp?reference=21088

 

An Open Letter to Donald Trump

Not rapists: just abused*

EnglishFrench

An Open Letter to Donald Trump

 

Mr. President Trump:

Throughout the centuries, long before your mother arrived from Scotland, long before your grandparents arrived from Germany and had a lot of success in the hotel and brothel business in New York, the Mexicans had their families here and they had already named all of the Western states, rivers, valleys, mountains, and cities. The Californian architecture and the Texan cowboy, symbols of the “authentic American” are nothing more than the result of the hybridity—like everything else—of the new Anglo-Saxon culture with the long since established Mexican one. Can you imagine one of the founding fathers coming face-to-face with a cowboy?

When your mother arrived to this country in the 1930s, half a million Mexicans were deported. The majority of them were American citizens but they were very unlucky when the frustration nationwide, because of the Great Depression, got them speaking Chicano. They were blamed for the Depression since their faces looked as foreign as they could be.

Your idea that the Mexicans that come here are rapists, criminals, and invaders it’s nothing new and it couldn’t be farther from the truth. In this country’s prisons, you will find that immigrants—both legal and illegal—are underrepresented. Immigrants in American prisons make up only one-fourth of what would be the total percentage of the immigrant population in the United States.  In case you still don’t understand: the statistics say that “wetbacks” are four or five times less likely to commit a crime than your own beautiful children are, Mr. Trump. Where immigration dominates, the crime rate drops and prejudice and racism increase.

These people were seen as foreigners and rapists (you aren’t the first person to know this) since the United States took possession (it’s best to say it this way so we don’t offend anyone) of half the Mexican territory in the middle of the 19th century. And as those people that were already there didn’t stop speaking such an uncivilized language such as Spanish and refused to change their skin color, were persecuted, deported or simply murdered, accused of being bandits, rapists, and foreign invaders. The real Zorro was dark skinned and didn’t fight against any Mexican despotism (as Johnston McCully depicted the story in order to be able to sell it to Hollywood) but instead he fought against the Anglo-Saxon invaders who took his land. Dark skinned and rebellious like Jesus, even though you see this Nazarene man always depicted as blonde haired with blue eyes and rather docile in the holy paintings. The hegemonic powers of that age that crucified him had obvious political reasons for doing so. And they continued crucifying him three centuries later when the Christians stopped being illegal immigrants and were persecuted so much that they hid in the catacombs. Eventually, they became the official persecutors when they took power.

Fortunately, Mr. Donald, the European immigrants, like your parents and wife, didn’t look like foreigners. Of course, if your mother had arrived forty years before, then maybe she would have been confused with an Irishwoman. Those people certainly did look like invaders. Besides being Catholics, they had hair just like yours, red and curly, something that offended the local white people, and by white people I mean those that, at one time, had been discriminated against by their Polish, Russian or Italian accents. But fortunately, immigrants learn quickly. As González Prada wrote more than a century ago, when an individual rises above the level of his social group he usually becomes its worst enemy.

This is what you and many other people demand, of course: that the immigrants should assimilate to this culture, instead of just integrate into it. But, which culture is that exactly?

In a truly open and democratic society, no one ought to forget who is to be accepted or, as I understand it, the virtuous thing to do must involve integration and not assimilation. Assimilation is violence. In many societies, it’s a requirement, especially in all of the societies where fascism survives in one way or another. 

Mr. President, the creativity that you see among the businessmen and women in this country is admirable even though its importance is exaggerated and many negative aspects are forgotten: It wasn’t businessmen who promoted democracy in Latin American but rather, they did just the opposite. Various successful American businesses promoted bloody Coups d’état and supported a long list of bloody dictators.

It was businessmen like Henry Ford, who made interesting contributions to the industry, but it’s often forgotten that, like many other businessmen, Ford was an Anti-Semitist who collaborated with Hitler. While the US denied refuge to persecuted Jews in Germany—as they now deny it to Muslims today for almost the same reasons—Alcoa and Texaco worked together with the fascist regimes of that time period.

It wasn’t businessmen who developed new technology and science but amateur inventors or salaried professors instead; from the foundation of this country to the invention of the Internet, continuing with Einstein and finally, the arrival of the first man on the moon. Not to mention, the basis of the sciences—which were shaped by those horrible and uncivilized Arabs centuries before—from the numbers that we use to Algebra to algorithms and many other sciences and philosophies that are part of Western civilization today, continuing with the Europeans in the 17th century. None of these men were businessmen, of course.

It wasn’t businessmen who achieved, through resistance and popular activism, almost all the progress with the civil rights that are now known today in this country, when at the time they were demonized as dangerous revolutionists and anti-Americans.

Mr. President Trump, I know you have been all your life too busy making money, so you don’t know this simple evidence: a country is not a business, it’s not a company. As an employer, you can hire and fire as many employees as you wish, for the simple reason that there was a State that gave an education to those people before and there will be a State later on that will be responsible for them when they are fired, with social welfare services —or with the police, as a worst case scenario.

An employer doesn’t know how to resolve any of these externalities. He’s only concerned about his own success that he will later confuse it with the success of the whole country and sell it in that same way because that is what a businessman does best: selling. Call it what you want.

You always boast about being immensely rich. I admire you for your bravery. But, if we consider what you have done starting with what you received from your parents and grandparents—money aside—it could be said that almost any businessman, any worker in this country that has started from nothing—and in many cases incurring enormous amounts of debt from his educational costs—is much more successful than you.

The Turk Hamdi Ulukaya was a poor immigrant when he founded the yogurt company Chobani a few years ago, which is now valued at two billion dollars. That type of story is very common in a country as great as this one, without a doubt. But this creative businessman had the decency to recognize that he didn’t do all of this by himself. That it would have been impossible without his employees and having been in as free of a country as this one. And actually, recently, he donated 10 percent of the company’s stocks to his employees.

In Mexico, there are similar examples to yours. But better ones. The most well-known example is Carlos Slim, the son of Lebanese immigrants, who took advantage of the economic crisis at the time—as any man with money would—now has eleven times your fortune.

Mr. President Trump, democracy has its own Achilles tendons. It’s not the critics, as any fascist society normally considers them—it’s the demagogues. The ones that beat their nationalistic breast in order to abuse the power of their own nations.

Twenty-five centuries ago, the first democratic example, Athens, took pride in welcoming foreigners; this wasn’t her weakness—nor political or moral. Athens had slaves just like your country had for a couple of democratic centuries, and in a way it continued this disgrace with undocumented workers. Athens had its demagogues too: for example, Anytus, a successful businessman who convinced the rest of society, very democratically, so that they would put the thinking mind of their age to death. Socrates’ downfall was questioning everything too much, for believing too little in the gods of Athens and for ruining its youth with doubts.

Of course, almost no one remembers Anytus today and the same thing will happen to you. At least you can double your bet and turn into one of the figures just like we’ve seen in European history of the 20th century with your exacerbated nationalism and your hatred for those people who looked like foreigners without even being so. You will always find followers—because that is also part of the political game—and right now, we don’t have a better system.

 

Jorge Majfud

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