In the wake of the assassination attempt on former US President Donald Trump, there were calls from both sides of US politics, as well as internationally, to reduce the brutal, take-no-prisoners language that has become part of our ordinary political discourse.
But within days Trump returned to being, well, Trump. At a campaign rally on Saturday, he referred to former US House Speaker Nancy Pelosi as a “dog” and a “bed bug”.
And there has been no shortage of vicious invective targeting the Democrats’ new presumptive presidential nominee, Kamala Harris.
Why is savage rhetoric so harmful?
Incendiary language typically creates more heat than light on political issues, inflaming emotions but rarely illuminating nuanced arguments.
This increases general disillusionment with politics. When politicians behave like children, it’s not surprising overall trust in political institutions plummets.
Worse, sharp moralising language creates polarisation and encourages people to see their opponents as hated enemies.
For example, in the aftermath of the Trump assassination attempt, President Joe Biden apologised for his earlier comments about putting Trump in a “bullseye”, admitting it was a mistake.
The use of such language makes it harder to engage constructively with those who think differently, and to make the compromises required in democratic law-making.
Finally, brutal escalating rhetoric can lead to violence.
For example, Trump’s running mate, J.D. Vance, once called the former president “America’s Hitler”. If Trump really is like Hitler, then doesn’t it make sense — isn’t it morally right — to use violence to stop him?
All sides of politics can agree these are undesirable outcomes. Everyone benefits from civil, constructive political discourse.
That sounds great. So, why can’t we dial it down?
Being civil is hard. When someone argues with us on matters of values, it feels psychologically like we are under attack. Responding defensively with a verbal onslaught is a natural, salient response.
Attacking opponents also feels good in the moment. We can feel like we’re at least doing something to defend our values.
In addition, ideological vitriol works to cement and affirm our identity within our chosen political tribe. Many like-minded thinkers will applaud their allies for “owning” their opponents.
But perhaps the greatest reason that brutal, uncompromising attacks are so frequent is that they work.
In a plea this month against escalating political rhetoric in society, Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese asserted:
There’s a lot of shouting going on. A point is not made more significant by being done in capital letters.
WRONG! Unfortunately, vicious moralising language makes people more likely to give in to click-bait content and share it online. And social media algorithms deliberately reward polarising rhetoric, making extreme ideas more visible.
As a result of this crowding out of moderate voices, it’s as if civil, nuanced and constructive contributions are being systematically shadow banned.
While abusive rhetoric has clear short-term gains, these benefits don’t necessarily translate into longer-term strategic achievements. Vulgar attacks often prove counter-productive as they fail to persuade, discourage understanding and alienate potential allies.
It’s hard to make clear rules for civil debate
Another problem with drawing the line at abusive political rhetoric is that hard and fast rules are difficult to apply.
Fascists, racists, conspiracies and attempts to undermine democracy are all genuine threats. People need to be able to publicly denounce such things, even if they become heated or their language provokes outrage.
And even if we were able to develop some basic rules of civility, they could easily unravel. People would inevitably interpret their opponents as breaching those rules.
Consider the wildly different interpretations of Trump’s invocation of a “bloodbath” if he loses the 2024 presidential election.
Was he threatening actual political violence, as his Democratic opponents claim? Or was he merely referring to the economic impacts of Biden’s trade policies, as the Trump campaign claimed?
People’s judgments of others’ wrongdoing can also drive them to reciprocate with their own actions or accusations, leading to tit-for-tat escalations. This is one reason the debate over the Gaza war has become so toxic – both sides see themselves as taking the higher moral ground.
So is there a way forward?
Perhaps all we can do is draw the line at physical violence.
In the US, this approach dates back to the 17th century, when the Puritan dissenter Roger Williams coined the phrase “mere civility”.
Desperate to preserve people’s political freedoms to argue forthrightly and their religious freedoms to aggressively proselytise, Williams argued people should be able to say what they want. But socially and legally, actual violence would be prohibited.
After all, frank dialogue is a part of democracy, but as a wide consensus of voices asserted after the Trump assassination attempt, political violence is not.
Perhaps more is possible. We could try to repudiate social punishment (such as doxing, cancelling or attempting to get people fired) when people say things we disagree with.
More ambitiously, even if we can’t change the overall discourse and its perverse algorithm-fuelled incentives, we could attempt more localised fixes.
We could work to create discrete environments — such as the school room, the university tutorial or the parliamentary debate — with a formal structure that rewards civil discussions.
This would encourage people to argue ethically and disagree well. Just because social media is a quagmire doesn’t mean we can’t create alternative spaces that offer something better.
Ultimately, though, our interconnected, globalised world rewards rage and crushes empathy. No small words here, or fleeting pleas by our political leaders, will change that.
But we can still do our best to remember that hate, contempt and self-righteousness are rarely constructive for movements or individuals — even when attached to the noblest of causes.
Hugh Breakey does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
