If we do a little bit of insight into history, how many times

When Gael García Bernal, the actor, humanist, and son of Latin America’s conscience, declared, “If we do a little bit of insight into history, how many times have there been people doing hate discourse, blaming everything on a certain group of people. That really is the genesis of genocide, where it kind of sparks,” he was speaking not only as an artist, but as a witness of humanity’s recurring tragedy. His words carry the solemn weight of one who has gazed upon the pattern of centuries and seen the same shadow cast again and again — that before every genocide, before every unspeakable cruelty, there begins a whisper. A whisper of hate, of blame, of exclusion — one that grows into a storm capable of consuming entire nations.

The origin of this quote lies in Bernal’s reflections on his work in film and activism, where he has often explored the moral wounds left by oppression and intolerance. His art has long been intertwined with truth, giving voice to the forgotten and exposing the lies of power. Through his words, he calls upon us to look backward into history, to recognize that no atrocity arises suddenly, no act of mass violence appears without warning. It begins, always, with language — with the poisoning of speech and the corruption of hearts. Before the sword is raised, the tongue is sharpened. Before blood is spilled, words of contempt prepare the ground. Bernal’s insight, therefore, is a call to vigilance: that we must not only condemn violence when it erupts, but recognize its birth in speech, in the shaping of thought, in the quiet normalization of cruelty.

The pattern he describes is as old as civilization itself. History’s darkest chapters — from the burning of heretics to the enslavement of peoples, from the Holocaust to the massacres of Rwanda — all began with words. The weapon of genocide is not forged of steel, but of rhetoric. It begins when one group is told that another is less than human — that they are dangerous, corrupt, or to blame for society’s woes. This is the ancient seed of hatred, planted by fear and watered by lies. Once this seed takes root, it spreads through the minds of the ordinary until violence seems not only justified, but righteous. Thus, Bernal reminds us that the “genesis of genocide” is not the act of killing itself — it is the moral blindness that precedes it, born from the slow decay of empathy and the silence of those who know better.

Consider the tragedy of Rwanda in 1994. For months before the slaughter began, radio broadcasts filled the air with venom, calling the Tutsi people “cockroaches” and urging their extermination. These words, repeated day after day, stripped away the humanity of a people in the eyes of their neighbors. And when the killing began, it was not soldiers alone who carried it out — it was ordinary men and women, convinced that murder was justice, that their hatred was virtue. The massacre claimed nearly a million lives in a hundred days, but it began long before the machetes were raised. It began with discourse, with the story a nation told itself about who deserved to live and who did not. This is the lesson Bernal warns us never to forget: that hate speech is not mere noise — it is the first step toward darkness.

Yet, his words also shine with hope, for they remind us that the cycle can be broken — that awareness is the first act of defense. “If we do a little bit of insight into history,” he says, for understanding is the antidote to ignorance. When we study the past, when we see how hatred takes hold, we learn to recognize its early signs in our own time — in politics, in media, in daily speech. The call to scapegoat, to divide, to fear — these are the sparks. If we can see them, we can stamp them out before they ignite. The historian and the moral citizen share the same sacred task: to remember, and by remembering, to prevent repetition.

Bernal’s message is both a warning and a moral summons. He speaks to an age in which the tools of communication are more powerful than ever, and thus the danger of hateful discourse greater than before. In the past, a tyrant’s words could reach a crowd; today, they can reach the world in an instant. But so too can words of compassion. The same tools that spread lies can spread truth; the same platforms that amplify hatred can amplify understanding. His call, therefore, is not to despair of speech, but to redeem it — to speak with responsibility, to challenge the rhetoric of blame wherever it arises, to defend the dignity of those who are vilified.

So, O listener of the present age, take this teaching to heart: guard your words, and listen to the words of others with wisdom. Be wary when you hear blame placed upon the innocent, when any people are painted as the source of all evil. Do not remain silent when lies are spoken, for silence is the ally of cruelty. Let your speech be guided by empathy, your reason by truth, and your heart by courage. For every generation faces its own temptation to divide, its own voices that whisper hate. But if we remember the lessons of history — as Gael García Bernal urges — we may yet prevent the next fire before it begins.

For in the end, the story of humanity is not only the story of hatred’s rise, but also of conscience awakened — of those who, seeing the spark, chose to douse it with understanding, courage, and love. Let us be counted among them. Let our words heal where others wound. Let us speak, while speech can still save.