Whenever people ask why I’m so fascinated by linguistics and rhetoric, I always come back to one example: color.
In English, we make a clear distinction between red and pink, even though pink is technically just a lighter shade of red. No one looks at Pepto Bismol and thinks, Wow, what a lovely light red!—we recognize it as pink, an entirely separate color (and, arguably, one that should never be consumed). This distinction feels natural to us, built into the way we see the world.
But this isn’t true for every color. Light blue is still blue, dark green is still green—except, not everywhere. In Russian, light blue (голубой) and dark blue (синий) are as distinct from each other as red and pink are to us. Where an English speaker sees two shades of blue, a Russian speaker sees two separate colors.
This example proves a point: the words we use don’t just describe our reality—they shape it. Our language defines how we categorize and perceive the world, drawing lines that feel instinctive but are, in many ways, entirely constructed.
By the end of 2024, America had shattered a record. It was not a new high jump record, nor was it the speed of military aircraft. Since the Hamas attack in October 2023 and the launch of Israel’s devastating onslaught on Gaza, there has been an increase in Islamophobia, anti-Arab bias, and anti-Semitism. According to a report released by the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) on March 11th, 2025, complaints regarding anti-Muslim and anti-Arab incidents last year were the highest number since the group began compiling data in 1996. Yes, that includes post-9/11 and the entire duration of the “War on Terror.”
A few months ago, I was speaking with a friend about this statistic and the rise of anti-Arab rhetoric. This friend is one of the most intelligent and mature people I know. After discussing (what felt like) the end of the world, she turned to me and asked a question that left me speechless: “Why does hate unify more than love?”
This question kept me up at night, and it still does to this day. I consider myself to be an optimist and generally look at humanity through rose-colored lenses (quite literally, if you have ever seen me and my pink glasses in person). One of these sleepless nights, I was brought back to my passion: language.
But more importantly, I thought of the many citizens who subscribe to harmful rhetoric. The ones who see a (barely) viral post on Twitter and tear down posters of Arabs in their community. The ones who believe that traditional Arab clothing is synonymous with terror. The ones who hear the beautiful praise “Allahu Akbar” and their heart skips a beat.
Mahmoud Khalil is a Palestinian graduate student who served as a negotiator between pro-Palestine protesters and Columbia University’s administration. He became a direct target of escalating hostility. Despite holding a permanent residency green card, he was arrested and faced attempted deportation, with his activism recast as a threat rather than a call for dialogue. Following this attempted deportation, President Trump posted on Truth Social, stating, “We know there are more students at Columbia and other Universities across the country who have engaged in pro-terrorist, anti-Semitic, anti-American activity, and the Trump Administration will not tolerate it.”
This quote is a striking example of rhetoric in action. Based on Khalil’s actions alone, there is no indication that he was pro-terrorist, anti-Semitic, or anti-American. Yet, a quote from the POTUS can easily reinforce biases and encourage bigotry. When a sitting U.S. president calls an advocate "pro-terrorist,” he is not just making a statement—he is drawing a linguistic boundary between those who are “real Americans” and those who are enemies. And for many Americans, once that line is drawn, it becomes almost impossible to erase. The danger, then, is not just in the words we speak, but in the ones we no longer question.
This can be applied on a bigger scale than Khalil and Trump. It is rhetoric like this that distorts reality, painting those who oppose Israel’s apartheid—recognized as such by the World Court, Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and others—as inherently evil when that is simply not the case.
Some of you reading this may think the same thing about me. How dare I defend a pro-terror perspective? I want to check you there, as that is exactly my point. Rhetoric has the power to create villains where there are none, to distort history in real time, and to justify actions that might otherwise seem indefensible. It allows us to categorize people in ways that feel natural, even when they are deeply artificial.
This is the same mechanism that makes us see pink as a distinct color rather than just “light red.” It’s also the same mechanism that turns an Arab student advocating for human rights into a dangerous extremist. Language doesn’t just describe reality—it shapes it. It dictates who we see as friend or foe, victim or aggressor, human or other. When rhetoric is weaponized—when Palestinian identity is equated with terrorism, when calls for justice are reframed as extremism—it warps our perception, making these divisions feel natural.. But that is the greatest trick of rhetoric: convincing us that the boundaries it creates were never a choice, when, in reality, they have always been ours to redraw.