Dignified Anger
dignified anger, conflict, violence, Latin American popular struggles, anti-capitalism
Digna rabia matters because it captures an unruly, collectively cultivated anger forged amid the forms of devastation produced by capitalism, driving communities to resist destruction and craft alternative horizons.
Laura Quintana is a full professor of philosophy at the Universidad de los Andes in Bogotá, Colombia.
Available in English: Dignified Anger
The notion of dignified anger refers to an affective disposition that is unruly, insubordinate, but at the same time creative. Introduced by Zapatismo in the early 2000s, it has since been taken up by a range of egalitarian movements across Latin America, enriching the emancipatory political vocabulary by offering an understanding of anger that is not reduced to an immediate reaction driven by the desire for retaliation or by the quest for identity recognition. Rather, it points to a collectively cultivated affective relation that sustains communities and processes of resistance over time in the face of the persistent and systematic harms unleashed by capitalism. To speak of dignified anger is, in effect, to diagnose long-standing forms of violence that have shaped the destinies of historically subalternised peoples, and that have increasingly devastated the world through projects of extraction and accumulation. Yet dignified anger names a political stance that refuses victimisation, insisting instead on generative resistance and on the composition of alternative horizons of life beyond the normalisation of violence. Those who take up this stance seek to weave forms of politics rooted in the concrete places they inhabit, and to create more egalitarian and sustainable modes of existence. These are political practices that recognise the constitutive conflicts of the social, while orienting themselves towards the care of the world and of the vital ecologies that uphold it. This entry explores the contributions of this notion, considering both its origins in Zapatismo and its reappropriations in other Latin American contexts, to show how it has become a key affective force within anti-capitalist struggles and their efforts to create other ways of relating, other forms of inhabiting, other worlds.
introduction
The notion of dignified anger was introduced by Zapatismo in the early 2000s and has since been taken up by a range of egalitarian popular movements across Latin America. It has enriched the emancipatory political vocabulary by broadening how the affective dimension of politics can be understood, and by highlighting in particular the role of passionate indignation. The language of dignified anger also draws attention to systematic and enduring forms of violence that, through value extraction, have undermined the ways of life of diverse peoples historically relegated to subalternity, while gradually ruining the world as a whole and rendering it increasingly uninhabitable. Those who embrace dignified anger seek to resist these persistent forms of violence and to shape a politics committed to fostering more egalitarian and sustainable relations, rooted in care for the world and for the vital ecologies that uphold it, without losing sight of the conflicts that inevitably run through it. From within this affective stance, forms of relation and inhabiting are cultivated that defy the commodification of everything, the expansion of private property, the naturalisation of inequality, and the drive for accumulation that define the dynamics of capital.
1. Another Understanding of Anger
Anger is often characterised as a reactive passion through which a subject responds to something that has harmed them, recognising it as an experience that undermines their sense of equality, as an injustice. From this general definition, however, philosophers, social theorists and communities have developed a range of interpretations.
First, on the one hand, anger has been understood as a reaction directed against whoever is identified as the source of the injustice, through a retributive impulse aimed at returning the suffering they have inflicted (Nussbaum, ; Callard, ). From this perspective, it has been argued that anger can be counterproductive and ethically problematic, since it is not clear how retaliation could restore dignity and self-respect in the face of an injury, let alone foster genuine acceptance of responsibility by the perpetrator (Nussbaum, ). Moreover, the desire for retaliation can narrow one’s vision, giving rise to unilateral forms of understanding that simplify the world into friends and enemies, victims and perpetrators. In this way, it may trigger the stigmatisation of those cast as ‘others’ (enemies or culprits), who should then be punished, destroyed or excluded (Nietzsche, ; Quintana, ).
Second, on the other hand, it has been argued that anger does not only seek to punish an offender but to ensure that they acknowledge what they have done, apologise for their transgression, and refrain from repeating it. Anger would thus not be defined by a mere desire for retribution, but rather by a desire for recognition (Silva, ). From this standpoint, anger may have ethical value insofar as it enables an epistemic shift in its addressee, and may open possibilities for reconciliation and forgiveness (ibid.).
Despite their differences, in both these cases anger is assumed to be triggered in specific relationships between offenders and victims, within a given order that itself remains unquestioned. At stake here is what decolonial philosopher María Lugones – attending not to isolated experiences of injustice but to ongoing relations of oppression – called ‘first-order anger’ (). Lugones adopts the expression ‘first order’ from the philosophy of language to designate discourse that refers to facts, actions, objects, relations or values from within a taken-for-granted framework of meaning. Accordingly, first-order anger names an affect that operates inside the very horizon that has produced the injustice, without subjecting it to critique. It is a form of passionate indignation through which someone who has felt unrecognised or demeaned demands respectability within a social system which they ultimately reaffirm through their desire for inclusion.
However, this desire for recognition may also lead to a radical challenge to the established regime that sustains oppression. This is where a third characterisation, ‘second-order anger’, becomes relevant. Lugones again draws on the philosophy-of-language distinction to describe a meta-discourse that reflects on, analyses, classifies, or evaluates first-order statements. Applied to anger, this refers to an affect that critically examines the very frameworks of meaning that produce and legitimise injustice. More precisely, it expresses a passionate indignation that calls for the abolition of entrenched forms of domination (Lugones, ). Here, anger is not merely a reaction to a past harm but a creative impulse aimed at transforming the very conditions that generated it, creating the possibility of a different future (Lorde, ; Lugones, ; Cherry, ). From this perspective, anger becomes a tool of critique against recurrent forms of epistemic injustice (Bailey, ). It enables the oppressed not only to denounce what harms them, but also to resist domination and break with racist social norms that impose subordination and deny dignity, as articulated in strands of Black feminist thought in the United States (Lorde, ; Cherry, ). Along this path, it also renders visible forms of violence that were previously effaced, and brings to light experiences of oppression that had long remained unacknowledged.
With this notion of dignified anger, another path of reflection opens up. This fourth characterisation of anger is not conceived as a subjective mental state, nor as a merely reactive emotion that seeks retribution or the recognition of a particular wrong within a given order. In line with the Black feminism mentioned earlier, here it is assumed that anger can create bonds of solidarity, and that it carries a transformative potential with regard to an order of domination that generates persistent and ongoing harms, which it then questions and seeks to dismantle. However, it is not conceived simply as an instrument of transformation – a means directed toward an external end – but also as a way of relating in itself: a mode of enacting politics, of shaping its spaces and conditions, such that it ultimately points to a form of dwelling, as will become clear at the end of this entry. These features are tied to the question of dignity, as we shall see, but above all they stem from the way anger is treated here, not merely as an isolated emotion located in a subject, but as an affect – that is, as an effect produced through conflictual interactions between bodies, spaces, technologies, discourses and interventions, an experience generated in the world that is shaped by histories inscribed in bodies and territories.
Above all, these are histories of violence – of dispossession, extermination, and ecological degradation – bound up with practices of colonising the vital networks woven between humans and non-humans, whose exploitation has produced multiple consequences for these forms of life. These consequences permeate their everyday arrangements and their sensorium and generate a range of affective interactions, among them persistent experiences of pain, uprooting, exhaustion and depletion, and subordination. These are lives that have not been able to decide their own destiny, but have been squeezed for the benefit of others and for indefinite accumulation – lives that do not count.
Dignified anger thus emerges and asserts itself through the recognition of these sedimented histories of violence and of how they have ruined those who, for a long time, have been confined to the position of being below, on the periphery, or in the South – not merely as a geographical location, but as a place of marginalisation, produced by a topography that repeatedly consigns it to exploitation through powers imposed from above. Dignified anger speaks of an unruliness that has arisen under these conditions, and which has given rise to other histories – this time of resistance, counter-conduct, insubordination, unfolding from below in defence of forms of life that continue to be devastated for the sake of capital. This is how Zapatismo expressed it in 2008, during a festival dedicated precisely to ‘digna rabia’:
Up above they seek to repeat their history.
They want once again to impose upon us their calendar of death, their geography of destruction.
When they do not strip us of our roots, they destroy them.
They steal our labour, our strength.
Our worlds, the land, its waters and treasures, they leave without people, without life […].
And up above they preach down to us resignation, defeat, surrender, abandonment.
Down here we are left with nothing.
Only anger.
Only dignity.
There is no ear for our pain, except that of those who are like us.
We are nobody.
We are alone, and left only with our dignity and with our anger.
Anger and dignity are our bridges, our languages.
(EZLN, )
In the face of these repeated dynamics of dispossession and exploitation that mark experience and seek to reduce it to defeat and surrender, what remains is anger – which is here identified with dignity. Yet it is not merely a last resort, but something inscribed and carved out as a force in the midst of pain, a potency that affirms that harm has not taken everything away. For even amid such harm, capacities and agencies have persisted, standing against destruction.
Passionate indignation is thus a way of affirming the resistance of those who have been cast as agents deprived of capacity, as ‘nobodies’. This is a resistance unintelligible to those who identify with the position of power and who look down from above. Therefore, it can only appeal to those who reject such hierarchies, who recognise themselves as wronged by them, even if they are not directly affected, for they know that in the end such hierarchies ruin the world and render it less equal. Dignified anger is imagined as a relational affect capable of building bridges between the dispossessed and the oppressed, giving them the strength and courage to continue their struggle and to advance the creation of more viable and common political spaces in territories that are subjected to social and ecological exploitation.
In fact, these aspirations are tied to the idea of dignity that is advanced here, understood not as an innate quality of subjects but as a relational condition that can only be realised through material supports – those that make it possible to exist in sustainable and egalitarian ways, so that the people concerned may share equal possibilities and exert influence over their destiny and how they wish to inhabit. This dignity thus affirms that there are no necessary grounds to claim that one form of life should count for more than another, even if contingency and the arbitrariness of de facto powers have declared otherwise.
The recognition of this equality nevertheless requires particular conditions for it to be actualised. These are bound to the fact that I always exist in relation to others (human and non-human) with whom I share a place – others who, moreover, constitute that place and who also constitute me. For I exist always through the vital webs in which I dwell – through those who have cared for me, through what I have eaten, through the ecologies that sustain me, through the interactions that have shaped my body, and through those relations that also constitute my bodily ecosystems, always in interaction with place and with how it is inhabited. Dignified anger recognises these entanglements and how they may be damaged not merely by individual agents, but by destructive dynamics – with chains of effects branching out and diffusing everywhere, configured in and by the history of capitalism. For this reason, this affectivity situates itself in resistance to the latter, driven by the concern to create other assemblages from those we already live in:
Anti-capitalist anger is dignified anger because it breaks with the condition of victimhood, because it already harbours the desire for something else, for a different world, because behind the shouts and the barricades there is something more: the construction of other social relations, the creation of another way of doing, another way of loving. (Holloway, , p. 2)
Those who resist the violence of capitalism – its practices of dispossession, exploitation and the destruction of vital networks – also confront the way it relegates them to the status of the defeated, as resilient victims who are expected to adapt to the destiny imposed upon them. In the face of this imposition, which denies or devalues their agency, they affirm their desire to create another form of organisation of what exists, another world distinct from that produced by the hegemony of capital – one that is not based on systematic and naturalised relations of exploitation, or on forms of doing and desiring that have normalised the ideas that some lives count for less than others, and that profit and property should be at the centre of social and affective life. As we shall see shortly, dignified anger is conceived as an affectivity that can become a whole matrix of relations rooted in the care of a territory and of the bodies that dwell there, amid the conflicts this entails, and on the creation of the common among those who are bound to the same vital space. Before addressing the political creativity that unfolds here, however, it is crucial to reflect on the affective impulse that emerges when this struggle for dignity is characterised as angry and insubordinate.
2. From the Irreducibility of Conflict and the Relationality of Violence
The dignity asserted in anger is affirmed dissensually, through a counter-hegemonic unruliness that exceeds what is given and expected. It seeks to confront and to open up conflict in relation to sedimented interventions with devastating effects. It follows from what has already been discussed that it also seeks to challenge forms of violence which may be described as extreme: not only do they destroy particular relations, but they do so systematically, blocking time and again the emergence and development of other vital possibilities that are divergent from the projects imposed. In this sense the violence is extreme because it aims to irreversibly foreclose any resistance to its domination (Balibar, ). In the face of such extreme violence, then, the path of dignified anger is not simply one of pacifism, which tends to assume the possibility of complete non-violence, but rather one of resistance to cruelty and to the most systematic and destructive forms of violence.
To grasp what is at stake here, several points need to be clarified. First, it is crucial to recognise how different forms of violence are interconnected, since there are irreducible links between what are termed physical, structural, and symbolic violence. Every act of violence, in its materiality, presupposes particular orders of sense that render a life exploitable, appropriable or destructible. Furthermore, violence exercised through discourse, images or tone is always profoundly material, for it affects others and the relations that constitute them. Moreover, systematic forms of violence that reproduce domination time and again are not equivalent to punctual forms that erupt reactively within already sedimented and structural entanglements. Attending to this relationality is essential not only for recognising and assessing the harms violence may produce, but also for complicating judgement, and for acknowledging how problematic it may be to aspire to complete non-violence.
In fact, the way in which the contrast between violence and non-violence is understood depends on the analytical framework. On the one hand, when the perspective is the state’s monopoly on violence, the rule of law is assumed to be defined, through its legality, by the boundaries it sets on the use of violence – through a public dimension of non-violence characterised by equality before the law, and by defining the state as the sole agent entitled to employ violence legitimately. When these boundaries are understood in strict terms, it may be thought, as Balibar () has shown, that the state’s monopoly on violence entails a kind of ‘zero degree’ of violence. In turn, this can lead to the persecution of any political conflict – presumed in advance to be violent – and of any manifestation of dissent expressed through impassioned forms of direct action, which is then criminalised as ‘vandalism’ and as illegitimate exercises of violence.
On the other hand, one might adopt a more anarchist analytical framework, according to which all forms of violence stem from the power of the state over bodies and territories. This would mean that a zero point of non-violence would therefore have to be sought outside the state. However, this risks overlooking not only how difficult such exteriority is to achieve – given that everyday life is enmeshed with state institutions – but also how attempts to negate particular forms of violence may reproduce other forms: the destruction of infrastructures and of rights tied to the figure of the state, which may protect many lives, or the perpetuation of patriarchal and racist attitudes that predate the modern state and remain unchallenged. From other frameworks, moreover, violence may be reduced primarily to direct physical violence, thereby disregarding structural and slow forms of violence (Nixon, ) and, through such omission, contributing to their reproduction; or else the focus may fall exclusively on structural forms of violence and how they saturate experience, in which case one may lose sight of how they can be countered by practices that resist and fracture them (Quintana, ).
In light of these considerations, it may be argued that a zero point of non-violence is impossible, and that the least violent path is to struggle against the most destructive forms of violence – those that, by becoming systematic and repeated, block vital capacities for longer and in more intense ways. This is precisely the path of dignified anger, as Latin American anti-capitalist feminisms have asserted, articulated around the idea of a ‘common anger’ (Gutiérrez-Aguilar, , p. 48). In this way, they affirm their unruly resistance to structural and systematic forms of violence linked to capitalism, patriarchy and racism in their articulations, while not renouncing defensive forms of physical violence – such as those at times deployed by the Zapatista movement – or dissensual manifestations of aesthetic violence tied to direct action (Quintana, ). These latter aim to expose the violences produced by certain institutions through impassioned demonstrations. They express that the effects of these interventions can no longer be endured, insist on the need to put an end to their normalisation, and call for them to be fractured and dismantled entirely.
One may think, for example, of feminist collectives that attack sites of power such as state institutions or churches, implicated in numerous cases of sexual abuse and the denial of women’s right to decide over their own bodies. These gestures, which may involve the physical destruction of certain places, carry a destructive potential that affects the interests and capacities of subjects, even if they do not mobilise direct physical violence against anyone. In any case, these demonstrations are not intended to be merely destructive; rather, through their gestures they seek to reveal something, to unsettle stabilised frameworks of understanding, to bring them into question and invite their reconfiguration. In many cases, moreover, such expressions are conceived relationally, as part of a broader ‘sensible revolution’ (Palmeiro, , p. 194): a revolution that aims to dislocate capitalism’s grip on bodies–territories and its patriarchal logic of power, so as to make possible other practices, affects and forms of relation between subjects.
This is a transformation of affective and sensorial life that wagers on territorialised social arrangements, sustainable economies, and forms of democratising labour – in the broadest sense, including reproductive activities – and seeks to sustain vital entanglements in their conflictuality rather than exhaust and deplete them (Gago, ). Here, too, the force of dignified anger proves generative, an affectivity ‘that opens up other perspectives, creating other things’ (Holloway, , p. 3): re-inhabiting places, reorganising them, and recomposing them through the most everyday vital arrangements. This was made strikingly tangible during the Colombian national strike of 2021, as we shall now see.
3. A Politics of Dignified Anger
The morning of April 28 revealed cliffs illuminated by an orange sun and the illusion of a day of intense neutralizing strength. Those who feel the anti-colonial struggle, their expressions from the mountains suspend how to dismantle the image of the conqueror. Belalcázar fell in Cali, and the fury of the massacred, silenced, impoverished, and marginalized people erupted. The streets were lit by fire and accumulated anger; for a moment, the dream of surviving a project that dictates death became possible (La Juntanza Popular, , p. 58).
If there was a recent event in Latin American history – resonating with the earlier Chilean uprising of 2019 – that most clearly brought together the political force of dignified anger and its generativity, that is, its capacity to create new relations and experiences, it was the Colombian national strike of 2021. This was the most significant national strike in the country’s history, and as the above testimony indicates, it was understood as a response to and an attempt to disrupt the persistence of long-standing forms of violence, which protesters saw intensifying under the neoliberal reforms of Iván Duque’s right-wing government and its repressive, police-driven approach to social protest.
Anger, with its insubordinate potency, may be understood here as the driving force of confrontation. It propelled the dismantling of visible symbols of the colonial legacy, which had structured the republic throughout its existence and rendered it profoundly unequal. Guided by the call of dignified anger, monuments tied to national symbolism (such as the national flag and the country’s anthem) were dismantled and reworked during the strike, exposing the violence that has shaped the nation and creating more plural and egalitarian symbols. Young Indigenous people (from the Misak and Nasa peoples) toppled statues of conquistadors – symbols of the colonial power that continues to drive dispossession in the country – inviting a rethinking of the past and the construction of alternative possibilities in the present. Meanwhile, collaborative efforts within communities gave rise to new monuments that celebrated popular agency and collective power, even in the midst of brutal attempts to dismantle and erase them (Rojas-Sotelo and Quintana, ).
Moreover, throughout the protest expressions of dignified anger proved both creative and expansive, generating alternative forms of existence within the strike itself. Through various practices, protesters reoccupied urban spaces and territorialised them; that is, they treated them as sites of encounter shaped by shared histories and experiences, where a participatory politics from below could be forged, and as spaces for sustaining life for those who inhabit them, and for care, understood broadly as encompassing everything that upholds and makes possible the preservation of a shared world. This includes bodies (human and non-human) and the entanglements they compose (Tronto, , p. 103). Indeed, through the practices they enacted, the protesters not only resisted but also sought to create a more egalitarian and liveable world, one that they would wish to inhabit.
Through dignified anger – as inscribed in graffiti invoking this notion across different Colombian cities, especially Cali – marginalised areas were redefined as sites of resistance. In these renamed places, popular assemblies were set up to promote practices of direct democracy and popular power, enabling inhabitants to decide what counted as common to them. These assemblies became arenas of spontaneous coordination between those participating in the protest and those with organisational capacities. They did not act as coordinators of pre-existing organisations, but instead emerged as forums centred on the mobilisation itself and its needs; they confronted internal conflicts and devised methodologies to address them, reaching agreements that were often tense and unstable (Caicedo and Quintana, ).
At the same time, within these sites of resistance, collaboration, donations, and the efforts of many gave rise to ollas comunitarias (community kitchens), urban gardens, medical and legal brigades, and popular libraries in areas of detention and surveillance, along with educational initiatives rooted in popular education. Candlelight vigils were held to mourn and publicly commemorate those who had been killed. These practices asserted the city as a place that was open to all and oriented towards community care, reshaping the fabric of urban experience. In this way, these points of resistance reaffirmed long-standing struggles in defence of life and territory, organised for decades through consolidated community structures such as the Indigenous Minga (see La Juntanza Popular, , p. 65), and carried them into the anonymous and deterritorialised zones of the city where people from rural and urban backgrounds with diverse trajectories – Indigenous, Afro-descendant, peasant and student communities – could meet (La Juntanza Popular, , p. 138). There they mobilised family and neighbourhood support, weaving new forms of solidarity that proved crucial to sustaining the protest itself.
By organising and creating conditions – related to food, health, education, social life, and culture – that could support the continuation of the strike, the protesters sought to dignify life in communities and territories which governmental practices tied to projects of accumulation had relegated to marginalisation, programmed abandonment, loss of influence over their own lives, and superfluity. In doing so, they aimed not only to secure these communities’ survival but also to affirm their agency, even under conditions of precarity and state repression, without always being able to avoid responding with defensive forms of violence, or to efface the marks that racism and patriarchy had inscribed on their bodies. Through the unfolding of dignified anger, those who joined the sites of resistance imagined other desirable places within what was given, and proposed new ways of inhabiting cities marked by confinement, social suffering, uncertainty, insecurity, and repression. They charted other futures by calling forth a destiny that was profoundly different from generalised precarity and the degradation of their vital possibilities.
4. Dwelling in Dignified Anger?
If the world has no place for us,
then another world must be made.
With no other tool than anger,
with no other material than our dignity.
(EZLN, )
From what has been discussed so far, it is clear that dignified anger names an affect cultivated with others to confront systematic forms of harm, and to make possible different ways of existing. It is not a fleeting reaction or an ephemeral effect, but rather a mode of relation that may intensify in moments of protest while also seeking to extend across times and places, sustaining the struggles of organisations and communities committed to inhabiting counter-hegemonically against the dynamics of social marginalisation imposed by the dominant economic-political order. In this sense, dignified anger can be said to exist ‘in every place and every moment where people say: “No, we will not accept the rule of capital or of money; we are going to do something else”’ (Holloway, , p. 1). It expresses a reflective and creative defiance oriented towards cultivating arrangements that recompose vital networks in territory – either rural and urban – that is scarred by depredation and dispossession imposed by capital.
This insubordinate affect opens up a conflict over what is possible – what can be realised here and now or in the future, who may appear and how they may do so. It also raises the question of who has more or less time to shape their possibilities of existence and to assert their own projects as viable. At stake also is the struggle over space – how it should be organised, how its resources are used and distributed, how its vital entanglements are maintained. Such manifestations of dignified anger are taken up as practices rooted in a place and in the bodies that dwell there. They unfold in everyday practices that support existence and allow it to endure, as in the Colombian strike just mentioned – an event that may appear fleeting, but which left a deep imprint on the country’s progressive political imaginary and on the interpretation of emancipatory projects in the South.
These commitments continue to unfold in diverse interventions aimed at defending a dignified life: in actions resisting extractivist mining projects to protect the vital ecologies of a territory; in practices that stress the importance of polycultures against industrial plantation systems whose predatory impacts degrade soils and water sources; in projects dedicated to cultivating using local seeds and promoting circuits of production and consumption that affirm food sovereignty; in transforming relations with what has been damaged, contaminated or discarded; in demanding equal distributions across bodies against gender fixations and the intensified exploitation of women, especially those who are impoverished and precarised; and in persisting in inhabiting places where dominant powers have sought to render existence dispensable or obliterate it altogether. Such efforts are carried forward by peasant associations fighting for the recovery and reoccupation of land in the face of landed elites and transnational corporate power; by urban and rural organisations fostering collaborative work beyond the mandates of productivity; and by feminist collectives insisting on the democratisation of reproductive activities and on their indissoluble connection with productive activities, among others.
Such manifestations seek to counter effects imposed from above, most often by state institutions aligned with corporations operating on a global scale, grounded in colonial and imperial logics. Within them one can discern, even if they are not named as such, the ‘creative insubordination of dignified anger’ (Holloway, , p. 2) – the expression of an affect that strives to dismantle the borders between centres and peripheries, rejects the subordination of life to the production of economic value, and places care for the world, shared equitably, at the heart of any social arrangement. To make this possible, and until it is, Zapatismo, Latin American anti-capitalist feminisms and other popular organisations will continue to embrace the path of defiance that does things, that generates – the path of dignified anger.
References
Bailey, A. (2018). On anger, silence, and epistemic injustice. Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement, 84, 93–115.
Balibar, É. (2015). Violence and civility: On the limits of political philosophy (G. M. Goshgarian, trans.). Columbia University Press.
Caicedo, A. & Quintana, L. (2025). Movilización social y emergencias de lo común en el Paro Nacional colombiano de 2021. In Reinvenciones de lo común: Experimentaciones y composiciones desde el sur, edited by M. I. Fernández, N. L. Rangel & P. Jaramillo. Ediciones Uniandes/CLACSO.
Callard, A. (Ed.). (2020). On Anger. Boston Review / MIT Press
Cherry, M. (2022). Political anger. Philosophy Compass, 17(2), e12811. https://doi.org/10.1111/phc3.12811
Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional [EZLN]. (2008, 15 September). Comunicado del CCRI-CG del EZLN, Comisión Sexta, Comisión Intergaláctica del EZLN. Enlace Zapatista. https://enlacezapatista.ezln.org.mx/2008/09/15/comunicado-del-ccri-cg-del-ezln-comision-sexta-comision-intergalactica-del-ezln/?utm
Gago, V. (2019). La potencia feminista: o el deseo de cambiarlo todo. Tinta Limón/Traficantes de Sueños.
Gutiérrez-Aguilar, R. (2018). Porque vivas nos queremos, juntas estamos trastocándolo todo. Revista Theomai, 37, 36–55.
Holloway, J. (2011). La otra política, la de la digna rabia. Recuperado de https://johnholloway.com.mx/2011/07/31/la-otra-politica-la-de-la-digna-rabia/
La Juntanza Popular. (2024). El gran estallido. CINEP.
Lorde, A. (1984). Sister Outsider. Crossing Press. (Digital edition.)
Lugones, M. (2003). Hard-to-handle anger. In Pilgrimages/Peregrinajes: Theorizing Coalition Against Multiple Oppressions by M. Lugones. Rowman & Littlefield.
Nixon, R. (2011). Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor. Harvard University Press.
Nietzsche, F. (1994). On the Genealogy of Morality [GMI] (C. Diethe, trans.; K. Ansell-Pearson, ed.). Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1887.)
Nussbaum, M. (2016). Anger and Forgiveness. Oxford University Press.
Palmeiro, C. (2019). Ni Una Menos: Las lenguas locas, del grito colectivo a la marea global. Cuadernos de Literatura, 23(46), 177–195.
Quintana, L. (2021). Rabia. Afectos, violencia, inmunidad. Herder.
Quintana, L. (2024). Jenseits der Forderung nach Gewaltfreiheit: Würdige Wut und emanzipatorisches Handeln. Deutsche Zeitschrift für Philosophie, 72(1), 83–99.
Rojas Sotelo, M. & Quintana Porras, L. (2022). Sobre la primera y la última línea. Los vencidos de la historia y sus luchas por abrir el porvenir (Colombia, paro nacional, 2021). Canadian Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Studies/Revue canadienne des études latino-américaines et caraïbes, 47(3), 346–368. https://doi.org/10.1080/08263663.2022.2110718
Silva, L. L. (2021). Anger and its desires. European Journal of Philosophy, 29(4), 1115–1135. https://doi.org/10.1111/ejop.12628
Tronto, J. C. (1993). Moral Boundaries: A Political Argument for an Ethic of Care. Routledge.
How to cite this entry:
Quintana, L. (2025, December 16). Digna Rabia – Dignified Anger. Virtual Encyclopaedia – Rewriting Peace and Conflict. https://rewritingpeaceandconflict.net/digna-rabia/
Video-Interview
Dr. Nijmeh Ali in Dialogue
Podcast
Jephta U. Nguherimo in conversation with Fabricio Rodríguez and Viviana García Pinzón
