In 2020, at the dawn of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was in a heated Facebook altercation with a friend over a post I wrote.
My post highlighted the Modi government’s abrupt lockdown measures, which forced hundreds of thousands of migrant workers in India to abandon their city jobs and head back to their villages—often on foot, in gruelling conditions, with little to no support.
My friend immediately dismissed the reports as “fake news,” despite my sourcing credible outlets like the BBC and Al Jazeera.
As the argument escalated, he moved from outright denial to a more evasive stance. He conceded, perhaps reluctantly, that his position was simply an “opinion.” In his words, “You’re entitled to your opinion, and I’m entitled to mine.”
What he called a “difference of opinion,” I saw as a blatant denial of reality.
This incident got me thinking: when does “difference of opinion” apply, and where does it lose its legitimacy when it overrides undeniable evidence?
The phrase “difference of opinion” has been tossed around so liberally in recent years that it risks becoming meaningless—even dangerous.
Author and philosopher Hannah Arendt once said, “The ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the dedicated Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction, true and false, no longer exists.”
When someone equates a well-documented fact with mere opinion, it creates a slippery slope where evidence loses weight.
Somebody once put it simply: “Difference of opinion applies to topics like whether pineapple belongs on pizza or if you prefer Pepsi over Coke.
However, this does not extend to issues such as racism, homophobia, ableism, sexism, and human rights. Because that isn’t a difference of opinion—that’s a difference in morality.”
Matters of taste or preference are open to opinion; matters of humanity, truth, and rights are not.
Let’s consider what an opinion is. Merriam-Webster defines it as “a view, judgment, or appraisal formed in the mind about a particular matter.”
Opinions are shaped by our perspectives, knowledge, and biases—no two people will likely interpret every situation identically. But in cases like the mass migration of Indian workers during the lockdown, there’s no room for subjective interpretation; the events happened, and they were widely documented. Opinions on the political handling of the crisis may vary, but the suffering it caused was undeniably real.
The danger of reducing facts to mere opinion was eloquently captured by the late American senator and civil rights leader Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who famously said, “Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not to his own facts.”
In my friend’s case, his insistence on viewing worker migration as “fake news” wasn’t an opinion—it was a refusal to acknowledge reality.
Social media has amplified this issue, allowing personal views to masquerade as fact and giving rise to a “post-truth” culture where “alternative facts” and “fake news” narratives thrive.
It’s easier than ever for people to dismiss uncomfortable truths as mere opinions, which is why it’s critical to distinguish between the two. As journalist and historian Timothy Snyder points out, “To abandon facts is to abandon freedom.” When we fail to recognize this, we risk becoming indifferent to the truth.
The lesson is clear: a “difference of opinion” has boundaries, and those boundaries end where facts begin. Opinions can enrich debates on preference, policy, or philosophy, but facts form the backbone of reality.
It’s one thing to discuss whether pineapple belongs on pizza—it’s quite another to dismiss documented suffering as subjective.
For all of us, the responsibility remains: to uphold truth, respect facts, and remember that opinion, for all its worth, is no substitute for reality.
