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The Vatican and the global Catholic community, including Lebanon, are currently marking the 60th anniversary of Nostra Aetate , the declaration promulgated by Pope Paul VI on the Catholic Church’s relationship with non-Christian religions. In Lebanon, a conference was held in Bkerké on November 8 to commemorate the event. The statement has often been called prophetic , and rightly so. It was written at a moment when, despite growing contact between peoples through modern transport and communication, religion was increasingly being used as a tool of violence across the five continents. The culture of religious and racial hatred had reached its darkest point in Europe during World War II, with the Holocaust and the extermination of millions of Jews by the Nazis. “Rays of truth” At the heart of Nostra Aetate lies a key principle: every religion carries “a ray of truth”. The declaration states: “The Catholic Church rejects nothing that is true and holy in these religions. She regards with sincere respect those ways of acting and living, those rules and teachings which, though differing from what she holds and teaches, nevertheless often reflect a ray of that truth which enlightens all men… She encourages her sons, through prudence and charity, through dialogue and collaboration with the followers of other religions, to recognize, preserve, and promote the spiritual, moral, and socio-cultural values found among them.” Origins and development Nostra Aetate has deep roots in the Holocaust, one of the most painful episodes of World War II. In 1947, Jewish and Christian thinkers gathered in Seelisberg (Switzerland), at the initiative of the British “Council of Christians and Jews”, to reflect on the causes of Christian anti-Judaism and racial antisemitism. One of the speakers was the French Jewish historian Jules Isaac, who had lost his wife and daughter in the camps. A year earlier, he had completed his book Jesus and Israel , analyzing the Christian roots of religious anti-Judaism and calling for Jewish-Christian dialogue. In 1960, Isaac met Pope John XXIII and handed him a dossier urging changes in Christian teaching about Jews, who were still referred to in certain liturgies as the “deicide people.” John XXIII asked Cardinal Augustin Bea to draft a text on Jews as part of the preparation for Vatican II. The original project focused solely on Jewish–Christian relations. It was titled Decretum de Iudaeis (“Decree on the Jews”). But bishops from the Melkite and Maronite Churches expressed concerns, fearing the text would be misunderstood in Muslim-majority societies. Among them were the Greek-Catholic Patriarch Maximos IV Sayegh and Bishop Georges Hakim (later Patriarch Maximos V). They argued that in their countries (Lebanon, Syria, Egypt…), interreligious relations primarily involved Muslims and Christians. Limiting the document to Judaism risked appearing detached from local realities and giving the impression of diplomatic support to the newly established State of Israel (1948). Patriarch Maximos IV famously insisted: “We live in the midst of the Muslim world. It would not be wise for this document to speak only of the Jewish people without mentioning Muslims, our brothers descended from Abraham… We ask that Islam also be included.” The declaration was therefore expanded to include all non-Christian religions, especially Islam. Though short, Nostra Aetate became the cornerstone of modern Catholic interreligious dialogue. Clear and concise, it avoids another misunderstanding: replacing mission with dialogue. The document also rejects the idea of collective Jewish responsibility for the death of Christ, countering interpretations of Gospel passages such as “Let his blood be upon us and our children.” It states clearly that the Passion “cannot be blamed neither on all Jews living at that time nor on Jews today.” A gesture that said everything The long and painful history between the Synagogue and the Church was powerfully summarized by a gesture of Pope John Paul II during his Jubilee pilgrimage to the Holy Land in March 2000. At the Western Wall, the Pope stood alone and placed a written prayer between the stones, as Jewish worshippers do. Days earlier, he had visited Yad Vashem, condemning antisemitism and honoring Holocaust victims. The Vatican later published the text of his prayer: “God of our fathers, you chose Abraham and his descendants to bring your name to the nations. We are deeply saddened by the behavior of those who, throughout history, have caused your children to suffer, and asking your forgiveness, we commit ourselves to genuine brotherhood with the people of the Covenant.” More than a diplomatic apology The Pope acknowledged the suffering endured by Jewish communities dispersed across the world since the destruction of the Temple in 70 AD and asked forgiveness — not politically, but before God. By referring to Jews as the “people of the Covenant”, he affirmed that God’s covenant with Israel is not revoked and remains valid beyond history. The Israeli rabbinate and Jewish communities worldwide recognized this moment as a decisive turning point in Jewish-Christian relations. Thus, the Catholic Church formally rejected the “theology of substitution” — the belief that all promises made to Israel had passed to the Church — and instead grounded the permanence of the spiritual bond between Christians and Jews in a shared fidelity to the will of the God of Abraham. Next article: Dialogue with Islam.

Pope Leo gave the Lebanese what belongs to the Lebanese: recognition of their great resilience. But if we try to read his words on the serious global problem he identified for everyone through Lebanese eyes—let's say Lebanese eyes only, since he addressed these words to the whole world—we would understand that this resilience should be investigated: “A kind of pessimism and sense of powerlessness seem to have taken hold, where people are no longer able to ask themselves what they can do to change the course of history. Major decisions appear to be taken by a select few, often to the detriment of the common good, as if this were an inevitable destiny”. Being in Beirut over the past few weeks, I perceived this resilience, which is private rather than public or communal, as a problem of mistrust in politics. There is an air of disillusionment that leads to withdrawal or adaptation. And this makes foreigners wonder whether it makes sense to stick with a political framework that still refers, at least in large part, to the days of the civil war. In my opinion, for Lebanon to fully return to the message that John Paul II spoke of in 1997, there would need to be reconciliation between the political sphere and the common sentiment of the population. So, once again, I read the Pope's words in Lebanese terms: “There can be no lasting reconciliation without a common goal, or without openness towards a future in which good prevails over the evils that have been suffered or inflicted in the past or the present. A culture of reconciliation, therefore, does not arise only from below, from the willingness and courage of a few. It also needs authorities and institutions that recognize the common good as superior to the particular. The common good is more than the sum of many interests, for it draws together everyone’s goals as closely as possible, directing them in such a way that everyone will have more than if they were to move forward by themselves. Indeed, peace is much more than a mere balance – which is always precarious – among those who live separately while under the same roof. Peace is knowing how to live together, in communion, as reconciled people. A reconciliation that, in addition to enabling us to live together, will teach us to work together for a shared future side by side”. If this was, at least in part, the meaning of his speech, then we could think that his visit to Beirut was not only for Beirut but for the whole of the great or new Levant that I see in the succession of territories that have been tested, often brutally, from the Mediterranean to Mesopotamia. These are territories organized into countries that everyone knows and that have had a painful past, often marked by brutal stories, denials, protectorates, and vicious murders. But as Bishop of Rome, with a Roman education, Leo knows well that some countries here in Europe, one fine day after the Second World War, after fighting each other for centuries, discovered that they were neighbors, then traveling companions, then friends, contributing to the founding of the European Union experiment. Why couldn't Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq attempt the same undertaking? All in all, these are the territories over which various patriarchs of Antioch have jurisdiction. History can turn its pages, if it wants to, and sometimes it does, if it wants to. Of course, the problems are enormous, such as the weight of the past, the pain of wounds that have not yet healed, the still partial recognition, and the logical mistrust. But if the Churches of Antioch, many of which are based in Beirut, were to take on this strategic depth, this perspective, they would reduce the weight of nostalgia, of limited perspectives, of closures, and would become the outgoing Churches that Francis spoke of, or the missionary Church that Leone speaks of. Fears of downsizing also arise from the perspective one takes. If one looks at one's own mountain or valley, downsizing is inevitable. If one broadens one's horizons, if one can imagine wooded expanses and prairies while walking in one's own backyard, downsizing is rejected first and foremost within ourselves. This is where Beirut could once again see itself as the engine of a train made up of different carriages, each with its own history and identity, but linked by a common hook, that of the need to connect with the Mediterranean space, with trade not only in goods but also in ideas. In the streets of Jemmayze or Ashrafyeh, I felt that a Christian presence exists there, and as Europeans I recognize it as such, but it also needs to breathe, to be part of a broader discourse, and your city makes this possible and, above all, understandable to this pope who, like Francis, is attached to the idea of “polar tension.” The poles do not cancel each other out, they complement each other, they need each other. The poles of Beirut are, on the one hand, the mountains so close to you, with their wealth of traditions to be preserved, and on the other, the sea, with its horizons bringing exchange, encounters, and new ideas that are essential for change and growth, together. This in many eyes is the road of the train, the one you could help us to see again. Riccardo Cristiano is a Specialist in Vatican affairs on Italian public radio RAI; author of several works on interreligious dialogue and Pope Francis’s pontificate.

As Pope Leo XIV visits Lebanon — and with the 30th UN Climate Change Conference in Belém, Brazil, ending with few tangible results — it is worth revisiting the concept of « Integral Ecology », a central idea in Pope Francis’s 2015 encyclical « Laudato Si’ ». The document outlines a deeply human and inclusive vision of ecology — one that calls for both spiritual renewal and social justice. The term integral ecology reflects a holistic approach to the relationship between humankind and the environment. It promotes a worldview where environmental, social, cultural, and spiritual dimensions are inseparable. As the French Catholic Church site explains, this concept rests on “the conviction that ecological conversion is not confined to environmental issues alone” but also draws on hope, respect for all life, and a commitment to human dignity and fraternity. The Church, in this view, bears a moral responsibility for the care of Creation. “We forget that we are dust” Though the notion had circulated since the 1980s, it gained renewed momentum with the encyclical “Laudato Si’”, whose title — “Praised be You, my Lord” — echoes a hymn by Saint Francis of Assisi. In this sweeping text, Pope Francis places the protection of nature at the heart of faith in the Creator. “We grew up thinking that we were the owners [of the planet] and its masters… We forget that we ourselves are dust,” he writes, quoting Genesis 2:7. “Our own bodies are made of the same elements as the Earth; its air gives us breath, and its water gives us life.” From there, Francis offers an unsparing diagnosis of the global environmental crisis in a chapter titled “What Is Happening in Our Common Home.” He condemns the devastating impact of human progress on the planet: pollution, climate change, water scarcity, biodiversity loss, and the social and moral costs that accompany them. “If we accept that human beings are creatures of this world, entitled to live and be happy,” he writes, “we cannot ignore how environmental degradation, today’s development model, and the throwaway culture shape human lives.” The encyclical also points to deep global inequality and the weakness of political and collective responses. Where Science Meets Faith One of the boldest sections of “Laudato Si’” calls for dialogue between science and religion. Pope Francis recognizes that many see the two as opposed, yet he argues that they can illuminate each other. “No branch of science, and no form of wisdom — not even religious wisdom — should be excluded,” he writes. In this spirit, Francis aligns himself with the findings of the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), which attributes global warming to human activity. He blames not only technology and the illusion of control it brings, but also globalization and its tendency to impose uniform lifestyles and values. One Crisis, Not Many For Francis, the 21st-century crisis is not divided between environmental and social concerns — it is one and the same. Pollution, poverty, exclusion, and the exploitation of resources are interconnected symptoms of a single, global disorder. This is the essence of integral ecology: the world is a network of relationships, and the well-being of one part depends on the whole. The Pope calls for comprehensive solutions that weave together natural ecosystems, social justice, and cultural renewal. He insists that ecology must also be “cultural.” Every community, he says, must be engaged in finding solutions rooted in its own traditions and wisdom. Losing a culture, Francis warns, can be as serious as losing a species. “Laudato Si’” also brings ecology down to the human scale — to daily life and relationships. For Francis, ecological awareness is not just global or institutional; it’s personal. It shapes neighborhoods, housing, public spaces — the fabric of ordinary existence. “What Kind of World Do We Want to Leave?” At the heart of Pope Francis’s reflection lies the question of the common good — the conditions that allow every person and community to thrive. He highlights three pillars: human dignity, the strength of intermediary institutions like the family, and social peace founded on justice and inclusion. The State, he reminds us, must protect this common good as the bedrock of a balanced society, even as inequality continues to grow worldwide. Finally, “Laudato Si’” looks toward future generations, asking the question that runs through the entire text: What kind of world do we want to leave for them? This is more than an ecological question; it is a moral and cultural one. Confronted with the rise of individualism and weakened social bonds, Francis urges a shift from self-interest to shared responsibility — through international cooperation, fairer public policy, greater transparency, and genuine dialogue between science and faith.

The “Gathering of Lebanese Shia” sent a message to Pope Leo XIV stating that the Lebanese State’s exclusive control of weapons “is the essential foundation for building a strong and just State.” Supporting peace “in accordance with Arab initiatives and international legitimacy,” the Gathering stressed its commitment to “acting exclusively under the authority of the State and the rule of law, and to supporting everything that strengthens its presence.” The “Gathering of Lebanese Shia” brings together academics, journalists, senior professionals, and Shiite citizens known for their sovereigntist stance, fundamentally opposed to Hezbollah’s political project. Below is the full text of the message addressed by the Gathering to the Holy Father. Your Holiness Pope Leo XIV, With reverence and respect, The Gathering of Lebanese Shia is honored to address Your Holiness on the occasion of your blessed visit to Lebanon — a visit we consider a pivotal moment that reflects your constant commitment to promoting a culture of peace, strengthening dialogue among members of the one human family, and standing by nations experiencing delicate conditions such as those our country is enduring today. We, in this Gathering, believe that Lebanon is a final homeland for all its children, and that its strength lies in its state and legitimate institutions, in the consolidation of coexistence, and in adherence to international legitimacy. From this conviction, we place before Your Holiness a clear statement of our steadfast positions: 1. We support the implementation of international resolutions related to Lebanon, in a way that safeguards its sovereignty, strengthens its stability, and restores order to its institutions. 2. We believe that the exclusive possession of arms by the Lebanese State is the essential foundation for building a strong and just state capable of protecting all its citizens without exception. 3. We are committed to working strictly under the authority of the State and the rule of law, and to everything that reinforces its presence, prestige, and unifying role. 4. We support the path of peace in accordance with Arab initiatives and international legitimacy, based on a firm conviction that a just and comprehensive peace is the only route to a stable future for the peoples of the region — in full harmony with the motto of your visit: “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Your Holiness, The Shia community in Lebanon takes pride in its historic national role and reaffirms its sincere desire to be an active partner in the state-building project, and in shaping a society rooted in justice, equality, and mutual respect among all citizens. We regard your visit as spiritual and moral support for Lebanon’s path to recovery, and as an encouragement for dialogue — the essence of the Lebanese partnership. We deeply value Your Holiness’s concern for Lebanon, and we ask God to grant your health and strength to continue your noble mission in upholding human dignity and fostering a culture of peace in a world beset by crises. Please accept, Your Holiness, the expression of our highest respect and appreciation. From the Gathering of Lebanese Shiites Jad Al Akhaoui

In 1957, the historian and philosopher of history Arnold Toynbee delivered a lecture at the Cénacle Libanais entitled « Le Liban, expression de l’Histoire ». After exploring the complexity of Lebanese history and its interactions with surrounding civilisations, and after analysing how Lebanon—owing to its geographic position and its multi-confessional composition —has long served as a meeting point as well as a battleground for competing religions and identities, Toynbee concluded his talk with a remarkably prescient warning. He said: If, in the Levant, the frontier between the two global empires—American and Russian—were to be drawn along the crest of Mount Anti-Lebanon, the Lebanese Republic would risk sharing the fate of the State of Israel. Like Israel, Lebanon would not be viable if it were to find itself in a permanent state of hostility with its neighbors to the East. This lecture was given, of course, amid the gloomy atmosphere of the Cold War, with all its geopolitical tensions and ideological rivalries between the United States and the Soviet Union, along with their respective camps. During that period, while the Soviet Iron Curtain had fallen over nine European countries, turning their borders into zones of repression and hostility, wars had also broken out along the frontier dividing the two Koreas and across the shifting borders of Indochina. At the same time, the line of demarcation between the American and Russian empires settled, as Toynbee had feared, along the crest of the Anti-Lebanon mountain range—on what is the Lebanese-Syrian border. In this inextricable situation, Lebanon opted for a position squarely in the American orbit, declaring on 16 March 1957 its adherence to the Eisenhower Doctrine, and that after having briefly flirted with the Baghdad Pact as part of the Western alliances of the Cold War. Meanwhile, on the other side of the border that separated the two spheres of influence, the West’s refusal to assist the Arab states—including Syria—and Washington’s unconditional support for Israel pushed Syria, then dominated by the left, as well as the United Arab Republic (UAR) created in 1958 through the union of Egypt and Syria to turn decisively towards the Soviet Union. The Lebanese, comforted by America’s global supremacy and by its military superiority over the USSR, were not seriously alarmed Toynbee’s warning . Thus, the Lebanese-Syrian border, as defined and even enshrined in the Lebanese Constitution—unique in the world for setting out a national frontier in a constitutional text—became more than an administrative line or a legal fiction. It acquired a dual nature: it simultaneously a frontier between two states and a political, economic, and ideological dividing line between the American and Soviet spheres of influence. When President Fouad Chehab met President Gamal Abdel Nasser in a tent erected on the border, each man remaining on his own territory, the symbolism of the venue and scenery was designed to underline both the national and regional significance of this frontier. Yet Toynbee’s premonition ultimately proved false. In fact, this line of separation between the two spheres of influence, for a time, protected Lebanon from Syria’s expansionist political, security-related, economic and ideological ambitions. This separation turned out to be a boon for Lebanon for more than a quarter of a century. Lebanon’s great misfortune struck when the United States—true to its pragmatism and its readiness to trade alliances for “deals,” such as the one with Assad’s Syria—began first to blur this line, and then almost to erased it altogether by orchestrating the entry of the Syrian army into Lebanon in April 1976. Through maneuvers inspired by Henry Kissinger, Washington ultimately entrusted Damascus with a tutorship over Lebanon. The removal of this line of demarcation—engineered through a US-Syrian arrangement reached with no consideration whatsoever for the Lebanese, who still believed that American alliances were grounded in principles—allowed Syria to impose its hegemony over Lebanon. The alliance between the United States and Lebanon was, in reality, nothing more than a short-lived, circumstantial pact dictated by American interests during the Cold War. Toynbee was mistaken on another point as well: the alternative to tense borders is not necessarily peace; it may just as well be domination.

Is it true that a filmmaker essentially explores a single theme—or a single universe—through the whole of their work, in the sense that everything ultimately forms a coherent whole, as Jean-Luc Godard suggested? Guillermo del Toro seems to fit this theory perfectly. The Mexican director, who has just delivered (on Netflix) his own version of one of cinema's most exploited figures—Mary Shelley's Frankenstein —appears driven by a foundational, almost obsessive, even prophetic intuition that is indeed detectable throughout his entire body of work and gives him a rare coherence. For del Toro, the monster is never the monster. Deformed otherness, scarred flesh, unnatural anatomy are never synonymous with actual monstrosity in his work. Quite the opposite: in the Mexican director's vision, the monster is the most human figure of all—one bearing the weight of suffering, loneliness, rejection, humiliation, but also love. Admittedly, he is far from the first to venture onto this terrain. But in an increasingly dehumanized world, his project rings with an even more striking truth. The real monster? It is man, when he abandons his own humanity, when he allows himself to be possessed by the desire for domination, narcissism, cold science, war, or the fear of death and the will to substitute himself for the Demiurge. In this sense, del Toro's entire body of work appears as one long indictment against monster-makers: regimes, armies, laboratories, scientists, tyrannical fathers and glacial moralists who claim to stand on the side of Good, Reason, or scientific modernity—but who ultimately produce only destruction. There are no monsters, del Toro tells us. There are only torturers who believe themselves invested with a grand project, but who are, in fact, merely delusional figures seeking to repair their narcissistic wound. In El laberinto del fauno ( Pan's Labyrinth —2006), undoubtedly one of the most beautiful films of the 21st century, the supposed monster—the unsettling faun, half-shadow half-light, messenger from an archaic world—is in reality nothing but a spiritual response to Franco-ist barbarism. The true monster is Captain Vidal, prototype of the cold, mechanical fascist, free of doubt, obsessed with posterity and the myth of the father. Against Ofelia's innocence and her salvific imagination stands the methodical cruelty of power. The mythological monster becomes a refuge, a regulating figure, a last bastion against moral devastation. What Del Toro is trying to say here is essential: the monster is not terror, it is the antidote to terror; the last refuge of innocence to avoid and ward off horror. The saving sanctuary where the soul can still breathe. The same logic runs through The Shape of Water (2017), this masterpiece in which an aquatic creature, imprisoned in a military laboratory and tortured in the name of science, proves capable of loving with a purer, more complete, more absolute love than the humans who dissect it. Here too, the true monster is not the one displayed in the aquarium: it is the empathy-free scientist, paranoid Cold War America, social normality obsessed with appearance, conformity, control. This film is fundamentally a manifesto from del Toro, asserting that humanity does not reside in man but in the capacity to love. Loving is the only engine of survival, as Leonard Cohen said in his song about the monstrous future he had foreseen in the early 1990s, with the end of bipolarity. Yet man is often incapable of loving. That is what makes him a monster. The monster, in inverse dynamics, accepts the most painful but also most beautiful learning—that of learning to love. This theme is brought to incandescence in Frankenstein , del Toro's dream project for thirty years, which finally finds its form. This is the foundational story of many monsters: the creature that never asked to come into the world, born from the whim of a narcissistic creator, a father intoxicated with power, a man who wants to steal from God the secret of life without assuming ethical responsibility. Frankenstein is the absolute condemned: one who has no place, no identity, no language. One whose only desire is to love and be loved. "I am alone," he says in Mary Shelley's novel. Frankenstein is nothing other than this monster in each of us, seeking love, so that we might finally fully access otherness, connection, humanity. Yet the world insists on designating him as a monster, regardless of facts, desire, will, or heart. He is condemned to rejection, without appeal. Yet Del Toro overturns the entire cinematic tradition here. The great James Whale had already given the monster a tragic, almost Christlike dimension in the earliest films about this figure brought to the screen— Frankenstein (1931), then the magnificent Bride of Frankenstein (1935), before the character became a staple of Hammer horror films; brilliantly parodied by Mel Brooks ( Young Frankenstein , 1974) or poorly theatricalized by Kenneth Branagh in 1994, with a major casting mistake—De Niro in the title role! But del Toro innovates: he offers the monster's perspective, its subjectivity, its stifled cry. He finally gives it a voice. The creature becomes a mirror—a mirror that man refuses to look into. Because he would see the truth—that the monster is him. This leitmotif is present throughout del Toro's work. In Hellboy (2004), where the child of the devil's inevitable trajectory is to lead the world to destruction, yet he chooses to rebel against his biological destiny—and conquer his freedom. In Nightmare Alley (2021), where the real monster is not the carnival beast but the man who sinks into the illusion of absolute power and mutilates himself psychically until he becomes what he believed he dominated: the beast. In Pacific Rim (2013), it is not the colossal creatures emerging from abyssal rifts that are monstrous, but the technological arrogance of a world believing it can control everything. Even Pinocchio (2022), in del Toro's hands, does not escape this law. As in Steven Spielberg's A.I. , the wooden boy is more human than the adults around him. The father, however, is imprisoned in his grief—wounded but tyrannical—and fascist society instrumentalizes the child as cannon fodder. Then there is El Espinazo del diablo (2001), a spectral and deeply moving film in which the ghost of a murdered child comes to haunt an orphanage during the Spanish Civil War. The ghost is not a specter of terror but a guardian of memory, the voice of justice against barbarism: killed innocence, literally. The ghost is here a witness. It does not constitute a threat. Del Toro's haunting is clear: the monster is a symptom of human violence. And if it comes into the world, it is because a tyrant, a scientist, a soldier, a father—has created it. It is impossible not to read this work in the light of psychoanalysis, insofar as what del Toro stages is nothing other than the rejected son, the sacrificed son, the impossible child, condemned to permanent misunderstanding. One thinks of course of Lacan and the foreclosure of the father's name. It is the figure of the child without place, crushed by the deadening paternal Law, the one that knows not love but only performance, discipline, or inheritance. It is also difficult not to think of Plato's Cave. The creature dares emerge from the shadows to seek humanity, but those who see it murder it. Del Toro is in fantasy cinema, but he is deeply rooted in his time and in reality. He tells us, through his fabulous images, the horror in which we live daily—as if he were delivering nothing less than a tragic meditation on our era. More than ever today, the world is filled with monster-makers and monster-traffickers: populists, fascists, fear engineers, scientists without ethics, gnostics of all kinds, propagandists who transform peoples into machines of hatred. The monster now doesn't even need to be created in a laboratory: it is manufactured through discourse, manipulation, social networks, closed identities, resentment, and purifying fantasy. Even artificially now, and always with our agreement, our legitimation, our participation. Strangely, the final season of the series Stranger Things seems to evolve around this same theme… In this sense, Guillermo del Toro is much more a political thinker, a dark prophet than a filmmaker—similar to what Cohen already announced in The Future in 1990, namely that humanity is in danger. But not because of monsters, but because of those who live off the need to manufacture them through hatred, violence, humiliation, exclusion. Del Toro whispers an urgent truth to us: it is time to look monsters in the eye. That is, to conduct our own examination of conscience before it's too late, to win within ourselves the most important battle: our last chance to remain human. So we do not all end up, like little Ophelia from the Pan's Labyrinth .