‘‘They feel that being against coal somehow denigrates all the sacrifices that generations of their families have made to the development of this nation.’’

So they fight for their way of life.

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War sells because fear sells.

It’s an emotionally charged metaphor that has taken over much of political discourse in America, says Deborah Tannen, a linguistics professor at Georgetown University and author of ‘‘The Argument Culture.’’

There have been wars on drugs, wars on women, wars on the middle class. Why not a war on coal?

For people who want to govern, she says, war is about ‘‘destroying the opposition so they can get the power back.’’ For media, it’s about grabbing the attention of an easily distracted public. The more polarizing the voices, the more entertaining the story.

But such language, she says, contributes nothing to genuine understanding.

Rather, ‘‘it has this effect of making people angry, defensive and fearful,’’ Tannen says. ‘‘It has a corrosive effect on the human spirit.’’

Two years ago, the phrase had only begun to creep into a conversation. Today, it’s an inescapable, daily drumbeat, dominating not only conversation, but campaign ads and newscasts.

‘‘The idea of taking land in a moving front, there’s something there,’’ says Bill Bissett, president of the Kentucky Coal Association.

‘‘Yes, it’s part of a PR campaign,’’ he acknowledges. ‘‘But people are pretty jaded and pretty quick to recognize false arguments. The idea that we somehow hoodwinked people in the coalfields is a bit of a stretch.

‘‘It’s not just some PR machination,’’ Bissett says. ‘‘It is a real, real concern.’’

In Kentucky, more than 55,000 people now drive vehicles with ‘‘Friends of Coal’’ license plates, a slogan that Bissett helped launch to get people emotionally invested. Instead of seeing the industry as faceless men in suits, they see the pickups next to them at the supermarket parking lot, the tags instantly identifying the like-minded.

So too, with the ‘‘war on coal.’’

Today, you’re either friend or foe. Meaningful discussions and middle ground have vanished.

In one of his last major speeches in 2009, the late Sen. Robert C. Byrd warned that change was upon coal country. He chastised the industry for ‘‘scapegoating and stoking fear,’’ calling it counterproductive.

‘‘To be part of any solution,’’ he said, ‘‘one must first acknowledge the problem.’’

The greatest threats to coal, Byrd warned, come not from regulations ‘‘but rather from rigid mindsets, depleting reserves and the declining demand.’’

Byrd was 91 at the time and revered in his home state of West Virginia. The speech was largely ignored.

But fast-forward three years to another Democrat who’s dedicated his political career to the Mountain State.

When Sen. Jay Rockefeller gave a remarkably similar speech in June, deriding the industry for what he said were divisive, fear-mongering tactics, the state’s Young Republicans said he'd ‘‘gone from out of touch to dangerous.’’

They even invoked the language of terrorism, suggesting he’s ‘‘an anti-Mountain State sleeper cell that has lain dormant for 40 years.’’

Allen Johnson of Christians for the Mountains — a group that opposes mountaintop removal mining and advocates living ‘‘compatibly and sustainably’’ with the environment — sees such verbal smack-downs as nothing less than a threat to democracy.

‘‘If any politician dares step over the coal line ... you will get hammered back into place, and quickly,’’ says Johnson, of Frost, W.Va. ‘‘You just metaphorically crack knuckles and knee caps.’’

Johnson, 64, once worked the coke ovens for U.S. Steel. He worked for a railroad that moved coal and a power plant that burned it. He wants people to have good livelihoods. He also wants balance, and a government that prevents uncontrolled pollution of earth, air and water.

‘‘The EPA,’’ he says, ‘‘is a patsy in the war on coal.’’

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For the past 11 years, Kevin Spears has been a sought-after commodity — a young, healthy Caterpillar mechanic with nine mining job certifications and a willingness to work 60-75 hours a week.

But he lost his job in April when his employer ran out of money to finish reclaiming a strip mine site.