Charlie Kirk died by the politics he preached

Charlie Kirk’s rallies always drew a crowd.

His appearance at the Utah Valley University on September 10th, 2025 was no different. Students came as they always did, some to cheer, others to protest, many just to watch the spectacle of one of America’s most provocative conservative commentators. Kirk had built his name through Turning Point USA, a group he co-founded to fight what he saw as leftist control of American education institutes. His brand was combative, and he thrived on confrontation.

But this rally ended not with another viral exchange but with a gunshot to his neck.

Kirk left little mystery about who he was. Guns, he insisted, were essential to freedom, and he resisted nearly every restriction on their sale. In April 2023 at a TPUSA Faith event he stated: “It is worth it to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God-given rights”. He staunchly opposed abortion, stating in a debate in 2024, that “if my 10-year-old daughter was raped, her baby would still be delivered”. On his podcast, The Charlie Kirk Show, he repeatedly warned that immigration threatened America’s identity, going as far as to say that the “Civil Rights Act was a huge mistake.” He outright denied the existence of Palestine and once famously declared: “I can’t stand the word empathy. It’s a new age concept that does a lot of damage.”

News of his death, naturally, drew a divided response. On X and TikTok, supporters called for compassion, pointing to his role as a husband, father, and mentor to young conservatives who saw him as a defender of their values. Some argued that differing political views does not justify a public assassination and that his killing is another sign of a society rotting under censorship. Even the U.S. president, Donald Trump, released a statement on Truth Social: “Charlie inspired millions, and tonight, all who knew him and loved him are united in shock and horror. This is a dark moment for America.” He linked the shooting to what he called a wave of “terrorism,” citing his own attempted assassination last year and “attacks on ICE agents,” which he blamed on political rhetoric that “demonizes those with whom you disagree.”

Others countered that sympathizing with him meant overlooking the record he left behind, one that dismissed empathy and defended bigotry. For them, there is a cruel irony in his demise as a cautionary tale of the very culture he helped create - as many put it, the story writes itself.

But perhaps what stings the most is that compassion is rarely extended to those his politics worked against: women forced to carry pregnancies they do not want, migrants swept up in mass deportation raids, Palestinians killed or displaced under bombardment. Expressions of empathy for these groups are often dismissed as partisan, a “liberal” reflex rather than a human response. This double standard now meets a public already exhausted by violence: more than 300 mass shootings have taken place in the U.S this year through August 31, and a Gaza death toll reported above 64,000 as of last week. His death, by contrast, has drawn far more coverage, confirming what many already know: whose suffering is recognized, and whose is ignored, depends on who is allowed to matter.

It is true that none of this erases the private loss. His wife and children will be grieving, and that pain is real. But private grief differs from public memory. Public figures are remembered not for their personal lives but for the records they leave behind, and Kirk’s is clear.

His death is a sign of the times. It does not end his politics; it exposes how tightly they are bound to America’s violence. What lingers is a harder question: should we mourn those who refused to mourn others?