We live in a time when tragedy, particularly political violence, tends to draw out a very raw part of our nature.
Be it our impulse to distrust, to judge, or to condemn.
The assassination of Charlie Kirk has been yet another moment when so many of us rush to find the worst in people, leap to conclusions, and sharpen our moral knives. Why? What is gained? What drives us toward hate, even – or especially – when confronted with loss?
I’ve been spending some time thinking about this over the past few days.
In deeply divided societies, politics becomes more than disagreement. They become identity. Your political views are not just what you believe. They can become who you are. In a moment of crisis, that identity goes on high alert. Tragedies like Kirk’s death ignite fears that our basic safety is under siege. The thought process has evolved quickly to “us” vs “them”. This triggers defensive (and offensive) reactions. We cast blame, assign guilt, and dehumanize the “Thems” as a way to protect our own group (the “Us”).
For many, criticizing a public figure like Kirk, whose positions often drew sharp ideological lines, makes it easier and more acceptable to reduce him, or those associated with him, to their worst statements. Conversely, those sympathetic to him will see criticism as betrayal.
The result? Very little space for distinction.
Social platforms amplify extremes. They reward clicks and outrage. When someone posts something inflammatory, it spreads fast. The algorithms favor strong reactions. They prefer anger, fear, or disgust over calm reflection.
In the Kirk case, for example, videos of the assassination were circulated widely and quickly. Some even auto-played so people saw them accidentally. My children warned me from watching the graphic videos. When we consume news in these formats, we often consume fragments, soundbites detached from context, that are ideal fodder for criticism. The social media echo chamber encourages us to double down on our beliefs, see enemies everywhere, and treat complexity as weakness. This fuels a rush to conclude the worst about others.
When someone is killed, especially in a high-profile, political way, people feel vulnerable, angry, and sad. Those emotions are raw. In that mindset, it seems it has become natural to look for someone to hate or dislike. We naturally need to name a villain. It offers a kind of psychological relief. We need to have someone to blame, someone to be the source of our outrage.
Grief often wants a scapegoat. It wants reason for the chaos. When things feel unpredictable or unjust, assigning blame, even if prematurely, can feel like gaining control over fear. But it also tends to oversimplify.
We have lost much of the sense that people are more than their worst opinions. We expect moral clarity. We need good vs. evil, right vs. wrong. In that two-fold view, distinction, ambiguity, and modification are often erased. People become symbols of evil, of truth, of sin, whatever your frame is.
Some reactions to Kirk’s death treat him purely as a villain because of his politics. Others treat any criticism of him as an assault. Either side tends to exaggerate the worst, because dehumanizing is simpler than dealing with complexity. Dehumanization paves the road for hate.
There are very real social rewards for being the loudest voice, the most outraged, or the most righteous. Media personalities, influencers, and politicians gain followers, engagement, donations, and visibility by taking firm, uncompromising stands. Outrage is currency.
When you hear someone like a public figure or media outlet say, “We must call out those who don’t sufficiently mourn,” or “We must punish those who seem to celebrate,” there’s an implied social benefit in being seen as morally pure, loyal, or brave. These incentives make it tempting to overshoot, to demand absolute loyalty and condemn dissent, even when reasonable disagreement remains.
We are shaped by stories of past injustices, of wrongs that went unchallenged, of triumphs and tragedies. When someone is assassinated, or even when a political figure is attacked, echoes of those past events resonate. We fear that history is repeating itself. We are concerned division, dehumanization, demonization will lead to more violence. Where does it end?
As a result, the reactions we see are not just about the person who died. They are about what the death seems to represent, a breaking point, a warning, a test. That weight amplifies the urgency and bitterness of our responses. But what if we did not name villains, outside of the obvious who committed the heinous acts?
Recognizing the tendency is the first step toward countering the urge. We can dial it back a bit by pausing. Before reacting, allow the shock or grief to settle, examine what you know compared to what you feel.
Seek sources of differing opinions. Listening to and engage in conversations with people who do not exactly agree with you. Having an honest conversation with someone you respect and who respects your thoughts can help with trying to understand their fears and reasoning.
Let’s hold ourselves to the same moral standard we demand of others. Can we empathize with the families, with people who disagree, without condoning harmful views? Can we encourage public conversation that values complexity, admitting that people can disagree, change, or have flaws.
In the wake of Charlie Kirk’s assassination, the rush to hate, to find the worst in people, is shaped by fear, and systems (social media, politics) that reward outrage. But if we want to move toward a more humane public life, it is imperative that we resist those impulses. We must mourn not just the loss of a life, but the loss of possibility when we allow hate to define who we are, and who we believe others are.
In our worst moments, let’s strive to be our better selves.
