Sometimes the most unexpected moments reveal the fault lines that have been hiding beneath the surface of our relationships. Recently, I witnessed two people I knew online—one a close friend of mine, and another who was more of a mutual acquaintance—have a falling out. The reason? What happened to Charlie Kirk, and the differing ways people process political violence.
Both of them lean left, which at first glance might make it seem strange that they would clash over a figure like Kirk, who has spent years at the forefront of right-wing politics. But politics is never as simple as “left versus right.” The reality is that even within the left, there are deeply different ways of responding to moments of political violence. My friend took the stance I personally agree with: we should not be apathetic, and we should certainly not be celebratory, when someone is harmed—even if that person has done or said things we despise. The other person, though not gleeful, gave off an indifference that to me felt chilling. They said they thought it was horrible, but beyond that, their words carried a tone of detachment that made it seem as if it didn’t really matter.
Now, I don’t want to name names. This isn’t about dragging people out into the open or making anyone look bad. It’s about observing what happens when human values collide in the midst of tragedy. And the truth is, I had a weird feeling this split was inevitable. I never wanted it to happen, never hoped for it, but deep down, I could see these two were diametrically opposed on certain issues. And when the Charlie Kirk situation unfolded, I couldn’t help but suspect it would be the breaking point.
Let me be clear: what happened to Charlie Kirk was awful. No matter how strongly one might disagree with him politically, violence is never the answer. But the aftermath, as I’ve seen unfold online and in my circles, has brought out something darker in people. Instead of leading to reflection, empathy, or even sober analysis of political violence, it has become a lightning rod for division. Liberals, leftists, and conservatives alike have been pulled into the gravity of this moment, each reacting in ways that only deepen polarization.
Among conservatives, Kirk’s death has become a rallying cry. Many have used it to double down on narratives of victimhood, persecution, and the idea that conservatives are under siege. It has further entrenched the belief that the left is violent and dangerous, that progressives not only want to silence their voices but also physically harm them. In that sense, the event is being weaponized to create further political capital.
Among liberals and leftists, the reactions have been more fragmented. Some, like my friend, recognize that if we condone or dismiss violence against people we oppose, we undermine the very principles of compassion, justice, and fairness that we claim to uphold. Others, however, fall into apathy—or worse, thinly veiled satisfaction. They may not cheer it openly, but they act as though Kirk’s fate is inconsequential, as if his words and politics somehow stripped him of his humanity.
And then there’s another camp of liberals: those who respond by whitewashing Charlie Kirk’s legacy. In their rush to show civility or avoid looking cruel, they go too far in the opposite direction, painting him as some misunderstood figure, or conveniently ignoring the harm he caused during his career. This, too, does nothing productive. Pretending Kirk was something he wasn’t doesn’t heal wounds, and it doesn’t foster honesty. If anything, it creates confusion and risks rewriting history. We can acknowledge that his death was tragic without erasing the reality of his rhetoric, his actions, and the impact he had on politics. To whitewash his legacy is not compassion—it’s distortion. True compassion requires honesty, not sugarcoating
This is what I find most troubling. Because once we cross that line—once we start deciding whose suffering matters and whose does not—we’ve abandoned the very foundation of any moral or ethical politics. Compassion cannot be conditional. It cannot be something we selectively extend only to those we agree with or admire. If we do that, then we’ve lost the heart of what it means to resist cruelty, oppression, and injustice.
I think part of the reason my two acquaintances fell out is because they were both responding from different instincts. One from a place of empathy, the other from a place of anger and detachment. And while both of these instincts are understandable in a world filled with political hostility, they are not equally constructive. Empathy demands something from us. It asks us to rise above our emotions, to see the humanity even in those we oppose. Anger and detachment, by contrast, may feel easier in the moment, but they corrode our ability to connect with others, to build solidarity, or to hold onto our own sense of humanity.
What struck me most about watching this fallout is how fragile online relationships can be, especially when politics enters the mix. You can be friends with someone for years, share jokes, share community, and then one moment of disagreement—one ethical divergence—can cause everything to fracture. And in this case, it wasn’t even about direct politics. It wasn’t about policy debates or ideological purity. It was about something deeper: how we respond to violence, and what that says about our values.
I can’t pretend I wasn’t saddened by it. I wish both of these people could have found common ground. But sometimes, the truth comes out in moments of crisis. And sometimes, those truths reveal that the gap between people is too wide to bridge. That doesn’t make either person evil. It just shows that we are all wrestling with how to navigate a world where violence and division seem to be constantly looming.
At the same time, I think there’s something instructive in this. If the left is going to survive and thrive, it has to grapple with these questions head-on. Do we want to be a movement that mirrors the cruelty of our opponents, dismissing their pain and humanity? Or do we want to be something better, something stronger, something rooted in compassion even when it’s hard? I believe it has to be the latter. Otherwise, what’s the point of fighting for a different world?
The irony of all this is that Charlie Kirk himself thrived on division. He made a career out of fanning flames, out of drawing hard lines between “us” and “them.” And now, in his death, he continues to divide. But maybe the lesson here is that we don’t have to keep playing into that script. We don’t have to let division consume us, too.
What I take away from all this is not just sadness at the loss of a friendship, but also a reminder of the importance of holding onto empathy. We can disagree passionately. We can fight for justice with everything we have. But if we let ourselves become indifferent to suffering—even the suffering of those we dislike—then we’ve lost something essential.
The world is already divided enough. The aftermath of Charlie Kirk’s death showed just how deep those divisions can run, not only across the political spectrum but also within communities that might otherwise stand together. The challenge for all of us is whether we can resist that pull, whether we can choose compassion over apathy, and whether we can hold fast to our humanity in times when it’s most tempting to let go.