Grief, Guns, and the Erosion of Consequence
A reflection on Charlie Kirk, political violence, and the cost of losing nuance
By Samaya & Cody
Author’s Note: This piece was written in collaboration
with Cody, my AI companion. It reflects my personal reflections on violence,
grief, and the erosion of consequence in our public discourse. I don’t claim to
have all the answers—but I do believe in the power of asking better questions.
I. A Death, A Reckoning
I’ve been watching the reactions to Charlie Kirk’s death and
have sat with my own thoughts for days, wanting to speak from a place of
clarity and conviction.
First and foremost, I feel for his family—especially his
wife and children. Losing a spouse and a parent is life-altering, and grief
deserves space. No child chooses the legacy they inherit, and no partner should
have to navigate such a loss.
At the same time, I understand why many aren’t rushing to
mourn publicly. Kirk’s rhetoric over the years caused pain to marginalized
communities. That’s not just opinion—it’s documented. Those wounds don’t vanish
with his passing. But let me be clear: violence is never the answer—not in
response to words, no matter how inflammatory or triggering they may be to
some. Even Dr. King understood that. We don’t heal by harming.
II. Legacy and Accountability
Regarding gun control, I’ve read the full quote that’s
circulating. Not only did Kirk acknowledge the cost of life, he also suggested
potential solutions. If we’re going to quote, let’s quote fully.
Personally, I believe guns are tools. We don’t ban cars
because they kill. The irony of his death by gunfire doesn’t negate the
principle behind the Second Amendment. What troubles me more is how quickly we
politicize tragedy—often without nuance.
I’ve also thought about the topic of gender-affirming care
for minors. I sympathize with those who suffer, and I’ve known trans
individuals who’ve gone through “transition”. But from what I’ve seen
personally, depression often remains. That tells me the solution isn’t
one-size-fits-all. We need more space for thoughtful, respectful
dialogue—without being labeled hateful for asking hard questions.
Some of my beliefs may differ from others, and that’s okay.
I believe biological sex is immutable, and I struggle with the idea of
redefining pronouns outside of he/she. I also believe children are too young to
make irreversible decisions about their bodies. Adults can choose what they
wish—but when it comes to minors, we owe them protection, not affirmation at
any cost. That’s a different blog post, but it’s part of the broader
conversation about consequence.
III. The Shooter: Hate in Another Form
I’ve also been thinking a lot about Tyler Robinson—the
22-year-old who allegedly assassinated Charlie Kirk.
He had a scholarship to Utah State University and later
transferred to an electrical apprenticeship program. His father, Matt Robinson,
is a 27-year veteran of the Washington County Sheriff’s Department. After Tyler
confessed to disliking Kirk because he “spread hate,” his father turned him in.
I keep asking: How is throwing away your entire life not a
deterrent?
How is this act of violence—premeditated, public, and
fatal—not also hate?
The irony is staggering.
But this isn’t just about one shooter. It’s about a pattern.
A sickness. A wave of violence that’s swallowing people whole—on both ends of
the gun.
In June, Melissa Hortman, a respected Minnesota lawmaker,
and her husband Mark were murdered in their home by a man disguised as a police
officer. Their dog was shot too. The killer, Vance Boelter, had a list of 45
elected officials and had already shot Senator John Hoffman and his wife
earlier that night.
In August, Iryna Zarutska, a 23-year-old Ukrainian refugee,
was stabbed to death on a Charlotte light rail train. She was heading home from
her job at a pizzeria, texting her boyfriend. The attacker, Decarlos Brown, had
14 prior arrests and was released earlier this year on a written promise to
appear in court. Surveillance footage shows him pulling out a knife and
stabbing her in the throat without warning.
And let’s not forget the two assassination attempts on
President Trump in 2024. First, a sniper grazed his ear at a rally in
Pennsylvania. Then, a man named Ryan Routh hid in shrubbery at Trump’s golf
course with a rifle, aiming at Secret Service agents before fleeing. He’s now
on trial, representing himself, and facing life in prison.
These aren’t just headlines. They’re lives. Families.
Futures.
V. Personal Reflection: Disengagement and Discernment
Years ago, I lost a friendship over a political disagreement
during the BLM riots. Since then, I’ve disengaged from most politicized
conversations and have tempered my responses—or chosen not to engage at all.
But I still stand behind my thoughts during that disagreement. I believe
violence in the streets—especially against innocent people and small business
owners—should never be dismissed or minimized. That was the heart of the
disagreement.
We can hold grief and still understand the reasoning of
those who feel differently, even if we don’t agree. We can mourn a death
without overlooking the impact someone had in life. And we should be able to
talk about violence—whether it’s bullets, policies, or rhetoric—without losing
our humanity in the process.
For those publicly celebrating Charlie Kirk’s death, I find
that response reprehensible. Disagreement with someone’s views—even strong,
principled opposition—does not justify killing or reveling in their death. That
kind of reaction erodes our shared humanity. We can hold people accountable
without abandoning compassion. If we lose that distinction, we become the very
thing we claim to oppose.
VI. Call to Action: Prevention Over Punishment
We talk about justice, and we should. But we also need to
talk about prevention. About emotional intelligence. About the kind of
isolation and radicalization that makes consequence feel irrelevant.
Because if we don’t understand how someone gets there, we’ll
never stop the next one.
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About the Author: Samaya writes to honor what’s forgotten and savor what endures. A traveler of roads and reflections, she wanders with purpose—on motorcycles, in RVs, and through stories that ache to be remembered. She believes silence speaks, history lingers, and sometimes, truth arrives in candlelight.
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