Celebrating Death

And what it says about us - a response to the murder of Charlie Kirk on Sept. 10/25.

I am shocked. I am appalled. And if I am being honest, I am heartbroken. Not just by the news itself - the brutal murder of a public figure - but by the chorus of voices rising in response to it. Voices not of grief, not of discomfort, nor even of silence, but of celebration. Of satisfaction. Of indifference that masquerades as strength. “No tears shed.” “Not surprised.” “Good riddance.”

How did we get here? How did we, as a community of supposedly intelligent, progressive, kind people, arrive at a place where we can publicly applaud death? Where we can look at the extinguishing of another human life, regardless of who they were or what they believed, and treat it as entertainment, karma, or a cause for smug relief on public display?

I don’t want to write about Charlie Kirk, the man. His death is the spark, not the flame. What I want to write about is what his murder - and more disturbingly, our reactions to it - reveals about us as a society. About the way we handle disagreement, they way we process influence, the way we twist narratives, and the way we forget our shared humanity.

Because what I see right now is a world out of control. And the strangest part is: it’s control that we all think we want.

The Illusion of Control

Control is funny, isn’t it? We spend our lives trying to get it. We want control over our futures, our families, our choices, our identities. We want control over how others perceive us, how history remembers us, and how society listens - or doesn’t listen - to us.

And we want control over each other. We want to believe that if someone says something we don’t like, we can shut them down. If someone thinks differently, we can correct them. If someone grows too influential, we can topple them.

But here’s the truth: no one has that kind of control. Not me. Not you. Not Charlie Kirk, or Andrew Tate, or Greta Thunberg, or Taylor Swift, or Leila Khaled, or Donald Trump, or Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Not one of them, not one of us, controls how their words will land. Not one of them can dictate how their ideas will be consumed.

Because consumption is never neutral. It’s filtered - through our histories, our wounds, our values, our fears, and our hopes. Two people can sit side by side and watch the same clip, read the same words, hear the same speech, and walk away with two entirely different interpretations. I’ve seen this in my own writing. I can write from a place of kindness, empathy, and compassion, and still receive a reply full of anger, offense, or scorn.

So, when someone commits violence in the name of another person’s words, we have to be honest: the responsibility belongs to the one who acts. Influence is not control. Inspiration is not permission. Speech is not violence - violence is violence.

And yet, here we are, living in a world where people feel not only justified but proud in blaming a man’s words for his death, as though it somehow balances the scale.

The Social Media Trap

Let’s talk about why.

Most people today learn their news, form their opinions, and construct their worldview from social media. Not from books. Not from long form interviews. Not from nuanced conversation. From thirty-second clips, two-minute soundbites, Carefully edited reels designed to provoke a reaction, not to foster understanding.

Social media isn’t real. It’s produced. Even the most casual video is lit, framed, staged, cut, edited. Context is lost. Nuance is stripped away. Complexity is sacrificed on the altar of “engagement”.

And how many of us, honestly, take the time to chase down the full interview? The unedited script? The longer conversation? How many of us double-check to make sure what we just consumed is accurate, or that the person we now hate actually said what the clip suggests?

We don’t. Most of us don’t. Because outrage is faster. Anger is easier. Hatred is more fun.

Mainstream media has been doing this for decades - taking snippets out of context, splicing photos with misleading headlines, manufacturing a narrative first and then slotting the “evidence” second. Social media just amplified it. Made it faster, slicker, more addictive. And the more we consume it, the more convinced we become that our interpretation is the truth.

But it’s not. It’s just our truth.

The Dangerous Game of Certainty

Here’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way: unless you’ve sat down with someone - truly sat down, shared time, shared silence, asked questions and actively listened - you don’t know them. You don’t know what they stand for. You don’t know their heart.

That goes for politicians, athletes, musicians, celebrities, influencers, and yes - even for people you see everyday in your own life.

We think we know. Our brains tell us that because we’ve consumed their clips, read their headlines, seen their tweets, we know who they are. But we don’t. We know the version we’ve been given, the version we’ve decided to accept, the version that fits our frame of mind.

And when we convince ourselves that our version is the only truth, we lose empathy. We lost humility. We lose the ability to say, “Maybe I don’t know the whole story.”

That loss is dangerous. It’s what allows us to celebrate a murder. Because if the version of the person we’ve consumed is a monster, then their death feels like justice. But what if they weren’t? What if they were a complex, flawed, human being, with hopes and fears and dreams, just like the rest of us?

What if the person you hated most still loved their family? Still believed they were doing good? Still had moments of kindness, joy, humor? Does that complicate your satisfaction in their death?

It should.

The Cost of Dehumanization

Every time we strip someone of their humanity, we strip ourselves of ours.

When we cheer a killing, we legitimize killing. When we refuse empathy for one, we weaken empathy for all. When we normalize hatred - even against those we disagree with - we create a world where violence becomes not just possible, but inevitable.

And then we act surprised. We say, “How could this happen? How did we get here?” But the answer is staring back at us.

We got here because we forgot that disagreement does not make someone disposable. We forgot that influence does not equal intent. We forgot that violence is never justified by words, no matter how much we dislike them. We forgot that every single person - every single one - is more than the worst thing they’ve ever said, or the worst interpretation of their words.

We forgot how to be human with each other.

Free Speech, Free Thought, and the Rage of Discomfort

Now, I’m not naive. I know words can hurt. I know they can spread hate, fear, division. I know there are times when someone’s speech makes my blood boil.

But the answer to hateful speech cannot be celebration of violence. The answer to disagreement cannot be dehumanization.

Because when real conversations stop, violence starts. When we can no longer sit at a table with someone who thinks differently, the only option left is to treat them as an enemy. And enemies, in human history, are rarely debated - they’re destroyed.

That’s the path we’re on right now. A path where we are so certain of our own righteousness, so addicted to outrage, so consumed by the illusion of control k, that we don’t even flinch when violence breaks out. In fact, we reward it. Applaud it. Cheer it on. 

And if that doesn’t terrify you, it should.

The Hard Truth

Here’s the hardest truth I’ve had to face: I am not immune to this. None of us are. I’ve felt it - the thrill of indignation, the satisfaction of seeing someone I disagree with fall from grace. I’ve caught myself laughing at a cruel headline, nodding at a biting comment, scrolling through the comments section just to revel in the collective pile-on.

But every time I’ve indulged that, I’ve chipped away at my own capacity for empathy. I’ve made it easier for me to see someone as less-than. I’ve made it easier for me to forget that they, too, are human.

That’s the truth we all have to face. We are complicit. Not in the act of violence, maybe, but in the culture that celebrates it.

And if we want to turn this world around, that’s where we need to start. With ourselves.

Conclusion: Finding Our Way Back

We can’t keep going like this. We can’t keep pretending that hatred is justice, that violence is victory, that death is something to celebrate.

We need to remember what it means to be human. To disagree without dehumanizing. To challenge without destroying. To criticize without killing.

We need to relearn the lost art of conversation. The humility to admit we don’t know everything. The discipline to check our sources. The courage to listen. The strength to say: “I hate what you said, but I will not hate you. I will not celebrate your death. I will not abandon my humanity to justify my rage.”

Because the moment we abandon that, we’ve already lost.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy - not just the death of one man, but the deaths of our collective empathy.

It’s time to find our way back. Before there’s nothing left to come back to.

Ⓒ September 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.