In 2015, after jihadist gunmen stormed the offices of the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo and murdered a dozen people, it was briefly fashionable to declare Je suis Charlie, or, “I am Charlie,” despite the fact that the newspaper was routinely castigated for its vulgarity and provocative content. It reflected an old tradition that you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but find solidarity with common values in the face of murderous assault.
It’s an odd tradition. It casts a halo of sainthood on anyone by virtue of their passing. After a few generations, you look back on an unbroken line of heroes, martyrs, and holy men. It strikes me as disrespectful to whitewash the departed; it turns them from humans into gods. Maybe that is how the ancient practice of ancestor worship began.
Charlie Kirk was neither saint nor hero. He did prove a martyr, but more on that in a bit. Kirk was a salesman, a debater, a partisan—his detractors would say a troll, a hack, and a shill. By whatever label, he hawked ideas to sell an agenda. He was also an institution builder, founding Turning Point USA in 2012 and turning it into the most important recruitment and organizing institution for Donald Trump, who is worse than a hack and a shill.
Kirk was very good at what he did. In debate, he was Ben Shapiro, minus the consistency. He started with Tea Party libertarianism and migrated, with the rest of the Republican Party, to MAGA nationalism. No matter: His true ethos was owning the libs, and few did it better. He was Team Red, whether Red stood for small government or big. He entertained half a generation of college students with his wit and passion, making Team Red both rebellious and cool. His organization has chapters on more than 800 campuses across the nation.
Kirk was courageous: He debated all and sundry. In an era with much pearl-clutching about the need to talk to others, not to fear disagreement, to share ideas, Kirk actually did so, embodying a true American tradition better than many of his detractors. He probably spoke to tens of thousands of college students over the past decade and reached millions more through his podcast. He invited questions from hostile audiences and went to places he knew he’d be booed and heckled. Progressive college students can be an intimidating lot. Kirk probably helped nudge American campus culture rightward through his tours and lectures alone.
“Charlie Kirk’s earthly legacy is that he volunteered to be the chief cheerleader and propagandist to a demagogue, and he excelled at his job. But even propagandists and demagogues have the right to free speech, not to mention the right to life.”
But Kirk’s contribution to that debate was mixed. He came up precisely when social media took over the American public square. By following what social media rewarded, he learned to speak in the rapid cadence and abbreviated soundbites fit for easy sharing. He was a creature of virality, both cause and consequence. When the history is written about the deterioration of public discourse into jousting memes and 280-character snark, Kirk will be there.
And, of course, Kirk’s positions were a parade of MAGA’s greatest hits. He peddled Trump’s conspiracy theory about the 2020 election, bused supporters to the January 6 protest, argued there should be no separation between church and state, encouraged resistance to the COVID-19 vaccine, repeated Russian propaganda about the Ukraine war, and echoed the anti-immigrant “Great Replacement” theory, among other stances. He was solidly in line with the roughly one-third of Americans who make up Trump’s most ardent supporters.
But again, the content of his arguments was not the main point. The new right drew life from style and verve, from an unapologetic, uncompromising confidence that Kirk excelled at exuding. Most important was the flag he argued for and the flag he argued against: That’s what mattered. In an era of tribal politics, Kirk was a fiercely loyal tribesman.
His life, as much as his murder, reflected the nation that created him. Our obsession with social media made a career like his possible. Our cultural illiteracy and historical ignorance made debaters like him persuasive. Our neglect of institutions gave his an opportunity to grow. Our irresponsible legacy media gave him an excuse to create his own. Our cowardice in discourse made Charlie Kirk possible.
Kirk was a true martyr, murdered for who he was and what he believed. Some seem determined to make him into a Christian martyr and saint. But there is a shade of difference between traditional Christian martyrs and Charlie Kirk. The martyrs of old were murdered for their theology—Christians fed to lions in pagan Rome, or Protestants burned at the stake in Catholic England. By contrast, Kirk was (probably) murdered because of his politics. In that sense, he was a martyr not for Christianity, but for MAGA. Of course, Kirk would be the first to remind us that his politics flowed from his faith. If he is a religious martyr, it was for the sort of combustible political religion that, in past ages, both suffered and made martyrs by the battalion.
Saints, martyrs, and heroes are potent weapons in the hands of demagogues and mythmakers. Kirk will enjoy a long afterlife in MAGA world, taking his place in the pantheon of MAGA demigods alongside people like Ashli Babbitt. We are likely to hear his name in nationalist circles for years, even decades to come. His name will be a bludgeon with which to beat anyone who criticizes the MAGA movement for extremism or authoritarianism, especially, one suspects, when the criticism is justified. “This kind of rhetoric is directly responsible for the terrorism that we’re seeing in our country today,” Trump said in his speech the evening of Kirk’s death, “and it must stop right now.” Of course, blaming words for violence has problems of its own.
Kirk’s horrific murder—in broad daylight, by rifle shot, in front of a crowd, on a college campus—does not inoculate him or his cause from criticism. We need not go out of our way to speak ill of the dead: His acts and deeds speak for themselves. Charlie Kirk’s earthly legacy is that he volunteered to be the chief cheerleader and propagandist to a demagogue, and he excelled at his job.
But even propagandists and demagogues have the right to free speech, not to mention the right to life. Kirk understood that, and he clearly defended the principle of vigorous debate in an open forum. On that point, Kirk was absolutely right; he was quintessentially American, and he proved himself ready to live and argue peacefully and courageously even with his most ardent political opponents.
The same cannot be said of the killer who ended Kirk’s life for no other reason (we assume) than that he hated Kirk’s ideas. There are worse things than being a troll. Being a terrorist, for example, and a murderer who left the American public square stained with blood. Violently depriving the public square of one voice, no matter how objectionable, harms America far more than anything Kirk ever could have said or done.
For democracy to work, citizens must identify with one another at some level, however basic. A political killing betrays the core of what it means to be an American. It can come only from a nihilistic despair that debate and compromise and democracy itself have failed. The best way to honor Kirk’s legacy is to keep arguing—and the best way to oppose Kirk’s legacy is to keep arguing. If we stop arguing, we despair. If we despair, democracy dies, and we prove the killer right. Kirk will not be the only casualty. This sprawling argument of a nation touches us all, and it must continue. In that respect, if no other, even Kirk’s greatest critics and opponents should agree: Je suis Charlie.
