On Sept. 10, something happened in our community that I never would have predicted. I have come to expect civility and safety in our little corner of America. My neighbors are mourning. People of all political backgrounds are reeling in shock and fear and grief. Some witnessed the violence firsthand and thought they were next. Some put political campaigns on hold for fear of further attacks. Classes and protests were canceled. Discourse was deadlocked.
Violence is never the answer to our disagreements. Charlie Kirk had the right to political discourse, even when his messages were sometimes violent, untrue or distasteful. His children did not deserve to lose a parent. His wife shouldn’t have lost her husband. The same is true of the rights of other victims of political violence in recent months: Minnesota lawmakers and their spouses, President Donald Trump, Nancy Pelosi’s husband, Gov. Shapiro. Nobody should be threatened for their political beliefs.
Violence toward anyone makes political discourse more dangerous for everyone. While some extremists online respond with triumph and others with calls for retribution, the spread of their rhetoric sows fear into the civility that has heretofore existed in our community. We become less likely to talk, less likely to listen, less likely to trust, less likely to work together.
I have been at almost every protest in Utah County this year. While there, I see parents and students, infants and grandparents. I see wholesome messages and friendship bracelets. I’ve heard some counterprotestors call us “silly,” in an act of civil disagreement that feels so nice that it could come from nowhere but Utah. I have never yet felt afraid to participate or to bring my husband or toddler along. The worst we’ve faced is crude hand gestures. This week’s violence is not representative of our community.
We find ourselves at a crossroads. We can take the path of hate and violence. We can exult in the pain of others and hope for harm to come their way. We can drive a wedge into the cracks and tear our communities apart. Or we can take the path of mourning. We can check in on a friend who attends UVU. We can sit down and talk with our neighbor who may sometimes vote in a different color but bleeds red just the same. We can comfort a parent afraid for their child. We can say that nobody deserves to die for their political beliefs and commit to a future where we love our enemy, bless those who curse us, and pray for those who despitefully use and persecute us.