Charlie Kirk Doesn't Have My Empathy in Death.
The Challenge of Empathy Empathy is often hailed as one of our highest virtues – the ability to “feel your pain” and connect with others’ struggles. For most of my life I’ve tried to cultivate it, seeing it as the glue that holds our divided society...
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Charlie Kirk Doesn't Have My Empathy in Death.
by IndependantTransGuy
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Thursday, September 11, 2025 at 1:16:39p EDT
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The Challenge of Empathy
Empathy is often hailed as one of our highest virtues – the ability to “feel your pain” and connect with others’ struggles. For most of my life I’ve tried to cultivate it, seeing it as the glue that holds our divided society together. But over time I’ve come to realize that empathy is not easy or automatic. It takes deliberate effort, and sometimes it can feel downright impossible when the person on the other end seems to reject it – or even attack it. I’ve learned that compassion has its limits, especially when directed at someone who spends their career mocking compassion itself. It’s one thing to withhold empathy from a stranger on the street; it’s another to withhold it from someone whose words and actions have caused real hurt. So when people ask me why I struggle to have empathy for Charlie Kirk, a leading right-wing activist, I have to answer honestly: his own attitude toward empathy, and the toxic rhetoric he has used, have made it very difficult.
From childhood on, I was taught that we should try to understand others, even those we disagree with. People say “put yourself in their shoes”, and most of us try to do that, even (or especially) during political arguments. But what do you do when the person across the aisle not only refuses to empathize with others, but actually scorns the very idea of empathy? That was the dilemma I faced upon learning more about Charlie Kirk. On his own shows and social media, Kirk openly dismisses empathy as a weakness: “a made-up, New Age term” that “does a lot of damage” . In one 2022 podcast episode, he laughed off the word and said he prefers “sympathy” (pity) over understanding. On his Twitter (X) feed, he sneers at people who preach empathy, accusing them of hypocrisy and “fake moral superiority” . Watching and reading these things, I found myself thinking: if he thinks empathy is fake, why should I spend an ounce of my limited compassion on him? It’s not that I revel in anyone’s pain; on the contrary. It’s that Kirk’s own public comments make me question why I should feel sympathy or understanding for him at all.
Charlie Kirk’s Public Rejection of Empathy
At the heart of my frustration is this simple fact: Charlie Kirk has publicly rejected empathy, not just in private musings but on record. In October 2022 he was asked about the role of “feel your pain” politics, and he answered bluntly: “I can’t stand the word empathy. I think empathy is a made-up, new age term that… does a lot of damage.” . On that same podcast he said he’d rather claim sympathy than empathy, that is, he’d rather say he feels sorry for someone than actually share their feelings. To him, empathy sounded like a Democrat thing for collapsing poll numbers.
He didn’t stop there. On social media he doubled down, practically daring critics to lecture him on empathy. One post from October 2022 read like a taunt: “The same people who lecture you about ‘empathy’ have none for the soldiers discharged for the jab, the children mutilated by Big Medicine, or the lives devastated by fentanyl pouring over the border. Spare me your fake outrage, your fake science, and your fake moral superiority.” . In other words, Kirk accused those who care about empathy of being hypocrites – for example, they preach empathy but allegedly ignore suffering on other issues. I recognized this tactic immediately: instead of engaging with empathy’s value, he’s mocking it and shifting blame.
In short, Kirk makes it clear that he values strength over compassion. To him, empathy is a political cudgel, “very effective when it comes to politics” but ultimately a hindrance to harsh truths. This attitude reveals a lot about his values: he sees the world in winners and losers, us versus them, and he’d rather the “we” take tough stands than the “they” take comfort. When someone publicly brags about rejecting empathy, it tells me they prize power and identity politics, not mutual understanding. It’s like he’s built a philosophy around emotional toughness: to Charlie Kirk, any show of empathy might as well be weakness.
A History of Dehumanizing Rhetoric
What really cements my unwillingness to empathize is the harsh, often hateful rhetoric Kirk has used for years. If empathy means seeing people as human beings worthy of care, Kirk’s words often deny that humanness to large groups of people. Over and over he has described minorities and opponents with language that is anything but humanizing. Here are some of the most troubling examples – not to harass Kirk personally, but to show why his enemies (and victims) could not possibly warm up to him with understanding in their hearts.
- Immigrants and Language: On his Rumble show in 2025, Kirk actually said an immigrant politician “is not an American” because of how he looked, and that if you’re not an American, “go back to your place of origin.” He even said he “loves this country” and that “mass migration” was hurting it – though “it’s not a racial thing,” he insisted . He’s pushed the idea that speaking English is a loyalty test: “If you don’t understand the language, you cannot understand our values. Step one, make English the official language of the United States.” Taken together, Kirk’s message is: If you are foreign, or don’t fit his narrow idea of “American,” you somehow don’t belong. This isn’t abstract rhetoric; it directly implies that millions of people (immigrants, refugees, minority communities) are outsiders. Such language fuels fear and resentment. It dehumanizes people by labeling them as “illegals” or as “less American,” stripping away the respect and empathy we usually reserve for fellow human beings.
- Muslim and Racial Stereotyping: When a Muslim-American candidate won a primary in New York, Kirk went on a rant about 9/11 and warned darkly that America was letting “Islam” take root in politics . He tweeted that “Islam [is] the sword the Left is using to slit the throat of America.” Such statements cast millions of peaceful Muslim Americans as dangerous conspirators. Even years before, Kirk falsely claimed that Black Americans and immigrants were part of a “great replacement” conspiracy where white people would be “eliminated” . He called Haitian migrants “infested with demonic voodoo” and warned they would “become your masters” if elections went wrong . On race, he made sickening comments about Black people “prowl[ing] for fun to target white people” and even said that if he saw a Black pilot he would “hope he’s qualified” – as though being Black automatically raises suspicion. These are not mere political disagreements; they are sweeping generalizations that paint entire communities as subhuman threats. By equating groups to monsters (infested, masters, prowling predators), Kirk’s words drive a wedge between “us” and “them.”
- LGBTQ+ Vilification: Kirk has repeatedly denounced LGBTQ+ people in the most demeaning terms. He branded gay and transgender folks as “groomers” who are “destructive,” and he’s urged politicians to campaign on banning all gender-affirming care . On social media he described a “groomer” as someone who normalizes the “idea [that kids] should mutilate their bodies to cure ‘dysphoria’” – a vile, conspiratorial slur . He celebrated a Supreme Court ruling allowing businesses to turn away LGBTQ+ customers by claiming “the ability to say no is what actually keeps our society orderly.” In short, he treats an entire community’s identity and medical needs as a threat or sickness. This rhetoric is especially insidious because it helps fuel harassment and even violence against LGBTQ+ people. When someone in public life calls others “groomers,” it strips away any trace of understanding or humanity from an already marginalized group.
- Minorities and Political Opponents: Kirk has even spat venom at civil rights heroes and Black leaders. He infamously told a crowd in 2023 that Martin Luther King Jr. was “awful” and “not a good person,” claiming the 1960s Civil Rights Act was “a huge mistake” . On another stage, as Common Dreams reported, he mocked accomplished Black women (like Michelle Obama and Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson) saying they wouldn’t have positions if not for affirmative action – that they “don’t have the brain processing power” and had “to steal a white person’s slot” . He berated progressive politicians as morally bankrupt hypocrites – accusing the “radical Left” of comparing decent Americans to Nazis and mass murderers . In each of these cases, Kirk refused to grant even basic respect to people with whom he politically disagreed or who were of different race or background. By calling such individuals stupid, criminals, or worse, he effectively told his followers: “You owe these people nothing.”
Taken together, these examples paint a clear picture: Charlie Kirk’s rhetoric consistently targets whole groups with fear and contempt. He singles out immigrants for having the “wrong” language or nationality, accuses non-white people of plotting against Americans, savages LGBTQ+ communities as predators, and dismisses opponents as unintelligent or dangerous. Reading these words, it’s hard not to feel that Kirk sees these people as less than human. He strips them of empathy by labeling them enemies or problems. After absorbing so much of this language, I cannot simply shrug it off. One doesn’t hear terms like “demonic voodoo” or “groomers” and instantly feel sympathetic toward the speaker. In fact, it creates the opposite reaction: I am enraged or saddened on behalf of the targets, and my empathy flows toward them, not toward Kirk.
Fueling Division and Hostility
Kirk’s rhetoric doesn’t exist in a vacuum – it has real effects on our society. The tear-it-down culture wars he fosters are toxic and polarizing. Journalists and analysts have noted that the very environment that makes such an assassination possible is partly of Kirk’s own making. The Guardian, for example, points out that Kirk “is known for his inflammatory, often racist and xenophobic commentary, particularly on college campuses” . While we can condemn any act of violence, it’s equally fair to note that a climate of constant us-vs-them language makes actual violence more thinkable. Surveys cited by experts show Americans of both parties are growing more accepting of force and even vigilantism to solve political disputes . When leaders and influencers like Kirk talk about opponents as irredeemable threats, it chips away at the sense that they are fellow citizens.
In everyday life, Kirk’s words help normalize harassment and fear. For college students, hearing a famous activist say immigrants should “just go back” or LGBTQ people are “groomers” can make it harder for those students to feel safe and seen. It creates an atmosphere where bigotry seems “mainstream.” In Washington and state capitals, it fuels lawmakers to pursue harsher policies (like outright bans on transgender care) because figures like Kirk have given political cover to those ideas. And among his fervent followers, this kind of messaging can turn into action – egging on protests, intimidation, even violence against the very groups he’s demonized. It’s no coincidence that after Kirk’s death, some of the most extreme responses on the right came from people who consumed the same sort of rhetoric he promoted.
Kirk’s legacy, even beyond this shooting, is one of stoking fear to build power. As one commentator put it, he “became a wealthy influencer by spreading toxic rage and fear and division” . That division now seems baked into our politics; pundits on both sides have noted the country feels like a “powder keg” and “an era of violent populism” is upon us . In my view, Kirk’s words helped set the stage: by painting complicated issues in caricatured, polar terms, he pushed us further apart. Imagine trying to discuss immigration or healthcare when your side’s opening argument is “these people are monsters” – no reasonable conversation can happen. Instead, both sides dig in deeper, fueling hostility.
The broader consequence of Kirk’s influence is a society that feels less charitable. When a community leader publicly casts doubt on the humanity of others, it signals to his followers that empathy is something to get angry about, not practice. In that way, he has arguably made us all a bit colder toward each other. That effect haunts me. Every time I hear about a politically-motivated attack or hate crime, I wonder how much language like Kirk’s contributed. It’s a harsh thing to confront, but it’s part of why I find myself so resistant to granting him understanding: his own toolbox was littered with dehumanizing rhetoric, and I know firsthand how much that rhetoric hurts people.
The Moral Case for Withholding Empathy
Given all of this, I’ve had to reckon with a difficult truth: sometimes, it feels right not to feel empathy for someone. This goes against the grain of everything we’re taught, but I’m convinced it’s ethically defensible, even necessary. Let me explain why.
First, empathy is a two-way street. We usually extend compassion to others because they show some sign of humanity or vulnerability. But what if someone has repeatedly demonstrated contempt instead? Kirk has chosen to diminish others (immigrants, LGBTQ people, racial minorities, opponents). In my mind, someone who spends years classifying people as problems does not automatically deserve the benefits of my empathy. It’s like a social contract: we show each other basic respect as human beings. Kirk broke that contract. He not only refused to empathize with others, he actively discouraged them from feeling empathy for him. He equated caring with weakness. Why, then, should I reward that attitude by caring for him?
Second, constantly feeling empathy has real costs. Empathy can be draining, and we all have a limited well of it. If I spent emotional energy on someone like Kirk, I would have less for those who actually need it. For example, refugee families or trans kids facing harassment don’t need me feeling bad about Kirk too—they need me on their side, defending them. In that sense, withholding empathy from Kirk frees me up to direct it where it matters. It’s an uncomfortable truth, but necessary: when every side competes for our compassion, we have to choose. And I will not choose to empathize with a man who has used his platform to normalize cruelty.
Third, withholding empathy is not the same as celebrating harm. I absolutely condemn the violence that befell Charlie Kirk. Murder is unjustifiable regardless of the victim. Feeling relief or satisfaction at his death would make me no better than those he vilified. But refusing to feel empathy for him is simply refusing to feel sorry for him. I mourn the loss of life as a human tragedy, but I do not have a tear in my eye for the man he was. Empathy is not a mandatory tribute; it’s a gift we give voluntarily. In Kirk’s case, I feel no warmth to give.
Finally, there is an element of justice in this stance. To keep being compassionate toward Kirk, after all he’s said, would almost be to bless his worldview. It would be like saying, “Yes, you may hate and exclude entire groups, and we’ll still pity you if something bad happens.” That feels wrong to me. We reserve empathy for people who show a shred of decency or regret. Kirk has shown none of that public introspection. If anything, he doubled down. So I feel justified in protecting my own empathy. It’s a boundary, not cruelty: a limit drawn at the behavior of someone who spent years eroding that very empathy.
Addressing the Counterarguments
Some might object: “Empathy should be universal. We should be better than Kirk!” Or “Two wrongs don’t make a right – you’re just sinking to his level.” These points deserve thoughtful answers.
- “But empathy is a universal human value!” Yes, it’s something many of us cherish. But in the real world, it is not a switch we can set on autopilot. We naturally feel more for some people than others, even if we don’t consciously choose it. Think about history: do we expect victims of the Holocaust to empathize with Nazi prison guards, no matter how pitiful the guards may seem? Not usually. We don’t force ourselves to feel empathy toward every single abuser or persecutor. Empathy doesn’t come with an unlimited budget. We’re allowed to say no. If we spread our empathy too thin, it can become meaningless. It’s more humane, I believe, to focus it on those who truly suffer injustice, rather than squander it on someone who committed moral injuries himself.
- “You should be the better person.” I want to be the better person, I truly do. But being better doesn’t mean being a doormat. It means adhering to my own principles, not somebody else’s. My principle here is to treat people with basic dignity. But Kirk has treated marginalized people as indignities, not dignitaries. In that sense, I am already being better than he was. I can still condemn the violence done to him (the murder), but not feign sorrow that I do not genuinely feel. If by “better person” we mean “be truthful about my feelings and still uphold justice,” then yes, I strive for that. I do not stoop to celebrating violence, but I also do not pretend to be heartbroken for someone who made his life choices and then refused moral reciprocity.
- “What about compassion fatigue or hypocrisy?” In arguments with family and friends, I’ve also had to explain that withholding empathy is not the same as “hating.” I do not want Kirk to suffer, and I’ll continue to condemn any violence or harassment aimed at him or anyone. But compassion fatigue is real: you cannot pour from an empty cup. Sometimes, logically, it feels contradictory – we tell ourselves to love our enemies – but practically, human emotions aren’t always in harmony with that ideal. I do feel compassion for people he demonized, which is where it should lie. That’s not a moral failure; that’s focusing my humanity where it’s needed.
Ultimately, I know some will say “everyone has a story, maybe we should try to see his perspective.” Maybe. I have tried: I read his words, followed his shows, even engaged in debates. But what I saw was a man who delights in culture-war battles, who thinks of empathy as currency to manipulate. It’s possible he has a private life or hidden side that I don’t see – maybe he has personal struggles. But we all do. If those struggles make him lash out at the vulnerable, that’s not an invitation for sympathy, but an explanation of his cruelty. Explaining doesn’t excuse it. Given the evidence, I’m hard-pressed to forgive or empathize.
Reaffirming Empathy’s Role (with Limits)
This may come across as hard-hearted, but it underscores a larger truth: empathy is precious because it’s limited. It is a force that can heal wounds or, if misdirected, cover up injustices. By setting boundaries on whom we empathize with, we actually protect the value of empathy itself. In my mind, empathy shines brightest when it is given to someone in need – someone overlooked or oppressed. Giving it instead to someone who spreads oppression cheapens it.
I want to be clear: empathy is still supremely important. I would not wish this stance on anyone who didn’t face the sort of repeated bigotry that I (and many others) did from Kirk’s rhetoric. I don’t make a habit of counting coups for refusing compassion. But I do feel justified here. If empathy is about recognizing someone’s humanity, then Charlie Kirk’s own words have led me to see him as someone who shut that door on himself. In fact, the last public thing he said was mocking empathy itself. How can I, in good conscience, feel sadness for that?
To put it another way: mercy can be boundless, but empathy – true feeling – often requires some trust or bond. That bond has been shattered by years of demeaning language. I can wish for healing and change, but I don’t feel obligated to hold the door open for someone who slammed it on countless others. There is no policy that says every murderer or extremist must be a recipient of our tears. When I look at the ledger of what Kirk gave to others (and to the country) – lies, fear, hatred – versus what he’s lost now (his life) – it simply doesn’t compute that I should regard them with the same weight.
Conclusion: Caring with Boundaries
Empathy remains vital. It’s how we survive as a caring society. But it’s not a charity that demands we pour into every heart without asking. We owe it to each other to empathize with those who share in humanity’s struggles. We absolutely should not let people like Kirk define our entire moral code, for we would be foolish to do so. He deserves to be judged for his actions, not pitied for his fate.
In the end, withholding my empathy from Charlie Kirk feels ethically sound to me. It’s not cruelty so much as a defense of my own conscience. I will always advocate for extending kindness and understanding, but I also reserve the right to choose my recipients. For now, I simply cannot summon compassion for a man whose public life was built on denying compassion to others.
Don’t mistake or corrupt my boundaries as “heartless”, I feel nothing but empathy for his grieving family, especially his children. No one deserves to lose a parent in that way/at all or to have videos of his assassination circulating the internet. They sure as hell don't deserve to see all of the disgusting jokes and “relieved” statements going around either. So, I feel for his family but that man will not get empathy or sympathy from me.
If nothing else, this should be a lesson about empathy itself: it is a gift, and like any gift, it can be refused. We should give it generously, but not mindlessly. By placing empathy first and foremost in my life, I hope I remain worthy of it – and I expect those who spout hate, like Kirk did, to sit outside its circle.
