I am drowning in contradictory emotions. The assassination of Charlie Kirk on 10 September has cast a cold shadow—an uneasy thrill at the irony, rage at the manufacture of martyrdom, and fear of what may come. Most unsettling is the awareness of how easily hatred corrodes the soul, twisting energy meant for resistance into bitterness.
Who Charlie Kirk was
Charlie Kirk was not a statesman, scholar, or philosopher. He was a provocateur who built his influence through inflammatory rhetoric rather than substantive thought, modelling himself on entertainers like Rush Limbaugh. He founded Turning Point USA, a conservative youth organisation fuelled by donors who recognised the profit of polarisation.
Was his assassination tragic? Yes. Political violence corrodes society’s fabric, and no one deserves to die for their speech, however harmful. But tragedy does not confer greatness. Martyrdom requires more than death; it demands a cause worthy of respect. Socrates died for truth, Lincoln for union, King for justice. Kirk authored no great works, pioneered no discoveries, advanced no cause that elevated human dignity. He was, fundamentally, a useful instrument for those who thrive on resentment and fear.
The manufactured martyr
The engines of sanctification quickly roared to life. The Presidential Medal of Freedom is promised, his name juxtaposed with Neil Armstrong and Rosa Parks in a gesture both absurd and calculated. Conservative media transforms a paid provocateur into a champion of liberty, turning his death into a tool for fundraising, a rallying cry for authoritarianism, and a pretext for silencing dissent.
The irony cuts deep. A man who told Black professionals they should “prove” they weren’t diversity hires, who demanded Taylor Swift “submit to her husband,” who claimed gun deaths were “worth it,” who compared abortion to the Holocaust, and who dismissed empathy as “a made-up, New Age term” was killed by the violence he helped monetise.
But irony is no substitute for reflection. Tragedy wounds us all, and the price of spectacle is borne by civic fabric, not just its instrument.
Scapegoats and self-destruction
Before there was a suspect, conservatives had already identified their target: the “radical left.” Yet early reports suggested the shooter emerged not from progressive circles but from Kirk’s own world: white, male, conservative, gun-loving, Christian. The full story continues unfolding, but the reflex to shift blame outward reveals a deeper truth: violence bred within a culture does not spare its own.
The ancients understood this. Saturn devoured his children to prevent rebellion, only to be undone by the one who survived. Hatred, turned outward, eventually consumes its own house, leaving the already marginalised more exposed than ever.
Division and dissonance
In the aftermath, pain and confusion ripple through my circles—shock, grim relief, shameful satisfaction, heavy-heartedness. The contradictions sting: conservative Pagans canonise Kirk as a hero. How do spiritual seekers exalt the divine feminine while upholding a champion of misogyny? How do followers of earth-based faiths denounce empathy as naïveté?
This dissonance shows that religion alone cannot inoculate against delusion. Just as some Christians follow a saviour who preached love yet support leaders who glorify violence, Pagans too can twist spiritual practice to justify political cruelty.
And division makes us fragile. Only days before Kirk’s death, a metaphysical shop owner in Fort Wayne, Indiana, was assaulted by a man shouting, “Kill all the witches.” The threat is not hypothetical; it is a present reality.
Satire and survival
This anxiety was sharpened by a Jezebel article published just days before Kirk’s death. It was a satirical piece about buying curses against him on Etsy — tongue-in-cheek, irreverent, and aimed at mocking his misogyny. Had he lived, it would have passed with little notice, one more feminist lampoon of a right-wing pundit. But after his assassination, Jezebel deleted the piece, and its existence now hangs like tinder in the air: ready to be brandished by those eager to frame witches as violent.
The instinct among many in our community has been denial: insisting that witches don’t hex, or that no “serious” practitioner would. I understand this reflex. For centuries, accusations of malefic magic have been used to justify persecution. Sometimes silence has been the only shield.
Yet denial is not truth. Hexing has always been part of our story. Charles Leland’s Aradia preserves curses as tools of the oppressed, as well as rituals of resistance against landlords and priests. Throughout history, witches have wielded both blessings and banishments, healing and harm. To erase this is to surrender a part of our inheritance.
The real question is not whether witches curse—some always have, and some always will—but how we acknowledge that reality responsibly.
Within Wicca, the Rede offers guidance: “An it harm none, do what ye will.” Not all witches are Wiccans, but for many of us, this teaching is central to our Craft. It calls us to weigh harm, not to posture as harmless. True Will may sometimes require fierce resistance, but to flaunt maledictions after political violence is to hand our enemies the script they’ve longed to use against us.
We need not deny our history, nor should we perform it for a hostile gaze. Instead, we must claim a profound truth: witchcraft has always been double-edged. Our task is to wield that power with discernment — protecting our people, resisting oppression, and refusing to let others dictate what our magic means.
Historical echoes and present dangers
This is not the first time accusations of witchcraft have been turned into weapons. The Satanic panic of the 1980s ruined lives based on fabricated accusations. Twelve thousand claims of ritual abuse, hundreds of prosecutions, millions of dollars wasted until the FBI declared the conspiracy false. The damage, however, was real.
Today, the script repeats, but with sharper tools: digital surveillance, permanent online records, and the global reach of American extremism. MAGA supporters in Australia held vigils for Kirk. The contagion of hate has no borders.
Yet we are not powerless. In the United States, Pagan organisations, such as the Lady Liberty League and the Covenant of the Goddess, and independent media outlets like The Wild Hunt, provide resources that our predecessors lacked. Here in Australia, the Pagan Awareness Network (PAN) serves as a point of contact for the general public, government, and media organisations. Internationally, digital networks can mobilise faster than fear, and hard-won legal precedents, whilst varying by jurisdiction, offer some protection. The infrastructure of resistance has grown alongside the infrastructure of oppression.
The spiritual test
My initial reaction to Kirk’s death was one of grim satisfaction, an instinctual sense of cosmic justice. But as the shock settled, I recognised the danger: to indulge too long in that satisfaction is corroding.
Traditions across the world remind us that destruction is not always cruelty but often necessity. Kali, Sekhmet, Oya, the Morrígan, Nemesis, the Erinyes—fierce powers who embody retribution and cosmic correction. They are not sentimental. They avenge wrongs, cut away rot, and bring down the arrogant. Their work is sacred. But there is a difference between aligning with their purpose and indulging in our own thirst for revenge.
As a Wiccan, I turn to the Rede as a compass. It does not forbid destruction, but it insists that will must be discerned from mere desire. True Will is not the gratification of hatred; it is the alignment of our deepest self with balance and necessity. The Charge of the Goddess reminds us that our calling is to hold paradox: “beauty and strength, power and compassion, honour and humility, mirth and reverence.” These are not platitudes but disciplines.
In Lukumí, carrying hatred poisons our ashe, weakens our destiny, and blocks the cultivation of iwa pele—gentle, good character. Both traditions insist that spiritual integrity requires vigilance over the energies we choose to embody.
The question, then, is not “What do I feel?” but “What do I do with these feelings?” Do we feed them until hatred devours us, or do we channel them into work that restores balance while guarding our integrity?
From a distance
Living in Australia offers physical distance from American violence but not immunity. My ties to the United States remain strong through family, friends, spiritual, and activist communities. Their safety and ability to practice openly are not abstract concerns, but daily worries.
What happens in the United States does not stay there. American cultural exports travel easily across oceans with alarming speed, shaping conversations and policies far beyond U.S. borders. Writing from abroad carries privilege and risk—privilege because I’m not under immediate threat, risk because American precedents mean surveillance and persecution can travel. Silence, however, offers no protection. Speaking honestly is one way to remain connected and to resist.
Practical resilience
Reflection matters, but so does preparation. We live in bodies, households, and communities. Spiritual resilience must be matched with practical resilience:
Digital security: Use encrypted communication apps like Signal for sensitive discussions. Remember that online posts are permanent.
Legal preparation: Document harassment. Know your rights. Have contact information for religious liberty organisations.
Community networks: Build ties with neighbours, local officials, and interfaith allies before a crisis comes. Mutual aid sustains both spirit and body.
Financial resilience: Diversify income sources where possible. Support Pagan-owned businesses. Explore alternative channels for donations.
Spiritual protection: Regular cleansing and protection work is essential. Ancestors and helping spirits guide us in dangerous times. Trust your intuition.
Healing practices
The spiritual toll of living under threat requires active healing work:
Daily grounding: Connection to earth, water, plants—cycles larger than human politics. Divine forces predate and outlast human governments.
Community ritual: Shared ceremony builds bonds and resilience, even virtually.
Ancestor work: Our spiritual ancestors survived persecution. Their wisdom and protection remain available to us now.
Service: Helping the more vulnerable transforms fear into purposeful action.
Self-care as resistance: Celebrate life, love, beauty. Joy itself is defiance against systems built on fear.
The economics of hate
The networks that funded Kirk continue operating. They’ll find new spokespeople, new ways to profit from division. Our resistance must address the root causes: supporting economic alternatives, building independent media, and creating parallel institutions that serve our values.
This means voting, but also direct action, mutual aid, and community building. Most importantly, it means maintaining spiritual integrity whilst engaging in necessary political work. We can oppose fascism without becoming fascists, seek justice without abandoning compassion, and protect our communities without losing ourselves to hatred.
Holding complexity
Charlie Kirk’s death forces uncomfortable questions about violence, justice, and spiritual responsibility. His assassination is tragic not because of who he was, but because it represents the inevitable endpoint of political cultures that thrive on contempt.
Much has been made of showing compassion for his family, extending empathy even to those who denied it to others. But the oppressed do not owe their oppressor grief. To withhold mourning is not cruelty—it’s clarity. My grief is for women murdered by partners daily, for Black and Indigenous lives extinguished in police encounters, for children gunned down in classrooms, for immigrants torn from families, for queer and trans youth driven to despair.
Kirk’s death serves as a mirror, reflecting both the brutality of the system he championed and the darkness we risk carrying within ourselves. The right will seize his martyrdom to justify fresh persecutions: against religious minorities, against dissenters, against all who refuse the uniformity of their vision. We must be prepared, but not possessed by the hatred we resist.
We can speak truth about his legacy without romanticising his death, defend our communities without forfeiting compassion, resist evil without becoming what we oppose.
As practitioners of traditions that honour paradox—light and shadow, creation and destruction—we are called to hold this complexity without surrendering to extremes. Our ancestors endured persecution with rituals of resistance, protection, and community. We inherit their wisdom whilst adapting ancient resources to the digital and political realities of our age.
The darkness is real. The threats are genuine. Yet we are not without our gods, our ancestors, or one another.
Let us walk with clarity. Let us resist with compassion. Let us endure with joy.
May our resistance be fierce but not poisoned, our protection strong but not cruel, our humanity unbroken.