I remember September 10th 2025 pretty much as if it were yesterday. I remember scrolling Twitter—it was the afternoon here, a Wednesday—and I remember seeing the first short frantic video from Utah Valley University. You could hear people screaming and they were running, but that was it. The caption said a gunman had opened fire at a Charlie Kirk event.
I remember sending my good friend Jack Posobiec—Charlie's best friend—a message.
"Is Charlie okay? What happened!?"
"I'm trying to find out right now…"
I had known Charlie was back on the debate circuit for the first time since devoting all his considerable energies and talent to President Trump's re-election campaign, but I hadn't been following closely. And then there I was, glued to Twitter, like so many other people, waiting to find out if the unthinkable had really happened.
I remember the first video of the shot itself, a video taken from a distance. Then came the sickening close-up that left absolutely no doubt about the reality of what had happened. I knew Charlie was dead even if I didn't want to think or say it.
As shocking as that second clip was—it still ranks as one of the worst things I've ever seen—I found it impossible to look away. I remember watching it multiple times with gritted teeth. It wasn't from some morbid curiosity about what it's like when a person dies, or just sheer disbelief. No: It was from a sense that I had to watch because these were the stakes, this was the world we now lived in and refusing to accept that—looking away—would be a dereliction of duty somehow.
Of course, thoughts like that only coalesce, take definite form, after the event, but I think that's what it was. I knew something had changed in that instant when the bullet struck Charlie's neck.
In the months, and now the year, that has passed, the shock of Charlie's murder has scarcely diminished. Far worse, it's been compounded by viciousness and stupidity made all the more vicious and stupid for being clothed in the garb of concern and a righteous desire to get to the truth. The killing should have been a moment for the right in America to come together, to put aside petty grievances, stop nitpicking and face the threat that stands, with loaded weapon, in front of it: the threat of the radical left. Charlie's murder, like the multiple attempts on President Trump's life, was a statement of intent that should have been impossible to ignore.
We are going to get what we want and we'll kill you if we have to. You may be a husband. You may have kids. You may only be talking to students on a college campus and exercising your First Amendment rights—we'll kill you anyway.
But ignore it, the American right did. Or too many of them. Instead of unity there was—well, I think we all know. I won't rehearse the various theories here or dredge up the slander. That stuff deserves no more attention than it's already received. It deserves no attention at all, and never did. The fact it's received so much is a dismal testament to the twisted incentives of social media—our new "attention economy"—and self-destructive patterns of behaviour so many right-wingers seem to find impossible to shake off, like one of Pavlov's wretched dogs, still kicking out long after the electric shock has been withdrawn.
Charlie Kirk was a hero. Nothing that has come since his death can alter that fact. You can remember what it was like before the drivel about Egyptian jets, Brigitte Macron and exploding microphones, and you can see Charlie Kirk as he was, if you just watch a video of him doing what he did best.
We live in a deeply cynical age, one that seeks to explain away heroism or simply laughs at it, as if it's something only children believe in. A fairytale. The great superheroes now have convoluted backstories and psychological complexes; Indiana Jones is an old man being pushed around by a sassy girlboss straight from HR; Captain America is now the vicious, bullying Homelander, who'll gladly disgrace himself on his knees rather than confront his fate like a man. We think we know better. We're very smart, you see.
But despite our reluctance to believe—or is it our inability?—heroes do exist. And Charlie Kirk was a hero. That doesn't mean he was perfect. He was a man like any other, possessed of faults and weaknesses. He was young and continuing to grow. You can still disagree with him, and there are plenty of things Charlie said that I still disagree with. But none of that should prevent you from recognising the tremendous energy, the sense of purpose and vision, and most of all the courage with which he conducted himself.
Charlie Kirk knew he was in danger. He knew he would be a target, just like President Trump. Yet he went out and did what he felt he had to do. Because he believed that truth isn't simply a "thing" that exists out there and has an independent life of its own; it won't survive without us. Truth must be spoken, and only a speaker can speak the truth.
For having the courage to speak the truth, and encouraging others to do the same, Charlie Kirk's life was cruelly taken from him. His death was a violent, shocking spectacle, which is exactly what his killer intended it to be.
The killer and his supporters, and sadly there are many of them, believed a single bullet would be the end. But they were wrong. You killed the man, yes, but not the ideal.
So long as there are men and women prepared to follow Charlie's example, to stand up and speak the truth, accepting the consequences of doing so—the risk and the reward—Charlie will live on.
That's the best way, a year later, to remember Charlie Kirk, to honour his courage and sacrifice, and to continue building the world he worked so hard to create. Keep talking, keep fighting. Never give up.
