The Boiling Point

The Death of Debate in a Nation Addicted to Division

Leaning against the wall of a sterile condo, white walls, trimwork still sharp with the scent of fresh construction, I found myself scrolling. The room was empty: no sofa, no chairs, just a few lights and the view of a brick church across the street. In the stained glass, a six-pointed star glowed against the dark.

Then the feed shifted. Breaking news. A video of Charlie Kirk slumping over, bright red blood pouring from his neck.

I don’t usually follow him. My political diet is more global than domestic, trends in economics, international affairs, markets that guide my investments and, by extension, fund my travels. U.S. partisan bickering has always felt like two sides of the same coin. Toss it, let it jingle on the floor, and wait for someone to pick it up and flip again. But the blood pouring from Kirk’s neck shook me. It was a boiling point.

In part it was the shock of the scene itself, so vivid and bloody on the screen. Who was this man, and why was someone so passionately opposed to him that they would take him out?

Curiosity forced me to dig into the man. Was he truly a prejudice-filled, compassionless Republican? An open debater? Or simply a passionate young American with strong ideas about where the States should go? Why would someone want him dead? I didn’t agree with many of his positions. But I couldn’t deny his logic, the simplicity with which he expressed his ideas, or the way he engaged. He debated. He confronted. He made space for people to think, to express clearly, and he encouraged people not to just parrot.

And I wonder if that was the threat. Perhaps his willingness to debate, to push young Americans toward dialogue, was intimidating to certain power structures. Because cohesion across political lines is dangerous. Division is safe. Or perhaps it was a simpler motive. True dialogue, real opinion, a forceful attitude; these can feel like an attack to someone clinging to their identity. Perhaps, to that person, murder felt like the only retaliation.

I’ve been thinking about the courage it takes to step up, put your face and thoughts in front of a camera, and debate people who viscerally disagree with you. That fearlessness, even when I don’t agree with him, is honorable. It is perhaps why he rose to such fame: he stepped up and voiced his controversial opinions without flinching.

Like I said earlier, I don’t mix too much with domestic politics, but one thing I have noticed is that I haven’t seen many figures step up and speak loudly on the Democratic side, especially ones who aren’t career politicians. It is something our culture deeply needs. Voices, from all sides, willing to stand up and fight for their beliefs. If any radicalization was inspired by all this, I think honest, open, and respectful debate should be the radical expression and reaction.

I am fairly certain we, the public, will never know the full truth of the motives. Situations like this are too mainstream for the powers that be to leave untouched. It will be spun, twisted until one side looks righteous and the other looks monstrous, the story shifting only by who is telling it. History makes this clear: divided people are easy to manage. United, they are unstoppable.

Kirk, ironically, was speaking about gun rights when he was taken out. That symbolism isn’t lost on me.

A friend and I talked afterward about America’s unique position. Geographically, the oceans shield us east and west. North and south, relatively friendly nations, for now. But beyond geography, it is the fact that Americans are armed that underpins our sovereignty. Unlike much of the world, local communities here could, in theory, resist occupation. That deterrence matters.

That conversation reminded me of my time in Papua New Guinea, in a village called Mt. Kare. The chief told me plainly: his ability to maintain peace and autonomy depended on one thing, guns. His villagers were armed, willing to defend themselves, and he himself had killed men who tried to seize their resources. “Without guns,” he said, “we would have nothing.” Desperation breeds violence. Preparedness keeps it at bay

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The irony struck me harder when I looked around at my own reality back in New York. I sit in a sterile job site, paid well to do almost nothing. I am milking the surplus of American dominance, suckling at the mother that is America, while men imported from countries we already exploited do the heavy lifting. Around me, immigrant laborers sweat and grind. They worry about ICE raids. They build, they carry, they bleed into the structure. The forefathers of this country, the brutal businessmen who bet on the geographic fortune of the U.S., the corporations that grew fat on pillaging one land and selling in another, their legacy continues.

The luxury condos rise, one million dollars a unit, while the system keeps extracting from the impoverished. And when the poor do rise up, they are often brainwashed into entitlement, looking down on those who never “made it.” The seven deadly sins still do their work: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride. The boss told us ICE had emailed HR: after “track season,” the town’s big money-maker, they would be coming in hot. Hilarious and sickening that one last surge of profit would be wrung from immigrant labor before the crackdown.

Most of the guys I talk to were once here legally but overstayed visas. They still pay taxes. They still work. And yes, they are technically here illegally. I might face the same treatment abroad if I overstayed somewhere. But what really gets me is how local people treat them here. A white coworker, hired as a carpenter like me, refused to touch the “real” work. “They can do it,” he said, gesturing toward the Hispanics.

It hit me hard, and unfortunately I didn’t say much. I told him we could handle a bit of work, and I took the opportunity to show that I will gladly do a part of “their” work. I spoke their language, worked beside them, and treated them as equals. I had been in their shoes before in other countries, and I was always treated with respect. Here, racism lingers in strange ways. Entitlement lingers. The system rewards apathy.

This is the soil in which chaos grows: a divided, apathetic, addicted people, citizens too lazy or distracted to think for themselves, radicals who let emotion drive every choice. If I wanted to control a nation, this is exactly the condition I would cultivate. A population spoon-fed propaganda, split into tribes, too numbed to see clearly.

And that is where Charlie Kirk mattered. Agree with him or not, he encouraged people to think. To debate. To wrestle with ideas instead of swallowing them whole. That is why his death feels symbolic. It is not about the team he played for. It is about the fact that he was an example, an example of independent thought.

I want to bring up one more consideration. Charlie was but one of many recent political killings. In June, Melissa Hortman was assassinated alongside her husband because she held and pushed forward certain beliefs. This escalation, this form of extremism within our own borders, tears down the very foundation of our security as a nation.

If you truly love your nation and want what is best for it, you must start working to coexist with your neighbors. Every four to eight years a new leader is positioned at the head of the government. During that time,respect should be granted to those in power; each side is doing what they think is best, and if it doesn’t work, a new party with new beliefs will get their chance. We cannot allow infighting. We must encourage open public debate. We must adhere to logic and humility.

Back in that condo, the stained glass still glowed across the street. Light, sharp and defiant, set against a sterile room of emptiness. Maybe that is the choice before us: sterile walls or stained glass. Division or cohesion. Apathy or thought. Charlie Kirk, for all his flaws, has illuminated both the risk and value of speaking ones mind, and for this he will rest in my heart as a light to follow.