Investigators gather at the suburban Minneapolis crime scene after a gunman posing as law enforcement shot two Minnesota state lawmakers and their spouses in their homes. Governor Tim Walz immediately denounced the killings as “politically motivated” and “assassination” of public servants. The victims included House Speaker Melissa Hortman, a popular Democrat, and her husband, their deaths cutting like a knife through the state’s calm. A shaken Walz said Minnesota had lost “a great leader” to targeted violence. Former Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, herself a survivor of political gunfire, said she was “horrified and heartbroken” by the attack on two “patriotic public servants,” warning that “an attack on lawmakers is an attack on American democracy itself.” As residents mourned. Candlelight vigils sprang up, and officials warned this tragedy might signal a dire national trend. “Political violence is a sickness, and unfortunately, it’s on the rise,” said Minnesota Secretary of State Steve Simon, urging Americans to settle differences through ballots rather than bullets.
The shooting left many U.S. politicians shaken but not surprised. In the days around the Minnesota murders, lawmakers after lawmakers reported receiving fresh death threats and harassment. Rep. Jared Huffman (D-CA) described a perilous new normal: “We’re all getting death threats pretty regularly, and violent threats,” he said, recalling how he and colleagues “go online and you just see all of the vile and hate and vitriol… pulsing through mostly right-wing politics and platforms, but there’s some of it on the left too.” Both parties acknowledge that rhetoric spurs real-world danger: Michigan Secretary of State Jocelyn Benson (D) listed home “swatting” attacks, bomb threats and online calls for her execution; on the other side, conservatives point to repeated baseless claims that their enemies are “traitors” who deserve violence. Some observers note that Americans have “lost all sense of responsibility and civility” in political discourse, a volatility that Rep. Mike Lawler (R-NY) warned has gotten “so hot that people have lost perspective,” sometimes leading to “bodily harm” of officials and citizens.
Faced with these threats, officials are scrambling to protect themselves. Congress moved to allow campaign funds to be spent on personal security measures, and state legislators reported that they are investigating bodyguards and alarm systems as standard precautions. In Colorado, Secretary of State Jena Griswold publicly requested that lawmakers allocate $120,000 for a private security detail after receiving repeated threats related to her election work. Across the country, states are debating whether to use public funds for the police protection of election officials and candidates. A chorus of governors and police chiefs warns that violent slang and memes about harming officials blur chillingly into real attempts. Colorado State Patrol Chief Matthew Packard explained the dilemma bluntly: “The First Amendment protects a lot of [threatening] speech, so there’s a balance… to the extent that rhetoric hurts somebody’s safety, we stand poised and ready to address that, within the confines of people’s constitutional rights.” In other words, unless a threat meets the Supreme Court’s exacting standards for imminent incitement, law enforcement often cannot intervene until it is too late.
The rise in political violence cannot be understood apart from today’s media environment. As Marshall McLuhan famously observed, “The medium is the message.” The very structure of our communications, 24/7 news cycles, social media algorithms, and smartphone cameras, has reshaped politics and amplified extremes. If media channels focus obsessively on conflict, they tell the public what to think about, even if they don’t dictate what to think. Agenda-setting theory notes that by selecting certain stories (such as riots, threats, or scandals) and ignoring others (like bipartisan cooperation or peaceful debate), the press “sets the agenda” for public discussion.
In practice, this means Americans increasingly assume the hottest headlines define reality. When the news highlights every protest clash, conspiracy theory, and political shooting, citizens begin to view elections and protests through the lens of danger. This feedback loop can inadvertently normalize polarization: fringe voices get airtime as cable networks chase ratings, and social apps reward outrage with viral clicks. Experts warn this cycle furthers tribalism; Harvard scholar Steven Levitsky argues that leaders who condone extremism (such as pardoning politically violent thugs) end up creating “an atmosphere that’s not just permissive of political violence, it encourages political violence.”
Yet the United States’ character as a liberal democracy complicates any easy solution. Under current First Amendment law, speech is protected even if it is hateful or extremist unless it explicitly calls for imminent lawless action. In practice, this means slurs, epithets, and even fantasies of violence often cannot be outlawed. As legal scholar Frederick Schauer explains, American courts draw “an inviolable line” against content-based speech restrictions. Criticism that a politician is a monster or memes fantasizing about civil unrest typically fall on the safe side of that line unless a prosecutor can show a clear and present danger. Even public officials recognize the irony: as Colorado’s Packard put it, many “awful” online threats are still protected speech. This high bar frustrates victims. Officials say they are often forced to watch hate and threats swell online with only the tools of persuasion and counter-speech in hand since direct censorship would violate core free-speech principles.
Against this backdrop, symbols of militarization have proliferated. President Trump’s rhetoric and actions often seem to reflect the same authoritarian impulse that critics see in the violent fringe. He has championed a $45 million military parade in Washington for the Army’s 250th birthday (on his 79th birthday) and deployed federal forces, 2,000 National Guard troops, and hundreds of Marines into U.S. cities to suppress protests. California officials decried the Los Angeles deployment as “purposefully inflammatory,” comparing it to ruling by force.
Recent crackdowns on protest in the U.S. have drawn grim comparisons to fiction, notably Game of Thrones, with some likening Donald Trump’s actions to King Joffrey’s during the riot of King’s Landing. In the show, starving citizens jeered at Joffrey’s procession, begging for bread and hurling dung, only for the young king to scream, “Kill them all!” and unleash his guards on the crowd, igniting chaos. Similarly, after aggressive ICE raids rattled communities in Los Angeles, protesters took to the streets, demanding answers. In response, Trump deployed thousands of National Guard troops and Marines, a move that, like Joffrey’s violent overreaction, only escalated tensions and inflamed public outrage. As Tyrion Lannister once scolded Joffrey, “They’re starving, you fool! All because of a war you started!” A rebuke that mirrors critics’ views of Trump’s heavy-handed, impulsive style. In both cases, repression breeds resistance, and the line between governance and personal vendetta grows alarmingly thin.
And yet democracy has built-in resilience. After each wave of violence or division, from the Civil War to the Civil Rights era, the nation eventually healed. In a recent interview, former President George W. Bush reminded viewers that Americans have endured bloodshed and near-chaos before. He recounted how, in the late 1960s, the country faced a Vietnam War draft, race riots, political assassinations, and the near-impeachment of President Nixon, events that made many think America was “heading down the tubes.” But time proved them wrong. As Bush put it, “It turns out we’re too strong to go down the tubes.” He expressed confidence, “I’m very optimistic,” he said, that American democracy, though tested, has weathered greater storms.
In the end, hope may be the strongest answer to today’s panic. If history is any guide, the fierce battles of public discourse will wane, and people will again find common ground. But for that to happen, leaders and citizens alike must remember Bush’s lesson: divisions are not new and should not define us forever. Even now, Americans share more in common than the angry voices would suggest. As Bush urged, recalling past strife, finding optimism and unity is possible because “we’re too strong to go down the tubes.”
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