Liberty cannot survive a culture that cheers assassins



When 20-year-old loner Thomas Matthew Crooks ascended a sloped roof in Butler County, Pennsylvania, and opened fire, he unleashed a torrent of clichés. Commentators and public figures avoided the term “assassination attempt,” even if the AR-15 was trained on the head of the Republican Party’s nominee for president. Instead, they condemned “political violence.”

“There is absolutely no place for political violence in our democracy,” former President Barack Obama said. One year later, he added the word “despicable” to his condemnation of the assassin who killed Charlie Kirk. That was an upgrade from two weeks prior, when he described the shooting at Annunciation Catholic School by a transgender person as merely “unnecessary.”

Those in power are not only failing to enforce order, but also excusing and even actively promoting the conditions that undermine a peaceful, stable, and orderly regime.

Anyone fluent in post-9/11 rhetoric knows that political violence is the domain of terrorists and lone wolf ideologues, whose manifestos will soon be unearthed by federal investigators, deciphered by the high priests of our therapeutic age, and debated by partisans on cable TV.

The attempt to reduce it to the mere atomized individual, however, is a modern novelty. From the American Revolution to the Civil War, from the 1863 draft riots to the 1968 MLK riots, from the spring of Rodney King to the summer of George Floyd, the United States has a long history of people resorting to violence to achieve political ends by way of the mob.

Since the January 6 riot that followed the 2020 election, the left has persistently attempted to paint the right as particularly prone to mob action. But as the online response to the murder of Charlie Kirk demonstrates — with thousands of leftists openly celebrating the gory, public assassination of a young father — the vitriol that drives mob violence is endemic to American political discourse and a perpetual threat to order.

America’s founders understood this all too well.

In August 1786, a violent insurrection ripped through the peaceful Massachusetts countryside. After the end of the Revolutionary War, many American soldiers found themselves caught in a vise, with debt collectors on one side and a government unable to make good on back pay on the other. A disgruntled former officer in the Continental Army named Daniel Shays led a violent rebellion aimed at breaking the vise at gunpoint.

“Commotions of this sort, like snow-balls, gather strength as they roll, if there is no opposition in the way to divide and crumble them,” George Washington wrote in a letter, striking a serene tone in the face of an insurrection. James Madison was less forgiving: “In all very numerous assemblies, of whatever character composed, passion never fails to wrest the sceptre from reason. Had every Athenian citizen been a Socrates, every Athenian assembly would still have been a mob,” he wrote inFederalist 55. Inspired by Shays’ Rebellion and seeking to rein in the excesses of democracy, lawmakers called for the Constitutional Convention in the summer of 1787.

Our current moment of chaos

If the United States Constitution was borne out of political chaos, why does the current moment strike so many as distinctly perilous? Classical political philosophy offers us a clearer answer to this question than modern psychoanalysis. The most pointed debate among philosophers throughout the centuries has centered on how to prevent mob violence and ensure that most unnatural of things: political order.

In Plato’s “Republic," the work that stands at the headwaters of the Western tradition of political philosophy, Socrates argues that the only truly just society is one in which philosophers are kings and kings are philosophers. As a rule, democracy devolves into tyranny, for mob rule inevitably breeds impulsive citizens who become focused on petty pleasures. The resulting disorder eventually becomes so unbearable that a demagogue arises, promising to restore order and peace.

The classically educated founders picked up on these ideas — mediated through Aristotle, Cicero, John Locke, and Montesquieu, among others — as they developed the structure of the new American government. The Constitution’s mixed government was explicitly designed to establish a political order that would take into consideration the sentiments and interests of the people without yielding to mob rule at the expense of order. The founders took for granted that powerful elites would necessarily be interested in upholding the regime from which they derived their authority.

Terror from the top

History has often seen disaffected elites stoke insurrections to defenestrate a ruling class that shut them out of public life. The famous case of the Catilinarian Conspiracy in late republican Rome, in which a disgruntled aristocrat named Catiline attempted to overthrow the republic during the consulship of Cicero, serves as a striking example.

In the 21st century, we face a different phenomenon: Those in power are not only failing to enforce order, but also excusing and even actively promoting the conditions that undermine a peaceful, stable, and orderly regime.

The points of erosion are numerous. The public cheerleading of assassinations can be dismissed as noise from the rabble, but it is more difficult to ignore the numerous calls from elites for civic conflagration. Newspapers are promoting historically dubious revisionism that undermines the moral legitimacy of the Constitution. Billionaire-backed prosecutors decline to prosecute violent crime.

For years, those in power at best ignored — and at worst encouraged — mob-driven chaos in American social life, resulting in declining trust in institutions, lowered expectations for basic public order, coarsened or altogether discarded social mores, and a general sense on all sides that Western civilization is breaking down.

Without a populace capable of self-control, liberty becomes impossible.

The United States has, of course, faced more robust political violence than what we are witnessing today. But even during the Civil War — brutal by any standard — a certain civility tended to obtain between the combatants. As Abraham Lincoln noted in his second inaugural address, “Both [sides] read the same Bible and pray to the same God.” Even in the midst of a horrific war, a shared sense of ultimate things somewhat tempered the disorder and destruction — and crucially promoted a semblance of reconciliation once the war ended.

Our modern disorder runs deeper. The shattering of fundamental shared assumptions about virtually anything leaves political opponents looking less like fellow citizens to be persuaded and more like enemies to be subdued.

Charlie Kirk, despite his relative political moderation and his persistent willingness to engage in attempts at persuasion, continues to be smeared by many as a “Nazi propagandist.” The willful refusal to distinguish between mostly run-of-the-mill American conservatism and the murderous foreign ideology known as National Socialism is telling. The implication is not subtle: If you disagree with me, you are my enemy — and I am justified in cheering your murder.

Fellow citizens who persistently view their political opponents as enemies and existential threats cannot long exist in a shared political community.

“Democracy is on the ballot,” the popular refrain goes, but rarely is democracy undermined by a single election. It is instead undermined by a gradual decline in public spiritedness and private virtue, as well as the loss of social trust and good faith necessary to avoid violence.

The chief prosecutors against institutional authority are not disaffected Catalines but the ruling class itself. This arrangement may work for a while, but both political theory and common sense suggest that it is volatile and unlikely to last for long.

The conditions of liberty

Political order, in general, requires a degree of virtue, public-spiritedness, and good will among the citizenry. James Madison in Federalist 55 remarks that, of all the possible permutations of government that have yet been conceived, republican government is uniquely dependent upon order and institutional legitimacy:

As there is a degree of depravity in mankind which requires a certain degree of circumspection and distrust, so there are other qualities in human nature which justify a certain portion of esteem and confidence. Republican government presupposes the existence of these qualities in a higher degree than any other form.

In short, republican government requires citizens who can govern themselves, an antidote to the passions that precede mayhem and assassination. Without a populace capable of self-control, liberty becomes impossible. Under such conditions, the releasing of restraints never liberates — it only promotes mob-like behavior.

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The disorder of Shays’ Rebellion prompted the drafting of the Constitution, initiating what has sometimes been called an “experiment in ordered liberty.” That experiment was put to the test beginning in 1791 in Western Pennsylvania. The Whiskey Rebellion reached a crisis in Bower Hill, Pennsylvania, about 50 miles south of modern-day Butler, when a mob of 600 disgruntled residents laid siege to a federal tax collector. With the blessing of the Supreme Court Chief Justice and Federalistco-author John Jay, President George Washington assembled troops to put down the rebellion.

Washington wrote in a proclamation:

I have accordingly determined [to call the militia], feeling the deepest regret for the occasion, but withal the most solemn conviction that the essential interests of the Union demand it, that the very existence of government and the fundamental principles of social order are materially involved in the issue, and that the patriotism and firmness of all good citizens are seriously called upon, as occasions may require, to aid in the effectual suppression of so fatal a spirit.

Washington left Philadelphia to march thousands of state militiamen into the rebel haven of Western Pennsylvania. The insurrectionists surrendered without firing a shot.

Our new era of political violence rolls on, with Charlie Kirk’s murder being only the latest and most prominent example. Our leaders assure us they will ride out into the field just as Washington once did. Whether they will use their presence and influence to suppress or encourage “so fatal a spirit” remains an open question.

Editor’s note: A version of this article was published originally at the American Mind.

How woke broke the country



Andrew Beck makes a cogent case at the American Mind for why the United States, like other countries, requires cultural and moral cohesion to protect its nationhood and to act with a unified will on behalf of the common good. Beck correctly notes that the U.S. started out as a country with a well-defined collective identity. If we look back at America’s beginnings, we discover John Jay in Federalist 2 defining this original American identity in a memorable observation:

Providence has been pleased to give this one connected country to one united people — a people descended from the same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the same religion, attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs, and who, by their joint counsels, arms, and efforts, fighting side by side throughout a long and bloody war, have nobly established general liberty and independence.

At the time this was written, the newly formed American nation-state was composed overwhelmingly of Northern European Protestants; its legal institutions were largely British.

The homogeneity that the U.S. possessed at the time of its founding, and for at least several generations afterward, was perhaps an irreplaceable strength.

Its shared culture was shaped by, among other things, reading and revering the King James Bible. Among the professional class, the Bible’s authority was supplemented by that of Blackstone’s "Commentaries on the Laws of England,” Shakespeare’s tragedies, and (to some extent) classical texts like Plutarch’s “Lives.”

Protestant theologians went a bit farther in their reading and would have also studied John Calvin’s “Institutes,” the works of St. Augustine, and perhaps some of Plato’s dialogues. Political thinkers back then might also have pondered John Locke, Montesquieu, Polybius, and a few other influential political theorists.

In early America, a shared understanding of civic virtue, social manners, and community arose from revering the same classics as well as holding similar religious beliefs and being, in most cases, “descended from the same ancestors.”

Even in Federalist10 and Federalist 51, when James Madison addressed the possibility of the American polity becoming an extended republic, he did not recommend any modern concept of diversity or disagree with Jay’s judgment about America’s strengths. He was simply explaining how a country that consisted of mercantile and agrarian sectors could be held together by a “common passion of interest.” Madison’s novel theory posited that a representative government could filter the popular will in such a way as to coordinate overlapping interests.

The homogeneity that the U.S. possessed at the time of its founding, and for at least several generations afterward, was perhaps an irreplaceable strength. This strength may have been at work even when the country faced the ravages of civil war, which it survived because — as Lincoln observed — however calamitous their differences, both sides read the same Bible and prayed to the same deity.

Cohesion without coercion

In my view, these sorts of inherited, culturally sustained bonds of unity furnish the ideal conditions for a collective political identity. This unity was there at the beginning of the American republic and did not depend for its creation on coercion by the state or military forces. The shared heritage that was obvious to John Jay bespoke a deeper unity than the one imposed on German Americans during World War I (and, a fortiori, Japanese Americans during World War II). Perhaps Andrew Beck and I view this chapter of our national history quite differently.

Although European nation-states were formed partly by coercing those who resisted them into accepting a centralized form of sovereignty, such political entities were able to establish themselves by drawing on an already developed national consciousness. Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, etc. all identified with some kind of national history and culture even before they accepted or were forced to accept a unified national government. Force was not the main factor that generated unity in historic nation-states.

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German Americans in the early 20th century already had a sense of being American but were bullied with the help of government inducements into giving up their ancestral heritage. This took place after the Wilson administration managed to push the U.S. into World War I.

In my part of Pennsylvania, where German Pietist farmers settled, intimidation achieved its intended effect. Churches and other buildings had their German inscriptions effaced. The teaching and use of the German language ceased. Even schools like Linden Hall in nearby Lititz that were founded by German sects stopped offering German courses and have not revived them to this day.

I won’t get into the already widely known and horrendous treatment of the Nisei, or second-generation Japanese, after Pearl Harbor. I will say only that it may have exceeded in awfulness what was done to German Americans 25 years earlier. As should be obvious, Norwegians, Swedes, and many other ethnic minorities became Americanized without the tactics applied to German and Japanese Americans. This happened through a natural process of assimilation.

By now, the national unity that Andrew Beck properly values seems to have been mostly lost. I wonder whether the “America First” politics of the MAGA movement can recover it in any meaningful way. Once the American republic lost its original ethnic and religious unity, its leaders and intellectuals were obliged to turn to other ideas to hold American citizens together. In my youth, American public education still emphasized civic patriotism and a state-sponsored pantheon of national heroes.

Unity through civic patriotism persisted until radicalized minorities began to vent their hate on ‘Amerika.’

That unifying effort succeeded for several generations, particularly since it was reinforced by a civil religion with recognizably Protestant cultural elements. This way of assimilating hyphenated Americans served well in two world wars and at least during part of the Cold War. It was the American public philosophy when I was growing up in the 1950s. An understanding of Americanness that did not depend on shared ethnicity may have worked well at the time because other unifying factors were at play.

Most of the population remained Euro-American and had some Christian affiliation. Deeper cultural bonds united (for example) an Italian American and a Swedish American than those existing between either and a third-world Muslim.

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This unity through civic patriotism persisted until radicalized minorities began to vent their hate on “Amerika.” Since these irate “dissenters” proceeded to take over the mainstream media, education at all levels, and public administration, the older methods of assimilation and of producing a unified American identity became less effective.

One might apply to this changed American identity a criticism that’s been leveled at the efforts of the present German regime to assimilate third-world Muslim immigrants. Into what, exactly, can one assimilate foreign residents when public administrators, educators, and the culture industry have taught the indigenous population to hate their country?

Unhyphenated

Earlier attempts at generating unity, however, also ran into headwinds eventually. Non-Protestants, starting with a growing Catholic population, objected to attending “Protestant” public schools and seeing their religious and cultural traditions marginalized. Later the Jewish left and anti-Catholic Southern Baptists called for a more thorough secularization of the public square in the name of separating church and state, furthering pluralism — or whatever other excuse they could find for making the United States less of what it had been before.

By now our ruling class and various influencers are trying to separate whatever they intend to make of this country from its Western roots. The still widely influential Anti-Defamation League, in a pamphlet last year titled “The New Primer on White Supremacy,” explains quite straightforwardly that the designation “Western” is really a “code word” for white racism.

Indeed, according to the ADL, a racist, xenophobic taint also attaches to “Euro-American identity.” Such descriptive terms, according to this pamphlet, are used by those who oppose large-scale Muslim immigration into Europe and emphatically reject the LGBTQ agenda.

Another now-endangered vehicle of American assimilation is the melting-pot concept, which still has many adherents in our conservative establishment. The August 1 edition of the New York Post highlighted the heavily attended Muslim funeral of a slain Bangladeshi police officer in New York City.

“This most New York story,” we were informed on the Post’s front page, was intended as a celebration of the pluralism and diversity that the paper’s editors see as proof of the American melting pot at work. By now, according to this message, ethnically and racially diverse groups are coming to see themselves and each other as unhyphenated Americans.

Unfortunately, the same city with a multicultural sense of who we are is about to elect as mayor a vocally anti-Western woke Muslim — repeating something that Londoners already did when they elected Sadiq Khan and that Minneapolis will likely do if it chooses Omar Fateh as its next mayor. The slain police officer, Didarul Islam, lost his life to a crazed black killer whom CNN, out of its anti-white derangement syndrome, described as “possibly white.”

By now, the melting-pot view of assimilation and the stress on civic patriotism, which I regard as the best substitutes for an older American cultural identity, have given way to a woke dead end.

Unless we can move beyond this divisive concept, it won’t be possible to return to less fracturing views of American identity. Targeting white male Christian heterosexuals as victimizers does not seem to be a satisfactory way of bringing together this country’s legal population. Unfortunately, large demographics, particularly college-educated women, have different ideas about what the managerial state should be imposing on the rest of us.

Editor’s note: This article was published originally at the American Mind.

This Yale professor warns of Elon Musk’s ‘fascism’ — and misses the real threat



Timothy Snyder may not be well known in American conservative circles, but his European influence is substantial. I hadn’t heard of the Yale historian until I moved to Vienna, Austria, where he enjoys a kind of celebrity status. European leaders frequently refer to his ideas, whether they are criticizing Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency or comparing JD Vance’s criticism of censorship at the Munich Security Conference last month to the Holocaust. These talking points have crossed the Atlantic, reaching U.S. media through figures like CBS News moderator Margaret Brennan. Snyder’s influence among the American left continues to grow.

I recently attended Snyder’s “Making Sense of an Unsettling World” lecture at Vienna’s Institute for Human Sciences. His casual demeanor, paired with a Zelenskyy-style quarter-zip — a nod to the Ukrainian leader he has met and advised — reinforces his “rebel professor” image. This blend of defiance and intellect captivates and galvanizes college students, making Snyder both a compelling and polarizing figure.

Snyder’s call to 'defend institutions' fails to recognize that institutions can be corrupt, bloated, and unaccountable.

After the predictable barrage of ad hominem attacks on Trump — of which there were many — Snyder shifted his focus to the most controversial figure in the administration: Elon Musk. As Snyder spoke, I couldn’t help but notice the vast ideological divide between the left and the right. This gap felt particularly sobering, not just because of its seemingly unbridgeable nature but also because Snyder's perspective undermines the very foundation necessary to bridge such divides: dissent and dialogue enabled by free speech.

Snyder accuses Musk of building a privatized, fascistic government by dismantling America's institutions. According to Snyder, we common folk are mere pawns in Musk’s algorithmic “system,” which he claims is designed to predict and manipulate human behavior. The goal, Snyder argues, is clear: to destroy institutions, privatize government functions, and siphon taxpayer dollars into Musk’s pockets.

Negative vs. positive freedom

Snyder’s argument centers on a critique of the conservative notion of “negative freedom” — the idea that freedom is best preserved by minimizing external restraints on the individual. He dismisses this concept as “freedom against,” portraying it as a tool ripe for exploitation by figures like Elon Musk. In Snyder's view, Musk uses this version of freedom to turn the masses “against” institutions, only to privatize them for personal gain later.

In contrast, Snyder champions the left-leaning principle of “positive freedom,” or “freedom for.”This approach suggests that freedom is only legitimate when exercised in service of ideals codified and enforced through institutions. According to Snyder's 2016 manifesto, which evolved into his New York Times best-selling pamphlet "On Tyranny," institutions “preserve human decency” and serve as the greatest barriers to tyranny. In this framework, Musk emerges as Snyder’s villain, a modern-day figure following in the footsteps of 20th-century fascists who dismantled institutions to consolidate power.

Institutions need accountability

Snyder’s alarmism about Musk exposes the deep divide between the left and right on the nature of freedom and the role of institutions. While critiques of corporate and political power are valid, Snyder’s perspective assumes that institutions should be defended without question, a stance that conflicts with conservatives’ healthy skepticism of concentrated power — a skepticism the left once shared.

Positive freedom, as Snyder envisions it, relies on the belief that government can act as a benevolent force. This assumption contradicts James Madison’s warning that “if angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary.” But angels don’t govern us. Washington bureaucrats are subject to the same ills and vices that make government over the masses necessary. Defending institutional authority without scrutiny undermines the conservative commitment to negative freedom — the principle that individual liberties should be checks against excessive power.

Snyder’s solution, then, is not just to oppose authoritarian figures but to resist decentralization itself. He cites Aristotle and Plato to argue that inequality leads to instability and that demagogues exploit free speech to seize power. In Snyder’s world, speech is only “free” when it supports institutional interests rather than challenges them. Yet his call to “defend institutions” fails to recognize that institutions can be corrupt, bloated, and unaccountable. Snyder assumes institutions are inherently legitimate, ignoring the need for them to be accountable to the people they serve.

Where Snyder falls short

Snyder’s argument falls apart here. The left's crusade against so-called oligarchs like Musk isn’t about returning power to the people — it’s about re-centralizing it under authorities leftists consider ideologically acceptable.

Negative freedom is dangerous to them because it allows individuals to dissent, challenge state-sanctioned narratives, and question institutional orthodoxy. Yet it is precisely this freedom that has protected human decency from the imposition of top-down tyranny.

Snyder is right that institutions should be defended when they uphold the people's dignity, rights, and liberties. But just as institutions act as a check on the whims of the populace, the dissent of the people serves as a vital check on the inherent corruptibility of institutions. As Madison argued, both safeguards are essential.

When Snyder and his growing following on the global left seek to suppress dissent for the sake of institutional authority, they don’t prevent tyranny — they empower it.

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