When I first heard the news of Charlie Kirk's death, my immediate reaction was one of shock. A shooting on a college campus, a place meant for growth, learning, and open dialogue, always feels tragic. Regardless of our differences in worldview, the idea that someone was killed in such a space is deeply unsettling.

Charlie Kirk was known for strong and often polarizing words that many communities, including Muslims, immigrants, and people of color, felt harmed by. But even in the face of rhetoric that wounds, I remind myself of what our faith teaches: "Do not let the hatred of a people prevent you from being just. Be just, that is nearer to righteousness" (Qur'an 5:8). Words may sting, but no one deserves to lose their life for them. As the saying goes, "Violence is the language of the inarticulate."

As I processed this news, my mind could not help but draw a painful parallel.

My eight year old son saw a video of the shooting, and he has cried himself to sleep at night, haunted by the image of blood spewing from a man's neck. I sat with him, trying to comfort him, but I could see how heavy it weighed on his heart. I think about the trauma he felt just from seeing it on a phone screen, and then I think about Charlie Kirk's children, who were there in person. Their trauma must be unbearable.

But then I think of another child. The Palestinian boy who saw his father's head blown apart as he sat on a couch, his pregnant mother lying dead at his feet. There was no one there to hold him, no counselor to ease his nightmares, no words of comfort. Only silence, and even worse, denial from officials who dismissed what had happened before his eyes.

Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians have been killed in this genocide, entire families erased, and yet their loss rarely stirs the same collective grief.

In moments like this, I realize that the way many feel today at the news of Charlie Kirk's death is how Palestinians have felt, day after day, for decades. This is not meant to diminish one grief with another, but to invite reflection. If our hearts ache now, perhaps they can be expanded to ache for those we may not have thought about before.

The Qur'an reminds us: "Do not think of those who are killed in the cause of Allah as dead. Rather, they are alive with their Lord, receiving provision" (Qur'an 3:169).

I asked myself: is now the right moment to bring up these comparisons? Should I simply mourn with those mourning Kirk, leaving larger conversations for later?

Some will say it is impolite to raise such matters in the wake of a tragedy. But I would argue the opposite. True politeness is not silence in the face of truth, it is speaking with honesty and compassion. And the timing now is actually the best time, because we are all feeling the sting of loss together. This shared moment of grief gives us the chance to open our hearts and connect our pain to the pain of others.

The balanced approach is this: as Muslims, we condemn violence in all forms. Whether it happens in a lecture hall or in a besieged city, against one individual or entire families, it is never acceptable.

Our Prophet ﷺ taught us compassion even for those outside our faith: "Whoever is cruel and hard on a non-Muslim minority, curtails their rights, or burdens them with more than they can bear, I will complain against that person on the Day of Judgment" (Abu Dawud). That is the depth of mercy and justice Islam calls us to embody.

So how should we respond? With consistency.

We recognize the loss of life, even when it belongs to someone who did not show us the same empathy. And at the same time, we cannot close our eyes to the loss of countless others, especially those who suffer quietly without the world's acknowledgment.

And here in America, we must recognize something more: we are not distant observers of Palestine's suffering. Unlike tragedies in Sudan, Yemen, or other corners of the world, which we also must condemn and pray for, what makes Palestine different is that our government directly funds this violence with our tax dollars. Every bomb dropped, every home demolished, every child killed in Gaza bears the imprint of American complicity.

This is why selective empathy is so dangerous. To mourn one death loudly while ignoring thousands is to create a hierarchy of human worth. True compassion refuses such hierarchies. It demands that we elevate the voices of the oppressed, by offering our resources, by correcting incomplete narratives, and by insisting that the world recognize every life as precious.

The Qur'an says: "Whoever kills a soul unless in retribution for murder or spreading corruption in the land, it is as though he has killed all of mankind. And whoever saves a life, it is as though he has saved all of mankind" (Qur'an 5:32). If we know our own hands are tied to the violence through our taxes, then our moral responsibility to speak, protest, and withhold consent is even greater.

I do not write this to celebrate anyone's death, but to invite reflection. If you feel sorrow now, let that sorrow widen your heart. If you condemn violence today, condemn it always.

And let that condemnation move us toward action:

• Make du'a for all who suffer unjustly, here and abroad.

• Educate yourself and your community about the realities of oppression in Palestine, Sudan, Yemen, and beyond.

• Call your representatives and remind them that our tax dollars should not be funding the killing of innocents.

• Support organizations providing humanitarian relief and those advocating for peace and justice.

• Elevate the voices of the oppressed by amplifying their stories, by offering your resources, and by correcting incomplete narratives wherever you see them.

• Model compassion in your own life, because change begins with us.

We are in a particularly tribal age right now, where loyalty to party, faction, or even family often overrides loyalty to truth. But the Qur'an calls us to something higher: "Stand out firmly for justice, as witnesses to Allah, even against yourselves or your parents and relatives" (Qur'an 4:135).

That is the real test of compassion, not how we mourn those we already agree with, but whether we extend our humanity universally. Advocating for justice even when it does not benefit us, or even when it costs us, is not popular. But it is exactly the principle the world needs most.

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