The Chris Abraham Show

“You become what you pretend to be, so be careful what you pretend to be.” — Jean-Paul Sartre In The Great Patriotic Heist, I argued that the American Left has begun performing patriotism — not feeling it, performing it. The same institutions that once mocked the flag now wrap themselves in it, speaking solemnly about “our Republic” and “the unfinished promise of 1776.” It’s not rediscovered affection — it’s narrative survival. The populist Right took the flag hostage, so the only way to reclaim it was to start waving their own. My warning then was simple: performance has a half-life. It either collapses or becomes real. This episode is about what happens if it becomes real — if people pretending to love America start actually loving it. Here, pretending isn’t lying — it’s creation. We perform ideals until they exist. We said “all men are created equal” long before we believed it, and through repetition made it partly true. America evolves not through honesty but rehearsal. Sartre called it “bad faith.” Not hypocrisy, but self-entrapment — when you play a role so long you forget it’s a choice. America’s moral managers — experts, editors, educators — now perform patriotism because they know you can’t govern people who think you hate their country. But repetition changes people. Roles have gravity. Pretending shapes the pretender. What happens when actors start believing their own script? When “freedom,” “democracy,” and “the Republic” stop being props and start being convictions again? Maybe the costume fuses to the skin. Maybe the same Left that once saw America as villain becomes its strictest guardian. That fusion could create something new — not the populist Right’s raw nationalism nor the technocratic Left’s therapy-state, but a hybrid: moral nationalism wrapped in empathy, managed through control. That’s the Hegelian rhythm — thesis, antithesis, synthesis. The thesis was neoliberal order: global, expert, moralized. The antithesis was populism — Left and Right fusing in rebellion. For a moment, Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump spoke the same language of revolt: different grammar, same fury. That was synthesis one — populism as authenticity, revolt against curated virtue. But populism became self-aware. Its anger turned ritual, its authenticity cosplay. MAGA became fandom. Once authenticity becomes aesthetic, the establishment knows how to sell it back. Enter synthesis two: Progressive Patriotism — focus-grouped, diverse, emotionally ergonomic. Patriotism as lifestyle brand. It looks real, sounds real, even feels real — but it’s patriotic the way a corporate mission statement is heartfelt. Still, America’s hunger for sincerity is so deep even simulation can work. If enough people perform belief, it becomes belief. Picture 2026 — the 250th anniversary. “America 250” events: diverse, polished, professional. Fireworks with spoken-word poetry. Speeches about freedom delivered like mindfulness apps. It’ll be immaculate — and in some way, it might succeed. Millions will feel pride, gratitude, even tears. The performance may cross into faith. And when belief hardens, rebellion returns. Every orthodoxy breeds heresy. Somewhere, a younger generation is already rolling its eyes at both MAGA’s nostalgia and the Left’s choreography. They’ll want danger, not safety; truth, not optics. Their patriotism, if it exists, will be quiet, personal, unbranded. That’s the American cycle: imitation becomes belief, belief institution, and institutions rebellion’s target. Each generation pretends until the mask becomes its face — then rips it off. Maybe progressive patriotism sticks. Maybe the country becomes gentler, managerial, moralistic — a nation of caretakers with flags. But someone will always stand up, roll their eyes, and say “enough.” Because America’s soul belongs to the unmanageable — the ones who stop pretending. And that, in the end, was Sartre’s warning: the danger isn’t pretending. It’s when the pretending works.

“You become what you pretend to be, so be careful what you pretend to be.” — Jean-Paul Sartre In The Great Patriotic Heist, I argued that the American Left has begun performing patriotism — waving flags, quoting Jefferson, rediscovering “our Republic” — not from love of country but from narrative panic. The populist Right had taken ownership of rebellion, freedom, and 1776’s mythic energy, leaving progressives with a choice: mock it or mimic it. They chose mimicry. My warning then was that performance can’t last forever; it either collapses or becomes real. This episode asks: what happens if it becomes real — if the actors forget it started as theater? Sartre’s “bad faith” applies perfectly here. It isn’t lying; it’s self-deception — performing a role so convincingly that you trap yourself inside it. America has done that for centuries. We pretended to be a land of liberty until the pretense began shaping reality. Pretending here is creative, even dangerous. So when the Left wraps itself in patriotic language — “No Kings,” “Our Republic,” flag emojis on bios — it isn’t just PR. It’s ontological trial and error: trying on belief until it fits. And maybe it will. That’s America’s trick — performance and belief blur until the act becomes identity. The Left may start by faking affection, but the repetition could harden into conviction. The question is what kind of nation that conviction would build. Think dialectically: thesis, antithesis, synthesis. The thesis was the curated moral order of the 2010s — technocratic, globalist, emotionally micromanaged. The antithesis was the populist revolt — a messy fusion of Left and Right embodied in Trumpism. For a brief, volatile moment, Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump spoke different dialects of the same rebellion: against expertise, against the soft tyranny of moral management. That was synthesis one — populism as raw authenticity, a revolt against hypocrisy dressed as virtue. But every revolution becomes self-aware. The movement that began as candor became theater. Its outrage hardened into ritual; its populism into fandom. The Right began mirroring the spectacle it loathed. And that’s when the Left made its move. If authenticity couldn’t sustain itself, it could be domesticated. Patriotism was rebranded for polite society. The institutions that once scorned the Founders began praising them again — provided the “work” never ends. Thus the rise of Progressive Patriotism: corporate, focus-grouped, inclusive, safe. It looks real but feels like simulation — an algorithm’s impression of love of country. Yet Americans crave sincerity so badly that even counterfeit conviction sells. Pretend long enough, and it might stop being pretend. If “inclusive patriotism” becomes orthodoxy, it will dominate for a generation — until someone notices that enforced sincerity isn’t sincerity. Then the rebellion resets. Each synthesis ossifies into a new establishment; each establishment breeds its own opposition. The next populists will reject all theater entirely. They won’t wave flags or hashtags. They’ll simply live differently. That’s the American metabolism: we don’t resolve contradictions; we absorb them. We act first, believe later. We fake it till we make it — or till it breaks us. Pretending isn’t harmless; it’s nation-building. When you play patriot long enough, you forge the country you deserve. So maybe this new performance will stick. Maybe the Left’s flag-waving feels genuine by 2026. Maybe the fireworks and “inclusive Republic” sermons convince millions that the dream still lives. But belief engineered from above is belief with a leash. And when people start feeling the collar, they’ll tear it off. That’s America: not thesis or antithesis — perpetual rehearsal. A country pretending to be free, and somehow, staying that way.

This immersive, long-form audio edition gathers every commentary, Notebook LM segment, stitched reaction, and post-production note from The Great Patriotic Heist project. Think of it as part documentary, part Socratic salon: a living conversation about how America swung—from self-flagellation to flag-waving—in less than two years. Across two hours of unfiltered discussion, analysts, AI narrators, and invited voices trace the strange metamorphosis of the American Left’s rhetoric. We rewind to the statue-toppling days of 2020, revisit the “God-damn America” sermons of the previous decade, and then fast-forward to today’s sudden outpouring of managed patriotism. The same crowd that once called the flag a symbol of empire now uses it as campaign décor. The symposium also connects these cultural mood swings to earlier patriotic cycles—especially the Bicentennial of 1976, when the country went delightfully, unapologetically Main-Street-patriotic. It was a year of tall ships, red-white-and-blue gas stations, and unironic affection for the Founders. To modern activists, that kind of organic civic joy might look uncomfortably close to fascism. Yet it revealed something essential: ordinary Americans crave belonging more than they crave critique. From that exuberant 1976 moment to the coming Semiquincentennial of 2026, this audio mosaic asks whether the new “inclusive patriotism” is genuine renewal or just narrative management by consultants and media elites. Are we watching the rebirth of national confidence—or a public-relations campaign dressed in bunting? Featuring full contextual readings from the essay, historical asides, AI-generated voice analyses, and spontaneous debate, this version is designed to be listened to like a documentary with footnotes. It’s messy, earnest, argumentative—and, in the spirit of the piece itself, defiantly un-managed.

This episode is a visual-audio walk-through of the Notebook LM “deck” for The Great Patriotic Heist — a multimedia explainer on how America’s political left abruptly rediscovered the flag. In 1976 the Bicentennial turned Main Street into a Norman Rockwell carnival of belief. In 2026, the same symbols are being curated from boardrooms and NGOs as marketing assets. The presentation moves through five scenes: 1️⃣ Whiplash Patriotism — from “colonizer nation” to “USA! USA!” in 18 months. 2️⃣ The Heist Playbook — linguistic capture: redefining “freedom,” “bravery,” and “revolution.” 3️⃣ The Handlers — the managerial class that packages emotion as optics. 4️⃣ The Real Ethos — a sink-or-swim nation whose faith is self-reliance. 5️⃣ The 250th Showdown — America’s founding story fought over again. Use this “deckcast” as the visual chapter companion to the long-form essay. Every chart, headline, and pull-quote mirrors the argument that authenticity—not branding—is the last form of patriotism.

Hey Jason, First, thank you. Your reply to America = Afghanistan was what debate used to be — informed, generous, and disarmingly human. You didn’t just argue; you elevated. You said America isn’t a graveyard of movements but a battleground that keeps evolving. That progress doesn’t die, it sediments — layering itself into law, language, and culture. And you’re right, at least partly. My essay argued that Afghanistan defeats empires not through power, but patience. It takes their money, their systems, their slogans — and outlasts them. I claimed that America does something similar with its own movements. Civil Rights, Feminism, Occupy, BLM, DEI, Climate — each storms the gates, shakes the country, gets absorbed, and eventually fades. Not through defeat, but through digestion. The system applauds, funds, and merchandises reform until it becomes part of the furniture. You called that cynicism; I call it pattern recognition. Still, I love your counterpoint — that movements compost rather than die. They decay into the civic soil and nourish what comes next. Civil rights fed feminism; feminism fed queer rights; queer rights now feed trans visibility. Progress is recursive, not reversible. It doesn’t stay won, but it doesn’t vanish either. Here’s where I worry: compost requires gardeners. America builds landfills. Instead of letting old ideas nourish the next generation, we entomb them in marketing and bureaucracy. Feminism becomes “empowerment branding.” BLM becomes a slogan on corporate banners. Pride becomes a sponsored hashtag. We embalm activism in self-congratulation. You argue that inertia — democracy’s slowness — is what saves us from tyranny. True. But inertia also preserves inequality. It cushions privilege and slows redistribution. Our institutions were designed for equilibrium, not revolution. They absorb idealism by offering symbolic wins in place of structural change. Your best line was that “we are the system.” That’s the painful truth. Afghanistan’s invaders leave; ours get elected. Every reformer lives inside the structure they’re trying to change. We can’t overthrow what we are. We fight inequality on devices made by exploited labor, on platforms profiting from outrage. Our dissent gets monetized before it matures. So maybe America isn’t a graveyard or a garden — maybe it’s a mausoleum with Wi-Fi. Everything that ever lived here is still visible: Civil Rights, Pride, Occupy, #MeToo — preserved, tagged, and softly lit. Nothing truly dies, but nothing truly breathes either. And yet — your optimism matters. You remind me that cynicism without hope is just moral laziness. You still believe in the slow miracle of reform, the patience of democracy, the compost of culture. Without people like you, the rest of us would drown in irony. Maybe the truth is somewhere between your garden and my graveyard — in the dirt itself, where old ideals decompose just enough to feed new ones. If Afghanistan survives by outlasting empires, America survives by arguing itself into coherence. And that argument — between faith and fatigue — might be the only proof that we’re still alive. With respect and affection, Chris

Hey Jason, First, thank you. Your reply to America = Afghanistan was what debate used to be — informed, generous, and disarmingly human. You didn’t just argue; you elevated. You said America isn’t a graveyard of movements but a battleground that keeps evolving. That progress doesn’t die, it sediments — layering itself into law, language, and culture. And you’re right, at least partly. My essay argued that Afghanistan defeats empires not through power, but patience. It takes their money, their systems, their slogans — and outlasts them. I claimed that America does something similar with its own movements. Civil Rights, Feminism, Occupy, BLM, DEI, Climate — each storms the gates, shakes the country, gets absorbed, and eventually fades. Not through defeat, but through digestion. The system applauds, funds, and merchandises reform until it becomes part of the furniture. You called that cynicism; I call it pattern recognition. Still, I love your counterpoint — that movements compost rather than die. They decay into the civic soil and nourish what comes next. Civil rights fed feminism; feminism fed queer rights; queer rights now feed trans visibility. Progress is recursive, not reversible. It doesn’t stay won, but it doesn’t vanish either. Here’s where I worry: compost requires gardeners. America builds landfills. Instead of letting old ideas nourish the next generation, we entomb them in marketing and bureaucracy. Feminism becomes “empowerment branding.” BLM becomes a slogan on corporate banners. Pride becomes a sponsored hashtag. We embalm activism in self-congratulation. You argue that inertia — democracy’s slowness — is what saves us from tyranny. True. But inertia also preserves inequality. It cushions privilege and slows redistribution. Our institutions were designed for equilibrium, not revolution. They absorb idealism by offering symbolic wins in place of structural change. Your best line was that “we are the system.” That’s the painful truth. Afghanistan’s invaders leave; ours get elected. Every reformer lives inside the structure they’re trying to change. We can’t overthrow what we are. We fight inequality on devices made by exploited labor, on platforms profiting from outrage. Our dissent gets monetized before it matures. So maybe America isn’t a graveyard or a garden — maybe it’s a mausoleum with Wi-Fi. Everything that ever lived here is still visible: Civil Rights, Pride, Occupy, #MeToo — preserved, tagged, and softly lit. Nothing truly dies, but nothing truly breathes either. And yet — your optimism matters. You remind me that cynicism without hope is just moral laziness. You still believe in the slow miracle of reform, the patience of democracy, the compost of culture. Without people like you, the rest of us would drown in irony. Maybe the truth is somewhere between your garden and my graveyard — in the dirt itself, where old ideals decompose just enough to feed new ones. If Afghanistan survives by outlasting empires, America survives by arguing itself into coherence. And that argument — between faith and fatigue — might be the only proof that we’re still alive. With respect and affection, Chris

Each victory in Barovia costs a soul. Sometimes, it’s your own. The party’s story in these twin sessions begins in ash and ends in resurrection. After the execution of Traxidor, his companions refused to leave his body on display in Vallaki’s square. Lady Wachter had expected their sentimentality. When they came for him, she unleashed hell. Literally. A Barbed Devil pursued them through Vallaki’s backstreets, flanked by smaller spined fiends that shrieked from above. Radley carried Traxidor’s corpse, stumbling under the weight; Daermon darted ahead through fog; Urihorn fired arrows from his panther’s saddle. Every street burned with infernal fire. The city was a cage of smoke. Then came salvation in human form. Van Richten—scientist, monster hunter, cynic—appeared from the mist. His walking cane flashed; the devil struck. For a heartbeat, it seemed the hunter would be torn apart. Then came a burst of blue radiance, and the creature vanished into nothing. “There are seldom any guarantees,” Van Richten murmured, brushing ash from his coat. The escape wasn’t over. At the southern gate, guards demanded they halt. Van Richten didn’t. The horse thundered forward, smashing through the barrier as the vardo lost a wheel. Guards advanced; a warden fired necrotic bolts. Radley and Daermon lifted the wagon by brute force while Van Richten cast Mending, sealing the break. The group fled Vallaki forever. At the Abbey of Saint Markovia, the Abbot received them with holy calm. The crumpled wedding dress—muddy but intact—delighted him. When they asked him to restore Traxidor, he warned of divine balance. But something in him shifted. Perhaps gratitude, perhaps madness. He agreed. “For the redemption of Strahd,” he said. By dawn, the cleric lived again, pale and trembling. When Burgomaster Kreskov saw this miracle, he broke. His grief erupted into rage: “Why not my son? Why not Ilya?” His wife soothed him and armed the party for departure. The road east led to Argynvostholt, the ruined keep of a fallen order. Snow whispered through cracks in the roof. A great dragon statue watched them enter. Shadows coiled like breath. Inside, the heroes found a chapel of kneeling knights. Daermon, ever curious, touched one with Mage Hand. The knights rose, rusted armor creaking, hollow eyes burning. The revenants struck without hesitation. Radley’s shield rang, Urihorn’s arrows hissed, Traxidor’s radiant magic flared. But nothing stopped them. The heroes retreated through the darkened halls, out into the cold daylight beneath the dragon’s gaze. Barovia gives no peace. Devils fall, angels sin, and the dead still kneel to forgotten gods. The adventurers lived another day—but for how long, no one could say.

In Barovia, every escape leads to another trial. Salvation, when it comes, is never free. The night after the gallows of Vallaki, the survivors of the party—Radley, Daermon, and Urihorn—refused to abandon the body of their fallen cleric, Traxidor. His corpse hung publicly as a warning, a final cruelty from Lady Fiona Wachter. When the adventurers slipped through alleys to steal it back, they walked straight into her trap. The air split with screams and sulfur as a Barbed Devil burst from the mist, followed by smaller winged Spined Devils, summoned by the Burgomistress’s infernal pact. Radley heaved Traxidor’s wrapped body over his shoulder, Daermon darted through backstreets, and Urihorn charged atop his panther, loosing arrows that hissed through the fog. Hellfire arced after them, burning cobblestones and shattering shutters. They considered turning to fight—Barovian pride dies slowly—but Radley’s strength faltered under the weight of the corpse. The devil closed in. Then, through the smoke, came a tapping cane. A tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat stepped into the street. Rudolf van Richten, monster hunter and scientist of the supernatural, faced the infernal beast without hesitation. He raised his cane, whispered a prayer, and unleashed a shimmering wave of light—Dispel Evil and Good. The devil recoiled mid-charge, roaring, then vanished into nothing. Van Richten, unfazed, sheathed his blade and remarked dryly, “I wasn’t sure that would work.” With Van Richten’s aid, the adventurers fled Vallaki in his disguised carnival wagon, Rictavio’s Carnival of Wonders. Urihorn’s panther growled at the sound of another large cat caged inside—one of Van Richten’s experiments, no doubt. Guards tried to halt them at the southern gate, but the old hunter cracked his reins. The beam splintered, gates flew open, and the vardo smashed through, losing a wheel. Under crossbow fire, Daermon and Radley lifted the axle while Van Richten calmly cast Mending, fusing the broken iron. The wagon lurched forward, clattering into the night toward Krezk. At dawn, the Abbey of Saint Markovia loomed above the frozen cliffs. The party ascended, body in tow, through drifting snow. The Abbot, a serene and unsettling celestial, welcomed them with open arms—then smiled when Daermon presented the tattered wedding dress for his golem-bride Vasilka. When asked to resurrect Traxidor, he first raged at their audacity, warning that life and death have purpose. Then, abruptly, he agreed. “For your service,” he said, “and for the redemption of Strahd, I shall restore your companion.” By morning, Traxidor lived again. His breath trembled, his eyes dimmed by whatever he had seen beyond. The Abbot clothed him in a monk’s robe, an amulet of the Morninglord hanging over his chest. But miracles invite jealousy. When Burgomaster Dmitri Kreskov saw Traxidor alive, he fell to his knees, screaming why the Abbot had not returned his own dead son. His wife Anna silenced him, providing armor and weapons for Traxidor so they could leave before Kresk tore itself apart. The group then followed the Svalich Road east toward Argynvostholt, an ancient manor marked by a towering silver dragon statue. The structure breathed cold air as they entered, shadows shifting like wings. Within, they discovered a chapel of kneeling knights in rusted mail. When Daermon disturbed them with Mage Hand, they rose—revenants, still bound to vengeance long after death. Radley’s Shield spell deflected a strike; Traxidor’s Turn Undead forced one back; Urihorn fired from a balcony, his panther pacing below. But the fight was hopeless. They retreated, blades clashing, until they reached the cold air outside. There, Urihorn realized what they faced: “Revenants,” he said. “They can’t be killed. They rise again, wherever vengeance calls.” From devils to angels to undead knights—Barovia offered them every face of damnation, all wearing its familiar smile.

Fascism, Normies, and the Generational Divide “Idealism increases in direct proportion to one’s distance from the problem.” Or as I like to say, your ability to put up with a problem is your distance from it. If you’re over 40, you probably think fascism means Mussolini’s Italy or Hitler’s Germany — a corporatist system where state and business fused into a one-party authoritarian project. That’s the old poli-sci definition I learned back at GWU in 1988. But ask someone under 40 and you’ll get a different answer. For them, “fascism” covers almost anything patriotic or traditional: flags, borders, religion, even just opposing socialism. That shift comes from Umberto Eco’s Ur-Fascism, which broadened the word into a set of cultural vibes — nationalism, anti-communism, loyalty to the flag. In practice, it became a smear. By that measure, mainstream Cold War America was “fascist.” McCarthy’s 1950s, Reagan’s 1980s — even Obama, with his deportations and patriotic rhetoric, fits the new label. Which makes no sense to normies who grew up believing their grandparents defeated fascism in WWII. And there’s a third wrinkle. Today’s activist left uses “anti-fascist” in a totally different way — less Normandy, more Mao. It echoes anti-colonial rage, China’s “century of humiliation,” and revolutionary energy grafted onto Western identity politics. In that frame, antifascism isn’t about fighting Nazis. It’s about dismantling borders, patriotism, capitalism itself. So we’ve got three definitions colliding. The textbook version: corporatism and dictatorship. The normie version: America killed fascism in 1945. And the activist version: fascism is anything resembling national pride. No wonder generations are talking past each other. Over-40 Americans hear “fascist” and think Hitler. Under-40 activists hear “fascist” and think Dad with a flag in the yard. And that’s the trap: if everyone is fascist, then the word means nothing. This is Chris Abraham, and this has been The Chris Abraham Show.

“Idealism increases in direct proportion to one’s distance from the problem.” Or as I like to say, your ability to put up with a problem is your distance from it. If you’re over 40, you probably think fascism means Mussolini’s Italy or Hitler’s Germany — a corporatist system where state and business fused into a one-party authoritarian project. That’s the old poli-sci definition I learned back at GWU in 1988. But ask someone under 40 and you’ll get a different answer. For them, “fascism” covers almost anything patriotic or traditional: flags, borders, religion, even just opposing socialism. That shift comes from Umberto Eco’s Ur-Fascism, which broadened the word into a set of cultural vibes — nationalism, anti-communism, loyalty to the flag. In practice, it became a smear. By that measure, mainstream Cold War America was “fascist.” McCarthy’s 1950s, Reagan’s 1980s — even Obama, with his deportations and patriotic rhetoric, fits the new label. Which makes no sense to normies who grew up believing their grandparents defeated fascism in WWII. And there’s a third wrinkle. Today’s activist left uses “anti-fascist” in a totally different way — less Normandy, more Mao. It echoes anti-colonial rage, China’s “century of humiliation,” and revolutionary energy grafted onto Western identity politics. In that frame, antifascism isn’t about fighting Nazis. It’s about dismantling borders, patriotism, capitalism itself. So we’ve got three definitions colliding. The textbook version: corporatism and dictatorship. The normie version: America killed fascism in 1945. And the activist version: fascism is anything resembling national pride. No wonder generations are talking past each other. Over-40 Americans hear “fascist” and think Hitler. Under-40 activists hear “fascist” and think Dad with a flag in the yard. And that’s the trap: if everyone is fascist, then the word means nothing. This is Chris Abraham, and this has been The Chris Abraham Show.

The killing of Charlie Kirk in Utah this September didn’t just extinguish the life of a polarizing activist. It set off a cascade — an implosion in the civic square whose blast radius is still expanding. To make sense of it, we should borrow metaphors not from politics but from physics and history: Sarajevo, Versailles, Oppenheimer. A nuclear bomb is not powered by TNT. It’s powered by the precision of small charges — explosive lenses — that compress a fragile core until it becomes supercritical. A spark, carefully timed, unleashes apocalypse. Politics often works the same way. In 1914, a 19-year-old assassin fired a pistol in Sarajevo, compressing a fragile Europe into the First World War. Versailles, intended as peace, functioned as a pause that guaranteed an even larger conflict. Small detonations in brittle systems yield catastrophe. Charlie Kirk’s assassination was one such detonation. The details are familiar: a public event turned deadly, footage ricocheting across feeds, and the immediate conversion of murder into symbol. President Trump ordered flags at half-staff, awarded a posthumous Medal of Freedom, and vowed vengeance. JD Vance promised to dismantle left-leaning institutions. Cardinals compared Kirk to St. Paul; entertainers dedicated songs; world leaders offered tributes or warnings. At the same time, critics mocked, skeptics questioned, and conspiracy theories metastasized. What mattered was not the biography of Kirk but the implosion his death triggered. Employers fired staffers for tasteless jokes. Activists launched doxxing campaigns. Governments warned immigrants not to mock. Online mobs demanded ever harsher retribution. In days, one act of violence became a referendum on loyalty, identity, legitimacy. This is the ladder of escalation I’ve written about before: speech treated as violence, violence treated as mandate, mandate hardened into purge. Every rung climbed makes descent harder. Kirk, adored by some and despised by others, became less a man than a trigger. Like Princip in Sarajevo, he ignited forces far larger than himself. The analogy to nuclear weapons is not hyperbole. A conventional blasting cap — a tweet, a joke, a jeer — may seem trivial. But when the system is brittle, those charges compress the civic core until it reaches criticality. The implosion is not the joke itself; it is the convergence of fury, fear, and fragile legitimacy. The fission that follows is outrage weaponized into governance: firings, bans, purges, crackdowns. Theology sharpens the picture. The Gospels say: “Go, and sin no more.” Mercy paired with responsibility. What we see instead is vengeance paired with purification. Kirk is canonized as martyr; his critics are cast as heretics. But civilization depends on protecting the square — the messy forum where ugly words are countered with argument rather than annihilation. The lesson from Sarajevo and from Los Alamos is identical: once the charges fire, you cannot un-detonate them. A bullet, a tweet, a public assassination: each can become the blasting cap that compresses a democracy into criticality. If we keep mistaking outrage for justice, we will not be mourning just one man in Utah. We will be mourning the republic itself.

Charlie Kirk’s murder on a Utah stage in September 2025 was not just another grim entry in the catalog of American political violence. It was a detonation — the moment when a single blasting cap set off a chain reaction that no one could fully control. To understand it, we need less the vocabulary of day-to-day politics and more the physics of escalation. In a nuclear weapon, you don’t need much fissile material to create an unimaginable blast. What you need are precisely shaped conventional charges — “explosive lenses” — timed to compress the core into criticality. Small charges, aimed correctly, unlock apocalyptic force. Political violence, as history shows, operates on the same principle. One bullet in Sarajevo, fired by a young nationalist named Gavrilo Princip, compressed the fragile alliances of Europe into total war. The Treaty of Versailles, meant to end that war, functioned instead as a pause that guaranteed another. Small detonations, brittle systems, spirals without ceilings. Charlie Kirk’s assassination functioned as just such a lens. The man himself was controversial, adored on the right, despised on the left, mocked by late-night comedians, venerated by his followers as a cultural warrior and, in some quarters, even as a modern Saint Paul. But the meaning of his death lies less in the biographical details than in the cascade it triggered: presidential proclamations, half-staff flags, memorials filling stadiums, new laws drafted in grief and vengeance. Within hours, the online square divided into camps: those mourning, those jeering, those hunted for failing to mourn properly. Employers fired staffers who made jokes; activists doxxed students who cheered; even foreign governments issued statements of condolence or disdain. The assassination became implosion. The reaction illustrates what I called, in an earlier essay, the ladder of escalation. Words treated as violence. Violence treated as legitimacy. Cancel culture feeding into martyrdom. Martyrdom feeding into repression. Each rung climbs higher until there is no way down. History is littered with moments where a single flashpoint cascaded into an epochal rupture: Sarajevo in 1914, Kristallnacht in 1938, Dallas in 1963. What begins as an act of brutality quickly becomes a referendum on legitimacy itself. Why is Kirk’s case so combustible? Because he was not a marginal figure. He was beloved by a sitting president, courted by world leaders, followed by millions. He represented, to his supporters, the silent majority finally speaking. To his enemies, he embodied the weaponization of grievance. That polarity meant his assassination could not be absorbed as a tragic crime; it had to be read as symbol, as trigger, as proof. And once symbols replace arguments, escalation is automatic. Trump promised a crackdown on enemies. JD Vance vowed institutional purges. Cardinals and pop stars consecrated Kirk as martyr. Meanwhile, conspiracy theories bloomed: Was the shooter Antifa? A Groyper? A false-flag pawn of Ukraine, Israel, Russia? Like radiation after a blast, the speculation itself became toxic fuel. The lesson is the same one Sarajevo teaches: small charges, aimed at brittle systems, create explosions whose shockwaves last generations. If every offensive post is treated as treason, if every death is weaponized into mandate, then the republic ceases to be a forum and becomes instead a minefield. The answer, paradoxically, is mercy. Protect the square. Let ugly words be answered with argument, not annihilation. Let crimes be punished through law, not mobs. Otherwise, Kirk’s death will not be remembered as a tragedy but as a trigger — the moment America’s fissile material reached critical mass.

Why protecting even offensive words is the only way to prevent violence By Chris Abraham for Substack Every generation rediscovers an old lesson the hard way: words are not bullets, but if you confuse them long enough, bullets eventually appear. Lately I’ve been struck by how quickly our civic conversations move from irritation to punishment. A clumsy remark or ugly slogan goes viral; the mob mobilizes; firings and cancellations follow. It’s tempting to say “well, that’s accountability,” but the speed and severity of these reactions tell a different story. What we are really doing is rehearsing a very old drama: escalation without a ceiling. Think about Sarajevo, 1914. A teenager named Gavrilo Princip fires a pistol at Archduke Franz Ferdinand. One act of political violence sets off treaties, obligations, and mobilizations. Within weeks, a continent is on fire. The war that followed didn’t solve the problem — the punitive Treaty of Versailles created conditions for something even worse. What began as one shot became decades of blood. In our own time, the weapons are reputations, jobs, and platforms. The principle is the same. A careless post spirals into professional ruin. A mob decision substitutes for law. The difference between a town that argues and a town that shoots isn’t etiquette — it’s survival. Civilized societies invest in procedures: courts, ballots, deliberation. Mobs invest in immediacy. And immediacy always tempts violence. I am not blind to the harm of speech. Racist, vile, or threatening words sting. But the constitutional line exists for a reason. U.S. law is clear: speech only loses protection if it incites imminent lawless action. Everything else, however ugly, is permitted. That boundary protects not just bigots but everyone who dissents from the reigning consensus. Without it, majorities punish minorities on impulse. Cancel culture, whatever name you prefer, is efficient at punishment but poor at persuasion. It does not change minds; it exiles people. It does not reduce resentment; it deepens it. Every mob firing creates martyrs. Every public shaming fertilizes resentment. And resentment, history shows, is a renewable fuel for conflict. Even in theology, escalation is a central theme. The Gospel’s “go, and sin no more” joins mercy with responsibility. Mercy without limits collapses into indulgence. Punishment without procedure collapses into vengeance. Both errors invite cycles that consume communities. Revolutions prove this. Marx promised liberation through rupture. Mao promised purification through violence. Che romanticized guerrilla struggle. What followed was not paradise but repression breeding new radicals, one cycle after another. The dueling codes of earlier centuries made the same point: treat words as violence, and violence answers back. We flatter ourselves that the modern age is different because our weapons are digital. But doxxing, mass reporting, and professional exile are simply new swords. The old instinct is unchanged. There is also a dangerous illusion that pauses equal peace. Versailles looked like peace; it was only a ceasefire. Contemporary ceasefires often work the same way: an interval to rearm. Punishment without reconciliation buys time, not resolution. So what should we do? Protect the square. Keep the civic forum open even to speech you despise. Reserve punishments for true threats, not for dissent. Train institutions to resist the adrenaline of the mob. Encourage citizens to answer ugliness with argument, not annihilation. This isn’t naivety. It’s strategy. If you want fewer bullets, you must tolerate more words. Ugly words, even dangerous-sounding words, are less corrosive than the torches we light to silence them. History has already taught us what happens when we confuse offense with violence and treat every slight as existential. Once the crowd is chanting and the torches are lit, the path back down the ladder is hard to find.

How history, law, and theology warn us against turning words into weapons By Chris Abraham for Substack Some mornings I surprise myself. I wake with the smell of coffee in the apartment, the building still quiet, and realize I’ve become a proselytizer for an old story. Not long ago, I argued about anchor text or attribution models. Now, I listen to daily Gospel readings on Hallow, sit with Jeff Cavins’ reflections, and quote John and Luke in comment threads. Nobody in my circle would have bet on this turn. Yet here I am, defending something I once mocked: the right of even ugly speech to exist without being carted off by the mob. The spark for this essay was a viral clip: a student casually saying, “we should bring back political assassinations.” The internet responded as it always does—doxxing, firings, denunciations, and calls for permanent punishment. A remark became a hunt; the hunt became a storm. What we’re rediscovering is that escalation has no natural ceiling. History offers the bluntest illustration. A single pistol in Sarajevo set in motion alliances and mobilizations in 1914. Gavrilo Princip’s assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand didn’t just trigger World War I—it created conditions that made World War II almost inevitable. Versailles punished, humiliated, and planted the seeds for something worse. The pattern is clear: brittle systems plus retributive logic equals long violence. We are running a similar ladder in civic life. A tweet becomes a pile-on; a pile-on becomes a firing; firings become professional exile. The law distinguishes incitement from expression, but private power—employers, platforms, angry publics—enforces with brutal efficiency. Make someone unemployable and many will cheer. I defend the toleration of ugly speech not because I like ugliness, but because civilization is the art of channeling impulses into procedures. The difference between courts and mobs, between ballots and torches, is not taste. It is survival. A messy forum beats clean annihilation. That’s why I find myself defending a man—call him a public conservative—whose rhetoric makes even me squirm. Friends call him a paid agitator. But he did something useful: he forced people to decide what they believed about sin and responsibility. The gospels say: “Go, and sin no more.” In today’s civic grammar, calling sin “sin” lands like an unforgivable insult. Listening to the liturgy daily doesn’t make me devout; it makes me exacting. Mercy without responsibility collapses into indulgence. And politics without procedure collapses into violence. Whether it’s migrants, surges, or social panics, escalation follows predictable dynamics: fear, backlash, and harder law. Revolutions show the same pattern. Marx, Mao, and Che all preached rupture. History showed feedback loops: repression breeds resentment, resentment breeds new radicalism. Quick purges promise a better world but usually deliver cycles of blood. The duel and the frontier brawl remind us: humans answer offense with violence. Today’s equivalents are doxxing, canceling, and algorithmic ruin. Different weapons, same code. The temptation is to believe pauses create peace. Versailles was a pause. Interwar years were a pause. Ceasefires often function as rearming intervals. Punishment without reconciliation is not resolution—it is staging ground for the next round. That’s why my call is simple: protect the square. Let ugly arguments happen in public, and resolve them through law, not purges. Reserve punishment for credible threats, not unpopular speech. Teach platforms and employers to resist mob fury. Absorb offense without turning it into capital. History warns us: moral cleansing campaigns can harden into decades of conflict. Maybe that’s why I can listen to the Gospel in the morning and still defend free speech at night. Ugly words are less dangerous than the torches we light to silence them. Once the torches are lit, the stairs back down are hard to find.

The provided text is an excerpt from a Tabletop Role-Playing Game (TTRPG) session log detailing the exploits of a group of adventurers. Specifically, it documents Session Nineteen of a campaign, outlining the players involved and the characters they control: Urihorn, Radley, and Daermon. The narrative begins with the characters hiding in a cellar after a failed attempt to rescue their executed comrade, Traxidor, from the Burgomistress, Lady Fiona Wachter. The party successfully retrieves Traxidor's corpse from the gallows in a covert nighttime operation, only to be ambushed by the Burgomistress's summoned allies—devils from the Nine Hells—forcing the injured group to flee through the streets of Vallaki back towards the Blue Water Inn.

The adventurers began this session crammed into the cellar of a decrepit Vallaki house, hidden by the wereraven Dannika Martikov after their chaotic escape from the gallows. Radley Fullthorn, the Human Eldritch Knight, and Daermon Cobain, the Elf Arcane Trickster, were unconscious, dragged to safety by allies while Urihorn Tenpenny, the Halfling Beastmaster, and his panther kept watch. Above, Wachter’s patrols rattled doors and questioned villagers, searching for fugitives. When Radley and Daermon regained consciousness, the group debated their next move. Their companion Traxidor, the Half-elf Cleric of Light, had been executed. Worse, his body was strung up in public. In Barovia, corpses are not only reminders of mortality but tools of terror. Radley recalled earlier visions of hanged comrades — Valen’eir’s ghost and Baron Vallakovich’s lynching — all echoes of this grim moment. Barovia repeats its cruelties, each cycle sharper than the last. The group considered a desperate plan. Perhaps the Abbot at Krezk could resurrect Traxidor, if they could reclaim his body. Dannika scouted the gates, reporting guards and wardens everywhere. She armed Radley with studded leather and a raven-crested shield, a sign of the Keepers of the Feather, the wereraven resistance. Urihorn revealed he could heal and offered Van Richten’s potion. Plans set, they waited for nightfall. At the square, Traxidor’s corpse swayed in the dark. Four guards stood watch. Daermon and Radley approached disguised as drunks, hoping to lower suspicion. Urihorn, hidden above with bow drawn, covered them. The ruse worked. Guards jeered, ready to shake down “drunkards.” The ambush was swift: Daermon slid a dagger through a heart, Radley crushed another, Urihorn’s arrows dropped the rest. One fleeing man burned alive from Radley’s fire bolt, another fell pierced by arrows. No mercy tonight. Then laughter echoed. Lady Wachter’s voice boomed unnaturally loud, mocking their efforts as predictable. Her image shimmered nearby. Daermon lunged, cleaving her form — but his blade passed through. She was only an illusion. The air rippled. From portals spilled fiends: Spined Devils, winged horrors firing volleys of burning barbs, and a towering Barbed Devil, stinking of brimstone, its hide covered in jagged spines, its eyes glowing with malice. Lady Wachter had summoned servants of Asmodeus, lord of the Nine Hells. The battle turned desperate. Spines rained. Hellfire burned. Radley’s fire bolt splashed harmlessly against the devils’ infernal resistances. Urihorn loosed arrow after arrow, panther snarling. Daermon dodged, struck, and poured Van Richten’s potion down Radley’s throat to keep him alive. The cleric’s corpse swung like bait, pierced by spines meant for Radley. Urihorn found a mark — one devil burst into ash. But more pressed on. Radley cut the noose, slinging Traxidor’s body over his shoulder. Spines pierced the corpse but missed his living flesh. Devils chased them down alleys, fireballs crashing, barbs flying. Together, the adventurers staggered toward the Blue Water Inn, wounded, burdened, pursued. The city itself seemed to close in. Barovia always twists rescue into torment. They had slain guards, claimed Traxidor’s body, even destroyed a devil. But they remained hunted, battered, and uncertain if they could even reach sanctuary. Wachter’s laughter still rang in their ears. Heroes Radley: Human Eldritch Knight, fighter with sword and fire magic. Daermon: Elf Arcane Trickster, rogue with stealth and illusions. Urihorn: Halfling Beastmaster Ranger, partnered with a black panther. Traxidor (fallen): Half-elf Cleric of Light, executed by Wachter. Sören (fallen): Aasimar Paladin, slain earlier by the Reeve.

Urihorn slipped out at night to fetch his panther companion. The beast bounded over Vallaki’s palisade, jaws clutching a severed arm scavenged from some earlier raid. Urihorn coaxed it free and guided the cat back into hiding. Even loyalty carries blood in Barovia. By morning criers shouted charges: murder, mayhem, defiance of authority. Daermon hid among burned ruins, Urihorn scaled a rooftop with his panther. The prisoners arrived bound in a cart. Radley wore a heavy iron mask that blinded him. Traxidor slumped sedated, unable to resist. Guards prodded them onto the gallows, Wardens in black robes watched with glowing amulets. Lady Wachter gave her speech, painting them as brigands. The Reeve stepped forward to list charges. He never finished. Daermon’s arrow struck, Urihorn’s followed with a Hail of Thorns that burst into shrapnel, killing the Reeve outright and wounding his guards. The square erupted. Wardens conjured Spiritual Weapons, spectral blades that swung at rooftops, and hurled necrotic bolts. Lady Wachter raised Sanctuary, warding herself so none could land a strike. At that moment, allies arrived: Urwin and Danika Martikov, revealing their wereraven forms, swooping down to fight. Radley fought blindly, headbutting a guard with his iron mask, breaking bone. Traxidor swayed, drugged. Daermon struck from cover, Urihorn loosed arrows, the panther roared. But Wachter healed her wardens, reviving them. Slowly the adventurers faltered. Radley fell. Daermon followed. Then the Martikovs made their stand. Stabbed and bleeding, they hoisted the fallen heroes onto their shoulders, pushed through spears, and loaded them into a wagon. Urwin cracked the reins, driving hard through the streets. Urihorn leapt down, panther at his side, chasing until the wagon vanished into alleys. Only Traxidor was left behind in chains. The survivors were stashed in an abandoned cellar. Dannika, healing quickly from her wounds, whispered that search parties would soon comb the streets. She disguised the hatch with crates and baskets, then transformed into a raven and flew into the sky. The Reeve was dead. Radley and Daermon survived. Urihorn had proven himself. But Traxidor remained in Lady Wachter’s grasp. This is the rhythm of Barovia: victory and loss, bound together. Every triumph is poisoned. Every survival incomplete. FAQ & Glossary Heroes Radley: Human Eldritch Knight, fighter + spells. Daermon: Elf Arcane Trickster, rogue + illusions. Urihorn: Halfling Beastmaster Ranger with panther. Traxidor: Half-elf Cleric of Light, healer. Sören (fallen): Aasimar Paladin, executed earlier. Enemies Lady Wachter: Burgomistress of Vallaki, ally of Strahd. Reeve Ernst Larnak: her enforcer, slain by arrows. Wardens: black-robed clerics using necrotic magic. Spells Highlighted Hail of Thorns: exploding arrow. Sanctuary: prevents attacks on the target. Spiritual Weapon: floating spectral blade. Inflict Wounds: necrotic strike. Allies Urwin and Danika Martikov: wereravens, guardians of hope.

In Vallaki, justice is never blind. It is theater, staged with gallows and blood to frighten a weary people into obedience. Barovia wastes nothing, not even prisoners. Only a day after Radley the Eldritch Knight and Traxidor the Cleric were captured by Wachter’s men, the town square filled with hammers and wood. Gallows rose before the eyes of Vallaki’s beaten citizens. Here there are no cells and no juries — only spectacle, execution, and fear. At the Blue Water Inn, Daermon the Arcane Trickster told his new ally Urihorn Tenpenny of the party’s plight. Daermon had stumbled into Barovia through the mists, while Urihorn, a halfling Beastmaster from Falkovnia, entered with purpose. He came hunting Strahd. Where Daermon was trapped, Urihorn was deliberate — a mist-walker with vengeance on his mind. Urihorn sought counsel from Rictavio, secretly the vampire hunter Van Richten. But the master hunter admitted ignorance of Vallaki’s civics; his war is only against Strahd. It was Danika Martikov, innkeeper and wereraven, who spoke plainly: there would be no prison, only a mock trial and a noon execution. Urihorn defied curfew that night, climbing the palisade to summon his black panther. The beast bounded from the treeline, jaws carrying a human arm scavenged from some forgotten kill. Urihorn coaxed it free and guided the cat back into hiding. Even loyalty comes bloodied in Barovia. By morning, criers declared the charges: murder, mayhem, defiance of authority. The crowd assembled, silent and sullen. Daermon hid amid rubble from the Festival of the Blazing Sun. Urihorn perched on a rooftop, panther crouched. The prisoners were dragged forward, Radley blinded by an iron mask, Traxidor dulled by sedatives. Guards prodded them onto the stage. Wardens in black robes stood ready, amulets glowing. Lady Wachter thundered her speech, painting the outsiders as brigands worse than Vargas Vallakovich himself. The Reeve stepped forward with charges. He never finished. Arrows flew. Daermon’s struck true, Urihorn’s burst into a Hail of Thorns, ripping through guards. The Reeve toppled dead. Revenge at last for Sören Ironwood’s fall. Chaos followed. Wardens conjured Spiritual Weapons, ghostly blades flashing. Necrotic bolts seared air. Wachter raised Sanctuary, wrapping herself in magic that turned attacks away. And then allies swooped down: Urwin and Danika Martikov revealed themselves as wereravens, striking guards while spears stabbed into their bodies. Radley fought blindly, headbutting a guard so hard his nose broke. The mask rang like a gong, but Radley fought on. Traxidor swayed, barely conscious. Daermon darted with blades, Urihorn fired arrow after arrow. His panther snarled below, leaping into fray. But Wachter’s healing magic revived her men, and the tide turned. One warden faltered, then rose again at her touch. Radley fell. Daermon soon followed. For a moment, it seemed the execution would succeed despite the chaos. Then the Martikovs acted. Bleeding, feathers falling, they lifted the unconscious adventurers onto their shoulders, forced through spears, and hurled them into a wagon. Urwin cracked the reins, horse screaming, cart rattling out of the square. Urihorn leapt down from the roof, panther racing beside him, and followed the flight. Only Traxidor was left behind, sedated and bound, at the mercy of Lady Wachter. The wagon fled to a cellar in an abandoned house. Dannika hid the survivors beneath crates, explained that wereravens heal quickly, and urged Urihorn to keep still. Wachter’s search parties would soon comb the streets. Then she shifted into raven form and vanished into the gray sky, leaving the heroes battered, half-rescued, half-defeated. The Reeve was dead. Radley and Daermon survived. Urihorn proved his worth. But Traxidor remained in enemy hands. This is Barovia’s rhythm: victories poisoned, rescues incomplete, survival always at a cost.

The rifle crack that killed Charlie Kirk in Utah was an earthquake. He collapsed with a wound to the neck, was rushed to a hospital, and pronounced dead. But as with any quake, the most dangerous part isn’t the first tremor. It’s the aftershocks — the cheers, denunciations, and cries of martyrdom — that destabilize what remains. The quake itself is clear: a man shot from a rooftop. The aftershocks are harder. They reveal that America is split not just by politics but by two different realities. On the left, war is material. Activists talk about oligarchs, billionaires, oppression, and identity. The phrase “words are violence” reflects the belief that hate speech or misgendering can wound like blows. That’s why many celebrated Kirk’s death: not as cosmic justice, but as one more fascist gone, history pushing forward. On the right, war is spiritual. For Kirk’s evangelical base, this was not politics but cosmic combat. The shooter was a vessel of the Enemy — in Christian vocabulary, Satan. Kirk’s death is framed as martyrdom. But martyrdom shifts meaning across traditions. In Christianity, a martyr (martys, “witness”) endures death without renouncing faith: John the Baptist beheaded, Jesus crucified, apostles tortured. Martyrdom is witness, not suicide. In Islam, martyrdom (shahid) also means witness, often extending to those who die in jihad — even suicide bombers in extremist usage. In revolutionary politics, martyrdom is memory: fallen fighters fuel the cause, but there’s no heaven, only history. So Kirk becomes what you already believed: demagogue, casualty, or witness to truth. The word sin deepens the rift. Christians call everyone sinners — “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” To them, it’s solidarity. To outsiders, it sounds like disgust. If your identity — gay, trans, poly — is central to who you are, being told it is sin feels like annihilation. Christians believe they’re offering diagnosis and hope. Nonbelievers hear condemnation. That explains the venom online. For ex-evangelicals, “sin” reopens old wounds. Kirk’s death felt like justice. And to evangelicals, that rage confirms their belief: demons shriek when exposed. The Catholic Church complicates it further. Pope Francis offers blessings and softer words, but the sacraments remain strict. Communion requires confession and absolution. Divorce without annulment or living in “grave sin” bars you from the Eucharist. To Catholics, this is consistency. To outsiders, it’s a tease: welcomed in, denied at the table. Some argue Kirk’s death cripples his movement. History suggests the opposite. Martyrdom rarely kills movements. Kill Jesus, the Church spreads. Kill apostles, saints multiply. Martyrdom fertilizes. MAGA is not a cult of one man. It is a hydra: Trump, Kirk, Carlson, RFK — chop off a head, more sprout. Millions of believers see demons behind the celebration of Kirk’s killing. Online glee looks to them like possession — like The Exorcist on the Georgetown steps. This is why comparing today to Spain in 1936 — fascists vs. communists — misses the point. That was a material war. Today, one side fights oppression and billionaires. The other believes it is fighting Satan himself. That’s why Kirk’s assassination will not silence his cause. To some he was a demagogue, to others a martyr. And in the Christian story, martyrdom is never the end. It is the engine of new beginnings. The earthquake was a sniper’s shot. The aftershocks are the wars of meaning now shaking the ground. America is two nations: one fighting people and power, the other fighting demons and destiny. And aftershocks, unlike earthquakes, don’t stop until the ground itself gives way.

The provided text, "Aftershocks: Charlie Kirk’s Assassination and the Two Wars of America," analyzes the profound societal divisions exposed by Charlie Kirk's assassination, highlighting how this event functions as a prism for understanding America's fractured perspectives on "war." It argues that the "aftershocks" of Kirk's death reveal two distinct battlefields: one where the left perceives war as a material struggle against systemic oppression, and another where the right views it as a spiritual conflict against demonic forces. The article further explores how language itself has become a point of contention, with different interpretations of concepts like "martyrdom" and "sin" exacerbating these ideological and theological divides. Ultimately, it suggests that these incompatible worldviews prevent a shared understanding of the conflict, making it unlikely that such an event would quell the movements it targets; instead, it tends to fertilize them through martyrdom in the eyes of supporters.