Netra Nalubolu

After Charlie Kirk’s death, society is starting to question what makes someone a martyr.

There is a strange formula in the way we grieve publicly—how death, especially one steeped in controversy or cause, transforms a person into a symbol. We do not mourn, we mythologize. And in doing so, we often lose the very person we claim to remember.

In our current age, where voices echo louder than ever, bouncing off digital walls and crashing into our feeds, opinion is not just expressed, it’s amplified. A single thought can rattle as fiercely as a scream. And in this cacophony, no matter who you are or what you believe, backlash is inevitable. 

Among this noise, we often witness something darker: martyrdom. According to the Oxford Dictionary, a martyr is a person who is killed because of their religious or other beliefs and is often admired for it. And when someone passes, especially someone who was controversial, polarizing, and/or symbolic, their death often becomes more than the end of a life. It becomes a symbol for a movement. 

This is the dark side of remembrance. Because once someone’s gone, they no longer have a voice, but their narrative grows louder. Their image is no longer their own; it is remixed, repackaged, and repurposed. We lose their humanity to hashtags and headlines. In a world where every thought can be shared, amplified, and weaponized, even loss becomes performative. 

It’s repulsive that we place value in their deaths, not their lives. But this isn’t new; it’s a troubling truth that seems to repeat itself across generations, cultures, and communities. Again and again, we celebrate people more after they die than when they are living. We do it to celebrities, artists, activists, everyday people, and especially to martyrs.  

When someone passes away, there’s an outpouring of love. Social media floods with tributes, kind words, photos, and videos. Timelines overflow with filtered memories and tearful admiration. People speak of impact, a legacy, of how their world will never be the same. But a sobering question remains: where was all this when they were still here? Why do we wait until someone is gone to give them the recognition or support that they may have desperately needed when they were alive, or would have at least had the consciousness to appreciate? 

And this is particularly seen for martyrs. Many of those we label as such did not set out to become symbols. They were people—complex, flawed, vibrant, tired, hopeful, and deserving of the life they wanted to lead and the deserving of the life taken away from them. They didn’t volunteer to become icons; we pushed them into that role. We flattened their stories, erased their contradictions, and offered them up as emblems. In doing so, we strip away their truth in favor of something more palatable, more useful, erasing the truth of their complex and intricate lives to stand as a logo for a movement. 

Yes, causes need champions. But they shouldn’t be champions unwillingly, and we should never take away what their life truly looked like in favor of turning them into slogans. We must remember them as whole people, not just martyrs. We must honor the lives they lived, not the symbolism in their murder.