On 14th June, a man posing as a police officer attacked two Minnesota legislators and their spouses. He killed Melissa Hortman, a former speaker of the state House of Representatives, and her husband. State senator John Hoffman and his wife were seriously injured. Many were shocked, yet few were surprised. The United States is enduring an epidemic of gun violence unique among developed countries—with over 45,000 deaths annually—and has a history of political assassinations. A polarised political climate, exacerbated by online echo chambers, makes matters worse. Recent surveys suggest one in five Americans considers political violence sometimes justifiable.
But the Minnesota shootings underscore something uniquely dangerous about our present political moment. Before Donald Trump, Democrats and Republicans uniformly condemned political violence as antithetical to American democracy. Today, that consensus has fractured. Democratic officials still decry violence, whereas prominent Republicans and other right-wing figures increasingly normalise, trivialise or even celebrate it. Compare the swift bipartisan condemnation of the attempts on Trump’s life with the indifference, mockery and conspiracy theories following the attack on Nancy Pelosi’s husband, Paul Pelosi, in 2022.
Trump, more than any politician in living memory, incites his supporters with dehumanising rhetoric aimed squarely at fellow Americans. On Memorial Day—which commemorates those who died serving in the armed forces—he attacked “the SCUM that spent the last four years trying to destroy our country”. He labels opponents “vermin”, “monsters” and “enemies of the people”. His deployment of the National Guard and then Marines against small immigrant-rights protests in Los Angeles reveals an eagerness to wield state violence against citizens unprecedented in modern times. Meanwhile, violence committed in his name is excused, celebrated or encouraged, with his pardon of the January 6th rioters only the most audacious example.
Beyond Trump’s taste for cruelty, this politics has various ideological sources, notably Carl Schmitt, the conservative theorist and Nazi sympathiser who inspires Trumpism’s intellectual wing. Schmitt argued that politics depends on a sharp friend/enemy distinction—demonising the “enemy within” is essential for legitimacy and social cohesion. He claimed that liberal states weaken themselves by blurring this boundary, extending rights to those who do not truly belong. Only a sovereign dictator empowered to purge or suppress internal enemies—including those who refuse the friend/enemy logic—can restore true political unity. Sound familiar?
Many on today’s right style Trump’s friend/foe divide in theological terms, casting politics as spiritual warfare. The alleged Minnesota shooter’s writings reveal deep ties to Christian-nationalist groups, whose rhetoric he reproduces: Democrats are not merely political opponents, but Satanic embodiments of evil who must be expelled from the public square.
Political theorist Chantal Mouffe offers a constructive alternative to Schmitt’s vision. She agrees with him that politics is fundamentally conflictual, inevitably involving “us” versus “them” dynamics, but insists that political opponents be treated as “adversaries”. This means recognising the legitimacy of those with whom we profoundly disagree, and contesting their views through public debate rather than violence. In this model, politics remains a struggle, but never a fight to the death.
This view aligns with the liberal-republican project of containing political violence through mutual respect, tolerance, procedural fairness and the rule of law. From James Madison’s warnings against factionalism to Alexis de Tocqueville’s praise for “habits of the heart”, liberalism insists that freedom flourishes only when citizens regard each other as fellow rights bearers, not mortal enemies.
Reclaiming this inheritance means breaking the hold of polarised media ecosystems through improved media literacy and cross-partisan dialogue. It demands that Republican leaders refrain from vilifying their fellow Americans, even when politically expedient. And it demands the evangelical church reject politics as holy war, showing instead how deep moral conviction and respect for pluralism can go together.
The Minnesota assassinations remind us that democracy’s greatest vulnerability lies not in laws or institutions but in our collective imagination—in how we frame political struggle and view fellow citizens. If opponents become enemies, we invite violence and betray the liberal promise of self-government. The right must reclaim the idea that disagreement is not cause for annihilation, but an invitation to reasoned engagement.
