A Nation Desensitized to Corporate Violence Finally Feels Something

What one CEO’s death says about capitalism, healthcare, and the violence that we ignore

There’s something uniquely dystopian—and quintessentially American—about the experience. Being placed on hold for what feels like an eternity, only to plead your case to a customer service agent who speaks in scripted platitudes and has no real authority to address the issue, is a ritual that’s all too familiar. The calls often begin with a shred of hope—surely, this time, someone will explain why a claim was denied or why coverage suddenly changed without warning. But that hope evaporates as you’re bounced from one department to another, your story growing more rehearsed with every retelling. You can hear the weariness in the agent’s voice, a quiet acknowledgment that the system they represent is designed not to help, but to wear you down. Each transfer, each hollow promise of a “call back,” reinforces the crushing realization that you’re not just asking for clarification—you’re begging for access to the basic provisions of the healthcare you pay for, fighting not for luxuries, but for survival.

Like many people, my health insurance is with UnitedHealthcare, and like many, I’ve fought the Sisyphean battle to get my claims approved. I’ve spent countless hours on the phone with customer service, trying to understand why certain visits mysteriously don’t count toward my deductible or why, after a full year of consistent mental health treatment, my coverage was suddenly cut—despite the assurances in the contract I sign every year. Eventually, like so many others, I gave up. UnitedHealthcare won. Now, I’m paying out of pocket for the care I need to stay healthy. I’m one of the lucky ones who can afford to shoulder the financial burden, but for millions of others, the cost of care isn’t just a hardship—it’s a barrier to survival.

The recent killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson has sparked a cultural moment—a sharp reflection of the moral, economic, and emotional decay that capitalism has wrought on our society. It’s a tragedy, undeniably, but the overwhelming focus by corporate media on the singular loss of a powerful executive contrasts starkly with the deafening silence about the countless lives cut short by the healthcare system he represented. This moment doesn’t call for pearl-clutching; it demands a broader, more honest conversation about morality, violence, and justice in a world that prioritizes profit over people.

Capitalism’s Moral Rot

UnitedHealthcare, like many large corporations, thrives on systemic exploitation. It’s not just the countless documented cases of denied claims or delayed care; it’s also the quiet, invisible suffering inflicted on millions who live in fear of getting sick because they know their insurance might fail them when they need it most.

ProPublica recently reported that amongst the more than 200 million Americans covered by private insurance, insurers reject about 1 in 7 claims for treatment. The result? Most people, when faced with the labyrinthine process of fighting insurance companies, simply give up (like me). One study even found that Americans file formal appeals on only 0.1% of claims denied by insurers under the Affordable Care Act. Moreover, insurers also have wide discretion in crafting what is covered by their policies - often denying claims for services that they deem not “medically necessary,” despite a doctor's explicit recommendation. UnitedHealthcare, the industry leader in denials, rejects 32% of claims—double the industry average—and uses a variety of shady practices to maximize profit at patients’ expense. These include a deeply flawed AI algorithm with a 90% error rate that cuts off extended care for severely ill patients, which despite its horrendously high error rate, remains in use. For a chilling deep dive, I highly recommend reading ProPublica’s investigation, which illustrates UnitedHealthcare’s senselessly cruel playbook of denying vulnerable patients’ essential treatments, often arbitrarily, with little to no recourse, just to simply maximize profit. As an insurance agent bluntly explained, “Deny, deny, deny. That’s how you hit your numbers.”

But UnitedHealthcare’s transgressions don’t stop there. Not only has UnitedHealthcare systematically denied care to millions of Americans – but also it profited off the opioid crisis, consistently cheated the government, surveilled its customers, and gutted independent doctor’s practices. Executives, including Thompson himself, regularly engage in insider trading with all the subtlety of someone stuffing their pockets at a crime scene.

Thompson’s death, tragic as it is, must be viewed within this broader context of a society conditioned to value profit over people and to obscure the harm such prioritization inflicts daily. Capitalism’s relentless pursuit of profit at the expense of human dignity fosters not only inequality but also the moral decay at the core of society that allows suffering to continue unabated. The resulting structural violence—a ceaseless grind of poverty, denied care, and exploited labor—is largely invisible, buried under spreadsheets and corporate jargon. But its effects are no less real than the direct violence we decry; in fact, it is foundational to the very operation of capitalist economies.

By treating systemic suffering as an unfortunate byproduct rather than an intentional feature, capitalism normalizes the structural violence it perpetuates. Imagine telling someone their life-saving treatment is out of network, then calling it a "business decision” all while the CEO of that company makes $10 million a year. The public’s anger isn’t just understandable—it’s justified. Yet, the cultural reaction to this anger from legacy media has been to scold it, as though feeling anything but sorrow for a corporate executive’s demise is a moral failing. This moral double standard—sympathy for the powerful, indifference for the powerless—is a cornerstone of capitalism’s ethical failure.

But this is where the moral dilemma gets interesting. As humans, we recoil at the horror of a murder, even when the victim represents a system that has inflicted untold harm. Would we condone the murders of other CEOs who helm corporations that oppress our lives? Most likely not. Yet this unease, this mix of indignation and sorrow, is what traps us in the status quo. The bubbling anger is real, and so is the system’s failure to address it. The question is, where will all this rage go? If it’s not directed toward systemic change, we may find ourselves back here again, grappling with another tragedy and another reflection of just how broken things really are.

Political Violence in a Culture of Rage

Over the past decade, America’s rhetoric has become increasingly violent, fueled by figures like Donald Trump and the culture wars he’s gleefully exacerbated. Slogans like “lock her up,” casual nods to “Second Amendment solutions,” and the literal insurrection on January 6th, 2020 have normalized the idea that violence is a legitimate response to political or economic grievances. It’s not a leap—it’s a shove into the abyss.

But this isn’t solely about Trump. The seeds of this violent culture were sown long ago, in the growing alienation and despair that neoliberal capitalism has fostered. Consider this: over 60% of bankruptcies in the U.S. are tied to medical debt, a figure unheard of in other developed countries. Meanwhile, nearly 1 in 4 adults report delaying or skipping healthcare because they can’t afford it—a decision that can lead to worsening illness or even death. These aren’t random statistics; they’re examples of structural violence baked into our economic system.

As scholar and activist Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor notes, structural violence disproportionately targets marginalized communities. Black families, for instance, are 2.9 times more likely than white families to face eviction, even as the average rent in the U.S. has skyrocketed by 25% over the last five years. It’s violence, but because it’s meted out through bureaucratic processes and financial systems rather than fists or bullets, it’s treated as a necessary evil rather than a moral failing.

Brian Thompson’s death may have been a crime, but the system he represented commits slow, bureaucratic violence every day. And while I abhor violence, I can’t ignore the desperation that drives people to it. When peaceful avenues for redress are blocked—when no one listens, and no one cares—it’s not surprising that chaos becomes the language of the unheard. This isn’t an excuse for violence; it’s a warning of what happens when empathy is systematically stripped from society.

The Empathy Gap

What’s most striking in the aftermath of Thompson’s death is the disparity in empathy. Legacy media and elite commentators have rushed to mourn Thompson, painting him as a tragic victim. Meanwhile, the thousands who die annually because of denied healthcare—a direct result of policies crafted by companies like UnitedHealthcare—barely merit a mention.

This isn’t to say that Thompson’s death should be mocked or celebrated, but the outrage at those who dared to express anger—or even grim satisfaction—at his demise reveals an unsettling cultural truth. In our current discourse, the humanity of the powerful is treated as sacrosanct, while the humanity of the oppressed is ignored. Expressions of anger at injustice are policed as though they are more dangerous than the injustices themselves.

This dynamic is part of a larger cultural shift toward what might be called “performative pearl-clutching.” In an age of algorithms and outrage, public morality often devolves into a competition to display the most virtuous condemnation. This creates a puritanical environment where legitimate anger at systemic oppression is dismissed as crude or uncouth. But anger is human, and in the face of exploitation and injustice, it is necessary.

If anything, the backlash against those who expressed anger reveals how deeply we’ve been conditioned to prioritize politeness over passion, respectability over resistance. It’s like we’ve all been enrolled in some unspoken finishing school for capitalism, where we’re taught to suppress our outrage so as not to offend the sensibilities of those who profit off our suffering. Meanwhile, somewhere, a UnitedHealthcare algorithm is rejecting a chemo patient’s claim with the cold precision of a robot programmed for shareholder returns. But yes, let’s talk about civility.

The Bipartisan Hatred of Healthcare Companies

In one of the most rancorous political environments in recent memory, the left and right rarely agree on anything—except, apparently, their shared loathing of UnitedHealthcare. The killing of Thompson has revealed a rare moment of bipartisan agreement—but not the kind anyone in Washington would have predicted. Both sides have turned their ire toward the failures of the American healthcare system, and in doing so, highlighted the absurdity of our current political moment.

Conservatives like Ben Shapiro and Matt Walsh tried to frame the reaction to Thompson’s death as a uniquely leftist phenomenon, with podcast titles like “The EVIL Revolutionary Left Cheers Murder!” and “Why the Left Is Really Celebrating the Murder of a CEO.” But here’s where it gets interesting: their own listeners weren’t having it. Comment sections were flooded with conservative followers pointing out that Shapiro’s and Walsh’s outrage was completely missing the point. Americans across the political spectrum are furious at a healthcare system that routinely denies care, drives families into debt, and leaves millions in the lurch. As one user quipped, “Imagine being so blatantly in the wrong that you manage to unite two opposing ends of the political spectrum during one of the most divided periods in recent memory.”

But let’s step back for a moment and consider how those in positions of power—executives, policymakers, and industry insiders—might view this backlash. It’s easy to imagine the eye rolls at the phrase “people over profits,” dismissed as the naive rallying cry of those who just don’t understand the complexities of running a healthcare system. To them, the industry’s razor-thin profit margins—a common defense trotted out by hospital executives and insurers alike—make cutting services and denying claims a necessary evil. After all, if hospitals or insurers lose money, they can’t provide services at all, right?

This argument carries some weight when applied to hospitals, many of which operate on a small loss and do not have high profit margins. But for insurers, it rings hollow. Companies like UnitedHealthcare aren’t scraping by; they’re thriving. UnitedHealth Group reported $22 billion in profit last year, with billions flowing to shareholders and executives. While hospitals and other frontline providers may be caught in a vicious cycle of rising costs and insufficient funding, insurers are clearly reaping the rewards of a system designed to prioritize profit over care.

There’s also a tribalism at play. Many elites likely see themselves as doing good—transforming lives by creating wealth for their employees and stakeholders. To them, the multimillionaires spawned by healthcare, finance, and tech industries are proof of their system’s success. But this insular perspective ignores the larger picture: the millions of Americans left behind by a system that treats basic healthcare as a privilege rather than a right. The open secret of the healthcare industry is that while everyone talks a big game about saving lives, the bottom line is what truly drives decisions.

This is precisely why the system needs an overhaul—not just tinkering at the edges. As it stands, the current model funnels billions into administrative bloat, middlemen, and profit-taking while leaving patients and providers to bear the burden of rising costs. Neither political party has offered a coherent vision for how to fix this mess. The Biden administration rescinded pandemic-era protections like Medicaid expansion, leaving millions without coverage, while Trump campaigned to repeal even the modest reforms of Obamacare without proposing a single replacement.

The irony is palpable. Healthcare consistently ranks as one of the most important issues to Americans—8 out of 10 consider it “very important.” And yet, both parties have failed to address the systemic rot at the heart of our healthcare system. The rare convergence of class solidarity over Thompson’s death is a powerful reflection of the shared frustration Americans feel about their healthcare system. But frustration alone won’t solve anything. Anger must be transformed into action—and that action must involve finally embracing a vision of healthcare that prioritizes people over profits, not as an idealistic slogan, but as a structural necessity.

Toward a New Morality

As much as the bubbling anger around the state of healthcare in America resonates with me, I can’t shake the sadness I feel about Brian Thompson’s death. A man was killed—someone’s father, partner, and friend—and no matter how much rage we might direct toward the system he represented, his death reflects the worst of what happens when desperation meets powerlessness. Imagine living in a society so broken that someone felt their only option was to shoot a CEO, and millions of others thought, “Yeah, checks out.” That’s not just tragic—it’s Kafka meets Quentin Tarantino.

But here’s the thing: while Thompson was killed, the company he helmed has been quietly killing people for years. Not with bullets, but with bureaucratic denials of care—turning down life-saving treatments, cutting off rehabilitation services, and leaving thousands to die not because it’s medically necessary, but because it’s profitable. I’m struck by the grim irony that, in extending my empathy to Thompson and his family, I’m reminded just how little empathy his company extended back to the people it was supposed to help. It’s hard not to wonder: did Thompson—or the system he represented—ever see us as people? Or just as dollar signs and data points?

And let’s not kid ourselves: none of us are truly outside this system. Capitalism makes us all complicit. Thompson wasn’t some cartoon villain cackling in a boardroom twirling his mustache; he was a guy doing exactly what capitalism rewards. Sure, his role had a few extra zeros on the paycheck, but fundamentally, he was playing the same game we’ve all been taught to play: prioritize profits, minimize empathy, and hope no one notices the casualties. Meanwhile, the system that enriched him treats the rest of us like liabilities to be managed. If you’re lucky, you’re an asset; if not, your chemo gets denied.

So yes, Thompson’s death is a tragedy. But the far greater tragedy is the thousands of deaths that happen quietly every day because of the systems he represented. If we’re going to mourn one life, we should also reckon with the broader structures that turn suffering into a business model. What kind of world are we okay with? One where we trade human lives for profit margins? Or one where we finally stop pretending this is fine, put down the spreadsheets, and demand a system that values people over profits?

We can’t fix a broken system by suppressing our anger or sanitizing our discourse. We need to channel that anger into action—into building a world where healthcare is a right, not a privilege, and where no one profits from the suffering of others. Medicare for All offers a clear, achievable solution. By eliminating profit-driven middlemen like UnitedHealthcare, we could create a healthcare system that prioritizes care over corporate greed. Countries with universal healthcare spend far less per capita and achieve far better outcomes, proving that healthcare doesn’t have to bankrupt individuals to work effectively.

The choice before us is stark: do we continue to prop up a system that kills quietly, denying care and draining resources, or do we demand a system built on equity, efficiency, and humanity? That begins with rejecting the false morality that tells us to sympathize with exploiters while ignoring the exploited. Empathy for the oppressed is not radical. It is human. And if we want to build a better, fairer world, Medicare for All is not just a policy—it’s a moral imperative.