Assata Shakur, a name that has echoed through American history as both a symbol of liberation and a lightning rod for controversy, died last week in Havana, Cuba. She was 78. Her passing marks the end of a life spent in defiance—one that, for more than four decades, eluded the grasp of U.S. authorities and ignited fierce debate across the political spectrum.
Born Joanne Deborah Chesimard, Shakur’s story is steeped in the tumult of the 1970s, a period when the United States was grappling with civil rights, Black liberation movements, and the heavy hand of state surveillance. In 1973, Shakur was charged with the murder of New Jersey State Trooper Werner Foerster after a gunfight erupted during a traffic stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. The incident left Foerster dead and another officer wounded. According to the Associated Press, Shakur was convicted in 1977 by an all-white jury on eight counts—including murder, armed robbery, and assault—and sentenced to life in prison.
But the story didn’t end there. In November 1979, with the help of comrades, Shakur escaped Clinton prison, vanishing from the reach of American law enforcement. As reported by ABC News, her face was soon plastered on wanted posters and her name added to the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists list. For many in law enforcement and the political establishment, her escape was a personal affront—a challenge to the very machinery of law and order. New Jersey state trooper Lt. Peter Coughlin, who spent years hunting for her, once admitted to reporters, “She was an obsession, a career, a masculinity, and a nation’s myth of law and order all hanging on the fantasy of bringing one Black woman to heel.”
Shakur’s flight to Cuba in the early 1980s, where she was granted political asylum, only intensified her legend. For her supporters, she became part of a global struggle against colonialism and empire, her life in Havana woven into the broader tapestry of Black internationalism. She taught, wrote, and raised her daughter under Cuban skies, her very survival seen as a victory against a state many believed sought to silence her voice rather than simply punish her actions.
Her death in Havana, announced by Cuba’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs as due to “health conditions and advanced age,” has reopened old wounds and reignited the arguments that have long surrounded her. The reactions to her passing have fallen along the familiar fault lines of American politics and race. As reported by NewsOne, white America’s press largely recycled the language of “cop killer,” “terrorist,” and “fugitive,” with Fox News referring to her as a “convicted cop-killer sheltered by Cuba’s communist regime.” NPR described her as an “unrepentant cop-killer,” while the Associated Press stuck to the clinical terms of “fugitive” and “convicted.”
New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy was quick to condemn any celebration of Shakur’s legacy. He stated, “She was convicted of the murder New Jersey State Trooper Werner Foerster, who was executed in cold blood. There are so many worthy heroes to celebrate. She is not one of them.” His remarks, echoed by many online, reflect a segment of the country that sees Shakur as a symbol of lawlessness and violence, her escape and subsequent life in Cuba a lingering affront to justice.
Yet, in Black America and among left-wing activists, Shakur’s passing has been mourned as the loss of a revolutionary icon. The Chicago Teachers Union (CTU), which represents more than 27,000 members, posted a tribute calling her a “revolutionary fighter.” Their message, quoting Shakur’s own words—“It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love each other and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains”—sparked immediate backlash, but also solidarity. The Democratic Socialists of America echoed the sentiment, vowing to “honor her legacy by recognizing our duty to fight for our freedom, to win, to love and protect one another because we have nothing to lose but our chains.”
Supporters argue that Shakur was pursued for crimes she did not commit or that were justified within the context of the era’s political repression. They point to the FBI’s COINTELPRO program, which targeted Black liberation movements with illegal surveillance and disruption, as evidence of a broader campaign to criminalize dissent. For many, her escape from prison in 1979 was more than a jailbreak—it was a signal that the state’s power was not absolute, that resistance was possible.
Indeed, as NewsOne reports, the response in Black communities to her escape was one of exhilaration and hope. Her survival was seen as a collective victory, a breach in the pattern of Black leaders being killed or buried behind bars. The fear among police that raiding suspected hideouts in Brooklyn could spark uprisings speaks to the depth of her support. Signs proclaiming “Assata Shakur is Welcome Here” went up in neighborhoods, and her name became a rallying cry at protests and cultural events.
Yet, the controversy surrounding her legacy has never faded. Online backlash to the CTU’s tribute included accusations that honoring Shakur was tantamount to celebrating terrorism and murder. “She was a terrorist and murderer and I’m saying this as a civil rights attorney,” wrote New York-based lawyer Andrew Laufer on X. Others called the tribute “a disgrace,” insisting that the focus should be on honoring Trooper Foerster instead.
The stark divide in responses is a mirror of America’s ongoing struggle with its history of racial injustice and political dissent. For some, Shakur’s life is a cautionary tale—a reminder of the dangers of radicalism and violence. For others, she remains a beacon of resistance, proof that the state’s attempts to erase Black radical thought have not succeeded.
Even in exile, Shakur continued to shape imaginations and fuel movements. She published her autobiography, taught, and mentored, transforming her forced separation from the U.S. into a platform for global solidarity. Her words—“It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win”—have become scripture for new generations of activists.
Her death in Havana, free and unbroken, is a final act of refusal. She denied the state the closure it sought, refusing to let her story end in captivity. As Dr. Stacey Patton writes in NewsOne, “Her death is not closure. It is a call. To live freer lives. To contest every cage. To keep alive the fire of refusal.”
Assata Shakur’s passing is a reminder that the struggle over how we remember the past is far from over. Her life and death continue to challenge America to confront its own history—and to ask, who gets to be remembered as a hero, and who as a villain?
