Assata Shakur’s life and legacy have ignited a firestorm of debate in the days since her death in exile in Cuba at the age of 78. Known to some as a revolutionary icon and to others as a convicted murderer, Shakur’s story remains as polarizing as ever, resonating across generations and communities. The recent outpouring of praise from the Chicago Teachers Union, coupled with sharp condemnation from New Jersey's top officials, has once again thrust her complex legacy into the national spotlight.
On October 2, 2025, NewsBreak reported that Assata Shakur, born Joanne Chesimard, had died in Cuba, where she had lived since escaping from the Clinton Correctional Facility for Women in New Jersey in 1979. Shakur was convicted of the murder of New Jersey State Trooper Werner Foerster and sentenced to life in prison. Her daring escape and subsequent flight to Cuba, where she was granted political asylum, cemented her status as both a symbol of resistance and a fugitive from justice.
Within hours of her death being reported, the Chicago Teachers Union issued a statement that set off a wave of outrage. In a post, the union declared, "Rest in Power, Rest in Peace, Assata Shakur. Today we honor the life and legacy of a revolutionary fighter, a fierce writer, a revered elder of Black liberation, and a leader of freedom whose spirit continues to live in our struggle. Assata refused to be silenced. She taught us that ‘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.'"
For supporters, Shakur’s words and actions have long stood as declarations of hope and resilience in the face of oppression. As UPTOWN Magazine highlighted in its October 1, 2025, feature, her writings and poetry—especially the poem Affirmations—have inspired generations. In it, Shakur writes, "I have been locked by the lawless. Handcuffed by the haters. Gagged by the greedy. And, if I know anything at all, it’s that a wall is just a wall and nothing more at all. It can be broken down." Her ability to frame struggle as a source of strength is a recurring theme in her work, as well as her insistence that oppression must be recognized and resisted: "People get used to anything. The less you think about your oppression, the more your tolerance for it grows. After a while, people just think oppression is the normal state of things. But to become free, you have to be acutely aware of being a slave."
Shakur’s activism took root in the turbulent 1960s and 1970s. She was a prominent member of both the Black Liberation Army and the Black Panther Party, organizations that sought to address systemic racism and police violence. In her 1973 writing "Free All Black Liberation Fighters," she asserted, "Black revolutionaries do not drop from the moon. We are created by our conditions." This conviction—shaped by her lived experience—would define her public persona and fuel both admiration and controversy.
Yet the legacy of Assata Shakur has always been fiercely contested. The same day the Chicago Teachers Union praised her as a "leader of freedom," New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy was unequivocal in his condemnation. As reported by NewsBreak, Murphy called the union’s statement "shameful and depraved," adding, "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." Murphy also made clear his intention to oppose any attempts to bring Shakur’s remains back to the United States, a view that was echoed by Chicago City Alderman Gilbert Villegas and a chorus of citizens from across the political spectrum. Comments poured in, with some admitting surprise at agreeing with the governor for the first time, underscoring just how deeply the issue resonated.
Shakur’s supporters, however, have long maintained her innocence. She was the first woman to appear on the FBI’s list of most wanted terrorists, a distinction that further fueled debate over whether she was a dangerous criminal or a persecuted activist. In a 1998 open letter from Cuba, she insisted, "I am not a criminal," and described herself as an "ex-political prisoner." In her autobiography, Assata: An Autobiography, she wrote, "I am a Black revolutionary woman. I am not a victim. I am not a prisoner. I am not a fugitive. I am a freedom fighter."
Her critics, especially those in law enforcement and government, remain unmoved. For them, Shakur’s conviction for the killing of Trooper Foerster is an unassailable fact, and any celebration of her life is an affront to the memory of the fallen officer and to the rule of law. Governor Murphy’s strong rebuke was met with rare bipartisan support in New Jersey, with even his usual detractors voicing agreement. The reaction highlights how, for many, the pain of Foerster’s death and the unresolved questions surrounding Shakur’s escape and asylum remain raw wounds.
But for many in the Black liberation movement and among younger activists, Shakur’s story is emblematic of a broader struggle against systemic injustice. Her words, as preserved in UPTOWN Magazine, continue to resonate: "The rulers of this country have always considered their property more important than our lives." And in an open letter explaining her flight to Cuba, she drew a powerful parallel to American history: "My name is Assata Shakur, and I am a twentieth-century escaped slave."
Her influence extends beyond activism and into popular culture. Shakur was the godmother of rapper Tupac Shakur, and her writings are often cited by movements such as Black Lives Matter, who see her as a symbol of resistance and hope. For these supporters, her life’s work—her poetry, her advocacy, and her defiance—are a call to continue the fight for justice.
The controversy surrounding the Chicago Teachers Union’s statement is not the first time Shakur’s legacy has divided the public, and it is unlikely to be the last. The debate reflects deeper tensions in American society about race, justice, and the meaning of freedom. It also poses a difficult question: Can a person’s contributions to a cause be separated from their crimes, or are the two forever intertwined?
As the dust settles on the latest chapter in the story of Assata Shakur, her words remain—urgent, challenging, and deeply human. Whether seen as a revolutionary hero or a convicted killer, her life continues to provoke reflection on the boundaries of justice and the enduring quest for liberation.
