Earlier this week, President Trump issued an executive order that sent ripples through the American political landscape: antifa, the loosely defined antifascist movement, was designated a domestic terrorist organization. According to NPR, this marks the first time in U.S. history that such a label has been applied to a domestic group, raising a host of legal, constitutional, and social questions that have yet to be fully answered.
Antifa, short for antifascist, is not an organization in the traditional sense. As NPR’s domestic extremism correspondent Odette Yousef explains, “It's more of a loose umbrella term for a wide range of people.” There are no membership cards, no central leadership, and no single structure binding adherents together. This makes the administration’s move not only unprecedented but also difficult to enforce or even define.
The legal authority for this designation is murky at best. Unlike foreign terrorist organizations—think ISIS or al-Qaida—which are formally listed and designated by the State Department, there is no established process or legal basis for naming domestic groups as terrorist organizations. “There is nothing like that for domestic terrorist organizations. There's no list. There's no legal authority for the federal government to designate something a domestic terrorist organization,” Yousef told NPR. This fundamental difference leaves the meaning and practical impact of the executive order in question.
President Trump’s administration had previously attempted a similar designation during his first term, around 2020, but that effort failed to gain traction. Now, five years later, the administration is trying again. Whether this attempt will have any more success remains to be seen, especially given the lack of legal infrastructure to support such a move.
Beyond legal ambiguity, the order has sparked fears among advocates and legal scholars. Some worry that conflating antifascism—a broad movement that includes community-building and social justice activism—with terrorism could stigmatize individuals and groups working toward racial and social justice. As Odette Yousef reported, “I'm hearing a real fear that this conflation of antifascism and terrorism may stigmatize anyone or any group working on movements for community-building and racial or social justice.”
The executive order also raises profound First Amendment concerns. Could this new designation lead to a wave of reports and investigations based solely on perceived connections to antifa? “Will we now also see people reporting stuff for no other reason than, you know, they think it's connected to antifa? And will that spur investigations? You know, if so, that could run into First Amendment issues,” Yousef pointed out during her discussion with host Andrew Limbong.
The challenge of defining antifa is not just a problem for policymakers; it’s also a conundrum for journalists. As Yousef explained, “I think about it as covering a movement. Some people do self-identify with that word, as antifa, but many people are involved in antifascist work who don't call themselves antifa.” The real task, she says, is to focus on the actual work being done by individuals and groups who might now find themselves under federal scrutiny, and to ask what, exactly, they are being investigated for.
Against this backdrop, the country is still processing the aftermath of the high-profile assassination of conservative commentator Charlie Kirk. Tyler Robinson, the accused, is set to appear in court on Monday, September 29, 2025. The case has become a flashpoint in the ongoing debate over political violence, extremism, and the role of online culture in shaping public perceptions.
According to the charging documents, Robinson’s parents told investigators that their son had been moving politically to the left, particularly on the issue of gay and LGBTQ rights. However, the documents did not mention any other left-leaning views. Despite this, administration officials and President Trump himself have publicly labeled Robinson a “radical leftist.” This narrative, as Yousef observes, is not fully supported by the evidence. “We know that Robinson perhaps was for gay and LGBTQ rights, but that is one single issue,” she noted. “I'd be very interested to hear any other evidence that they're able to present about what his political views are.”
The confusion surrounding Robinson’s political identity was amplified in the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Online, various factions scrambled to claim or disavow him, with some labeling him a Groyper, others a leftist, and still others a MAGA supporter. This “hot potato” of blame, as Limbong described it, was fueled by misinformation and out-of-context speculation. “I'm in sort of a weird position where something like this happens, I know that it's going to fall onto my plate, but I can't start addressing it until we have a named suspect,” Yousef explained. By the time facts emerge, many in the public have already made up their minds.
One intriguing detail from the investigation was the presence of inscriptions on the bullet casings used in the attack. While many tried to interpret these markings as political statements, Yousef cautions against drawing simple conclusions. “Just the fact that there were inscriptions on the bullet casings was very telling about sort of the cultural script that this person was looking at when they were, you know, perhaps planning this attack and that it doesn't necessarily fall on the left or the right. It's just, you know, more indicative of how much time this person spends online.”
The challenge for journalists covering extremism is not just about reporting facts, but also about making sense of a landscape shaped by internet subcultures, conspiracy theories, and rapidly shifting allegiances. As Limbong put it, trying to explain these dynamics to someone less “online” can feel like “explaining, like, a 16-season long K-drama to somebody who's never seen it.” Yousef agrees: “I feel like over the time that I've been reporting on extremism, the amount of coverage of extremism has, unfortunately, just increased, not because of me, but just because it's the news. And I think listeners are learning more and more of the lore, more and more of the terminology. The public, though, is catching up. They're just, like, a couple steps behind.”
As the nation grapples with these unprecedented moves and tragic events, the work of reporters like Odette Yousef—sifting through facts, context, and online noise—remains crucial. The story of antifa’s designation and the aftermath of the Charlie Kirk assassination are far from over, and the questions they raise about law, politics, and media will likely echo for years to come.
