by Peter Weinberger

In the hours after a shooting involving Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers in Minneapolis, Americans were presented with two sharply different descriptions of the same event.

Bystanders and local officials, including Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz, described a chaotic, senseless act of violence that intensified fear and anger in an already strained community. The Trump administration, by contrast, labeled the incident an act of “domestic terrorism,” framing it as a politically motivated attack on federal authority.

Both sides claim to be telling the truth. Both cannot be completely right — at least not yet.

This is not just a dispute about facts. It is a dispute about definition, framing, and power.

What truth is — and what it is not

Truth, in journalism, is not a declaration. It is a process.

It is established through verified evidence: examined with facts, direct knowledge, and so much more. Truth is slow, cautious, and often unsatisfying in its early stages because it resists certainty until certainty is earned.

What we are seeing now is something else: competing narratives racing ahead of the facts.

Calling an act “terrorism” is not a neutral description. It is a legal, political, and emotional conclusion that presumes motive. Terrorism requires intent — not just violence, but violence committed to advance a cause or ideology. That determination is normally made after investigation, not in its absence.

Conversely, labeling the same event as merely a “senseless shooting” may minimize the broader context in which it occurred, particularly if motive later emerges.

Neither label is truth. Both are interpretations, offered before all the evidence is known.

Why officials see different realities

Public officials do not speak into a vacuum. They speak to audiences.

The Trump administration governs in a political environment that benefits from portraying federal law enforcement as under siege and opposition as dangerous. Calling the shooting terrorism reinforces a narrative of a threat and justifies its policies, broader authority, and fewer questions.

Local leaders, including Gov. Walz, govern communities that must live with the immediate consequences: fear, mistrust, protests, and the risk of escalation. Their language often aims to de-escalate, to keep communities from fracturing further before facts are established.

Neither response exists outside political reality. But politics does not determine truth.

Video is evidence — not a verdict

The presence of video complicates, rather than settles, the question of truth. Video shows what happened in a frame, from one angle, during one slice of time. It can clarify events, but it cannot by itself explain motive, intent, or what occurred before or after the lens caught the event.

History has taught us that videos are routinely misinterpreted, selectively clipped, or used to support pre-existing beliefs. Video is evidence, not a conclusion. The U.S. Capitol January 6, 2021 riot is the perfect example.

Journalism’s responsibility is to place video alongside verified context, not to let it become a substitute for investigation.

How the public can get closer to truth

The public is not powerless. There are ways to resist being pulled into premature certainty:

• Treat early statements — from any side — as temporary
• Separate what is known from what is asserted
• Be wary of emotionally charged labels applied too quickly
• Check independent sources
• Allow time for verified facts to emerge before judgment

Most importantly, recognize that truth is rarely delivered by those who benefit most from defining it early.

Why truth matters

The answer may seem obvious, but is it? Truth matters because it’s the difference between accountability and manipulation, between justice and justification.

Without a shared commitment to truth, violence becomes a tool rather than a tragedy, and language becomes a weapon rather than an explanation.

Truth also matters because once public trust is lost, it is extraordinarily difficult to restore. Communities stop listening, institutions stop functioning, and cynicism fills the space once occupied by evidence. When citizens no longer believe facts can be known — or are worth seeking — democracy gives way to tribal certainty.

The uncomfortable reality is that truth is often slower, quieter, and less emotionally satisfying than narrative. It does not always confirm what we hope or fear. It rarely serves power neatly. And it frequently arrives too late to prevent damage already done.

But it remains essential.

The hardest discipline, especially now, is resisting the urge to declare truth before it exists. That patience — demanding facts, waiting for verification, and accepting uncertainty — may be the most important civic act left to us.