In American politics, words are often louder than actions. And lately, the words shouted most loudly by Republican leaders follow a familiar refrain: immigrants are to blame. From rising crime to economic struggles, from healthcare to education, every social or political problem seems to land at the feet of immigrants. Yet when the conversation shifts toward white supremacists, January 6th rioters, or the epidemic of school shootings, the volume drops. Suddenly, the party of “law and order” falls eerily silent.

This double standard is not subtle—it is glaring.

Republican lawmakers have spent years pushing a narrative that immigrants, especially those from Latin America and Muslim-majority countries, pose existential threats to American communities. Campaign ads feature dramatic imagery of border crossings, often accompanied by ominous music and slogans promising to “take back our country.” Conservative talk shows amplify these messages, stoking fear and resentment.

But when confronted with white supremacist violence—Charlottesville in 2017, Buffalo in 2022, or countless hate-driven attacks across the nation—Republican leaders choose their words carefully, if they speak at all. Often, they pivot to tangential topics like mental health or crime in Democrat-led cities. The hesitation is palpable. The silence is deafening.

The contradiction became most visible in the aftermath of January 6th, 2021. A violent mob stormed the Capitol, waving Trump flags, Confederate banners, and Christian nationalist symbols. These were not immigrants. These were not outsiders. They were overwhelmingly white Americans, many from Republican strongholds, who believed they were carrying out their patriotic duty. Yet Republican lawmakers who once decried “domestic terrorism” when it suited their agenda suddenly found nuance. They softened their language, reframed the attackers as “tourists,” or shifted blame onto the FBI. To this day, some even call the rioters “political prisoners.”

Contrast this with the Republican response to immigration at the southern border. When a migrant family crosses in desperation, fleeing violence or poverty, the outrage is instantaneous. Press conferences are held. Governors deploy the National Guard. Billion-dollar walls are proposed. The “threat” is amplified, exaggerated, and immortalized in talking points.

Why the discrepancy? Why such fury toward immigrants, yet such restraint toward homegrown extremists?

The answer lies in political survival. Immigrants are an easy scapegoat—faceless enough to dehumanize, vulnerable enough to demonize, and distant enough to rally a base against. By casting immigrants as villains, Republicans can project strength, unity, and a sense of urgency. It becomes a tool for mobilizing voters, raising money, and shaping legislation.

On the other hand, confronting white supremacy, January 6th, or gun violence means looking inward. It means admitting that threats to American communities are not just “out there” but within the very demographic that forms a core part of the Republican base. Calling out these realities risks alienating voters, donors, and powerful lobby groups like the NRA. Silence, then, becomes the strategy.

This silence is most tragic in the case of school shootings. The United States leads the world in gun violence, and the perpetrators are overwhelmingly white men. Yet when tragedy strikes—Uvalde, Sandy Hook, Parkland—Republican officials offer “thoughts and prayers” while dodging any meaningful reform. Stricter background checks? Red flag laws? Bans on assault weapons? These proposals are dismissed as infringements on Second Amendment rights. Instead, attention is deflected toward immigrants, urban crime, or even video games.

The hypocrisy is staggering. If Republicans truly cared about protecting communities, they would address all threats—foreign and domestic, immigrant and native-born, Muslim extremist and white supremacist alike. Instead, their selective outrage reveals a strategy rooted not in safety, but in politics.

The consequences are devastating. Immigrant communities live under constant suspicion, targeted by policies that tear families apart and deny basic human rights. Meanwhile, the true dangers—armed extremists, hate-fueled shooters, political violence—continue to grow unchecked. Each silence, each deflection, emboldens those who thrive in the shadows of denial.

It would be unfair to say that no Republicans have spoken out. A handful have condemned white supremacy, acknowledged January 6th as an insurrection, and called for gun reform. But their voices are drowned out by the dominant chorus of party leaders more concerned with preserving power than protecting lives. The few who do speak often face political exile, stripped of committee assignments or targeted by primary challengers.

This pattern has not gone unnoticed by voters. Polls show that while Republican leaders emphasize immigration as the nation’s top concern, the public increasingly points to gun violence, political extremism, and threats to democracy. The disconnect between leadership priorities and lived realities is widening, leaving many Americans disillusioned with political doublespeak.

Democrats, meanwhile, seize on the contradiction, highlighting Republican hypocrisy at every opportunity. Yet even here, the partisan divide deepens. Each side points fingers, fueling polarization rather than fostering solutions. In the end, it is communities—schools, neighborhoods, places of worship—that suffer most.

The question now is how long this selective silence can last. As mass shootings increase, as white supremacist violence becomes more visible, and as the legacy of January 6th continues to haunt the nation, the pressure on Republicans to confront uncomfortable truths will grow. The longer they deflect, the more glaring their hypocrisy becomes.

Ultimately, this is not just about politics—it is about moral responsibility. Leadership requires courage, and courage means confronting threats even when it is inconvenient, even when it risks votes, even when it challenges one’s own supporters. Blaming immigrants while ignoring white supremacists and gunmen is not leadership. It is cowardice disguised as patriotism.

Until Republicans find the will to call out all dangers to American communities, their cries of “law and order” will ring hollow. The safety of our schools, our streets, and our democracy depends not on scapegoating the vulnerable, but on holding every threat accountable—no matter how uncomfortable the truth may be.

And if they refuse? Then perhaps it is time for voters to hold them accountable instead.