No Justice, No Peace ... Whatever

One of two dozen related protests held across the nation on the same day, the plaza gathering draws 150 people. The figure dwarfs attendance at events in San Diego, Atlanta, Philadelphia, and most of the other cities, where the average crowd numbers 25. Still, for the country's putative lefty capital, the turnout qualifies as anemic. More people would show up to watch Dave Eggers play Boggle.

A recurring inertia bedevils the anti-war bloc nationwide, despite public opinion tilting heavily against the U.S. staying in Iraq. Between sporadic mass protests ignited by a specific date or figure — the third anniversary of the U.S. invasion, the 2,000th American soldier killed — the movement often appears at a standstill.

The lethargy derives from varied causes. The Bush administration has worn down dissenters by sticking to its war policies with steel-jaw resolve — or brain-damaged obduracy, if you prefer. The lingering dread of another terrorist attack on American soil dissuades fence-sitters from taking to the streets. At the same time, as top Democrats play hedge games, the only reliable anti-war partisan is Eugene McCarthy's ghost.

As the national grassroots effort flounders, activists in San Francisco trip over each other trying to cultivate support and media coverage. Last month alone, no fewer than 10 different groups held events to oppose the war, including Courage to Resist, the Oakland-based organizers of the Watada rally.

Stanford political scientist John Bunzel asserts that Bay Area activists carry the best of intentions with their banners. "But one protest can start to look like the next if you have an excess of them," says Bunzel, a former member of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights. "You have to be mindful of diluting the bigger message."

Indeed, the lack of cohesion among local activists, beyond siring more protests with sparse crowds, chokes the potential for a coast-to-coast crusade. "There are so many press conferences and events with so many groups, you end up with some low turnouts," says veteran organizer Randy Shaw, author of The Activist's Handbook. "People will think, 'I just went to one like that, do I need to go to another one?'

"You can't have a national movement if everyone wants local control."

Billed as part of a "national day of action," the Watada rally features the Raging Grannies singing Smart Bombs, Stupid Leaders and other satirical anti-war tunes. A troupe of eight women, none of whom looks younger than 50, they wear colonial prairie dresses and floppy brimmed hats. One Grannie uses a pair of cooking pot lids as cymbals while another hikes up her hem to perform chorus-girl kicks.

The crowd laughs and claps along to the show, one that is familiar to many of them. In fact, without the presence of organizers and rally regulars — those devotees who attend most anti-war protests, greeting each other like family — the crowd would shrink to about 75 people.

Given that rallies represent only one aspect of activism, it would be wrong to infer a dearth of broad support from poorly attended protests or even an absence of them. Before May Day, most pundits ranked immigrant rights below According to Jim on the national-interest scale. Then came the country's largest marches since the Vietnam War.

Yet the initial surge of amnesty forces, in a replay of the anti-war effort, has receded since hitting the Republican break-wall in Washington, D.C. A trickle-down defeatism has dampened earlier hopes, stunting attendance at local protests, as last month's Bayview gathering revealed. "When people feel they can't have influence," Bunzel says, "they'll stay home."

The Watada rally winds down around 6:30 p.m., ending as it began, with protesters swapping hugs and smiles. At 6:45 p.m., a half-hour before the start of a Giants game, fans mill about Willie Mays Plaza, an expanse perhaps half the size of Justin Herman Plaza. There are hundreds and hundreds of people.

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The dense smells of German sauerbraten and Hungarian goulash blend with a piquant can-do ethos in the meeting room of Schroeder's Restaurant. Some 50 members of a group called Democracy Action are refuting the trope that liberals don't eat meat and listening to a lineup of speakers discuss "election reform." To this audience, the phrase has a precise definition: Oust Diebold touch-screen voting machines from polling places and Republicans from office.

But a more basic task for the left may be coaxing people to go to the polls. During the primary election two weeks before the meeting, only one-third of San Francisco's registered voters bothered to cast ballots.

The dismal turnout hurt the prospects of a proposal to spend $30 million over three years to stunt the recent rise in the city's murder rate. Proposition A, crafted by Supervisor Chris Daly and opposed by Mayor Gavin Newsom, would have funded a raft of anti-violence programs, ranging from job training to parolee services. It lost by a scant 2,000 votes.