No Justice, No Peace ... Whatever

A wave of catchphrases and exclamation points washes up on one corner of Third Street and Palou Avenue. "Unconditional Amnesty for All!" "Black & Brown Unite!" "Free Mumia!" "Abolish the Racist Death Penalty!"

The slogans adorn banners and signs brought by some of the 50 or 60 people attending a late-afternoon weekday rally in the Bayview. Still another exuberant motto — "Home of the Phone Man!" — hovers above their heads, painted in black on the peach façade of a corner store that advertises cheap cellphone services.

Beneath the words floats a 5-foot-tall image of Phone Man, a jaunty capitalist superhero in yellow tights and a cape flapping from his shoulders. His vigilant gaze trained on the modest crowd, he must be a little confused by what he sees.

The rally promotes four causes, an agenda that, if ambitious, borders on chaotic. Besides amnesty for illegal immigrants and harmony between blacks and Latinos, the organizers appeal for the release of death-row inmate Mumia Abu-Jamal and the end of capital punishment.

Abu-Jamal, a former Black Panther convicted in the 1981 murder of a Philadelphia cop, looms as a living martyr to those who believe his claims of innocence. But exactly how his plight or the death penalty pertains to immigrant rights or racial amity becomes no clearer as a series of speakers exhorts the gathering.

They talk into a microphone while standing beside a towering palm tree, its square wooden planter doubling as a crude dais. A strong wind and the lowing of bus engines sometimes drowns them out, their voices fading and returning like the reception on a distant AM station. Most address only one theme or another, reducing the event to something less than the sum of its parts.

Calling for solidarity among minorities, a tuba-voiced man with a shaved head says, "I hope you're not just here for the moment, but for the long haul"; he and two friends stroll away 20 minutes later, a half-hour before the rally ends. A thin gray-haired woman in a knit sweater shrieks, "Please join the struggle to free Mumia!" A man who resembles an aging Steve Urkel, ignoring the prescribed agenda altogether, urges resistance to any city plans to gentrify the Bayview.

Earnest pleas aside, however, the event's success in attracting new converts appears so marginal as to be invisible. Judging from the applause and cheers, the people here already back whatever cause drew them in the first place, and the majority of them look at least 50 years old. Luring a clutch of middle-aged believers to a rally might pass for a decent turnout in Muncie, Ind. But in a city that regards itself as a fount of civic spirit, one has to ask: Where the hell is everybody?

Considering San Francisco's history of activism, there's an impulse to assume — even insist — that every march or picket, no matter how small, aids a movement's greater purpose. Yet the paltry crowds at many gatherings suggest there may be too much of a good thing.

In fact, some political analysts and longtime activists contend the dizzying number of rallies harms progressive efforts by fracturing public support amid a glut of competing interests. With more groups jostling for media attention, voters can grow weary of the scrum, as evinced by the meager turnout for last month's primary elections, slowing the pace of policy reform.

Meanwhile, as more young people flee the Bay Area's high cost of living, cynicism bred by President Bush's murky election victories induces others to dismiss the worth of activism. Their absence leaves a graying grassroots base, and an old guard of shoe-leather warriors wondering who will take up the banner of change.

---

Dorothy Callison holds a wooden stake topped with a red, white, and blue placard that reads "Refuse Illegal War." She stands on the perimeter of Justin Herman Plaza, silently alerting Downtown workers on their way home about an anti-war rally soon to start. Few seem to notice her as they hurry to catch BART or the ferry, their faces as stiff as the sign in her hands.

Callison plunged into protesting in the 1980s, after her children had grown. The 71-year-old Pleasant Hill grandmother marched against nuclear weapons testing and U.S. intrusions in Nicaragua. The latter campaign led to her arrest when she and several cohorts staged a sit-in at the Orange County office of a U.S. congressman.

Watching the well-dressed apathy stride past this evening, Callison, a slight woman with a coiled nest of black hair and a soft voice, finds solace in her convictions. "You just want to be on the side of people fighting for justice and what's right," she says. Yet when asked whether the rally will influence anyone's opinion about the Iraq war or yield fresh recruits for the cause, she pauses a long moment before answering. "You hope so."

The event honors Lt. Ehren Watada, who refused to deploy with his unit last month after calling the U.S. presence in Iraq an illegal occupation. (He remains on an Army base in Fort Lewis, Wash., awaiting a court martial hearing.)

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.

---

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.

Michael Tsang, director of Fiona Ma's campaign for Assembly, departs halfway through the meeting, passing beneath the deer heads and beer steins that decorate Schroeder's oak-paneled walls. Outside the eatery, he theorizes why Proposition A, apart from the usual City Hall politicking, failed to rouse more residents in our self-touted Eden of liberalism.

"You have to work hard to get people's attention," Tsang says. "There are so many groups talking about so many issues, people sometimes don't hear the message."

In other words, the endless pleas of grassroots groups can numb voters to ostensibly noble causes. The chronic infighting among progressive interests leaves each faction courting a narrow constituency, in the manner of cable channels wooing slices of the TV audience. Beseeched to support low-income families, the homeless, immigrants, unions, tenants, bicyclists — to name a few — residents sometimes tune out. Call it empathy ennui.

"People will say, 'Why should I care?'" says sociologist William Domhoff, a University of California at Santa Cruz professor and an expert on activism. "They won't think, 'Oh, I gotta help those families in Hunters Point.' They're intent to go about their lives and let others handle the problem."

Proposition A's defeat proved ironic in at least one respect. A progressive coalition did unite behind it, with family-centric nonprofits such as Coleman Advocates joined by PowerPAC and other political groups. Yet the measure lost anyway. "We almost got there," says N'Tanya Lee, Coleman's executive director. "When you come together, good things can happen."

The genesis of Proposition A served as an example of the heavy influence plied by grassroots groups. Media coverage treated the initiative as little more than the latest attempt by Daly to rankle Newsom in their ongoing slap fight. In truth, the supervisor drafted the proposal after advocates had pushed city officials for months to address the homicide spike.

"Daly came late to that party," says political scientist Corey Cook, a professor at San Francisco State University. "There were a lot of families and activists who had wanted action for a long time." Daly may or may not have tallied political points at the mayor's expense in floating the measure, Cook adds, "but it was an organic campaign driven by residents."

Two weeks after Proposition A's demise, the beehive hum of what sounds like a block party echoes through City Hall. In the North Light Court, the chatter of 300 people bounces off the marble walls and floor, accented by the giggles of children playing bingo and board games. Adults and kids alike devour free pizza brought by volunteers for the grand occasion — a budget committee hearing.

At one end of the room, a telecast of the meeting plays on a big-screen TV, showing the packed legislative chamber upstairs. Three weeks before the Board of Supervisors approves the city budget, a swarm of nonprofit, union, and cultural groups has gathered to rattle their tin cups before the committee. Almost every person, whether in the meeting room or down here, wears a sticker that declares his or her allegiance: "Fund Immigrant Services," "Save Our Shelters," "Libraries — Yes!" Nothing, it seems, draws a crowd like money.

The largest flock, numbering more than 100 strong, represents the Budget 4 Families Coalition. An alliance of groups herded together by Coleman Advocates, its members sport blue-and-white buttons that read "SF Families." They want the board to devote $7.5 million to expand education, housing, job, and child-care services for low-income residents. They also seek an extra $2.5 million for the city's existing anti-violence programs — Proposition A Lite, as it were.

Antonio Jones, 17, walks out of the North Light Court and sits down on the rotunda staircase. A volunteer youth advocate with the families coalition, he lives in Hunters Point. Picking at his frayed jean cuffs, he recounts watching a neighbor bleed to death after a drive-by shooting. The grass beneath the man's body turned black from blood.

"Where I live, people feel like there's no hope," Jones says. "So we want to make a statement to let people know we're here and we're going to be here. It's time for the city to stop forgetting us."

The evening caps a campaign of persuasion launched by the families coalition earlier this year. The group hosted public dinners for supervisors at child-care centers in their respective districts, enabling residents to lobby them in a casual setting. The mass turnout tonight brings the informality to City Hall, though anxious parents asked Lee beforehand whether security would toss them for bringing food and games.

"Let them try to kick out kids eating pizza," she replied with a laugh. "It's City Hall — the people's place."

The coalition's populist approach hands families greater leverage than what Lee calls the "insidery way" of cozying up to supervisors. "We wanted to show that it's not just a few seasoned activists who care about these issues, but a lot of people," she says. "We need the board, but we also wanted to show that they need us."

The need in the neighborhoods, however, carries the scent of gunfire. Two weeks after the hearing, following a July Fourth party he attended with his family in Hunters Point, a man walking home was fatally shot. His death marked the city's 43rd homicide of the year.

---

About 100 protesters march toward Downtown Berkeley in the right lane of University Avenue, escorted by a trio of police officers on bicycles. Cars ease past in the left lane as the crowd, in a series of chants, demands Israel withdraw from Gaza: "Free, free Palestine!" "End the occupation now!" "Free, free the refugees!"

Some drivers honk. It's impossible to know whether they're declaring solidarity with the group or annoyance at needing to slow down. Either way, the protesters cheer each time.

Most in the group clutch signs that depict a child's silhouette from the shoulders up; across the bottom of each sign runs the name and age of a different Palestinian youth killed amid the simmering strife in Gaza. Others carry posters that assign blame for the deaths: "End Israeli Apartheid," "Israel & U.S.A. — United in Shame."

Hal Carlstad holds a handmade sign that reads "Save Palestinian Kids" in red marker. In 1998, while trying to inspect a nuclear weapons plant in Israel, he and a group of fellow activists were arrested. The bust counts as one of the more than 150 he has racked up in his long history of civil disobedience. Police have slapped cuffs on him for protesting Vietnam, the death penalty, tree logging, and "everything else you can think of," he quips.

The 81-year-old Berkeley resident cuts a bowed figure, his Wrangler jeans and long-sleeved shirt hanging loose off his bony frame. A wide-brimmed hat shields his scalp from the setting sun while thick-soled shoes protect his feet from the heat seeping up through the asphalt.

An octogenarian with a stiff back could be excused if he chose to leave the marching to younger legs. Carlstad still prefers to hoof for the cause. "I wouldn't come out here if I didn't feel it was important," he says. "You have to believe you can improve the world."

A couple of blocks later, about a quarter-mile from the end of the march, he bids farewell with a tug of his hat. He shuffles across the parking lot of a gas station, heading toward home. In a purely figurative sense, his quiet exit exposes a nascent crisis facing grassroots groups in the Bay Area. With longtime activists stepping away from the protest scene, fewer young recruits are replenishing the ranks.

"You go to these events and you don't see a lot of people under 40," says Shaw, founder of the Tenderloin Housing Clinic. "Where's the next generation going to come from?"

The pro-Palestine march offers a glimpse of the typical rally demographic. The vast majority of the protesters are over 40, while most of those under 40 helped organize the event. Across the Bay Area, longtime activists say, the number of "casual" or spontaneous protesters in their 20s and 30s has dropped, a deficit that coincides with the region's soaring cost of living.

"Young people are having to move away," Stanford's Bunzel says. "Unless your job is working for a nonprofit, it can be difficult to get involved. You're too busy working."

The 82-year-old Bunzel, former president of San Jose State University, has walked a mile and then some for progressive causes. He marched for civil rights and against the Vietnam War, and in 1968, he served as a California delegate to the riotous Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Watching the country's slow embrace of those social and political changes imbued him with pragmatic patience.

"I don't think of myself as a pessimist or an optimist," he says. "I'm a possibilist."

Yet without the benefit of historical perspective, young people remain skeptical that their activism will spawn reform. The vote-counting tempests that touched down during the last two presidential elections only darkened their outlook, sowing a kind of cynicism creep.

"There can be a tendency to look at a protest and say, 'What difference does it make?'" says John Garfield, director of the Center for Education and Social Action at New College of California. "But people have to remember that activism is ultimately a leap of faith, because there's no guarantee that the world will get better. That's part of the excitement — you don't know how it's going to end."

Ishmael Ayesh chooses to believe. The 23-year-old Berkeley resident leads the protest down University, walking backward and belting out chants that the crowd repeats. His cement-mixer voice rattles off storefronts and apartment windows, drawing people out of homes and restaurants. Around his bulging neck he wears a black-and-white kaffiyeh — the colors represent "the struggle," he says — that he uses to dab sweat off his face.

The son of Palestinian parents who moved to California before he was born, Ayesh understands the apathy of young people. He confronts the same doubts. "There are plenty of days when it's hard to be motivated," he says. "But I just know I have to help any way I can. You never know when things are going to change, so you keep working."

As the protesters return to the Downtown Berkeley BART station where their march started, a handful of counter-protesters await them. They hold large Israeli flags and a banner that reads "Barak Offered Land and Peace — Arafat Offered Suicide Bombers." A man and woman, each in their 40s and wielding a bullhorn, yell in unison, "Stop the jihad, start the peace!"

Even with their voices amplified, however, they lose the slogan duel to Ayesh's young lungs. He bellows "Free, free Palestine!" and as the crowd echoes him again and again, the man and woman set down their bullhorns. A moment later, with the group still chanting, a young man riding his bike on the sidewalk pulls over to watch the spectacle. He sports a headband and goatee, and looks about 21. A pair of women his age, walking the opposite direction after exiting the BART station, stop beside him.

"What's this for?" one asks him.

"I dunno," he says with a shrug. "Something about Israel." Then he hops back on his bike and pedals away, and the two women amble off.