activist

UK pro-Palestine activist Qesser Zuhrah has been arrested on terrorism charges after being released on bail last month. Video shows masked officers taking her from her home at dawn over what supporters say was an Instagram story.

The framed photo of César Chávez and Dolores Huerta sits in my personal office on a bookshelf crammed with volumes about California and the American West.

The two are at a 1973 United Farm Workers convention, presiding over the union they co-founded. After years of victories in the name of campesinos, the group and its charismatic leaders seem ready for what’s next.

A UFW banner emblazoned with the group’s famous black Aztec eagle logo hangs in the center of the picture, making Chávez and Huerta look like equals.

But they’re not.

He’s speaking from a podium, looking down and appearing cast in darkness due to Chávez blue vest melding into his black hair and brown skin. She’s by his side clasping her hands, wearing a colorful blouse that pales in radiance to Huerta’s hopeful face as she looks at the crowd before them.

It’s the only picture of historical figures that I display at home, and it’s in a place where I’m guaranteed to look at it. It has long served as my secular version of a prayer card, a daily reminder to fight for the good in the world and a reminder that giants before me faced challenges far more daunting than mine. It was also a testament to teamwork — when I acquired the photo a few years ago, it called to me in a way a solo Chávez never would have because I always knew el movimento was more than just one man.

Their portrait can never mean just those things ever again after the New York Times reported last week Chávez sexually assaulted two teenage girls in the 1970s and Huerta in the 1960s.

Places left and right — colleges, cities, classrooms, even states that mark Chávez’s birthday as a holiday — are now deleting his name and image from the public sphere. It’s not going to be a quick, easy task even if the cancellation is starting to take place with startling speed: Chávez’s presence is as ubiquitous in Mexican American life as the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Just this weekend, a friend acknowledged that he and his wife had just started reading a book about him to their 5-year-old daughter, a book they now plan to trash.

I thought of doing the same to my photo of Chávez and Huerta. But I’ve decided not to.

I don’t fault folks for wanting to scrub any hint of Chávez from their daily lives and neither does the Cesar Chavez Foundation, the nonprofit headed by his descendants that recently announced in a statement, “We support and respect whatever decision[s]” may come in the weeks and months to come. Communities are entitled to decide whom they should and shouldn’t publicly honor.

But to eradicate Chávez’s civic presence so fast — to tear down his statues, relabel streets and parks named in his honor, paint over his image on old and new murals, to throw away artwork that has adorned homes and offices for decades — doesn’t remove the fact that millions largely saw him as a champion of the downtrodden until last week. It can’t rescind the positive influence Chávez had on generations of Latinos and non-Latinos who saw in him the hopes of a people and now must reconcile their memories with his horrible deeds.

Historians, educators, activists and politicians for far too long elevated Chávez above Huerta in the name of a simplistic narrative that should’ve never been constructed. The public at large bought into those efforts with little skepticism in the understandable desire to have Latinos star in the American story. It’s a culpability we should all interrogate, not immediately purge.

That’s why not only am I keeping up my photo of Chávez and Huerta, I’m going to put it in a more prominent place from where I can’t look away.

Workers for the city of San Fernando cover the statue at Cesar E. Chavez Memorial Park on Thursday.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

It will serve as a memory of a tragic, tremendous moment in the history of Latinos in the United States, where we should be focusing our attention on a presidential administration that wants most of us gone but instead must deal with the fallout from the downfall of one of our own. It will challenge me anew to look past the big names of the past and highlight those whose stories aren’t nearly as known by the mainstream.

Seeing Huerta next to her abuser will forever remind me about how the now-95-year-old sacrificed her own mental health and safety in the name of something bigger than the two of them — a choice no one should ever have to make but one that she nevertheless did.

The photo will stand as the manifestation of the old newspaper adage that if your mom tells you she loves you, go check it out. No one should ever be above skepticism no matter how sanctified and righteous they may seem — that’s why the New York Times investigation crashed into the Chicano collective sense of self like a meteor. No one could’ve imagined that Chávez could’ve possibly done things so monstrous, but maybe we shouldn’t have built him up so much while he was alive and after his death in the first place.

My framed Chávez-Huerta memento will make me think of how the stories of sexual abuse survivors are still not heard enough or even believed. Even now, some Chávez defenders are casting doubt on the claims of Huerta and the three other women named in the New York Times story, questioning their motivations to come forward after decades of silence and decrying how their decision to do so has permanently tarnished the reputation of one the few nationally known Chicano heroes. In Huerta’s case, critics just don’t buy how someone who carried Chávez’s torch decades after his death could all of a sudden supposedly turn on him.

But as a Catholic who has long covered the Catholic Church sex abuse scandal, I know that every sexual assault survivor has their own journey of recovery. I also know that we must always seek the truth instead of living a lie.

And turning Chávez into a historical footnote is a lie. He long served as a moral exemplar; he should now serve as a cautionary tale known to all.

Erasing historic figures from the public sphere is an exercise in power going back to the pharaohs, a way rulers ensured future generations couldn’t learn about their enemies. The push to nix Chávez comes from the trend in recent years by progressive activists to remove monuments that hail problematic figures under the pretense that someone’s sins trump any good they might have done no matter how influential they were.

Again, all communities have that right to reexamine the past. But we can’t and shouldn’t disappear the full story of Chávez, as painful as it is. It’s the easy way out — and remedying wrongs is never easy.

If the photo in my book shelf was only of Chávez, I’d still keep it up. The good he did was really good — the bad he committed was as terrible as it gets.

Somewhere in between stands the story of us.

Joe McDonald, lead singer and songwriter of Country Joe and the Fish — the band known for its resounding anti-war chant at Woodstock — has died. He was 84.

His wife, Kathy McDonald, announced his death Sunday morning. He died Saturday in his Berkeley home due to complications from Parkinson’s disease.

As a formative member of the American counterculture in the 1960s and ‘70s, McDonald leaves a legacy of bridging contemporary political satire and brazen anti-war sentiments with the early sounds of acid rock.

“We’re just so proud of him. He’s our hero. He instilled in us that we have to speak up when we can, on whatever platform we can, about issues that we feel are important,” said his daughter Seven McDonald, a film producer, music manager and writer.

“While he was a very serious, earnest activist, he also had such an acute sense of cynical humor that is so fantastic and was capable of scathing satire,” her brother Devin added. “He’s most famous for that, but he also did so many heartfelt benefits for different causes.”

The siblings, who spent their childhoods on the road and in recording studios with him, joke that he was always doing a benefit show.

The musician was born on Jan. 1, 1942, in Washington to Worden McDonald and activist Florence (Plotnik) McDonald, who were both members of the Communist Party. The family soon moved to the Southern California city of El Monte, where Joe McDonald was raised.

His musical roots reach back to when his father taught him to play the guitar at 7 years old. But before embarking on his career in music, McDonald enlisted in the Navy at age 17. He served as an air traffic controller at the Atsugi, Japan, air facility for three years. Upon coming back to the states, he tried out college for a short time before dropping out and moving to Berkeley.

Before experimenting with an early variation of Country Joe and the Fish alongside guitarist Barry Melton in the mid-1960s, McDonald started a small magazine called Rag Baby. Once the group was solidified, they decided to turn their folksy roots electric and made the move to San Francisco — just before the city’s legendary Summer of Love.

The group, born out of the Bay Area psychedelic rock scene, was soon signed by Vanguard Records and in 1967 released its debut album “Electric Music for the Mind and Body.” At the time the band’s label and producer were hesitant to let the musicians fully express their politics, and excluded the soon-to-be-hit anti-war anthem “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag” with the catchy chorus that began, “And it’s 1, 2, 3 what are we fighting for?”

Instead, they went with tracks like “Superbird,” a spoof of President Lyndon B. Johnson, which received little to no backlash. When the second album came around, the band was allowed to run with “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag” as the title track. Trouble started to arise with the anti-Vietnam war anthem when the group changed the beginning chant of F-I-S-H to a more profane four letter word that starts with an “F.”

They performed this altered cheer at a gig in Massachusetts, where McDonald received a charge for inciting an audience to lewd behavior and a $500 fine. With this police run-in, Country Joe and the Fish received a slew of press, riling up the public ahead of their Woodstock performance.

The moment the band members began this chant at Woodstock became arguably the biggest moment of their careers, with over 400,000 people joining in. It’s a moment of protest that has gone down in history.

Not long after the festival, the band went their separate ways. McDonald continued to release solo music that stuck with the similar themes of politics and the Vietnam War.

“He took the toll for taking the stand,” said Seven. “He was not the biggest pop star, because he just opted to speak his mind and do his thing.”

In 1986, McDonald released “Vietnam Experience,” an album full of songs analyzing its long-term impacts on his generation. And in 1995 he was “the driving force” according to an Associated Press story, behind a war memorial to honor Berkeley veterans killed in the Vietnam War.

He told The Times in 1986 that he had “an addiction to Vietnam … I’ve been doing work with veterans now for 15 years, and I probably know more about Vietnam veterans than any other person in the entertainment industry.”

“I’ve always believed that the veterans are a basic element to the understanding of war,” he added, “and the understanding of war is the only path to peace.”

McDonald is survived by his wife of 43 years, Kathy; his five children, Seven, Devin, Ryan, Tara Taylor and Emily; a brother, Billy; and four grandchildren.

Pro-Palestinian German activist Yasemin Acar told Al Jazeera about what she says was harassment at a Berlin airport where she recorded a border guard asking about her destination because of concerns over “hostility towards Israel”.

The killing of prominent Iraqi women’s rights activist Yanar Mohammed has fuelled an outpouring of grief and calls for justice, with advocates from around the world remembering Mohammed as a “courageous” voice.

Mohammed, 66, was killed earlier this week after unidentified gunmen on a motorcycle opened fire outside her home in the north of Iraq’s capital, Baghdad.

“Despite being rushed to the hospital and attempts to save her life, she succumbed to her wounds,” the Organisation of Women’s Freedom in Iraq, a group that Mohammed co-founded, said in a statement shared on social media.

“We at the Organisation for Women’s Freedom in Iraq condemn in the strongest terms this cowardly terrorist crime, which we consider a direct attack on the feminist struggle and the values of freedom and equality.”

Several international rights groups also condemned Mohammed’s killing, with Amnesty International on Wednesday decrying the deadly attack as “brutal” and “a calculated assault to stifle human rights defenders, especially those defending women’s rights”.

The organisation, which said Iraq’s Prime Minister Mohammed Shia al‑Sudani ordered an investigation into the killing, also called on the Iraqi authorities to ensure the perpetrators are brought to justice.

“Yanar Mohammed … dedicated her life to defending women’s rights,” Amnesty’s Iraq researcher, Razaw Salihy, said in a statement. “The Iraqi authorities must stop this pattern of targeted attacks in their tracks, and take seriously the sustained smear campaigns designed to discredit and endanger activists.”

Mohammed was one of Iraq’s most prominent women’s rights activists, working since the early 2000s “to protect women facing gender-based violence, including domestic abuse, trafficking, and so-called ‘honour killings’”, Front Line Defenders said.

Her work included the establishment of safe houses, which sheltered hundreds of women experiencing exploitation and abuse.

In a 2022 interview with Al Jazeera, Mohammed described her organisation’s efforts to support Iraqi women who survived violence at the hands of ISIS (ISIL), which had seized control of large swathes of the country.

“Muslim-Arab women who were enslaved by ISIL and have not found a place to go back to, they are still living in the shadows of the society,” she said at the time.

“Not less than 10,000 women were the victims of ISIL attack[s], and this femicide is not really acknowledged by the international community or dealt with in a way that keeps the dignity or the respect [of], or compensates, those who were the victims.”

Years of threats

Mohammed had been the target of death threats for decades, “aimed at dissuading her from defending women’s rights”, Front Line Defenders said. “Yet she remained defiant in the face of threats from ISIS and other armed groups.”

In 2016, she was awarded the Rafto Prize “for her tireless work for women’s rights in Iraq under extremely challenging conditions”.

The Rafto Foundation, the Norway-based nonprofit group that administers the award, said it was “deeply shaken” by her killing. “We are deeply shocked by this brutal attack on one of the most courageous human rights defenders of our time,” the foundation said in a statement.

“The assassination represents not only an attack on Yanar Mohammed as a person, but also on the fundamental values she dedicated her life to defending: women’s freedom, democracy, and universal human rights.”

Other activists and human rights groups also paid tribute to Mohammed this week, with Human Rights Watch describing her as “one of Iraq’s most courageous advocates for women’s rights” for more than two decades.

“Yanar was a dear colleague and friend to so many of us in the women’s rights and feminist community, one of our icons. She spent her life standing up for women’s rights in the most dangerous environment,” said Agnes Callamard, secretary-general of Amnesty International.

“She faced constant threats, but she never stopped. And today we cry and mourn her energy, her commitment, her profound humanity, her amazing courage.”