civil

“The Gray House,” a limited series now streaming on Prime Video, purports to tell the fact-based story of Elizabeth Van Lew, who spied for the Union in the Civil War while living in the midst of Southern society in Richmond, Va. And in very broad terms it does, though it fills up the space within those outlines with an army of imagined details and melodramatic plots and subplots.

It is not the first work for the screen that betrays history by attempting to make it more exciting than it already is, and if you go in ready not to wonder or care what did or did not actually happen, and which characters are real or invented, you may make out alright. (If you do care, there is Gerri Willis’ 2025 volume “Lincoln’s Lady Spymaster: The Untold Story of the Abolitionist Southern Belle Who Helped Win the Civil War.”)

So I will not ring a bell every time the miniseries, which admittedly bills itself as “inspired by a true story,” diverts from the record, even though in my head it may be clanging.

It’s July 4, 1860, nine months before the beginning of the Civil War. Elizabeth (Daisy Head) lives in a mansion in Richmond with her mother Eliza (Mary-Louise Parker), and the two are throwing a party. Guests, including the historical Swedish novelist and social reformer Fredrika Bremer (Oxana Moravec), congressman Sherrard Clemens (Ionut Grama), Virginia Gov. Henry Wise (Mark Perry) and his awful son Obie (Blake Patrick Anderson), unload expository dialogue and provide a primer for anyone not acquainted with the roots of the Civil War. Meanwhile, a runaway slave shows up out back, pursued by hounds, having heard that the Van Lew house is the place to run for help. The women, who are against secession and for abolition but are practiced in the art of deceiving their neighbors, are involved with the Underground Railroad in some way that’s not exactly clear.

Among their servants — the Van Lew slaves were (secretly) freed upon the death of Elizabeth’s father — are head porter Isham, played by Ben Vereen, who it is a pure pleasure to see back on screen, and Mary Jane (Amethyst Davis). A well-educated, determined young woman who is just back from Liberia, which did not suit her — she calls it a “tricky little way of ridding America of free Blacks” — the series gives her a lot of agency and makes her a virtual partner in the spy ring. White and Black, they live as much like a family as is possible when some people are labor and others are management and it’s the antebellum, then the wartime South.

Also involved in Elizabeth’s tradecraft are Scottish baker Thomas McNiven (Christopher McDonald) and Clara Parish (Hannah James), a beautiful prostitute who dreams “of Bronte’s moors” and gets, of all things, a big musical number in an out-of-place Western saloon, like Marlene Dietrich in “Destry Rides Again.” (The saloon is a standing set at Castel Film Studios in Romania, where the production was based; their backlot Western street, too, makes an implausible appearance.)

Out of the loop are Elizabeth’s brother, John (Ewan Miller), whose heart is in the right place, but who’s married to Laurette (Catherine Hannay), whose heart is not. An avaricious, envious flirt on the undisguised lookout for something better, she is angry that John wouldn’t use slave labor to build their house. She’s Scarlett O’Hara, minus the intelligence and charm.

Calling roll on the enemy, we find present Confederate President Jefferson Davis (Sam Trammell), in whose house — the eponymous Gray House — Mary Jane will be embedded, with a cocked ear and a photographic memory, to gather intel; Secretary of War (and then State) Judah P. Benjamin (Rob Morrow), who has a thing for Clara, to whom he opines on property rights while they share a bathtub; and a pip-squeak John Wilkes Booth (Charles Craddock), popping in and out no reason, unless it’s to foreshadow the death of Lincoln (who makes a rearview cameo), or just because everybody’s heard of him. Below them, but more in the action, are the nasty, thuggish Sheriff Stokely Reeves (Paul Anderson) and slave hunter Bully Lumpkin (Robert Knepper); and while thuggery and violence were endemic in a racist South, caricature and cliche do your history lesson no favors, however valuable it is.

Because Hollywood hates, let’s call it a love vacuum when it comes to screen heroines, Elizabeth will find herself the object of not one, not two, but (at least) three admirers, who prize her brains and spirit and talent for conversation. (She is no frilly, fizzy, fuzzy Southern belle, like the mean girls around her sister-in-law.) There is Hamton Arsenault (Colin Morgan), a sort of Rhett Butler lite, visiting from New Orleans with a huge live alligator, because I guess that’s something you could manage in 1860 just to make a splash at a party a thousand miles away. Capt. William Lounsbury (Colin O’Donoghue) is a dashing Union officer, escaping a Confederate prison, who passes through the Van Lew house on the way to freedom; they click together like Legos. Finally, there’s shy puppy dog Erasmus Ross (Joshua McGuire), who works at the Van Lew’s hardware store and will later have a post at a prison for captured Union soldiers, which the Van Lews will turn to their advantage.

“The Gray House” isn’t all bad, and its intentions are good, but it’s dramatically predictable and at eight episodes, some over an hour, goes on much, much longer than it needs to, letting scenes play out past profitability and wasting time on extraneous subplots involving minor characters — and minor minor characters — that do nothing to enrich the fabric of the show. A duel between two characters with no significant connection to the rest of the story exists here seemingly just because their historical counterparts did fight one, and gives the filmmakers the chance to add a duel — on horseback, like jousting with guns — to the show.

Parker is always fine, though the part requires a bit too much Southern breathiness. Davis and Head make strong impressions, masking the pedestrian, sometimes cornball dialogue. (The miniseries was written by Leslie Greif and Darrell Fetty, who collaborated on “Hatfields & McCoys”, with an undiscernable assist from John Sayles.) Keith David, who plays real-life activist minister Henry H. Garnet, gives a seven-minute speech on education as if he’s performing a Shakespearean monologue, after which he faces down a murderous sheriff like he’s Shaft. It’s a high point of the series, and the one scene I was happy to see go long.

Directed by Roland Joffé, who four decades ago was Oscar-nominated for “The Killing Fields” and “The Mission,” the production is a mixed bag; much care has been lavished on the costumes; the crowd scenes are well populated; printed material is done really well. (It matters.) Battle scenes — including Bull Run, where picnicking tourists are accurately shown in attendance — are convincingly rendered. But Romania, whether on or off the studio lot, only occasionally musters a decent impression of 19th century Virginia, reminding you, as “The Gray House” often does, that this is only a movie.

Washington, DC – More than 40 years ago, United States civil rights leader Jesse Jackson called on the Democratic Party to open its doors and welcome “the desperate, the damned, the disinherited, the disrespected and the despised”.

This included Arab Americans and Palestinian rights supporters, who have suffered from decades of racism, demonisation and marginalisation.

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Advocates in those communities say that Jackson, who died on Tuesday at the age of 84, helped elevate their voices over his decades-long career.

“I don’t think there’s a way to tell the Arab Americans’ political empowerment story without understanding the path that Reverend Jackson created for us,” said Maya Berry, executive director of the Arab American Institute (AAI).

In 1984, Jackson appointed Arab American activist James Zogby as one of his deputy campaign managers as he mounted a bid for the presidency. Zogby would later found the AAI.

Jackson’s campaign also actively courted Arab Americans and amplified calls for Palestinian self-determination in an era when unquestioning support for Israel was the default position in US politics.

Berry said Jackson always rejected pressure to disassociate from Arab Americans who view Palestine as a focal issue.

“He understood that the fight for justice was one that had to be done when it was both hard and easy. Our country has lost a giant,” she told Al Jazeera.

The party platform

Jackson launched a second campaign for president in 1988, winning 13 states, including Michigan and much of the South, in the Democratic primary.

He ultimately lost the nomination to then-Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis. Still, Jackson’s campaign catapulted Palestinian rights into the national discourse.

Zogby and other Jackson delegates at the Democratic National Convention rallied to include support for Palestinian statehood in the party’s platform that year.

While the push eventually fell short at the national level, 11 state parties adopted platforms expressing support for “the rights of the Palestinian people to safety, self-determination and an independent state”.

Jackson’s relative success in the primary also led to the appointment of an Arab-American activist, Texan Ruth Ann Skaff, to the Democratic National Committee (DNC), the party’s executive board.

At the time, Skaff faced unfounded accusations of anti-Semitism for her pro-Palestinian stance, not to mention calls to be removed from the committee.

But in an interview with Al Jazeera, she said she was just a local organiser from Houston, Texas, not a high-level political operative.

She explained that Jackson’s embrace of the Arab-American community rang “true to his message of wanting to empower those who do not have power or who are excluded”.

She also recalled him being humorous and approachable.

“We were learning how to organise, how to spread the message and then take it to the next step of being active politically at the very local level. And he guided us and inspired us the entire way,” Skaff said.

Born in South Carolina in 1941, under the racial segregation of the Jim Crow laws, Jackson was dedicated to civil rights from a young age.

He was considered a talented public speaker, and as a pre-teen, he became a protege of the civil rights icon Martin Luther King Jr.

A central part of his national platform was to stress the need for a broad coalition of communities to come together and demand equal rights.

Jackson moved to Chicago in 1965, where he founded the civil rights and community empowerment movement that became known as the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition.

Even after his presidential run, Jackson remained close with the Arab community.

Hatem Abudayyeh, the executive director of the Arab American Action Network (AAAN) in Illinois, praised Jackson as “a tried-and-true Chicagoan, one of us, who opened the doors to Rainbow/PUSH for Palestinians and Arabs in Chicagoland”.

“Under his leadership, Black, Latino, Asian, Arab and so many other communities worked together for racial, economic, and social justice,” Abudayyeh told Al Jazeera in a statement.

“He never shied away from solid and principled solidarity with our Palestinian and Arab communities,” he added. “We mourn today with our friends in the Black community, and with all those who will carry on his fight.”

Support for Gaza protesters

Nabih Ayad, the founder of the Arab American Civil Rights League (ACRL), said Jackson was one of the first leaders to shine light on the plight of Palestinians at the national stage.

He also worked on other issues related to the Arab community. In 2015, for instance, Jackson lobbied for the admission and resettlement of Syrian refugees, despite opposition from Republican governors.

The ACRL, based in the Michigan suburb of Dearborn, hosted Jackson on a panel to highlight the refugees’ plight. Ayad said Jackson’s message was that “justice is universal”.

“It was an honour to cross his path and be able to see a giant like Jesse Jackson really caring about the little people, the small guys, about injustice wherever it happens, no matter where it is around the world,” Ayad told Al Jazeera.

This drive to address injustice drove Jackson to speak up for Palestinians even when it may have cost him politically, according to Ayad.

Jackson’s Rainbow/PUSH Coalition organised an emergency summit in 2024 to call for a ceasefire during Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza.

Later that year, he voiced support for pro-Palestine protests on college campuses, writing in the University of Chicago’s newspaper, The Chicago Maroon, that the student leaders “represent the best of our nation”.

Matthew Jaber Stiffler, the director of the Center for Arab Narratives, a research institution, said Jackson helped the Arab community feel “seen”. He, too, highlighted the political costs of championing Palestinian rights.

“Even just saying, ‘I support the rights for Palestinians to exist in the national political sphere,’ could get you branded as a radical, could get you pushed to the margins,” Stiffler told Al Jazeera.

“Mainstream candidates didn’t – and still don’t – really want that plank in their platform. And I think that’s why there was such love for Jesse Jackson and what he stood for, because he was not afraid.”

‘Work that has to be done’

In the decades since Jackson’s presidential campaigns, Palestine has become less of a taboo subject in US politics. Congress members, mayors and celebrities have become vocal in criticising Israeli abuses.

Still, the leadership of the Democratic and Republican parties have avoided publicly supporting Palestinian rights. During the 2024 presidential race, for instance, both major parties adopted staunchly pro-Israel platforms.

The campaign of Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris even refused to allow a Palestinian speaker at the party’s convention that year.

The flow of US money and weapons to Israel has also continued uninterrupted, despite the horrific atrocities in Gaza.

Furthermore, since taking office in January 2025, the administration of President Donald Trump has led a crackdown on Palestinian rights advocates, threatening foreign-born activists with deportation and other penalties.

Berry said that while the current conditions are challenging, Jackson taught the community to overcome barriers and build its power.

“I think that the lessons and the legacy of someone like Reverend Jackson teaches us that this is work that has to be done,” she told Al Jazeera.

For her part, Skaff said Jackson wanted Arab Americans to stand up and let their message be known.

“We’re stronger when we’re united and when we exercise our rights and responsibilities as American citizens: to stand up, to speak out, to run for office, to vote, vote, vote, vote,” she told Al Jazeera.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson, a child of Southern segregation who rose to national prominence as a powerful voice for Black economic and racial equality, has died.

Jackson, who had battled the neurodegenerative condition progressive supranuclear palsy for more than a decade, died at home surrounded by family. His daughter, Santita Jackson, confirmed his death with the Associated Press. He was 84. Jackson was originally diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2017 before the PSP diagnosis was confirmed in April.

Handsome and dynamic, an orator with a flair for memorable rhyme, Jackson was the first Black candidate for president to attract a major following, declaring in 1984 that “our time has come” and drawing about 3.5 million votes in Democratic primaries — roughly 1 in 5 of those cast.

Four years later, using the slogan “Keep hope alive,” he ran again, winning 7 million votes, second only to the eventual nominee, Massachusetts Gov. Michael S. Dukakis. His hourlong speech at the 1988 Democratic National Convention brought many delegates to tears and provided the gathering’s emotional high point.

“Every one of these funny labels they put on you, those of you who are watching this broadcast tonight in the projects, on the corners — I understand,” he said. “Call you outcast, low down, you can’t make it, you’re nothing, you’re from nobody, subclass, underclass; when you see Jesse Jackson, when my name goes in nomination, your name goes in nomination.”

For nearly a generation, from the 1970s into the 1990s, that ability to absorb the insults and rejection suffered by Black Americans and transmute them into a defiant rhetoric of success made Jackson the most prominent Black figure in the country. Both beneficiary and victim of white America’s longstanding insistence on having one media-anointed leader serve as the spokesman for tens of millions of Black citizens, he drew adulation and jeers but consistently held the spotlight.

Supporters greeted his speeches with chants of “Run, Jesse, run.” Opponents tracked every misstep, from audits of his grants in the 1970s to his use of the anti-Jewish slur “Hymietown” to refer to New York City during the 1984 campaign, to the disclosure, in 2001, that he had fathered a daughter in an extramarital affair.

As he dominated center stage, the thundering chorus of his speeches — “I am … somebody” — inspired his followers even as it sometimes sounded like a painful plea.

Jackson’s thirst for attention began in childhood. Born out of wedlock on Oct. 8, 1941, he often stood at the gate of his father’s home in Greenville, S.C., watching with envy as his half-brothers played, before returning to the home he shared with his mother, Helen Burns, and grandmother, Mathilda.

During high school, his father, Noah Robinson, a former professional boxer, would sometimes go to the football field to watch Jesse play. If he played well, Noah would sometimes tell others, “That’s one of mine.” For the most part, however, until Jesse was famous, he shunned his son, who was later adopted by the man his mother married, Charles Jackson.

It was his grandmother, known as Tibby, who encouraged Jackson’s ambition. A domestic in stringently segregated Greenville, Tibby brought home books and magazines, such as National Geographic, that her white employers’ children had discarded.

“Couldn’t read a word herself but she’d bring them back for me, you know, these cultural things used by the wealthy and refined,” Jackson once said. “All she knew was, their sons read those books. So I ought to read them too. She never stopped dreaming for me.”

Her dreams propelled Jackson toward college — as did a need to avenge the childhood taunts that echoed in his head. An honors student, he turned down a contract to pitch for the Chicago White Sox to accept a football scholarship to the University of Illinois.

At Christmas break, he came home with a list of books. A librarian at the McBee Avenue Colored Branch referred him to the white library downtown and called ahead to clear the way. When he entered the main library, two police officers stood at the loan desk. A librarian told him it would take at least six days to get the books from the shelves. When he offered to get them himself, the officers told him to leave.

“I just stared up at that ‘Greenville Public Library’ and tears came to my eyes,” Jackson told a biographer, Marshall Frady.

That summer, 1960, Jackson came home and led a sit-in at the library, his arrest a first taste of civil disobedience. In the fall, he transferred to North Carolina A&T State University in Greensboro. There he became the star quarterback and participated in the beginnings of the sit-ins that became a signature part of the civil rights movement led by the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

“It wasn’t a matter of Gandhi or Dr. King then,” he said of the library sit-in, “it was just my own private pride and self-respect.”

With his height and his oratorical flourishes, Jackson was a charismatic figure who led protests in Greensboro. Once, during a demonstration outside a cafeteria, as police were about to arrest the demonstrators, Jackson suggested they kneel and recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Police all took off their caps and bowed their heads,” he said. “Can’t arrest folks prayin’.”

Then he led the demonstrators in “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“They stopped, put their hands over their heart,” Jackson said. “Can’t arrest folks singing the national anthem.”

After half an hour, he recalled, “we got tired and let ’em arrest us.”

Elected student body president, Jackson graduated in 1963. A grant from the Rockefeller Fund for Theological Education brought him to the Chicago Theological Seminary, where he hoped to find a venue for social activism.

That summer, Jackson traveled to Washington, where he heard King deliver his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Two years later, he and a group of college buddies piled into vans to drive south for King’s Selma-to-Montgomery march. He met King there, and early the next year, King asked Jackson to head his Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s Operation Breadbasket in Chicago. The goal was to win economic gains for Black people with a combination of consumer boycotts and negotiated settlements.

At 24, Jackson was the youngest of King’s aides. Operating out of a hole-in-the-wall office at SCLC’s South Side headquarters, he began by organizing preachers, arranging for them to urge their congregations on Easter to boycott products made by a local dairy that employed no Black workers.

During the following week, Country Delight lost more than half a million dollars in revenue. Within days, the company offered a deal: 44 jobs for Black workers. Without waiting for a boycott, other dairy companies called with offers, too.

King soon asked Jackson to be the national director of Operation Breadbasket. Jackson hesitated — the job required him to leave the seminary six months short of graduation. Jackson recounted in his autobiography that King told him, “Come with me full time and you’ll learn more theology in six months than you would in six years at the seminary.” He earned his ordination several years later.

In April 1968, Jackson joined King in Memphis, where the civil rights leader had decided to stand with striking Black sanitation workers. Few of King’s staff supported the effort, worrying that the strike — and the planned Poor People’s Campaign in Washington — distracted from the main goal of attaining voting and political rights for Black Americans.

During a planning meeting, King blew up at his aides, including Jackson. “If you’re so interested in doing your own thing, that you can’t do what this organization is structured to do, if you want to carve out your own niche in society, go ahead,” King yelled at Jackson, according to the latter’s account. “But for God’s sake, don’t bother me!”

The next day, standing below the balcony of the Lorraine Motel where the team was staying in Memphis, King yelled down at Jackson in joviality, as if to mitigate the outburst, inviting him to dinner.

Within moments, shots rang out. Jackson later said he ran upstairs and caught King’s head as he lay dying. Andrew Young, a King aide who later became U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, told Frady that he doubted Jackson had cradled King’s head, but that they all had rushed to the scene and all had gotten blood on their clothes.

But if all of them were touched by King’s blood, only Jackson wore his gore-stained olive turtleneck for days, sleeping and grieving in it, wearing it on NBC’s “Today Show” and before the Chicago City Council. In dramatizing the moment to his own benefit, Jackson provoked hostility from King’s widow and others in the movement’s leadership that lasted decades.

Richard Hatcher, the first Black mayor of Gary, Ind., and a Jackson supporter, recalled that once Jackson decided to run for president, the campaign thought it had the backing of the Black leadership.

“Big mistake. Big mistake,” Hatcher said. “Over the following months, every time things seemed to get going, here would come a statement from Atlanta, from Andy [Young] or Joe Lowery or Mrs. King, ‘We don’t think this is a good idea at all.’“

As Jackson’s media prominence grew — including a cover photo on Time magazine in 1970 — tensions erupted between Jackson and SCLC, in part because of the sloppy bookkeeping that became a Jackson characteristic. In late 1971, SCLC’s board suspended Jackson for “administrative impropriety” and “repeated violation of organization discipline.” Jackson resigned, saying, “I need air. I must have room to grow.”

Calling a dozen Black celebrities to New York’s Commodore Hotel, Jackson formed his own organization. Originally called People United to Save Humanity — the presumptuous title was soon changed to People United to Serve Humanity — PUSH became his pulpit. Like Operation Breadbasket, its goal was to boost minority employment and ownership.

Jackson traveled the country preaching self-esteem and self-discipline. Thousands of youngsters took pledges to say no to drugs, turn off their television sets, study. They became the core of his voter registration drives, the inspiration for the “I am somebody” chant that would define his public ministry.

As with Operation Breadbasket, Jackson used PUSH to hold corporate America to account. In 1982, for example, he launched a boycott of Anheuser-Busch with the slogan “this Bud’s a dud.”

“We spend approximately $800 million with them [annually]. Yet, out of 950 wholesale distributorships, only one is Black-owned,” Jackson said.

Shortly thereafter, Anheuser-Busch contributed $10,000 to Jackson’s Citizenship Education Fund, contributed more than $500,000 to the Rainbow PUSH coalition, and established a $10-million fund to help minorities buy distributorships.

In 1998, 16 years later, the River North beer distributorship in Chicago was purchased by two of Jackson’s sons, Yusef and Jonathan. (Jackson’s eldest son, Jesse Jackson Jr., won election to Congress from Chicago in 1995, but resigned and was convicted of fraud in 2013 for misuse of campaign funds. Jackson and his wife, Jacqueline, also had two daughters, Jacqueline and Santita. A third daughter, Ashley Laverne Jackson, was the child of his relationship with a PUSH staff member, Karin Stanford.)

Critics called the PUSH campaigns elaborate shakedowns. Others, like Jeffrey Campbell, president of Burger King when Jackson opened negotiations in 1983, found the encounter with Jackson and his rhetoric of economic empowerment inspiring.

“Before they came in, my view was that we ought to fight them, that this guy Jackson was a monster, and I had the backing of my bosses to walk out if necessary,” Campbell told the Los Angeles Times in 1987. But Campbell said he quickly changed his mind.

“He got to me very quickly, without me realizing it, when he started talking about fairness. He would say: What is fair? Blacks give you 15% of your business — isn’t it fair that you give 15% of your business, your jobs, your purchases back to the Black community, the Black businesses?

“That little seed began to grow in the back of my mind,” Campbell said. “It was the right question to ask me.”

How Jackson handled money gave critics additional openings. Between 1972 and 1988, PUSH and its affiliates attracted more than $17 million in federal grants and private contributions. After many audits, the Justice Department sought $1.2 million in repayments, citing poor recordkeeping and a lack of documentation.

Jackson gave little thought to such issues. “I am a tree-shaker, not a jelly-maker,” he would often say.

Management held little interest for him. But politics was a different matter.

From the moment he began urging and registering Black Americans to vote, Jackson found his milieu. He used PUSH resources to staff get-out-the-vote drives that helped elect Hatcher in Gary, Kenneth Gibson in Newark, N.J., and Carl Stokes in Cleveland.

In those days, he also advocated participating in both parties, what he called “a balance of power.” In 1972, he claimed he had registered 40,000 Black voters to support Illinois’ white Republican senator, Charles Percy.

That same year, at the Democratic convention in Miami, Jackson unseated Chicago Mayor Richard Daley’s 58-member Illinois delegation and replaced it with a “rainbow” of his own, even though he had never voted in a Democratic primary. Liberal Democrats who despised Daley as a corrupt big-city boss hailed Jackson as a hero.

In the decade to come, Jackson basked in celebrity and international travel, including a controversial meeting with Yasser Arafat. Jackson met the then-leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization in 1979 when he traveled to Syria to free U.S. pilot Robert Goodman, who’d been shot down while on a bombing mission. By the time Jackson declared his 1984 presidential campaign, he had burnished his foreign policy credentials.

At the convention that year in San Francisco, he predicted that in an era of Reaganomics, a Rainbow Coalition of ethnic and religious identities could retake the White House.

“We must leave the racial battleground and come to economic common ground and moral higher ground,” he said in a memorable speech.

“America, our time has come. We come from disgrace to amazing grace. Our time has come,” he said. “Give me your tired, give me your poor, your huddled masses who yearn to breathe free and come November, there will be a change, because our time has come.” Delegates roared to their feet.

But they did not nominate him. Nor did the convention of 1988. Addressing Black ministers in Los Angeles in 1995, the hurt still showed as Jackson railed at the injustice of beating Al Gore in the presidential primaries, only to watch as he was tapped by Bill Clinton to be his running mate in 1992.

“In 1988, I beat him in Iowa, a state 98% white; he said it was ’cause of liberals and farmers. So I beat him in New Hampshire; he said it was ’cause he was off campaigning in the South. So I beat him in the South on Super Tuesday; he said Dukakis had split his support. I beat him then in Illinois, in Michigan; he said he wasn’t really trying. I beat him then in New York; said he ran out of money. But now, here I am this afternoon, talking to y’all in this church in South Central L.A. — and he’s vice president of the United States.”

To many of his Democratic opponents, however, Jackson’s “rainbow coalition” symbolized not common ground, but the party’s devolution into a collection of identity caucuses whose narrow causes doomed them to defeat. In 1992, many of those critics gathered around Clinton as he formulated his “New Democrat” campaign. Clinton soon used Jackson as a foil.

The occasion came when Jackson invited rap singer and activist Sister Souljah to a political event featuring the Arkansas governor. In an interview, Souljah had wondered why after all the animus of white people toward Black people, it was unacceptable for Black people to kill whites. Clinton, instead of delivering the usual liberal-candidate-seeks-Black-votes hominy, lashed out at her words.

The moment bought Clinton a priceless image of willingness to speak truth to the party’s interest groups but came at the price of Jackson’s rage.

“I can maybe work with him, but I know now who he is, what he is. There’s nothin’ he won’t do,” Jackson said to Frady. “He’s immune to shame.”

By then, however, Jackson’s prominence had already begun to wane. Indeed, the role of race leader, itself, had started to disappear. The civil rights revolution in which Jackson had figured so prominently had allowed a new and more diverse generation of Black elected officials, corporate executives and public figures to flourish. Their success eroded his singular platform.

Jackson continued to travel, agitate, protest, but the spotlight had moved on. He dreamed that Jesse Jr. might one day win the office he had pursued. When, instead, another Black Democrat from Chicago, Barack Obama, headed toward the Democratic nomination in 2008, Jackson’s frustration spilled into public with a vulgar criticism of Obama caught on microphone.

In Obama’s White House, he suffered what for him might have been the severest penalty — being ignored.

Yet to those who had seen him in his prime, his image remained indelible.

“When they write the history of this campaign,” then-New York Gov. Mario Cuomo said after the 1984 contest, “the longest chapter will be on Jackson. The man didn’t have two cents. He didn’t have one television or radio ad. And look what he did.”

Jackson is survived by his wife, Jacqueline, and six children, Jesse Jr., Yusef, Jonathan, Jacqueline, Santita and Ashley.

Lauter and Neuman are former Times staff writers.

A coalition of civil rights organizations filed the lawsuit against the Trump administration in the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Georgia on Sunday, seeking to prevent it from misusing voter information seized from the Fulton County, Ga., elections office last month. Photo by Bonnie Cash/UPI | License Photo

Feb. 16 (UPI) — Several civil rights groups are suing the Trump administration to prohibit it from misusing voter information that it seized from Fulton County, Ga., last month.

The Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law, Georgia Coalition for the People’s Agenda, the NAACP and Atlanta and Georgia State Conference branches of the NAACP filed the lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Georgia on Sunday.

They seek to block the Trump administration from using the voting records to purge voters from the rolls, improperly disclose information, dox or intimidate voters.

“We have very serious concerns about what the Trump administration could do with the voting records of thousands of people from Fulton County,” Robert Weiner, director of the voting rights project at the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law, said in a statement.

“When people registered to vote, they did not sign up for the release of their private information and social security numbers, especially not to politicians and their loyalists bent on advancing debunked conspiracy theories.”

The FBI raided the Fulton County elections office in Union City, Ga., on Jan. 28, and commandeered sensitive voter information from the 2020 general election. The lawsuit alleges that this included personal data and documents that could identify who voted for a particular candidate.

About 700 boxes of ballots were taken from the elections office as well as other materials related to the election.

FBI agents executed a warrant at the direction of the White House, a warrant affidavit revealed.

President Donald Trump has maintained that the 2020 presidential election was “stolen” and he was the true winner, despite numerous court decisions striking down his claims.

Trump’s claims have continued since his return to the White House, as well as broader claims of election fraud. He has called for elections to be “nationalized” in recent weeks, saying Republicans should “take over” elections in “at least maybe 15 places.”

Women’s rights activist Mohammadi was arrested in December while attending a memorial ceremony in Mashhad.

Iranian human rights activist and 2023 Nobel Peace Prize laureate Narges Mohammadi has been sentenced to more than seven years in prison, according to her lawyers and a group that supports her.

Mohammadi, 53, was on ⁠a week-long hunger strike that ended on Sunday, the Narges Foundation said in a statement. It said Mohammadi told her lawyer, Mostafa Nili, in a phone call on Sunday from prison that she had received her sentence on Saturday.

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“She has been sentenced to six years in prison for gathering and collusion to commit crimes,” Nili told the AFP news agency.

She was also handed a one-and-a-half-year prison sentence for propaganda activities and is to be exiled for two years to the city of Khosf in the eastern province of South Khorasan, the lawyer added.

She also received a two-year ban on leaving the country, according to the report.

Nili said the verdict was not final and could be appealed, expressing hope that the activist could be temporarily “released on bail to receive treatment,” due to her health issues.

Mohammadi had on February 2 begun a hunger strike to protest the conditions of her imprisonment and the inability to make phone calls to lawyers and family.

“Narges Mohammadi ended her hunger strike today on its 6th day, while reports indicate her physical condition is deeply alarming,” the foundation said.

Mohammadi told Nili she was transferred to the hospital just three days ago “due to her deteriorating health”, it added.

“However, she was returned to the Ministry of Intelligence’s security detention centre in Mashhad before completing her treatment,” the foundation said.

“Her continued detention is life threatening and a violation of human rights laws.”

Mohammadi is the second Iranian woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize after Shirin Ebadi won the award in 2003 for her efforts to promote democracy and human rights.

A prominent writer and journalist, Mohammadi serves as deputy director of the Defenders of Human Rights Center (DHRC), an organisation long dedicated to defending political prisoners and promoting broader human rights reforms in Iran. Beyond her advocacy for gender equality, she campaigns vigorously against the death penalty and corruption.

Her 20-year fight for women’s rights made her a symbol of freedom, the Nobel Committee said in 2023.

Mohammadi was arrested on December 12 after denouncing the suspicious death of lawyer Khosrow Alikordi.

Prosecutor Hasan Hematifar told reporters then that Mohammadi made provocative remarks at Alikordi’s memorial ceremony in the northeastern city of ‌Mashhad and encouraged those present “to chant norm-breaking slogans” and “disturb the peace”.

How do you find the missing?

If you do find them, how can you help?

Oakland civil rights attorney James Cook has been on the ground in Minnesota for months figuring out answers to these question as he goes.

A fast-talking Minneapolis native who still lives in the Twin Cities part time, Cook is one of a handful of attorneys who have dropped everything to aid (for free) those caught up in the federal crackdown — protesters, immigrants and detained citizens — too many of whom have found themselves facing deportation, arrest or even been disappeared, at least for a time.

“They are leaders that are on the ground really helping people through this process,” Minnesota school board member Chauntyll Allen told me.

She’s one of the protesters arrested inside a local church, charged with conspiracy to deprive others of their constitutional rights by Pam Bondi’s politicized Department of Justice, which also Friday arrested journalist Don Lemon for the same incident. Cook is one of the lawyers now representing Allen.

“It shows us that the judicial arm, or some of the judicial arm of our democracy, is willing to step up and ensure that our democracy stands strong,” Allen said of Cook and others like him.

While it’s the images of clashes in the streets that captivate media and audiences, it’s lawyers like Cook who are fighting an existential battle in the background to preserve the rule of law in a place where it is increasing opaque, to put it gently.

The legal work behind detentions has largely been an overlooked battlefield that will likely rage on years after ICE departs the streets, leaving in its wake hundreds if not thousands of long-and-winding court cases.

Beyond the personal fates they will determine, the outcome of the civil litigation Cook and others are spearheading will likely force whatever transparency and accountability can be pulled from these chaotic and troubling times.

It’s time-consuming and complicated work vital not just to people, but history.

Or, as Cook puts it, “I’ll be 10 years older when all this s— resolves.”

Cook told me this while on his way to the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building where some detainees are being held, maybe. It’s hard to find out. A few years ago, when immigration enforcement in Minnesota ramped up under the first Trump term, activists tried to get the name of the building changed, arguing Whipple, the first Protestant Episcopal bishop in the state, had been an advocate of the marginalized and wouldn’t want his name associated with what the feds were up to.

It didn’t work, but the movement’s slogan, “What would Whipple do?” still has resonance in this town, where two American citizens, Alex Pretti and Renee Good, have been fatally shot while protesting — incidents ugly enough that Bruce Springsteen wrote a song about them.

Cook is well aware that the guns carried by the federal agents are not for show, even without the Boss’ new ballad. Just a few days ago, one of the first times he drove his beat-up truck up to the gate, the federal guards at Whipple pointed their guns at him.

“I’m like, ‘Hey, I’m going to take my keys out of the ignition, drop them on the ground. So please don’t shoot,’” he said.

They lowered the guns, but Cook was scared, a feeling that doesn’t come easy.

Long before his law degree, when he was a punk-rock loving teen in the 1980s, fresh out of Southwest High, the public school not too far from Whipple, a former coach convinced him to give up college dreams and instead pursue a shot at making the first Muay Thai kickboxing team at the Olympics.

The martial art ended up not making it as an official Olympic sport, but the experience launched Cook into a professional boxing and kickboxing career that took him to competitions around the world, and taught him fear is not a reason to back down.

But, “Father Time is undefeated,” Cook said. “I got older and I started losing fights, and I was like, all right, time to get back to life.”

That eventually led him to obtaining a law degree in San Francisco, where after an intern stint as a public defender, he decided he wanted to be a trial attorney, fighting in court.

He started cold-calling John Burris, another Bay Area lawyer who is an icon of civil rights and police misconduct cases. Burris, who has been called the “Godfather of Police Litigation,” was involved in the “Oakland Riders” case in 2000, when officers were discovered to have planted evidence. He also represented Rodney King, the family of Oscar Grant, and the family of Joseph Mann among many others.

But Burris, a boxing fan, didn’t respond to Cook’s calls until the young lawyer offered him free tickets to one of his fights, which he was still doing on the side.

“And then immediately I got a call back,” Cook said.

Burris said Cook’s history as a fighter intrigued him, but “I did say to James, you can’t be a fighter and lawyer. You can’t get punched in your head all the time.”

Cook did not take this advice.

Still, Burris said, “It was his persistence that I admired, because the type of work we’re involved in, you need people who are dedicated, who have some real commitment to the work, and he showed that kind of consistency and dedication.”

Cook’s been working with Burris more than 20 years now, but until recently, the labyrinth of the immigration system wasn’t his area of expertise. It’s been a crash course for him, he said, on the often arcane laws that govern who gets to stay in America and who doesn’t.

It’s also been a crash course on what a civil rights emergency looks like. Along with his work looking for locked-up immigrants, Cook spends a lot of time on the streets at protests, helping people understand their rights — and limitations — and seeing first hand what is happening.

“If you ever wondered what you would have done in Germany, now is the time,” he said. “Now is the time to do something. People are being interned.”

In the hours after Pretti was shot, Cook was at the location of the shooting, in the middle of the tear gas, offering legal help to anyone who needed it and bearing witness to conduct that will almost certainly face scrutiny one day, even if government leaders condone it now.

“The way the officers chase people down, protesters who were really just protesting lawfully and were beaten and pepper sprayed and gassed — all those are civil rights violations,” Burris said. “And so the law is the guardrails. So there has to be lawyers who are prepared to protect those guardrails and to stand as centurions, as I refer to us.”

Cook has tried to calm protesters, he told me, and prevent clashes. But people are mad, and resolute. His greatest fear is summer — when warm weather could bring even larger crowds if enforcement is still ongoing. He’s worried that the actions of the federal agents will spill over into anger at local cops enforcing local laws, leading to even more chaos.

“I’ve always supported cops as long as they do their job correctly,” Cook said.

For now, he’s taking it one day at a time, one case at a time, one name at a time.

Tuesday, Cook passed through the armed checkpoint at Whipple carrying a list of about seven people, folks who have been picked up by federal agents for one reason or another, or reasons unknown, and now cannot be located. They are not in the public online system that is meant to track detainees, and family and friends have not heard from them.

If he’s lucky, Cook will get information on one or two, that they are indeed inside, or maybe at a detention center in Texas, where many have been sent. But there will be more whose location remains unknown. He’ll make calls, fill out forms and come back tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that.

“This is what we do,” he said. “I’m always in it for the long run. I mean, you know, shoot, yeah, that’s kind of the way it works.”