community

Bello Gambur dreads going to the stream before 2 p.m. 

Every morning, he leaves home with a herd of over 30 cattle, with his staff slung across his shoulders as they head into the bush. For about five hours, he watches them as they graze, rest, and wander, but none can drink. The only stream in the community lies just a short walk away, yet he must wait until 2 p.m. to take them there.

Going earlier, he says, could have deadly consequences.

All his life, the forty-year-old has lived as a herder in Mararaban Bare, a small community in the Numan Local Government Area of Adamawa State, North East Nigeria, where his ancestors migrated and settled a long time ago.  

Over the years, the herders lived in peace with their host community, but in 2017, violence broke out over water. The clash claimed many lives, and several properties were destroyed. In October, security operatives stepped in to quell a similar incident. 

So, Bello doesn’t mind his herd enduring hours of thirst if it helps keep the fragile peace.

He leads the cattle to the stream when most locals have finished using it and are back at their homes. Bello and the other herders go there between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. to prevent coming in contact with the locals who visit the stream every morning to bathe, wash, and fetch water for domestic chores.  

The rationing also requires the locals to leave before 2 p.m. 

However, this arrangement has not ended the clashes between the groups, as locals believe it does little to address deeper grievances.

Tension keeps building 

“Irrigation farmers use the water from the canal to farm. And other community members drink the water, the cattle also drink from it, so this is a problem,” Alphonsus Bosso, a 55-year-old farmer and resident of Mararaban Bare, told HumAngle.

He said the tension is unlikely to end soon, especially with the dry season approaching. This competition for access to the stream intensifies during this period.

Alphonsus said a lasting solution would be to provide the herders with their own water source “because we no longer co-exist”. In some other Adamawa communities, humanitarian organisations have already supported the creation of alternative water sources, which have helped ease similar tensions, a model yet to reach Mararaban Bare.

“We used to have canals that served as water sources for our cattle, and we barely used the stream until the canals began to dry up,” said Muza Alhaji Shenya, a 37-year-old herder in the area. He linked the recent drying up of water bodies in the area to industrial expansion, particularly the construction of embankments to store water for sugarcane plantations. HumAngle saw some of these embankments during a visit.

However, environmental experts say the problem extends beyond industrial activity.

Hamza Muhammed Usman, the Executive Director of Environmental Care Foundation, a non-governmental organisation in Adamawa State that promotes a climate-friendly environment, food security, and peacebuilding, explained that prolonged dry spells, erratic rainfall, and deforestation, among other factors, are responsible for the shrinking water bodies in the state.

He said that overgrazing by livestock and human activities such as excessive farming on the same location and mining reduce vegetation cover, which disrupts the natural flow of water into its channels and bodies, especially in local government areas such as Numan, Fufore, some parts of Madagali, Maiha, Gombi, and the southern zone. 

Hamza also noted that migration and growing birth rates in the affected areas have increased the competition for water. “There are people from Borno, Gombe, Taraba, and other places trooping into Adamawa for greener pastures. This leads to overdependence on the limited resources,” he said. 

‘They pollute the water’

Locals insist that sharing the water with the cattle is unhealthy. 

“The cattle are polluting the water with mud and urine,” said Silas Simon, the community leader. “We dilute the water with alum when we want to consume.”

Even this treatment becomes difficult during the dry season, which starts in October. 

During the season, the herders in Mararaban Bare are left with two options: lead their cattle to the local stream or trek six kilometres into Bare, the nearest village with multiple water sources. The journey takes about six hours, making the local stream the closest option for many.

One herder, who treks to Bare to avoid being attacked by locals, said his cattle often drink water once a day, mostly in the afternoon, and sometimes, in the evening while returning to their settlement. There, water is provided for them in small containers, but much priority is given to the calves since the water is not enough. 

“The cows are getting thinner; their health has deteriorated over the years,” he said. “Every water source is drying up.”

“If we can have alternative water sources, then we won’t go to the stream for water where the people drink from,” Muza said. 

There is a borehole in Mararaban Bare, but it barely functions. 

Silas noted that if the borehole was functional, locals would use it as a water source and leave the stream for the herders, which would reduce the clashes.

“The borehole barely works. If it ever pumps water, it ceases at any time, so one has to wait for hours before the water runs again. Sometimes, people queue up from morning to evening and get unlucky because it ceases anytime,” he said. 

‘No agreement’

Several meetings have been held between the locals and herders to resolve the conflict, but no lasting agreement has been reached apart from a temporary water-use arrangement. Silas said tensions remain high, as youths from both groups often act as the main instigators during clashes.

“We do not wish to provoke anyone; we are only after the welfare of the cattle,” said Alhaji Ngala, the chairperson of herders in the community. He also noted that farms have taken over grazing routes, leaving them with “no freedom”. 

“If we can have access to grazing routes and enough water supply, then our minds will be at peace,” Ngala told HumAngle. 

Hamza, the climate-friendly environment advocate, urged the government to invest in solar-powered boreholes as a way of promoting clean energy and sustainable water supply across communities facing similar challenges. He also called for stronger conflict-resolution mechanisms across the state.

“Water scarcity is not just an environmental issue but a driver of insecurity, because in a place where there is tension, certain groups can take advantage of the situation to infiltrate such communities and cause problems,” Hamza said. 

Although the state government has collaborated with civil society organisations to adopt measures like afforestation, small-scale irrigation projects, and awareness campaigns, among other initiatives, to address the recurring clashes over water and limited resources. Hamza noted that many communities still lack the technical capacity and financial support to sustain these interventions.

“Some of the measures, like afforestation and proper waste management, are not owned properly by the locals,” Hamza said. 

He further called for integrated water resource management and inclusive governance to protect watersheds and prevent further land degradation. “Degraded lands can be restored through rotation. Herders should not graze on the same spot for more than five years, and farmers should do the same,” he said.

He also stressed the need for interdependence; farmers relying on cow dung as manure, and herders being granted access to reserved grazing areas.

Throughout the spring and summer of 2020, across the U.S. and the world, millions of quarantined citizens appeared nightly at their windows and balconies, offering thanks to the healthcare workers whose lives were dedicated to saving theirs. In my little corner of Silver Lake, 7 p.m. commenced a daily cacophonous communal concert of pots and pans banging, trombones and trumpets blaring, dogs and coyotes howling: a grateful group roar. I was 67 with a history of respiratory illness: extra high risk. My younger neighbors, knowing this, grocery-shopped for me, sweetening my mornings with fresh milk and fruit during those long, grim days.

“Sacrament” is Susan Straight’s homage to a small fictional band of ICU nurses battling the 2020 COVID-19 surge at a San Bernardino hospital. Her 10th novel follows the beat she’s been covering, and living, since her first. “Aquaboogie,” her 1990 debut, was set in Rio Seco, a fictional stand-in for Riverside, where Straight grew up and still lives. The first in her bloodline to graduate high school, Straight earned an MFA at the University of Massachusetts and brought it home to UC Riverside, where she’s been teaching creative writing since 1988. Her twin passions for her homeland and lyrical artistry bloom on every page. “All summer, there had been fewer cars on the road in Southern California, and everyone remarked on how with no smog, the sunsets weren’t deep, heated crimson. Just quiet slipping into darkness.”

As Susan Straight’s work invariably does, “Sacrament” challenges the prevailing notion that the overlooked Californians she centers in her work and in her life are less worthy, less interesting, less human than their wealthier, whiter, more visible urban counterparts.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

The Los Angeles Times dubbed Straight the “bard of overlooked California,” and “Sacrament” proves the praise. Straight’s African American ex-husband and three daughters; her Latino, Filipino, white, Native and mixed-race neighbors; and her immersion in overlooked California bring new meaning to the advice “write what you know.” Straight’s personal and literary missions extend to who she knows.

In “Sacrament,” Straight turns her singular focus to a handful of nurses camping in a wagon train of funky, sweltering trailers near the hospital they call Our Lady. Separated from their spouses and kids — “Six feet apart or six feet under,” Larette’s son Joey chants — Larette, Cherrise, Marisol and their colleagues are themselves underprotected from the virus, which they eventually contract, and from the domestic dramas that seep from home into their pressure-cooker days. Fearful that her mom will die, Cherrise’s teenage daughter, Raquel, convinces Joey to drive her to the hospital from the date farm where Raquel has been deposited into her Auntie Lolo’s care. The drive should take two hours, but the teens are MIA for two nightmare days. Having narrowly escaped a would-be captor, Raquel remains haunted by her near fate. “The fingers in her hair pulling so hard her scalp felt like it had tiny bubbles under the skin. Wait till I pull your hair for real, bitch. She heard him even now.”

Diving deeper than the quotidian insults of her characters’ loneliness, poverty and fear, Straight brings us inside their exhausted minds. Attempting a nap, Larette lies on the break room cot, eyes closed, to no avail. “Ghost fingers in her left palm. Her right hand holding the phone on FaceTime for the wives. The husbands. The children who were grown,” she writes. “All their faces. Stoic. Weeping. Biting their lips so hard.” Later, Larette tells her husband, “Everyone you see on TV, banging pots and pans, everyone doing parades, it’s so nice. But then I have to be all alone with — their breath. Their breath just — it slows down and it’s terrifying every time.”

Perhaps most painful among the nurses’ many miseries is their isolation: the secrets they keep in hopes of sparing their loved ones an iota of extra suffering. “None of us are telling anyone we love about anything, Larette thought. She hadn’t told [her husband] anything true in weeks.”

As Straight’s work invariably does, “Sacrament” challenges the prevailing notion that the overlooked Californians she centers in her work and in her life are less worthy, less interesting, less human than their wealthier, whiter, more visible urban counterparts. Programmed to equate “rugged independence” with success, many advantaged Americans first appreciated human interdependence (berries in our cereal, test kits on our porches) in lockdown. In Straight’s world, raising each other’s kids, feeding each other’s elders, keeping each other’s secrets, mourning the dead and fighting like hell for the living is not called exigence. It’s called life.

“Sacrament” broadens the reader’s understanding of community beyond flesh-and-blood friends, family and neighbors. The love and care that flow within her community of characters draws the reader into their bright, tight circle, making the characters’ loved ones and troubles feel like the reader’s own.

Spoiler alert: The nurses’ sacrifices, strengths and foibles; their families, robbed not only of their moms and wives and daughters but also of any shred of safety; and their patients — who have tubes stuffed into their urethras and down their throats, blinking their desperate last moments of life into iPads as they take their final breaths — will likely make the reader see and respect and love not only these characters, but the consistently brilliant author who gave them life on the page of this, her finest book.

Maran, author of “The New Old Me” and other books, lives in a Silver Lake bungalow that’s even older than she is.

Let’s just kick the elephant out of the room right away. It’s hard to write a guide to Highland Park without addressing the “G” word. The neighborhood has been described as a poster child of gentrification, and for anyone who spends time there, it’s easy to see why.

Get to know Los Angeles through the places that bring it to life. From restaurants to shops to outdoor spaces, here’s what to discover now.

Within the Northeast neighborhood nestled between downtown L.A. and Pasadena, you’ll see the Highland Park of the past: find remnants like the stone castle that was once the home of Charles F. Lummis, a poet and journalist who famously walked from Cincinnati to Highland Park — yes, you read that correctly — to accept a job at the Los Angeles Times in the mid 1880s. (He later went on to found the Southwest Museum, L.A.’s first museum, close by.)

You’ll see the Highland Park that remains: a working-class hub where bandas practice outside for all to hear, the smell of street tacos fills the air, multigenerational families play together at the park and iconic fixtures like the 22-foot-tall Chicken Boy statue that hovers over North Figueroa like a friendly mascot.

And you’ll see the Highland Park that’s emerging: an L.A. hot spot where young people flock to sip on fancy cocktails along York Boulevard and hang out at a chic Prohibition-era bowling alley.

Somehow, all these versions exist together. These days, it’s common to see luxury companies like Le Labo, which sells candles for upward of $90, move next door to small businesses such as the beloved Mexican family-owned Delicias Bakery & Some that has been serving fresh pan dulce for nearly 35 years. The community collectively mourned when its 100-year-old historic movie theater closed last March.

As one of L.A.’s first suburbs, Highland Park began the 20th century as an artsy oasis that was dotted with charming Craftsman homes. By the 1960s, the neighborhood had transformed into an epicenter for Latino life. The evolution of Highland Park has brought all the usual tensions between longtime residents and newcomers, many of whom were priced out of areas like Silver Lake and South Pasadena.

In spite of that, Highland Park has managed to hold onto its roots and small-town charm. This is in part thanks to nonprofits like the Highland Park Heritage Trust and community members who have been working to preserve the neighborhood’s rich history and cherished cultural hubs.

“A lot of the identity is still here, things that just make it feel like home,” says Michael Nájera, 35, whose family has lived in the neighborhood for three generations. He and his wife co-founded a running club called Tofu Scramble that meets at local coffee shops on Friday mornings.

“There’s a strong sense of community here. Even with everything going on these days, it’s amazing to see people out — some of us because we can, and others at risk because they have to,” he adds, referring to the recent ICE raids. “And still, this feels like a place where it’s OK to be brown and to be outside.” It’s common to see local businesses displaying Know Your Rights cards in support of their neighbors.

Rocio Paredes, a director and photographer who attended Franklin Middle School and High School in Highland Park, adds that “Chicanoism is very engraved in our DNA here.” You can see the culture’s influence in spaces like the Centro de Arte Público and the Mechicano Art Center, both of which were home to Highland Park’s Chicano Arts Collective, an organization that helped advance the political aims of L.A.’s Chicano movement in the 1970s. And also at local restaurants. At Las Cazuelas, a family-run Salvadoran pupuseria that’s been open since 1985, Parades says, “It’s like a f— time capsule.”

From historic Craftsman homes, beautiful hills, bountiful green spaces, cuisine from various cultures, vintage shops of varied prices and a vibrant nightlife scene, there’s so much to appreciate about Highland Park.

OAKLAND — President Trump said Thursday that he had called off a planned federal “surge” into San Francisco after speaking with Mayor Daniel Lurie and other city leaders — a detente that officials and activists in the East Bay said they were not welcomed into and viewed with some suspicion, as potentially enlarging the target on their own communities.

Trump’s announcement came amid protests at the entrance to the U.S. Coast Guard base across the bay in Alameda County, where the Department of Homeland Security has begun staging additional forces. It followed a similar announcement by Lurie, who said he had told Trump during a phone call late Wednesday that San Francisco is “on the rise” and that “having the military and militarized immigration enforcement in our city will hinder our recovery.”

Lurie said Trump agreed to call off any federal deployment to the city, and that Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem — who is in charge of federal immigration forces — had “reaffirmed that direction” in a conversation with him Thursday morning.

Trump said on social media that his administration had been planning a “surge” in San Francisco beginning Saturday, but that Lurie had asked him “very nicely” to “give him a chance to see if he can turn it around,” and that other “friends” of Trump’s in the city had asked him to call it off because they believe Lurie is “making substantial progress.”

Trump said he told Lurie that he was “making a mistake, because we can do it much faster, and remove the criminals that the Law does not permit him to remove,” but that he had ultimately agreed to pause the surge — in part because Lurie has the support of prominent business leaders Jensen Huang of Nvidia and Marc Benioff of Salesforce.

During a Thursday morning briefing less than an hour after Trump’s post, Oakland Mayor Barbara Lee and other East Bay leaders said they had “no information” about such a stand-down in their communities, and were still bracing for increased federal immigration raids given the staging of forces at nearby Coast Guard Island, which is in the waters between Alameda and Oakland.

“The federal administration, of course, has escalated its rhetoric and its enforcement posture in the Bay Area. We know that Border Patrol agents are being stationed on Coast Guard Island,” Lee said. “But … we are fully prepared. We’re monitoring developments closely and we’ll keep our residents informed if there are any confirmed changes. Oakland is and will continue to be a welcoming city for our immigrants and our refugees.”

The Department of Homeland Security defended the deployment of its agents to the region, saying they would be “targeting the worst of the worst criminal illegal aliens — including murderers, rapists, gang members, pedophiles, and terrorists.”

Alameda County Dist. Atty. Ursula Jones Dickson said the staging of immigration forces in the East Bay was part of an established Trump administration “playbook” to rile up communities with immigration actions and then use any unrest to justify further force — and called on East Bay residents not to fall for it.

“We know that they’re baiting Oakland, and that’s why San Francisco, all of a sudden, is off the table,” Jones Dickson said. “So I’m not going to be quiet about what we know is coming. We know that their expectation is that Oakland is going to do something to cause them to make us the example.”

Lourdes Martinez, co-director of the immigrant rights program at Centro Legal de la Raza, said communities are understandably scared given recent legal rulings that federal immigration agents can stop people based on factors such as the color of their skin, the language they are speaking and the job sectors they work in — and organizers expect more such stops given the latest deployments.

She called on immigrants and others to protect themselves by readying documentation and making sure that they and their families are familiar with their rights to remain silent and to have an attorney — and how to contact legal advocacy groups in case of trouble. She also urged community members to report any detentions, to “make sure that nobody disappears.”

“We know this is an uncertain and stressful time. However, this is a moment of unity and power, not panic,” she said.

Shortly after Lee’s event, about 40 protesters gathered near a bridge leading to Coast Guard Island.

Music was blasting. One person wore a blow-up animal costume, a trend that gained momentum amid similar protests in Portland recently. Coast Guard members in tactical gear stood in a line across from protesters who screamed at them.

“We knew there was going to be [an immigration enforcement] presence here and we wanted to disrupt in a peaceful way — to make it harder for them to abduct people,” said Lindsey Swanson, 32, a financial planner who lives in Oakland.

Swanson and others said they believed immigration enforcement would also ramp up in San Francisco, despite Trump and Lurie’s morning assurances, and would continue in the East Bay regardless.

“There’s East Bay — Oakland, Berkeley — so calling off San Francisco means nothing,” said Rachel Kim, a 28-year-old Berkeley resident who is training to become a therapist.

White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt said Thursday that Trump’s conversation with Lurie was an example of how he is willing to work with Democrats and other states to “do the right thing and clean up America’s cities.”

“He is genuinely interested in this effort to make our streets safer, to make our cities safe and clean again,” she said.

The morning events followed days of growing tensions in the Bay Area over Trump’s plans for the region, after he repeatedly suggested that he would send federal forces into San Francisco — which he called a “mess” in desperate need of help, despite data showing decreasing crime and homeless encampments and surging positive sentiment.

On Wednesday, Gov. Gavin Newsom confirmed the staging of immigration agents in the area, and suggested it was the first move in a broader effort by Trump and his administration to stoke chaos and intimidate residents in yet another liberal part of the country.

“He sends out masked men, he sends out Border Patrol, he sends out ICE, he creates anxiety and fear in the community so that he can lay claim to solving that by sending in the Guard,” Newsom said. “This is no different than the arsonist putting out the fire.”

The response echoed those of leaders and activists in other cities where immigration forces and federal troops have been deployed, including Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., Chicago and Portland. It added to an already rancorous debate around Trump’s mass deportation initiative, which he campaigned on heavily, and the role of federal forces in American cities — something the founders of the nation limited to extreme circumstances.

Central to that debate has been Trump’s repeated and unprecedented decision to repeatedly send troops into American cities without the explicit support of state or local leaders. Federal judges have been divided on that issue, though it has so far been allowed to continue in Los Angeles by the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals.

But even in the appellate court, there has been tense disagreement.

Liberal judges on the court recently called for the decision allowing the deployments to continue in Los Angeles, which was made by a three-judge panel, to be reheard before a larger, 11-judge panel. When that request was denied, several dissented Wednesday — excoriating the deployments as a clear breach of constitutional law and the separation of powers.

Judge Marsha Berzon, in a dissent joined by 10 fellow 9th Circuit judges, wrote that the smaller panel in its preliminary deference to Trump had “invited presidents, now and in the future, to deploy military troops in response to the kinds of commonplace, shortlived, domestic disturbances whose containment conventionally falls to local and federal law enforcement units.”

Times staff writer Ana Ceballos, in Washington, D.C., contributed to this report.

Ajike “AJ” Owens was a dedicated 35-year-old mother of four when she was shot and killed by her 58-year-old neighbor, Susan Lorincz, in June 2023. The tragedy, which rocked the otherwise peaceful, tight-knit community of Ocala, Fla., followed years of Lorincz making habitual calls to the police to report neighborhood kids, including Owens’, for playing in a vacant lot next to her home. Lorincz, who is white, claimed that the children — most of whom are Black and were under 12 — were a threat, citing one of the nation’s many “stand your ground” laws, which allow individuals to use deadly force to protect themselves if they feel their life is in danger.

Now award-winning filmmaker Geeta Gandbhir, with the support of producer-husband Nikon Kwantu and such nonfiction luminaries as Sam Pollard and Soledad O’Brien, has chronicled the two years leading up to Owens’ death in “The Perfect Neighbor,” premiering Friday on Netflix after an Oscar-qualifying theatrical run. Composed almost entirely of police body camera footage, the moving and powerful verité documentary uses the case to depict the perils of such laws, which are all too easily misused or abused in a society where not every claim of self-defense is treated equally.

A jury convicted Lorincz of manslaughter in August 2024, but the repercussions of her erratic and violent behavior continue to impact the Owens family and their neighbors. Gandbhir, whose sister-in-law was a close friend of Owens, hopes “The Perfect Neighbor” will honor Owens’ memory while showing how our nation’s growing fear of “the other” and the proliferation of “stand your ground” laws are a deadly combination.

Initially, you weren’t planning on making a film about this tragic killing, but you were documenting the aftermath of the crime. Why?

We got a call the night Ajike was killed, and we immediately jumped into action to try to help the family. We stepped in to be the media liaisons. They looked to us to try to keep the story alive in the media, just because they were worried [it would be overlooked]. This is Ocala, Fla., the heart of where “stand your ground” was born. Susan wasn’t arrested for four days because they were doing a “stand your ground” investigation. We were not thinking about making a doc, really. We were just terrified that there would be no justice.

That’s happened before …

Yes, Trayvon Martin’s case being the most notorious.

But in Ajike’s case, there’s reams of footage and audio recordings that captured what happened. How were you able to obtain so much of that material from the police department?

Anthony Thomas, who works with [civil rights attorney] Benjamin Crump, had sued the police department through the Freedom of Information Act and got them to release all of the material that they had pertaining to the case. That’s how we got the footage. What came to us was the police body camera footage, detective interviews, Ring camera footage and cellphone footage. There was also all the audio calls that Susan had made to the police, and then after the night of the [killing], the calls the community had made. There was basically a plethora of stuff that we were handed, in a jumble, and Anthony was like, “Sort this out. See if you can find anything that makes sense for the news, like snippets we can share.”

I was surprised at how much material there was, and I’m just talking about what made it into the film.

It speaks to how much Susan called the police. Basically, the body cam footage [was a result of those calls]. What’s interesting is the reaction when we screened the film for the community. They agreed to be part of this so we wanted to show them before it came out. We’re very concerned with participant care and the ethics of this. They said that they didn’t think that we had everything, because Susan [allegedly] called the police sometimes, like, 10 times a day. They [said they] think the police gave us maybe what they could organize, where they don’t look terrible. But they don’t think that that’s everything.

Ajike “AJ” Owens, pictured on the poster, was shot and killed by her neighbor in 2023. The crime is at the center of Geeta Gandbhir’s new documentary “The Perfect Neighbor.”

Ajike’s mother, Pamela Dias, has been a major force in keeping her daughter’s memory alive — and seeking justice. How did she feel about you making this film?

I went to Pamela and said I could make a movie and maybe we could make a change. It’s quite an endeavor to try to change gun laws or the “stand your ground” law, but maybe we can reach people. She said yes. This is a woman who by her own admission was blinded by grief [when Ajike was killed], who said she couldn’t see two feet in front of her. But she knew even then that her daughter’s story had to be told. She said her daughter died standing up for her kids, and she felt it was her turn to stand up.

I told her the material was graphic. But Pam was inspired by Emmett Till and how his mother had an open-casket funeral and told the photographers to take pictures because she wanted the world to know what had happened to her baby. Plus, we thought about George Floyd and [how footage of his killing] sparked a movement. It is a terrible thing to bear witness, but if we let these things continue to happen in the shadows, then they will happen forever. It’s only by bearing witness that things might change.

What about your own emotional well-being while making this film?

See all my gray hair? [Laughs.] I realized later it was grief work for me, because I needed to know what happened. I had to know what happened. I couldn’t understand how someone could pick up a gun and kill their neighbor over children playing nearby. How did we get here? So many questions were just eating me, so the work was in some ways cathartic. Then once we had it all strung out and I thought it was a film, I brought on Viridiana Lieberman, who’s our editor. We had a similar sensibility about what we wanted this to be and we really committed to living in the body camera footage.

“Body camera footage is a violent tool of the state,” Gandbhir says. “It’s often used to criminalize us, particularly people of color. It’s used to dehumanize us, to surveil us, to protect the police. What I wanted to do with this material was flip that narrative and use it to humanize this community.”

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Why not use narration?

I worked for 12 years in narratives and scripted before I segued into documentary. I learned that the best vérité documentaries are show and not tell. If you tell people what they’re seeing, there’s some room for doubt or for your bias or some questioning around it. But to me, this footage plays like vérité. There’s no reporter on the ground. There’s no one influencing what’s happening in the neighborhood, other than the police who are coming in and asking questions. I felt that made the footage and the story undeniable. No one could say that we were down there asking provocative questions. And the body camera footage is so incredibly immersive, I wanted people to have the experience of what the community experienced.

How would you describe what they went through?

Their experience felt a bit like a horror film. You have this beautiful, diverse community living together with a strong social network, taking care of each other and each other’s kids. What was so powerful to me in the body camera footage is you really got to see this community as they were before [the tragedy], and you never get that. There’s horrible shootings all the time, and we see the aftermath, right? We see the grieving family, we see the funeral. We have to re-create what their lives were like before. And in this, you see this beautiful community thriving and living together, and that was so profound. I wanted to rebuild their world so everyone could see the damage done by one outlier with a gun. How she was the only one who was repeatedly calling the police and seeing threats where there were none.

We’re used to seeing police body cam footage used as evidence following a police brutality incident, or as entertainment in true crime shows. It’s used to tell a very different story in your film.

I wanted to subvert the use of body cam footage. Body camera footage is a violent tool of the state. It’s often used to criminalize us, particularly people of color. It’s used to dehumanize us, to surveil us, to protect the police. What I wanted to do with this material was flip that narrative and use it to humanize this community.

Why do you think that Susan was not seen as a threat by the police?

She’s a middle-aged white lady. She weaponized her race, her status, and she kept trying to weaponize the police against the community. The fact that she was using hate speech against children [she allegedly called them the N-word]. She was filming them. She was throwing things at them. She was cursing at them. But the police didn’t flag her as more than just a nuisance…. After the third time she called and it was unfounded and not about an actual crime, there should have been some measure taken to reprimand her. They didn’t tell the community that they could file charges against her: “She’s harassing you all. She’s harassing your children.” It was systemic neglect. And honestly, should the police be a catch-all for everything? Probably not. But they were not equipped. They didn’t take the necessary steps and the worst outcomes happened, which is that we lost Ajike, and Susan is in prison for the rest of her life. I’m sure that’s not the outcome she wanted.

There’s a moment in the film where a policeman knocks on Susan’s sliding glass door. She doesn’t know it’s a cop. She opens the curtain and screams at him in a terrifying, almost demonic voice. It’s quite a switch from her nervous, genial 911 calls.

Yeah, the jump scare. That was one of the moments where I was like, “Oh, there she is.” And the 911 call, after she shot Ajike. She was hysterical. Then her voice changes when she says, “They keep bothering me and bothering me, and they won’t f— stop.” I felt my heart clench, because it’s like, “Oh, there she really is.” She has this way of going between victim and aggressor. A little Jekyll and Hyde. It’s frightening.

The victim/aggressor dynamic is part of what makes “stand your ground” laws so dangerous. They can be weaponized.

“Stand your ground” policy was born in Ocala and now it’s in around 38 states, in different forms. It’s a law that emboldens people to pick up a gun to solve a dispute. If you can other-ize your neighbor to the extent of [killing] them, the question is, what else will you do? What else will we tolerate? As human beings, how we show up in our communities is a reflection of how we show up in the world. This film takes place on this tiny street, but it is a microcosm of what is happening today. Susan represented the dangers, and that little community represented the best of what’s under threat.

Oct. 17 (UPI) — The Palm Bay City Council in central Florida censored council member Chandler Langevin after controversial remarks about the local Indian community on social media, including a call to “deport every Indian immediately” and “Indians are destroying the South.”

The 3-2 decision Thursday restricts his ability to introduce agenda items, speak during council reports and serve on city-appointed committees and boards. Langevin now has to receive majority approval from the council to place an item on the agenda.

Langevin voted against the measure.

Palm Bay, with a population of 142,000, is located about 50 miles south of the Kennedy Space Center.

Langevin is a 33-year-old Republican elected to a four-year term in November after serving in the U.S. Marines.

He has targeted others with incendiary, racist and xenophobic statements online though his X account.

Regarding Indians in the community, he wrote: “Indian migration has to cease immediately.”

He also wrote: “There is not a single Indian that cares about the United States. They are here to exploit us financially and enrich India and Indians.”

“I not only have a constitutional right, but I personally believe that I have a duty and an obligation to engage other elected officials, to have dialogue with my constituents and to drive policy in a matter that I deem best,” Langevin said, in describing the situation as a witchhunt.

Langevin, wearing a U.S. Flag around his neck during the meeting, said he would sue, alleging a violation of the First Amendment.

Anthony Sabatini, an attorney and Lake County commissioner, posted on X: “This textbook first amendment retaliation & totally illegal -tomorrow we will file a lawsuit and now they will pay.”

“The government cannot punish and limit your rights just purely based on your viewpoint,” Sabatini said in a report by WKMG-TV. “You can pass a censure motion, that’s fine, but you can’t limit his ability to speak based on his opinion.”

The council also voted 4-1 to look into hiring an outside attorney to investigate whether Langevin made any ethics violations.

Two weeks earlier, the commissioners wrote a letter to Gov. Ron DeSantis asking to have Langevin removed from his elected seat.

Commissioners, as well as Mayor Rob Medina, said his comments are serious misconduct.

“I think if we represent the population at large, there’s some issues then we need to tailor our speech,” Medina said. “We represent everyone, right, so it is conduct unbecoming.”

Councilman Richard “Mike” Hammer voted against the censure. Hammer posted on Facebook that he did not agree with the things Langevin said about Indian Americans, but he did not agree with the restrictions placed on him, he said.

Indian American Chamber of Commerce President Jan Gautman told Spectrum News that he was satisfied with an apology.

“After meeting with several community leaders, he came to understand the tremendous value the Indian American community brings to this country — especially through business ownership, job creation, and contributions as one of the strongest economic drivers in our nation,” Gautman said. “Our community appreciates his apology and chooses to move forward with positivity, focusing on unity, understanding, and the betterment of our shared future.

“We wish him well and look forward to continued collaboration in building stronger communities together.”

On Oct. 6, Florida Democratic Party Chair Nikki Fried said in a statement: “Chandler Langevin’s comments towards the Indian American community are vile and reprehensible. The people of Palm Bay deserve better leadership than someone who so proudly displays his hateful ignorance through divisive and racist rhetoric.

“The Florida Democratic Party proudly stands in solidarity with our Indian American neighbors and is grateful for their contributions to our State. We look forward to beating bigots like Mr. Langevin at the ballot box to ensure Florida’s elected officials represent the best of our shared values.”

Republican U.S. Sen. Rick Scott wrote on X on Oct. 1 that there is “no place for this kind of hate in Florida. As Governor and now as U.S. Senator, I’ve been proud to stand with our state’s incredible Indian American community, who are proud Americans and value the ideas that make our country great.”

“We have to die so people can keep working.” Canada’s Grassy Narrows First Nation is taking on the government over a local employer’s poisoning of their water.