violence

Content note: This story contains details of sexual violence. 

Civil rights icon Dolores Huerta is one of several women in the United States speaking out against the sexual violence they say they endured at the hands of labour leader Cesar Chavez.

In a statement on Wednesday, Huerta said she was motivated to speak out after being contacted for an investigation by The New York Times, which revealed that children as young as age 12 were abused by Chavez.

“I am nearly 96 years old, and for the last 60 years have kept a secret because I believed that exposing the truth would hurt the farmworker movement I have spent my entire life fighting for,” Huerta wrote.

“Following the New York Times’ multi-year investigation into sexual misconduct by Cesar Chavez, I can no longer stay silent and must share my own experiences.”

Chavez, who died in 1993, co-founded the National Farm Workers Association alongside Huerta and other advocates. They rose to fame during the US civil rights movement of the 1960s, practising nonviolent protest techniques similar to those of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr.

Together, Chavez, Huerta and other advocates drew attention to the abuses facing vulnerable immigrant farmworkers, particularly in the Hispanic and Filipino American communities.

Some of the slogans from the movement continue to have resonance in the US political sphere.

The Spanish phrase “si, se puede” — or, in English, “yes, we can” — was adopted as the campaign slogan for President Barack Obama, while the Tagalog phrase “isang bagsak” continues to be a rallying cry for collective organising.

The fight for equality and fair labour practices that Huerta and Chavez led would be remembered as one of the defining moments of the 1960s.

But it was out of fear of denting the burgeoning civil rights movement that Huerta and other women say they stayed silent about Chavez’s abuse.

“I carried this secret for as long as I did because building the movement and securing farmworker rights was my life’s work,” Huerta said in her statement.

“I wasn’t going to let Cesar or anyone else get in the way. I channeled everything I had into advocating on behalf of millions of farmworkers and others who were suffering and deserved equal rights.”

Huerta explained that the first time she had sex with Chavez, she was “manipulated and pressured” into submitting to his advances while on a trip to San Juan Capistrano.

“I didn’t feel I could say no because he was someone that I admired, my boss and the leader of the movement I had already devoted years of my life to,” she said.

The second time, she said she was “forced, against my will”. The New York Times investigation includes a summary of what Huerta says happened: She was in a car that Chavez was driving when he parked in an isolated grape field and raped her.

Both instances resulted in pregnancies, which Huerta says she kept secret. The children were ultimately given to other families to raise.

“I had experienced abuse and sexual violence before, and I convinced myself these were incidents that I had to endure alone and in secret,” she said.

Her story was echoed by the accounts of other women featured in The New York Times investigation.

One of the interviewees, Ana Murguia, said she was 13 when a 45-year-old Chavez kissed her, took off her clothes and tried to have sex with her in his locked office.

He had known her since she was eight years old, and the abuse at his hands prompted her to attempt suicide.

Debra Rojas, meanwhile, was 12 years old when Chavez began groping her. She described being 15 when she was raped by him at a motel near Stockton, California.

A third woman, Esmeralda Lopez, said she was 19 when Chavez tried to pressure her to have sex with him while they were alone on a tour, offering to use his influence to get something named in her honour.

Lopez said she refused his advances, and her mother, a fellow activist, corroborated her account, based on conversations they had at the time.

The women explained that they grappled with whether to come forward and whether they would be believed, given Chavez’s rise to fame as a civil rights hero.

In response to the widening scandal on Wednesday, United Farm Workers — the group that emerged from the National Farm Workers Association — announced it would not participate in any events on Cesar Chavez Day, a federal commemoration that falls on the late leader’s birthday.

The group denied receiving any direct reports of abuse, but it pledged to create a pathway for reports to be submitted.

“Over the coming weeks, in partnership with experts in these kinds of processes, we are working to establish an external, confidential, independent channel for those who may have experienced harm caused by Cesar Chavez,” United Farm Workers wrote in a statement.

“These allegations have been profoundly shocking. We need some time to get this right, including to ensure robust, trauma-informed services are available to those who may need it.”

Lawmakers across the political spectrum, from Texas Governor Greg Abbott to New Mexico Representative Ben Ray Lujan, also called for Chavez’s name to be stripped from public buildings, roads and other places of honour.

Lujan called the revelations in Wednesday’s New York Times report “horrific” and a “betrayal of the values that Latino leaders have championed for generations”.

“His name should be removed from landmarks, institutions, and honors,” Lujan said of Chavez. “We cannot celebrate someone who carried out such disturbing harm.”

Huerta, meanwhile, said that, in the wake of the investigation, community advocacy was more important than ever.

“I have kept this secret long enough,” she wrote. “My silence ends here.”

As the U.S. wades even deeper into the conflict with Iran, some Democratic and progressive political figures are trying to figure out how to connect the public’s wariness about war with concerns about affordability and the widespread reaction against President Trump’s xenophobic immigration policies.

If you’re looking for a template to do it well, one can be found in the words and actions of a political figure who recently passed away: the Rev. Jesse Jackson.

For while attention after his death has rightfully focused on Jackson’s long involvement with the civil rights movement, the more telling lesson for this moment is how his presidential campaigns connected a concern for addressing domestic disenfranchisement with a resolute stance against U.S. military adventures — a message that built on and echoed the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.’s landmark 1967 speech against the Vietnam War, economic exploitation and racial injustice.

Jackson’s candidacies in 1984 and 1988 emerged at a moment when the social compacts forged by the labor, civil rights and women’s movements of the 20th century were being systematically undone. Deindustrialization was hollowing out working-class communities. Reaganism was consolidating power around tax cuts for the wealthy, deregulation and attacks on unions. A new corporate consensus was hardening — one that increasingly shaped both major parties — prioritizing financial elites while disciplining labor and shrinking the public sphere.

Sound familiar?

Jackson refused to accept that such a right-wing and corporate realignment was inevitable. His Rainbow Coalition was far more ambitious than a candidate-centered campaign. It was an attempt to build an organized, multiracial, cross-class political front capable of contesting the direction of the country itself.

The Rainbow brought together constituencies that conventional political wisdom said could not unite — Black voters in the South, industrial workers in the Midwest, family farmers in crisis, Latino and Native organizers, Arab American activists, peace advocates, labor insurgents and progressive whites.

Jackson’s platform did not treat these groups as symbolic additions to a coalition; it linked their material interests. Farmers facing foreclosure were not an afterthought — the farm crisis was up front. Deindustrialized workers were not rhetorical props — trade, jobs and industrial policy were central. Civil rights were braided together with economic justice.

And crucially, Jackson insisted, as King had, that economic populism could not be separated from anti-militarism.

At the height of the Cold War, amid Reagan’s military buildup and interventionist doctrine, Jackson argued that bloated Pentagon budgets were not abstract line items. They were resources diverted from schools, healthcare, housing and jobs. He connected the violence of abandonment at home to the violence of intervention abroad — and his campaign called for redirecting military spending toward human needs and for diplomacy over escalation.

When Jackson thundered that we should “choose the human race over the nuclear race,” this was not a simple turn of phrase. It was integral to the Rainbow’s moral and economic logic. A government that prioritizes war over welfare, weapons over workers, cannot sustain democratic life.

That clarity feels especially salient today, as the United States continues to pursue military interventions and proxy conflicts whose legality and human cost are deeply contested. Once again, defense budgets swell while public goods strain. Once again, dissent against war is treated as disloyalty. Jackson rejected that false choice decades ago. He understood that militarism abroad reinforces inequality and immorality at home.

Jackson’s 1988 campaign captured millions of votes, won primaries and caucuses across the country and forced issues into the Democratic Party that party elites preferred to sideline. He demonstrated that a progressive program grounded in the lived experiences of ordinary people — rural collapse, urban disinvestment, plant closures, racial injustice and war — could assemble a national constituency.

Unfortunately, after Jackson’s last campaign, the Rainbow’s experiment in independent organizational life was folded too tightly into the mainstream Democratic Party. While that seemed a strategy to achieve a broader front, it meant that the progressive anchor was unmoored — and the effort dissolved before it could truly mature.

But the lessons of that era may be more relevant than ever.

Today, we again confront an ever-ascendant rightward turn buttressed by concentrated corporate power and normalized militarism. As in Jackson’s day, some leaders seek to deflect our attention, blaming economic challenges on the proximate “other” — in his era, Black women taking welfare, in our era, immigrants taking jobs — rather than those with power.

Jackson understood that defeating reactionary politics required isolating it — not only morally, but structurally — by assembling a coalition larger than the right’s base and rooted in shared material demands. He understood that hope had to be organized and that peace had to be part of prosperity. His campaigns showed that racial justice, labor rights, rural survival, gender equality and anti-war politics were not competing claims but interlocking ones.

Protest has surged in the United States, particularly after the excesses in Minnesota. But protest alone does not prevent consolidation. Nor do narrow electoral bargains that leave the underlying corporate and military consensus intact.

At a time when both parties remain deeply entangled with corporate and defense interests, remembering the promise of the Rainbow is not nostalgia. It is instruction.

Rishi Awatramani is a postdoctoral scholar in sociology at USC, where Manuel Pastor is a professor of sociology and the director of the Equity Research Institute.

DALLAS — A federal jury Friday convicted nine people — eight on terrorism charges — over a shooting at a Texas immigration facility that federal prosecutors tied to antifa, the decentralized far-left movement that has become a target of the Trump administration.

One person was also found guilty of attempted murder after prosecutors say he opened fire last summer outside the Prairieland Detention Center outside Fort Worth, wounding a police officer. The Justice Department called the violence an attack plotted by antifa operatives, but attorneys for the accused denied that characterization, saying there were no antifa associations and that there was merely a demonstration with fireworks before gunshots broke out.

U.S. District Judge Mark Pittman, an appointee of President Trump, presided over the nearly three-week trial in Fort Worth. It was closely followed by legal experts and critics who called the proceedings a test of the lengths the government can go to punish protesters.

FBI Director Kash Patel had said the case was the first time charges of providing material support to terrorists had targeted people accused of being antifa members.

“Today’s verdict on terrorism charges will not be the last as the Trump administration systematically dismantles Antifa and finally halts their violence on America’s streets,” U.S. Atty. Gen. Pam Bondi said in a statement.

Short for “anti-fascists,” antifa is not an organization but rather an umbrella term for far-left militant groups that confront or resist neo-Nazis and white supremacists at demonstrations.

Protesters denied having antifa ties

Defense attorneys told jurors that there was no plan for violence on July 4 outside the facility in Alvarado.

Of the nine defendants on trial, eight faced the charge of providing material support to terrorists, among other charges. The ninth defendant, Daniel Sanchez Estrada, was charged with corruptly concealing a document and conspiracy to conceal documents. He was found guilty of both.

Sanchez Estrada’s attorney, Christopher Weinbel, said he can’t believe jurors “came to this conclusion.” Weinbel said his client had deployed as a member of the U.S. Army several times and he’d hoped what he sacrificed for the country “meant something.”

“But I feel like it turned its back on justice with this. … The U.S. lost today with this verdict,” Weinbel said.

Prosecutor Shawn Smith told jurors during closing arguments that the group’s actions — including bringing firearms and first aid kits and wearing body armor — were all signs of nefarious intent. He said they practiced “antifa tactics” and were “obsessed with operational security.”

Attorneys for the defendants have said that there was no planned ambush and that protesters who brought firearms did so for their own protection — in a state with very lenient gun laws.

A test of 1st Amendment rights

The terrorism charges followed Trump’s order last fall to designate antifa as a domestic terrorist organization. Those charges did not require a tie to any organization, and there is no domestic equivalent to the State Department’s list of foreign terrorist organizations. That’s in part because organizations operating within the United States are protected by broad 1st Amendment rights.

Critics of the Justice Department’s case have said the outcome could have wide-reaching effects on protests.

“That opposition is something that the government wants to squash, so a case like this helps the government kind of see how far they can go in criminalizing constitutionally protected protests and also helps them kind of intimidate, increase the fear, hoping that folks in other cities then will think twice over protesting,” said Suzanne Adely, interim president of the National Lawyers Guild, a progressive legal group.

Trial focused on shots fired

Attorneys for the defendants have said most protesters began leaving when two guards from the center came outside. That was before any shots were fired.

Prosecutors said Benjamin Song, a former Marine Corps reservist, yelled, “Get to the rifles,” and opened fire, striking one police officer who had just pulled up to the center.

Though it was Song who opened fire, prosecutors charged several other protesters with attempted murder of an officer and discharging a firearm, but they were found not guilty. The prosecution had argued that from the group’s planning, it was foreseeable to those others that a shooting could happen.

The officer who was shot, Alvarado Police Lt. Thomas Gross, testified that when responding to the scene he saw a person clad in all-black with their face covered and carrying a rifle. He told jurors he was shot with a round that went into his shoulder and out of his neck.

Song’s attorney, Phillip Hayes, told jurors during closing arguments that there wasn’t a call to arms before Gross arrived on the scene and “aggressively” pulled out his firearm. Hayes suggested that Song’s shots were “suppressive fire” and that a ricochet bullet hit the officer.

Leading up to the trial, several people pleaded guilty to providing material support to terrorists after being accused of supporting antifa. They face up to 15 years in prison at sentencing.

Some of them testified for the prosecution, including Seth Sikes, who said he went to the detention center because he wanted to bring some joy to those held inside.

“I felt like I was doing the right thing,” he said.

Stengle writes for the Associated Press. AP writer Jim Vertuno in Austin, Texas, contributed to this report.