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Quick Rant...

Abolition teaches us that strong communities make police obsolete. But when community members hack me, harass me in organizing spaces, isolate me during a housing crisis, and even attempt to entrap me—mirroring the very tactics of the state—they don’t dismantle policing, they replicate it. When Democratic Socialists of America, San Diego Chapter members snitch-jacket me and publish documents falsely claiming I 'enabled' someone caught in a conspiracy case, while I was already in danger from my landlord and state repression, they didn’t protect me—they became part of the carceral logic. Community failed not because abolition is flawed, but because too many replicate power rather than dismantle it. Safety isn't built on surveillance, harassment, or abandonment. It's built on presence, accountability, and care—none of which I was afforded.

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The Wayward one

I’ve long been what some might call the “black sheep” of my family, but that phrase never sat right with me. A more accurate term is the wayward one—not because I lost my way, but because I chose a different path. I became a hermit from my immediate family first feeling a sense of failure or shame, but though those feelings once shaped my distance. Through healing and reflection, I came to understand that what truly separated me was my refusal to participate in the cycles of harm that defined our dynamic. The break wasn’t abandonment—it was an act of self-preservation, a refusal to carry forward what I knew had to end with me.

While “black sheep” is often used to describe someone like me, it carries problematic racial connotations that deserve scrutiny. Though the term originated from the idea that sheep with dark wool were less commercially valuable, the metaphor has come to imply that anything black is undesirable or deviant. In Western culture, “black” is frequently associated with impurity, disorder, and wrongdoing—consider phrases like “blacklist,” “black mark,” or “black magic.” In contrast, “white” is tied to purity, innocence, and moral virtue. These associations aren’t just symbolic; they reflect and reinforce the logic of white supremacy and anti-Blackness. Even when used casually, language like this subtly upholds a racialized hierarchy of value and normalcy.

For those of us who live at the margins—whether in families or in society—words matter. Choosing to describe myself as the wayward one is about reclaiming my narrative. It reflects not exile, but conscious divergence; not shame, but survival. I didn’t wander—I walked away, with purpose, and for good reason.

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Caught in the Crossfire: Organizing Against Power While Funded by It

When Movement Work Meets the Non-Profit Industrial Complex

(What it came down to was this: funding became the chokehold.)

The very elected officials we publicly challenged in the Tenant’s Rights Group I was involved in were entrenched in the power structures that underwrote our work — some even sat on the board of the very foundation funding us. What started as a radical attempt to organize tenants and build grassroots power devolved into a political trap: a nonprofit board vs. the people. And I almost didn’t survive.

We tried to walk a tightrope — organizing with urgency, while still dependent on nonprofit funding. But, as voices like INCITE! and Dylan Rodríguez have long warned, the non-profit industrial complex (NPIC) doesn’t just stifle movements — it redirects them. It absorbs rebellion, pacifies dissent, and turns liberation into paperwork. Our attempt to resist from within brought real consequences: burnout, internal surveillance, dangerous retaliation, and an attempt at co-optation and erasure.

The closer I got to building true people power, the more those who wanted the nonprofit structure resisted. The more I pushed for a mass membership campaign — 20,000 people at $60/year, a realistic and transformative base-building strategy — the more I was isolated. I was ready to take that on, even alone. Unfortunately, others in th group did not want me to succeed.

I became a point of contention simply for wanting to mobilize the masses — while they prioritized a nonprofit board over my safety. Mobilize the Masses vs. a Nonprofit Board wasn’t just a slogan; it was the daily reality. I was pushing for power from below, and they seemed to want to protect power from above. In the end, it wasn’t just burnout — the politics of funding nearly killed me.

Another reason I took this on was because a founder confided in me — off the record — that the then “membership coordinator” wasn’t doing what they were supposed to do. Another directly encouraged me to step up. But the moment I did, I was suddenly accused of “overlapping responsibilities” — without a shred of evidence. It felt like strategic dishonesty. People either spoke without integrity or lied outright, fueling the triangulation that had become normalized within the group.

It was a felt like a form of temporal control. I was asked to give my time, to fill in for others’ shortcomings, and when I asked for what I needed, I was punished for disrupting a hierarchy that depended on my invisibility. As the radical analysis of time reminds us, these contradictions aren’t just interpersonal — they’re systemic. Time isn’t neutral. Who gets to waste it, weaponize it, or demand it from others — especially in “movement” spaces — often reflects the same colonial and capitalist logics we claim to resist.

I came to solve the problem, but I couldn’t be the only one, this needed a collective effort to be successful, even if it only meant honoring my needs and accommodations in order to be successful.

Historically, I made national attention from my work during the Alfred Olango uprising. I was building something bigger. But while I worked through high blood pressure, migraines, and fibromyalgia — conditions aggravated in part by the group’s toxic dynamics — I was still being dragged into other people’s responsibilities, away from the project.

Even after I clearly voiced my needs and set boundaries, I was still enduring a hostile working environment distracting from the goal. The same “membership coordinator” who accused me of overlapping, only produced 27 dues-paying members out of 3,600 after nearly two years. This person also kept membership data and stored it in personal files.

I attempted to solve these problems by creating a code of conduct. But once again, my labor was dismissed. I wasn’t supported to work on what was meant to support everyone.

They then began holding meetings in places I couldn’t access to attend remotely, like bars. This wasn’t about inclusion. It was about protecting egos and pushing me out. Mobilizing the masses meant listening to me. It meant respecting my labor. It meant actually building power collectively. Instead, they chose optics, internal power plays, and control.

It was a unilateral decision to bring the “membership coordinator” on board — no discussion, no transparency. And years later, that same person who brought them in came to me asking how another statewide org handled their membership systems. So why come to me now? What principles are we actually working from?

They expected me to fundraise, but refused to give me the space, respect, or accommodations to do so. Previously, a former co-director — who got paid far more — did not to do her job, and I was the only one willing to say it. Yet I was expected to pick up the slack. All while holding down multiple jobs and continuing to film police — risking my life in ways none of them did.

Why was I responsible for the negligence of others? That in itself was a setup.

Even the micro-politics of control were absurd: endless logo redesigns to avoid a “hot dog look” while outreach and base-building were neglected. Surface over substance. Respectability over reality. Outreach that would bring in working-class people was seen as “dysfunction” because it didn’t match their aesthetic or their comfort. That’s counterrevolutionary.

Also, during the times I was most in danger — when surveillance, threats, and housing instability were swallowing me — most members were absent. Still, they expected me to keep doing their work. No solidarity. No care. Just demands.

After the incidents in 2021, I couldn’t keep showing up for people who were never there for me. Especially those who weaponized my needs against me, belittled my boundaries, and treated my demands for support as a burden.

Tenants’ rights were not worker rights to them. And again — we wonder why our movements don’t go anywhere.

They made it clear a Board was the priority, even though I never agreed to one. They never made meetings accessible, never included the issues I raised. And after five years (twelve if you count my full organizing history), my health, my heart, and my capacity were destroyed.

In hindsight, I realize: I was always willing to carry it alone. But real change requires collective commitment. It requires trust, accountability, and political alignment. I never got that from them — or from many who claim to be movement-aligned “socialists”.

Why did they dismiss my needs, even attack me for them — and still expect me to show up for them? Why demand my labor while denying my humanity?

They didn’t want what I understood to be grassroots organizing. They didn’t want discipline, structure, or mass membership. They wanted nonprofit dollars without accountability. A board without worker rights. Power without responsibility.

And when I raised those contradictions, they alienated me. A founding member.

It was never a good idea to get involved. And I should’ve left sooner. But what I did gain was this: discernment. Clarity. The understanding that not all harm comes from outside the movement. Sometimes it’s right at the center — posing as progress.

As Dylan Rodríguez writes: “The non-profit is not the site of radical change — it is the site of managed dissent.”

Even after everything, I tried to bounce back. I did the work. But they got in their own way. They made it clear I was no longer welcome — maybe never was. I was an outsider from the East Coast, and I never wanted to play their game.

Looking back, joining that Board would’ve destroyed my politics, my body, and my life. Because it was the funding that nearly killed me.

And as The Revolution Will Not Be Funded reminds us: “Grant money is not free money — it’s hush money.”

So no, I don’t trust nonprofits that stood idle as unhoused people suffered. And I especially don’t trust those who wanted to become just like them.

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How the Democratic Socialists of America, The Democratic Party with Agents Produced State Violence

Strong communities make police obsolete — but what happens when the very people who claim to be building those communities replicate the tactics of the state? What happens when they become the threat?

I was harassed and put in danger by a tenants’ rights group — while simultaneously endangered by my landlord and the state. These so-called organizers claimed to defend the most vulnerable, but when I needed protection, they left me exposed. Worse — they participated in the violence.

For years, my apartment complex lacked a secure outer gate. Cops exploited this open access, wandering through private property unchecked. At any moment, the tenant group I organized with — what’s now splintered into “Tenant Councils of SD” and another group — could’ve taken simple action: fundraised for a locksmith, amplified my demand for safety, or even just backed me in community meetings. But instead, they ridiculed me, ignored me, and left me to fend for myself.

I wasn’t important enough. Not to them.

The lack of a lock might sound small — but that absence put my life in danger. My home was repeatedly burglarized. Personal documents were stolen. And as my desperation grew, so did the silence from the people who called themselves community.

Meanwhile, members of Tenant Councils of San Diego were working overtime to discredit me. They accused me of enabling a dangerous man in the community — someone they themselves were most likely collaborating with behind closed doors. In a calculated act of sabotage, they used Google Docs to build a false narrative that I was complicit in his actions, setting me up for state surveillance and prosecution. It was nothing less than an entrapment attempt — using state logic, police logic — under the guise of community accountability.

Their tactics were indistinguishable from COINTELPRO. They snitch-jacketed me. They exposed private conversations. They hacked into accounts, cyberstalked me, and posted personal details online to humiliate and discredit me. I was not only a tenant under siege — I was being targeted by the very people who claimed to fight for tenants.

This wasn’t an isolated case of “internal drama.” It was coordinated political violence. At least half a dozen women went through this.

The deeper I looked, the clearer the connections became: names like Jesse Cannon, Leah Madbak, Yesenia Padilla, Jonathan Chavez. Individuals connected to DSA San Diego, Redneck Revolt, and other “radical” orgs — many of which echo the Democratic Party’s talking points while pretending to stand outside of it. Given the political context — Toni Atkins’ ties to Jennifer LeSar, the Developer, and housing policies that actively harm tenants — the conspiracy wasn’t paranoia. It was pattern recognition.

I even reached out to the DSA National Steering Committee, hoping for something — acknowledgment, accountability, safety. I wrote:

“In addition to the harassment I’ve faced with DSA, I also dealt with significant safety concerns in my personal life. At the time my landlord neglected their responsibility to provide secure and adequate locks on my property, despite multiple requests for upgrades or repairs. This negligence has posed a serious risk to the safety and security of both me and my partner.”

I was constantly asked to repeat the exact same labor — labor that was already traumatizing — without any assurance that it would lead to resolution or that I would be protected from further harm. Instead of support, the only response I received was a push to expose myself again and relive the same harm, as if that alone could fix things.”

So, I documented everything in the only way I could to get my landlord to replace the lock. Because I had to. Because women, femmes, and marginalized people are often left with only one tool to defend ourselves when community fails: a paper trail within the system.

“This was not only a necessary step for any accountability to happen but is also a reflection of the unfortunate reality that women in our society often face: the need to create a formal paper trail to seek justice or protection. This situation underscores the critical importance of documentation in cases of abuse, harassment, theft, or negligence, and it highlights the broader systemic issues that many women confront when trying to protect themselves.”

I had no other choice but to make a choice. “CommUnity” left me with no other choice.

From an abolitionist perspective, taking protective action in the face of danger isn’t inexcusable — especially when someone has been harmed by a community member and other support systems, like a landlord or mutual aid network, have failed. Abolition isn’t about personal purity; it’s about transforming systems while surviving within them. Sometimes, people are forced to make choices within oppressive structures because no real alternatives exist. The focus should be on the conditions that led to that decision — not on punishing the person trying to stay safe.

Tenant Councils of SD mirrored the state. They became the police in radical clothing. Because when community becomes surveillance, when safety and privacy become nonexistent, and when radical language is used to alienate instead of protecting — then the so-called Left is no different from the system it claims to fight.

We say strong communities make police obsolete — but only if those communities actually practice care, solidarity, and protection.

Until then, what we have are shadows of the state — cosplaying as revolutionaries — while enacting the same carceral logic.

And some of us, the ones they can’t control or exploit, are left to pick up the pieces alone.

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When Shelter Is Leverage: The Ties Between Trafficking and Housing Instability

Human trafficking and housing instability are deeply intertwined — instability creates the conditions for exploitation, while trafficking often results in displaced, isolated, or unhoused survivors with limited options. In some cases, survivors are propositioned or coerced into sexual acts in exchange for housing — a phenomenon known as “survival sex” or “sex-for-rent,” which has been documented as both a form of exploitation and, under legal frameworks, human trafficking. These transactions often occur under duress, with landlords, property managers, or intermediaries leveraging someone’s desperation for shelter.¹ ²

My own personal goal in joining that tenant group — and of course, Cop Watch — was to address this connection head-on, to bring awareness to how systemic neglect, policing, and displacement feed into cycles of violence and vulnerability. But no one else seemed to see it as a priority.

The reality of housing instability — and not being safe in my own home — became brutally clear during the covert operation I was targeted in. I wasn’t just afraid of being displaced — I was navigating a terrain where coercion, stalking, and systemic abandonment blurred the lines between structural and interpersonal violence. The only person who showed up in any way was R, and even that, while appreciated, was nowhere near enough. It was heartbreaking to engage in those spaces with such urgency — not wanting to go through what I knew was going to happen — only to be sidelined, dismissed, and retraumatized by the very people who claimed to be fighting for justice.

Supporting Sources:

National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC) — “Housing and Sexual Violence: Overview” (2018) Explains how housing instability creates opportunities for exploitation, including coercive sex-for-rent situations.

Urban Institute — “Trading Sex for Shelter: Survival Sex Among Homeless Youth in the U.S.” (2016) Details how lack of stable housing leads many youth and adults into coercive sexual arrangements.

ACLU — “Women and Housing Injustice” (2018) Highlights landlord sexual harassment and coercion as a widespread and under-addressed issue.

National Housing Law Project (NHLP) — “Sexual Harassment in Housing: A Guide for Advocates” (2020) Discusses how sexual harassment and coercion in housing situations often go unchallenged due to survivors’ fear of eviction or homelessness.

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The Housing Revolution WILL be Tenant AND Unhoused Led

A Tenant's group erased unhoused struggle from the mission…here’s what it can mean for the unhoused/homeless

The housing struggle cannot be divorced from the people most brutalized by it. To speak of affordable housing without naming the unhoused is to sanitize violence and sell justice at a discount. This erasure is not only a political oversight but a deliberate choice. In the case of the group I was involved with, they made a point to remove “unhoused” from their mission, a move that echoed a troubling trend in progressive circles: the tendency to sideline those who face the most brutal consequences of housing inequality. This is no accident.

As Ruth Wilson Gilmore reminds us, “capitalism requires inequality and racism enshrines it” — and homelessness is one of its cruelest manifestations. Yet, within spaces that claim to fight for justice, there is a disturbing erasure of the unhoused from housing discourse. Angela Davis’s warning that “we live in a society of an imposed forgetfulness” rings true here: the unhoused are rendered invisible in movements that claim to challenge the system.

The reality is that the unhoused are subjected to violence — both physical and systemic — in ways that those with homes rarely experience. By removing the unhoused/homeless from the conversation, the group in question perpetuated a sanitized, palatable narrative of housing justice that ignored the very people whose lives are most threatened by housing instability. To fight for housing justice without centering the unhoused is to fight for a future already compromised — a future where the struggle for justice becomes a tool for reinforcing the same systems of violence it purports to challenge.

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“Inexcusable”: When Abolitionists Mirror the Carceral State

A specific rant about politics in a group and how it replicated carceral logic. As Mariame Kaba has said, “We live in the master’s house. There are no blank slates.”

For a person to call an argument between us “inexcusable behavior” when they are supposedly part of an abolitionist group about detention resistance, one who claims to reject punishment, and disposability raises some serious contradictions.

Here’s why:

Abolition is anti-punitive: Labeling something as “inexcusable” often serves to shut down conversation and frame a person as irredeemable. That’s the logic of prisons — exile instead of engagement. If the argument didn’t involve violence or abuse, calling it “inexcusable” reflects a punitive instinct rather than a transformative one.

Abolition is about context: A core principle is understanding harm within its social, emotional, and systemic context. Even disagreements or messy interpersonal dynamics should be approached with curiosity and a commitment to understanding — not moral condemnation.

Language like “inexcusable” can replicate carceral logic: It mirrors the state’s approach to harm; isolate, punish, and dispose — rather than listen, repair, and transform.

That said, abolitionists are human, too. Sometimes they act out of hurt or ego. The contradiction doesn’t necessarily make them a bad person, but it does reveal how deeply internalized punitive frameworks are — even among those trying to resist them.

Education

Mariame Kaba — writings and interviews

Often discusses how abolition means not reproducing punitive, controlling behaviors in organizing spaces.

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Housing Justice Disillusionment

I'm honestly relieved to no longer be involved with the housing justice movement in San Diego. At a time when I wasn’t even safe in my own home—targeted by both my landlord and the state—tenants' rights groups not only failed to show up, but some, like Tenant Councils of San Diego, actively contributed to the conditions that put me in harm’s way by creating chaos and drama internally in meetings and even attempted to entrap me in a conspiracy case the DA was building against an “antifa” protester by publishing Google documents falsely claiming I “constantly enable” this person. When I took the necessary legal steps to secure my safety, they tried to twist it against me by snitch jacketing me. Even after everything that happened, I still tried to re-engage—clearly stating my needs and limitations while trying to recover—but it went nowhere. Other people I reached out to in hopes to continue -never even responded, but it worked out for the best. Looking back, walking away was without question the right decision.

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Entrapment, Policing, and Democratic Socialists of America San Diego’s Dirty Work for the State

Had to Solely Focus on the Direct Targeting and Endangerment Democratic Socialists of America San Diego and “Antifa Protesters” Committed Against Me.

It needs to be understood — deeply and without denial — that the Democratic Socialists of America San Diego, now operating under the name Tenant Councils of San Diego, used the language of housing justice as a smokescreen. Behind the rebrand was not a shift in purpose, but a covert effort to co-opt, neutralize, and erase those who wouldn’t fall in line — especially tenants who organized independently or challenged their internal abuses. This wasn’t just a political disagreement. It was a strategic operation to destroy reputations, derail movements, and consolidate power under the guise of solidarity.

They attempted to entrap me in a conspiracy case the District Attorney was building against a violent man in our community, a person I had already distanced myself from. They did this by publishing manipulated documents that falsely accused me of "constantly enabling" him — a claim that put a target on my back during an active criminal investigation.

At the same time, these so-called tenant organizers — while publicly claiming to fight for tenants' rights — left me completely exposed. As a tenant, I was put at risk both by the police and my landlord, with no meaningful support from the very groups that claimed to advocate for people like me. Their abandonment wasn’t just neglect. It was betrayal.

When their attempt to criminalize me failed, they did what COINTELPRO always did to dissidents they couldn't eliminate legally: they snitch-jacketed me. To this day, they’ve left the publicly posted remnants of this campaign on their website, revealing private conversations out of context to discredit me and rewrite the story.

After surviving this trauma — the setups, the gaslighting, and the deliberate endangerment — I am finally speaking out. Because what happened to me wasn’t just interpersonal or organizational dysfunction. It was infiltration. It was disruption. It followed a playbook.

From so-called “antifa” operatives pushing me to attend a Pacific Beach protest to “fight fascists” — despite my documented safety risks — to internal sabotage through gossip, procedural chaos, and performative conflict mediation, every tactic used aligned with historical patterns of counterinsurgency: divide, discredit, and destroy.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t theoretical. We have decades of documentation — from COINTELPRO’s targeting of the Black Panther Party, where agents sowed suspicion, encouraged infighting, and forged letters to pit leaders against each other¹, to the infiltration of the American Indian Movement (AIM), where federal agents impersonated organizers, disrupted ceremonies, and contributed to the criminalization of key leaders like Leonard Peltier². Even environmental and Indigenous land defense groups at Standing Rock faced surveillance, infiltration, and media disinformation campaigns designed to fracture trust and delegitimize the movement from within³.

These same tactics — false accusations, reputational takedowns, snitch-jacketing, and rebranding initiatives that erase radical roots while absorbing their language — are still being used today.

Even if no undercover agent in the Democratic Socialists of America San Diego has been publicly named, the behavior fits a familiar mold. Multiple DSA chapters across the country have raised similar alarms: unexplained smear campaigns, bizarre disciplinary processes, and individuals whose actions consistently benefit state interests by fragmenting trust and exhausting organizers⁴.

This is how repression looks now. It doesn’t always wear a badge or carry a federal warrant. Sometimes it wears a red rose and speaks the language of solidarity. But when a group prioritizes control, secrecy, and character assassination over safety, autonomy, and care — it ceases to be a movement and becomes something else entirely.

And when nearly every one of those responsible left DSA quietly as soon as tenants began organizing independently and questioning what happened? That tells you everything.

So I ask again: Who are these people, really?

Footnotes / Sources:

COINTELPRO and the Black Panthers

Church Committee Report, 1976: Full text

FBI files on the Black Panther Party: vault.fbi.gov/BlackPantherParty

COINTELPRO and the American Indian Movement (AIM)

“The FBI’s War on the American Indian Movement” — The Intercept (2017): Link

Standing Rock, Surveillance, and Corporate-State Collusion

“The TigerSwan Files: Private Security and the Dakota Access Pipeline” — The Intercept (2017): Link

ACLU on surveillance of pipeline protests: Link

Infiltration & Manipulation in Left Movements Today

Allegations of surveillance and interference in DSA chapters: Link

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What is Socialism, from an Anarchist

Socialism is more than just an economic system—it’s a political philosophy rooted in collective ownership and democratic control over resources and the means of production: land, infrastructure, factories, and beyond. It prioritizes meeting people’s needs over profit and aims to dismantle systems that concentrate wealth and power in the hands of a few. Central to socialism is solidarity—not as a transactional exchange, but as a commitment to care for one another, especially when someone can’t “give back.” As Marx put it, “From each according to their ability, to each according to their need.” In a truly socialist framework, people deserve housing, food, healthcare, and dignity—not because they’ve earned it, but because they’re human.

Mutual aid reflects this spirit—neighbors supporting one another without bureaucratic gatekeeping—but it alone isn’t enough. It must be part of a broader strategy to transform the systems that create scarcity and harm in the first place.

I used to believe that organizing alongside others who claimed to share these values meant I would be treated with the same care and solidarity I offered. I was wrong. After a covert operation left me unable to work or be “productive,” I was targeted rather than supported. My inability to “give back” was scrutinized and weaponized as justification to alienate me. And despite all the mutual aid I had consistently offered—often at personal cost—it was never extended in return.

It wasn’t just a personal betrayal—it was a collective failure. A community that claimed to stand for justice acted instead out of self-interest, control, and cowardice.

Socialist values are not abstract. They’ve been applied in real-world structures, like worker cooperatives rooted in egalitarianism, shared ownership, democratic decision-making, and fair distribution of labor and profit. These are tangible ways to live out the principles we claim to believe in. But the group I was in failed to uphold any of that. Despite identifying as socialists and showing support and understanding for others who struggled or needed accommodations, when I needed time away—after a long and dangerous series of events—they suddenly operated with a deeply capitalistic mindset: obsessed with productivity, reliant on punitive logic around conflict without examining the conditions that led to it, and quick to discard those they could no longer benefit off of.

Worse still, a director in that group who claimed to be a socialist openly idealized authoritarianism. They invoked Stalin as a model of leadership and adopted top-down management styles rooted in intimidation and control—not collaboration or care. Dissent was punished. Dignity was denied. These tactics alienated not just me, but many who might have been allies.

While I stood for anarchism and self-managed, stateless forms of solidarity, I’m no longer convinced that anyone in that group ever truly embodied socialist values. The disconnect between their rhetoric and their actions exposed the hollowness of their politics. It made one thing clear: claiming socialism means nothing if your practice replicates the very hierarchies and violence we’re supposed to be fighting.

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Wake up call

I’ve reached a point where continuing to engage with recent organizing circle—and more broadly, trying to work collaboratively in activist spaces over the past twelve years—wasn’t sustainable or aligned with what’s truly needed, especially right now. Throughout that time, I was consistently used for my labor, emotionally and logistically burdened with work others avoided—either out of cowardice, entitlement, or convenience. I dealt with burnout, betrayal, and outright danger, including an attempt to entrap me by Tenant Councils of San Diego (Democratic Socialists of San Diego), isolated in moments of crisis, and placed at risk by people more interested in power or reputation than principled action.

Many of these individuals came from shared political formations like the ISO, where rigid ideology masked deep dysfunction and where my value was reduced to what I could produce, not who I was or what I needed. These spaces often replicated the very harm they claimed to oppose—undermining collective care, enabling covert power hoarding, and punishing dissent through backchannel smear campaigns. At times, it became indistinguishable from state abuse: surveillance, retaliation, silencing, and gaslighting—only this time, it also came from people I was supposed to trust.

This wasn’t just about one group or moment. It’s been a pattern—where calls for justice were performative, and where people who claimed to want systemic change actively resisted accountability when it threatened their status or comfort. I found myself doing life-saving work under dangerous conditions while others collected salaries to do little, or worse, sabotaged efforts out of pettiness, fear or because they were paid off. My health, safety, and dignity were repeatedly compromised.

So, I’ve had to make a necessary shift—not out of bitterness, but clarity. A shift in focus and approach was the only way to prioritize what’s most urgent, recalibrate expectations, and move forward with integrity. That means reclaiming my time, refusing to carry dysfunctional organizations on my back, and redefining what solidarity, strategy, and sustainability actually mean—on my own terms.

[opercursocomplexodeumamulhe-blog]

Comrades or Colonizers? How the ISO Colonized Radical Spaces While Silencing Lived Experience

“If the structure of our movements mimics the systems we claim to fight, what are we actually building?”

In movements that claim to fight for justice, the deepest betrayals often come not from the outside, but from within. My experience with individuals associated with the International Socialist Organization (ISO)—though I never formally joined—revealed a pattern of internal colonization: a political project that seized space, extracted labor, and imposed hierarchical order on grassroots efforts that were never theirs to begin with.

Colonizing Movements from Within

Like colonizers, they did not build power with the community—they imposed themselves upon it. They entered radical spaces the way empires occupy land: staking claims, demanding control, and forcing assimilation. Labor was extracted from those most impacted—particularly those with lived experiences of state violence—only to discard us when we became "useless", "inconvenient" or "unmanageable."

They demanded ideological conformity. If you were an anarchist, abolitionist, queer radical, or survivor unwilling to conform to their version of socialism, you were sidelined or pathologized. Emotional manipulation was common. If you had boundaries or needs, you were accused of being divisive or disruptive.

My Experience: Exploitation, Hospitalization, and Dismissal

This was my experience with every individual tied to ISO politics over the course of 12 years. In my most recent organizing effort, I was relentlessly exploited for my labor—tasked with building projects on my own, carrying both emotional and logistical burdens that others either saw as beneath them or were too cowardly to take on themselves. All of this while juggling multiple jobs, including the emotionally taxing and physically risky work of filming police as a form of rapid response.

Then came a period of crisis: for almost a year of dangerous incidents stemming from covert surveillance and operations, nearly constant harassment and violations of my privacy, and later a near-fatal hospitalization. When I needed the same support and follow-through I had consistently offered them, their response—or lack of it—taught me everything I needed to know.

Rather than expressing concern, they gossiped behind my back while I had no choice but to take time off—due to a near-fatal hospitalization that required major surgery, and ongoing stalking that put my safety at risk. When one individual was called in for failing to meet their own responsibilities, they deflected by using punitive logic. Another stirred toxic triangulation, sowing drama and mistrust among the group, only to try to push me back into the very labor that person weaponized against me, accusing me of impropriety in meetings when they gossiped about others in private to me.

At one point, one of them even told me they were “sick and tired” of me trying to work with them as coworkers/comrades, dismissively asserting that they didn’t owe me—or anyone. That moment made it clear: they saw accountability not as a collective responsibility, but as a burden to avoid. The betrayal didn’t come from the state. It came from comrades who claimed to fight for justice but refused to practice it with the people closest to them.

It wasn’t only the state that set me up. It was my "comrades"—those who claimed to fight for collective care—who orchestrated the betrayal.

This wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a deliberate tactic rooted in their political culture.

I also felt that I had to disclose my status as a survivor in other circles with ISO years prior just to be treated with a baseline level of respect—the same respect I was expected to give others without condition. It wasn’t just that they failed to create a space where survivors could feel safe or validated; it was that the structure they upheld actively punished vulnerability.

Even in situations involving police-perpetrated sexual violence—an issue that demands extreme care and solidarity—they isolated the very people most harmed. When I tried to bring attention that violence affected me personally, I was treated with suspicion, even hostility, as if I were trying to co-opt something that belonged to them.

Real-World ISO Failures: Sexual Assault, Sex Work, and Silencing Survivors

This culture wasn’t limited to my experience—it was widespread and systemic.

1. The 2019 Sexual Assault Cover-Up

In 2019, the ISO imploded after a leadership cover-up of a rape allegation involving a member of the Steering Committee. A survivor came forward, only to face procedural manipulation and retaliation. The case was buried under the guise of "protecting the movement."

“The process served to protect the leadership from political embarrassment rather than to protect or support the survivor.” —from the public resignation letter of nearly 100 ISO members

This wasn't an isolated incident. Survivors had long reported being asked to "prioritize politics over feelings," and to remain silent for the sake of “movement unity.” Their trauma was minimized or ignored. No real accountability was possible because the structure was built to protect power, not people.

2. Reformist Queer Politics Over Radical Queer Liberation

The ISO in San Diego clung tightly to reformist queer politics—most notably, a single-issue focus on marriage equality. While queer radicals called for dismantling family policing, heteronormativity, and carceral systems, ISO members pushed an agenda that emphasized state-recognized marriage as a key victory.

Critics of this strategy—including trans organizers, sex workers, and disabled queer folks—were dismissed or mocked for being “ultra-left” or “idealist.”

"It felt like we were being asked to behave, assimilate, and wait our turn.” —former queer ISO member, in post-disbandment forum

3. Conflating Sex Work with Trafficking

Rather than taking a nuanced, survivor-informed approach, ISO-aligned members in San Diego promoted messaging that collapsed all sex work into trafficking. This erasure not only removed agency from sex workers but silenced any possibility for more folks impacted to participate in shaping policies directly affecting them. Dialogues were shut down. Trauma-informed care was nowhere in sight.

Those most impacted by sexual violence were either pitied or punished. In one instance, organizers with histories of exploitation or survival sex were later accused of being "too unstable" to lead.

“They made me feel like I had to prove I wasn’t a trauma case to be allowed to speak.” —survivor and harm reduction organizer, Bay Area (former ISO ally)

From Liberation to Domination

The ISO built itself on a rigid scaffolding of democratic centralism—where dissent was seen as disloyalty, and leadership was centralized in ways that mirrored the very hierarchies we were supposed to be dismantling. They colonized organizing spaces like territory: asserting dominance, extracting labor, and rewriting narratives.

Rather than supporting abolitionist or community-rooted models of care, they pushed punitive, top-down tactics. Feminist critiques were treated as identity politics. Disability justice was ignored. Queer theory was co-opted when convenient and discarded when radical.

What Now? The Playbook Is Alive and Well

The ISO’s collapse didn’t end this pattern. Former members have simply moved into new formations—nonprofits, tenant groups, etc—bringing the same tactics with new names and rebranded optics.

They still build coalitions where I'm sure decision-making is opaque and top-down. Still relying on surface-level class reductionism, verbal and emotional abuse, and manipulating power dynamics in spaces.

Decolonizing Our Movements from the Inside Out

To those still organizing: be wary of comrades who behave like colonizers. They may speak the language of revolution, but watch how they treat those who are vulnerable, disabled, queer, undocumented, or poor. Watch how they handle harm. Watch who they silence.

“Liberation must begin with how we treat each other, not just with what we say we believe.”

We must decolonize our movements—not only from the legacy of white supremacy and state violence, but from the authoritarian habits that replicate them.

Radical organizing demands consent, care, and mutual accountability—not coercion, control, and misinformation.

Source

The ISO’s vote to dissolve and what comes next | SocialistWorker.org

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Complex-PTSD

The psychological toll of prolonged surveillance, stalking, harassment, and betrayal doesn’t just leave bruises on the psyche — it reshapes the nervous system.

The covert operations I endured — from stalking and surveillance to gaslighting and betrayal by those within organizing spaces — fundamentally rewired how I processed safety, memory, and identity.

This wasn’t abstract. It was physiological, neurological, and existential.

As Frantz Fanon once wrote:

“The colonized is elevated above his jungle status in proportion to his adoption of the mother country’s cultural standards.”

This captures a psychological reality that many survivors of complex trauma know intimately: safety and acceptance are often conditioned on self-erasure.

CPTSD develops in environments where survival requires the constant suppression of one’s identity. Whether in colonized societies or movement spaces that replicate domination, individuals learn to perform acceptability — adopting the language, values, or behaviors of those in power to avoid punishment. This coerced compliance doesn’t just distort identity; it reshapes the nervous system.

Internalized oppression is a trauma response. The chronic stress of needing to meet external standards for safety leads to shame, dissociation, and emotional dysregulation — all hallmarks of CPTSD. Fanon’s words illuminate how trauma is not just personal but structural, rooted in systems that demand conformity while denying dignity.

And what happens when the same dynamics of control and domination — once enforced by the state — are internalized and deployed by those claiming to dismantle it?

Many of the symptoms I now live with reflect Complex PTSD (CPTSD) — a condition that arises from chronic, repeated trauma, rather than a single traumatic event. It names what I lived: not a breakdown, but a long-term, adaptive survival response to systemic and interpersonal violence.

How trauma lodged itself in my body

Hyperarousal: My amygdala became hypersensitive. Rest was nearly impossible. I was always on alert — waiting for the next threat, the next betrayal.

Flashbacks, memory lapses: My hippocampus — crucial for memory — was compromised. Timelines blurred. Trust in my own recollections faded. This is a strategy of psychological warfare: make the survivor doubt their own mind.

Emotional dysregulation: My prefrontal cortex, responsible for reason and decision-making, faltered. Manipulation and overwhelm became easier for others to exploit.

Dissociation and disconnection: Sometimes, I didn’t feel like I was in my body. I couldn’t tell what I felt, or why. Trauma scrambled my ability to sense myself — a neurological detachment called interoception dysfunction.

As Audre Lorde once warned:

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” But within so many of our spaces, the master’s tools weren’t just present — they were disguised as strategy, as discipline, as ‘accountability.’

The inner war became harder than the external one

There were times I didn’t feel safe in the United States — let alone my own home. People knew that. But that truth was inconvenient in case.

CPTSD doesn’t just affect mood or memory. It alters perception, relationships, even belief systems:

Distorted self-perception: I began to internalize worthlessness, a sense that I was “too much,” or “not enough,” or just broken.

Loss of belief systems: I lost faith in movements. In solidarity. In the idea that organizing could be anything but a new form of control.

Relationship ruptures: Trust eroded. I learned to expect betrayal from every direction — not from paranoia, but from experience.

This is what Silvia Federici meant when she said:

“The body has been for women in capitalist society what the factory has been for male waged workers: the primary ground of their exploitation.” But in this moment, our pain wasn’t even commodified for capital. It was leveraged for power — to build false narratives, to cover up abuse, to keep certain people in control.

We weren’t safe. And it wasn’t a coincidence.

I wasn’t the only one facing danger. Across the city, women — especially unhoused women — were being stalked, abducted, and assaulted, sometimes by police. These weren’t isolated incidents. They were systemic atrocities, happening in the shadows while the media looked away.

When corporate Democrats control the narrative, our stories get buried. Edited out. Erased.

As Mariame Kaba says:

“Let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair.” But radicalization must come with discernment. We can’t afford to romanticize the Left when it reenacts the very violence we claim to oppose.

What I experienced wasn’t just the fallout of organizing gone wrong. It was state-like violence, enacted by institutions and individuals embedded in radical spaces. It was betrayal disguised as solidarity. Surveillance repackaged as structure. Control masquerading as care.

We need new tools.

Not just to name trauma, but to disarm the cycles that create it — even within our own ranks.

As you read this, know that what I’ve described isn’t rare. Many of us live with the weight of CPTSD, shaped by trauma that isn’t simply interpersonal, but systemic. This is the toll of gaslighting, structural abandonment, and harm that festers behind activist rhetoric.

We deserve spaces where healing is not held hostage to power. Where being believed is not conditional. Where accountability means liberation — not exile.

Resources Complex PTSD and Neurobiology of Trauma

Judith Herman, Trauma and Recovery Trauma and Recovery, by Judith Herman (1992)

Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score Book-Club-Study-Guide_compressed.pdf

Gabor Maté, When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress When The Body Says No - The Hidden Cost of Stress

Political Betrayal, Surveillance, and Internalized State Violence

Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks and The Wretched of the Earth Fanon_Frantz_Black_Skin_White_Masks_1986.pdf Frantz Fanon's "The Wretched of the Earth" on JSTOR

Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider sister_outsider_audrey_lorde_ib_pdf_packet.pdf

Mariame Kaba Her writings on transformative justice and prison abolition offer alternatives to carceral logics embedded in activist culture. Abolition Is a Collective Vision: An Interview With Mariame Kaba | The Nation

Silvia Federici Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation – by Silvia Federici - The Labor Community Strategy Center

Ruth Wilson Gilmore The Avery Review | Organizing Against Abandonment: Ruth Wilson Gilmore’s Latest Movement Offering <i>Abolition Geography</i>

Movement Harm, Gaslighting, and Activist Spaces as Sites of Control

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha – writer, disability and transformative justice practioner Kai Cheng Thom, I Hope We Choose Love I Hope We Choose Love | Arsenal Pulp Press "The Revolution Will Not Be Funded" (INCITE! Women of Color Against Violence) The Revolution Will Not Be Funded: Beyond the Non-Profit Industrial Complex on JSTOR Dean Spade, Mutual Aid: Building Solidarity During This Crisis Mutual Aid | The Anarchist Library

Sources for Surveillance, State Harm, and Stalking

Simone Browne, Dark Matters: On the Surveillance of Blackness Analyzes how surveillance is racialized and woven into everyday life — and how these logics show up even in “liberatory” contexts. Dark Matters: On the Surveillance of Blackness on JSTOR Christian Parenti, The Soft Cage: Surveillance in America from Slavery to the War on Terror A deep look into surveillance histories and their sociopolitical functions. (PDF) The Soft Cage: Surveillance From Slavery to the War on Terror Dorothy Roberts, Torn Apart: How the Child Welfare System Destroys Black Families While not directly about CPTSD, her work shows how systems rooted in surveillance, control, and state power traumatize under the guise of “protection.” (PDF) Dorothy Roberts, Torn Apart: How the Child Welfare Systems Destroy Black Families—and How Abolition Can Build a Safer World

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Todd Gloria, Toni Atkins & Jennifer LeSar: Further Examples of Ethical Concerns

1. Campaign Funds Directed to Spouse-Owned Company

In 2022, Toni Atkins allocated $22,500 from her campaign funds to the Global Policy Leadership Academy (GPLA), a company solely owned by her spouse, Jennifer LeSar. The payment was for a trip to Vienna to study social housing models. Experts, including former Federal Election Commission chair Ann Ravel, have questioned the legality of this payment under California law, which prohibits the use of campaign funds for personal benefits, including payments to a spouse’s company.

2. Previous Use of Campaign Funds for International Travel

In 2015, Atkins used campaign funds to cover expenses for a five-day trip to Cuba with her spouse, Jennifer LeSar. The trip was organized by lobbyists, and the use of campaign funds for such travel has raised questions about the appropriateness of using political contributions for personal or semi-personal endeavors.

3. Concurrent Roles in Public Office and Private Consulting

While serving in the State Assembly, Atkins held a position as Senior Principal of Housing Policy and Planning at LeSar Development Consultants, her spouse’s firm. This dual role has been scrutinized for potential conflicts of interest, especially when voting on redevelopment funds that might benefit LeSar’s clients. Critics argue that this arrangement could compromise her objectivity in legislative decisions related to housing and redevelopment.

Todd Gloria: In-Depth Analysis of Development Decisions and Political Contributions

1. 101 Ash Street Controversy

Todd Gloria, during his tenure as a city council member, supported the city’s acquisition of the 101 Ash Street building through a lease-to-own agreement. The building was later found to have significant issues, including asbestos contamination, rendering it uninhabitable and leading to substantial financial losses for the city. Investigations revealed that individuals and entities involved in the deal had made substantial contributions to Gloria’s campaigns, raising concerns about potential undue influence.

2. Settlement with Broker Jason Hughes

In 2023, the city reached a $9.4 million settlement with real estate broker Jason Hughes, who had advised the city on the 101 Ash Street deal while also receiving compensation from the seller, a conflict of interest that was not disclosed at the time. This settlement aimed to recoup some of the city’s losses from the problematic transaction.

3. Criticism Over Development Projects and Political Contributions

Gloria has faced criticism for his support of development projects that have been perceived as favoring developers over community interests. For instance, his endorsement of the Kensington Terrace project faced community opposition due to concerns about its impact on the neighborhood. Additionally, Gloria’s campaigns have received significant contributions from developers and lobbyists, leading to accusations of prioritizing donor interests.

Sources

La Prensa

Mayor’s Office Denial Over 101 Ash St Deal Raises More Questions | La Prensa San Diego

Politico

Ethics questions dog Democrat running for California governor — POLITICO

Toni Atkins’ $22,500 payment headache — POLITICO

San Diego Reader

Is Assembly Leader Toni Atkins Cashing in on Homelessness? | San Diego Reader

Why Was Toni Atkins Consulting for Developers Vying for Redevelopment Dollars After She Was Elected to State Assembly? | San Diego Reader

Not so forest-friendly | San Diego Reader

City’s ex-homeless honcho joins LeSar firm | San Diego Reader

CA State Assembly Leader Atkins Heads Select Committee on Homelessness While her Spouse & ex- CCDC Official is Paid $225 Per Hour in Redevelopment Money “Solving” Homelessness | San Diego San Diego Reader

Tapping the homeless lobby for Cole’s political debt retirement | San Diego Reader

Times of San Diego

Publisher Sues San Diego, Alleging City is Stonewalling Data on 101 Ash Debacle — Times of San Diego

Voice of San Diego

Toni Hearts Todd | Voice of San Diego

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In 2020, amid national uprisings following the murder of George Floyd and widespread calls to reimagine public safety, the local Democratic establishment revealed the contradictions of a party attempting to straddle progressive rhetoric with centrist, establishment-serving governance.

Pro-Development, With Caveats

The San Diego County Democratic Party endorsements spoke volumes. In the 2020 mayoral race, the party backed Assemblymember Todd Gloria, who advocated for increasing housing density and transit-oriented development as key strategies to address the region's housing crisis. Gloria's approach aligned with statewide Democratic efforts to upzone urban areas, often at the expense of local control.

This endorsement reflects a broader trend within the California Democratic Party: support for market-driven, developer-aligned strategies to solve the housing crisis, often branded as "affordable housing" despite lacking sufficient guarantees for affordability. The local party's tacit alignment with these priorities' places it firmly within a neoliberal development framework, despite community pushback against gentrification and displacement.

"Policing Reform" or Political Cover?

Following intense protests in the summer of 2020, the San Diego County Democratic Party responded with a series of resolutions presented as a pivot toward accountability but were ultimately symbolic.

They lacked enforcement mechanisms and had no direct impact on budget allocations or police operations. In June 2020, the San Diego City Council approved a $27 million increase to the police budget, raising it to $566 million for the 2020–2021 fiscal year. The approval came despite mass public opposition, with many residents demanding divestment from police and investment in community services.

Resolutions often serve as political cover, allowing parties to gesture toward progress while maintaining the status quo. They signal values without committing to structural changes. In this case, they enabled the Democratic Party to absorb grassroots energy without challenging the institutional power of the police.

Toni Atkins and Institutional Alignment

Toni Atkins, as the Senate leader and a key figure in San Diego politics, did not break with the broader Democratic consensus that ultimately continued to expand the police budget.

Atkins' record in 2020 reflects the party's broader positioning: embracing reformist rhetoric while maintaining institutional relationships with developers and law enforcement. Her leadership serves as a lens through which to view the limitations of Democratic reform politics in a city experiencing both social upheaval and real estate speculation.

Suppression and Control: COINTELPRO Echoes

In this contested landscape of 2020 to 2021, anyone — whether individuals, grassroots groups, or organizations — that failed to align with the Democratic Party's politics often found themselves caught in the crossfire. Reports from advocates and organizers suggest that covert operations reminiscent of COINTELPRO tactics were deployed to siphon momentum, undermine dissent, and reassert Democratic Party control over narratives and resources. These covert efforts served to neutralize independent political activists and reroute community power back into party-aligned structures, perpetuating cycles of surveillance, isolation, and burnout within local movements.

Conclusion: A Party of the Establishment

The San Diego County Democratic Party's political stance in 2020 once again reveals the limits of progressive gestures within a centrist, establishment-serving framework. The party continued to support increased police funding and development agendas shaped by corporate interests.

Despite its progressive branding, the Democratic Party increasingly reveals itself to be a vehicle for co-opting movements and consolidating establishment power — not challenging it. Its symbolic resolutions, developer alignments, and deference to police power show that it is not an alternative to the Republican Party, but a parallel structure maintaining the same status quo by different means.

Calls to dissolve and dismantle the Republican Party are common in leftist spaces, but the same scrutiny must be applied to the Democrats — a party that sells hope while enforcing hierarchy. Without a substantive break from both major parties, movements will continue to be absorbed, defanged, and redirected away from the systemic change they seek.