Dog Walking with Antifa
It is a sunny Saturday morning. My dog Lyra is excited as she pulls me through the front door. We jump in the car and head toward the Texas State Capitol. We are going to a protest. But this is no ordinary protest; it has been organized to counter an anti-Sharia march planned by ACT for America, a group that the Southern Poverty Law Center calls the largest anti-Muslim hate group in the U.S. Antifa groups and others will counterprotest.
Before leaving, I had discussed with my wife whether to bring our dog. My wife was concerned that Lyra wouldn’t be safe. To convince her to let me take Lyra, I explained that I was far less likely to punch a Nazi in the face while taking care of her. That was good for everyone, I argued. “Lyra gets a walk, and I stay out of jail. It’s a win, win!”
The first person we encounter as we approach the event is a law enforcement officer. There are dozens of them — perhaps more than a hundred— stationed along the street. As we walk past, Lyra looks up from her sniffing and catches the officer’s eye. “Beautiful dog” he says.
Two middle-aged men walk toward us. They are wearing cargo shorts and cotton tee shirts. They have impressive looking rifles slung over their shoulders. One carries a white flag with five red crosses. Another carries a sign that says, “Mohammad raped a nine-year-old girl.”
While I’m horror-struck by these two men, Lyra barely looks up from her sniffing to note their passage. I am surprised to realize that I don’t feel like punching them. But I do feel sad. They look just like many of the friends I went to high school with thirty plus years ago and who I now avoid on Facebook.
“Good morning.” I say.
They nod in acknowledgment and hurry down the street. They seem nervous, perhaps even frightened.
Lyra and I come upon a small group stationed at the foot of the steps ascending the hill that overlooks the Capitol, outside of the Governor’s Mansion. A young woman stops me as I begin to enter the gate.
“This is a peaceful event,” she says. “Are you in the right place?”
“Yes, I’m here for the press conference.”
“It’s up there.”
“Thanks,” I say as Lyra and I begin to climb the steps.
“Nice dog.” She calls out as I put my donation of a few dollars in the jar where a local mosque is collecting donations for the homeless.
I often let Lyra take the lead when we walk. Now I follow her, holding her leash slack as she flits from smell to smell. She leads me past a group crouched on the ground intently drawing signs. One young man is writing “Love they neighbor means all your neighbors” with a red sharpie. But Lyra isn’t interested in artistic pursuits this morning and continues to the far end of the crowd.
I stop to survey the scene and feel Lyra pulling at the leash and wagging her tail, forcefully banging it against my thigh. She is moving toward a man wearing a blue yarmulke. He gives her a few pets on the head and calls his wife over to admire her. He says “She’s a friendly dog. Is she a pit? I have one just like her at home.” Lyra is fawning all over him.
Suddenly from down the street there’s a loud chanting and banging. A large group in black clothing and with bandannas covering their faces bang on plastic buckets and water jugs as they march down the street toward the Capitol. The Antifa have arrived.
In the past, Antifa actions have been confrontational and sometimes even violent. I watch the group march past the stolid line of law enforcement officers and barricades. The television news cameras, which moments before had been in position to cover the press conference, scurry down the hill to follow them. Lyra watches the fuss impassively.
I know where they are headed, and I know they’ll still be there after the press conference is finished. My plan is to head over to the counterprotest after we’re done here.
We walk around the periphery of the crowd. Lyra weaves in and out, making friends easily with almost everyone. She has a gift. I spot a small boy in the grass watching her. I catch his mother’s eye and nod at Lyra to see if she would like a visit; she smiles and nods. The boy is very timid at first but I show him how to pat the dog’s head. Then I kneel beside Lyra and put my arms around her neck. “Hug” I say. “She wants a hug.”
The little boy’s eyes widen. His mother nods to him encouragingly. He wraps his arms around Lyra’s neck and squeezes. When he lets go, he grins. The mother and I exchange smiles.
The press conference begins. As each person speaks in turn through an inadequate megaphone, they echo a common theme: We must meet hatred with love.
The Imam of a local mosque speaks passionately on the importance of LGBT rights, and I am surprised. It strikes me that I know much more propaganda about Islam than anything meaningful about American Muslims.
Lyra’s friend in the blue yarmulke is one of the speakers, a rabbi. He describes how the fringe expands towards the center. Person by person, bigotry spreads, and as it spreads it begins to seem normal. At least I think he says that. It is hard to hear because of the police helicopter buzzing overhead and the chanting and drumming from the Antifa assembled in front of the capitol.
As we stand listening, a dog comes up behind us and starts barking at Lyra. The dog is what dog trainers call “reactive.” Lyra is very good at calming reactive dogs down. She puts her nose under their chin and licks them. I don’t know why it works, but it does. When a dog starts barking at her, her instinct is to make friends with the noisy dog by licking it on the face. I realize that this is not the time or place for this process, so I move Lyra off to a different spot in the crowd. Still, I know that if Lyra had been given a few seconds with that dog, she could have calmed him down.
A Muslim woman shares how much it means to her to be surrounded by those of good faith who are willing to stand with her and her Muslim community against hatred. By the end of her speech she is tearing up and I am too. I am glad to be standing on this hill, surrounded by these people, listening to this woman. I am proud to stand against the hatred creeping from the fringe toward the center.
After the speakers finish, Lyra and I head off toward the chanting and drumming.
As we approach the protest, I can hear them chanting: “Fuck Trump; Fuck Pence; Fuck your wall; Fuck your fence.”
We encounter a man wearing a keffiyeh walking towards us. He has a black bandanna around his neck and sunglasses in his hand. He looks very young to me, not much older than my son. He seems intent on his mission whatever it is, but he takes the time to acknowledge Lyra. He reaches his hand down to her in greeting as he walks by, brushing her upturned nose.
Nearer the demonstration, it becomes cacophony. The Antifa and counter protesters are noise-making with grim determination. They surround the small group of older white men and women, ringing them two and three rows deep. The anti-Muslim would-be marchers are outnumbered close to ten to one, it seems.
A man carrying a white five-gallon bucket beats against it with a ping-pong paddle. I’m struck with the thought that the paddle could serve as a weapon if you threw it hard enough. Across from him, separated only by a policeman’s bicycle, is a man carrying a hefty wooden club painted white with an American flag tied to it and a shirt that proclaims: “FUCK ISLAM!” He is screaming insults and profanity at ping-pong paddle man.
Other protesters are carrying flags and banners, many of which mean nothing to me. There’s a big green flag with a black cross and more red crosses on shields and banners. One sign reads “Immigration without assimilation is called invasion.” Everyone — police, protesters, and counter-protesters alike — is wearing eye protection.
I have friends here and I’m looking for them to say “hi.” But the chaos is disorienting, and nearly everyone has their identity hidden. I know that some Antifa have been exposed online and have lost their jobs as a result. Seeing how angry the exchanges are and considering the weapons I saw earlier, this precaution seems warranted — necessary even.
I circle around and start heading toward the back of the group. I notice banner-sized portraits of the three men who were attacked and murdered in Portland while standing up for a Muslim girl. The chant changes. “Say it loud, say it clear, refugees are welcome here.”
Lyra begins giving me the side eye. Perhaps she remembers that her job today is to keep me from punching any Nazis. In any case, she doesn’t like all this yelling, so we circle around, sticking to the edges of the crowd.
A huge puppy in the crowd notices Lyra and becomes very excited. The two dogs are instantly all over each other. They sniff and paw. Lyra wants to play, and her favorite game is “chase me.” The puppy is quivering with excitement at the prospect of this game. I wish we could turn both dogs loose and let them run, up to the capitol and back. But there will be no wild unbounded doggy rumpus here today.
I extricate Lyra and we head back to the car.
As we walk, I think about the things that I’ve seen. What is the point of a war of words when no-one can even hear, much less listen? How useless would ping-pong paddles be against semi-automatic weapons — if it came to that?
One thing that I am sure of is that I want to hear the rabbi with the blue cap speak again. I will look him up when I get home. He seems like a kind man, and today kindness seems very, very important.
