Peace In the Hood: Working with Gang Members to End the Violence

By Aquil Basheer, Christina Hoag and Pete Carroll

When we think of gangs, we are likely overcome with images of fear and violence. But there is another side, that of the interventionists devoted to making peace in gang territories. Written by Aquil Basheer, a pioneer of the interventionist movement, Peace In the Hood takes us inside this dual world of violence and intervention, evoking the reality of gangland warfare while acknowledging the possibility of peace. Basheer has witnessed firsthand the brutality of gang violence. After founding the Professional Community Intervention Training Institute, Peace In the Hood marks Basheer’s next step in spreading his message of nonviolence. Designed to teach anyone how to become an interventionist, the book offers clear guidelines on the work. Each chapter deals with a key aspect of peacemaking and comes with anecdotes from Basheer’s own life. However, Peace In the Hood is not just a guide for burgeoning interventionists; it provides useful insights for everyone living in an area affected by gangs. Its descriptions make it the perfect tool for students and teachers of social justice, and its mix of narrative and advice creates an accessible texta must-read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of gangs and the efforts to make peace among them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hunter House
• Release date: Jun 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9780897937054

Book preview

INTRODUCTION: HALTING THE VIOLENCE ONE BULLET AT A TIME

I had just settled into my armchair at the pad and was looking forward to getting some rest. Big mistake. In the violence-intervention business, this tends to mean exactly the opposite will happen. The pager beeped, instantly shattering my peaceful night. Need you now, hope you’re free, the message read. It gave an address in Southwest Los Angeles. I made some calls to my people on the ground. A mother and daughter had been blasted with a cannon, a shotgun, in their apartment. It had all the hallmarks of a street assassination. Nope, I wasn’t getting any rest. I swooped into my VW Bug with its lowered suspension—fast and small for getting in and out of the hood—and rolled out, arriving about ten minutes later.

It was going to be bad. In the world of gang violence, most victims are young men. That’s enough to start a war based on retribution. But killing a woman and child would spark outrage that could easily turn into a bloodbath of revenge. That’s where my team and I come in. As professional violence-intervention first responders, our job is to disrupt the endless cycle of payback that turns neighborhoods into yellow-taped crime scenes and to attempt to keep the peace, if at all possible.

I knew the area well. It was plagued with crack houses, pimps and their strawberries—the drug-addicted prostitutes who turn tricks for rocks of cocaine—and some of the city’s most dangerous sets—gangs who battle each other over respect and control of drug turf. Crack cocaine was turning gangsters into millionaires and had turned female bodies into a prime business. Many hard-working families and immigrants were also stuck there, unable to afford housing in safer sections of the city. The escalating drug wars meant I’d been spending a lot of time doing intervention work in the neighborhood in recent months—organizing candlelight vigils for victims, negotiating stand-downs between sets, mediating countless disputes, controlling rampant rumors—in other words, trying to stem the tide of violence, one bullet at a time. When the slaughter of the woman and child occurred, a neighbor of the victims knew to contact me right away. They knew I had street credibility and sincerely cared about the community.

The address was located in an extensive apartment complex of nine cookiecutter buildings. Police and paramedics had not yet arrived, but a small crowd was milling quietly in the front yard, and the apartment door was ajar. Bad signs. The fact that people were standing at a distance confirmed my suspicion that the carnage inside was devastating.

The woman who had called me pointed silently to the door and shook her head. One of the local homies spoke up. You might not want to go in there, big bro, it’s pretty bad.

It’s cool, soldier, done this many times before, I replied. Much respect, brother.

It’s on you, he said.

It was essential for me to see exactly what had happened if I was to play any realistic role in halting the predictable cycle of violence that was to come. The neighborhood and the larger community had to have a reliable source of accurate information before the rumor mill took over and the cops clamped down. I steeled the quiver inside me and entered as sirens whooped in the distance.

The Carnage

The living room was dark except for a small, dim light in the corner. I couldn’t see anything, but the air felt damp and clammy against my skin. I was hit by a stench I had smelled many times before—straight up death.

As my eyes adjusted, I made out a large mass on the floor. I stepped toward it—a mattress with a lump on top of it. Legs—adult legs. Smaller legs entwined in them. I peered at them—it was a woman hugging a girl, maybe ten years old, obviously trying to shield her from what she must have seen was coming.

I moved closer to see the upper torsos, but I couldn’t help but stagger back. The woman’s face was gone, as cleanly as if it had been surgically removed with a scalpel. The right side of her skull, her shoulder, and part of her upper arm were missing. She must have turned to protect the girl, her left arm was still around her, but a human body affords scarce protection against a shotgun at close range. The girl’s body was shredded like a piece of paper. The force of the blast looked like it had thrown them back three or four feet. They must have been holding onto each other extremely tightly to have remained locked together, or maybe they’d had enough life left in them to embrace each other before expiring.

I have witnessed hundreds of bodies torn by bullets and knives—mangled flesh, pools of blood, spilled organs. You never get used to it—you accept it as a necessary part of the job. But that murder scene was truly horrific, perhaps the worst I have ever seen. Nearly three decades later, I still see it in my mind as clear as if it were yesterday, and it is still a stark reminder of why I do what I do.

The death of children always gets to me. I have three kids, and I always see my own lying there. There is never any excuse for murdering a child. They are the most innocent of victims. This mother and daughter were gunned down brazenly, brutally, and guiltlessly. They had nothing with which to defend themselves. A wave of rage crested inside me.

I had to swallow my emotions to force myself to take another look to make sure I mentally recorded the scene. I knew another look would cause the image to be burned in my mind for the rest of my days, but I had to get what I saw correct if the rumors were to be contained. Blood, tissue, and flesh were splattered all over the walls, the floor, the furniture—that was the source of the strong smell and the dampness. As I walked out of the apartment, I focused on staying clear-minded and rational or I’d be next to useless. Trouble, I knew, was on the way.

It came sooner than I expected. Tires screeched—three cars pulled up, one jumped the curb and came to a halt on the front lawn. The two others stopped diagonally on the street. Three men leapt out, not bothering to close their doors as they raced for the apartment. I knew one of them. I’d seen him in the hood numerous times—he was the victim’s brother (although I didn’t find that out until later in the day) and was a major player in one of the local sets. He went by the name of Rock and cut an imposing figure, standing over six-feet tall, his body shredded, pure muscle—his biceps as big as my thighs. His bald head gleamed.

Is she dead? he hollered, looking in my direction.

I attempted to respond, but the words just wouldn’t come out. By his demeanor, I knew the victims must be close to him. My eyes met his, he knew it was bad. He ran on. A few seconds later, a gut-wrenching holler came from the apartment. When he exited, it was clear he did not want consolation.

Somebody’s gonna answer for this! It’s payback time! You motherfuckers are gonna die! he yelled. A blanket of silence smothered the air.

One of my soldiers who had arrived on the scene spoke to one of Rock’s people. Give us some time, brother. We’re gonna find out what went down.

Yeah, homie, get back with us pronto. We gotta move, don’t bring no bullshit to the table, he said. That meant we didn’t have much time before the cycle of retaliation would start playing out.

Burning rubber, the three men fled seconds before the police pulled up. I left fast, too—I had to start working my contacts on the street to find out what went down before people started shooting whoever they heard was to blame.

But I couldn’t start right away. After witnessing these type of scenes, I have to isolate myself for a while to sort through the thicket of emotions that always arise, the multitude of answerless questions. I never cease to wonder about human nature, how some individuals can be so evil and brutally vicious to others. I usually can’t eat for a day or so.

Putting in Work

I couldn’t afford myself too much time in this case because I knew payback would be swift. Killings generally fall into four categories in the hood—revenge killings for a previous beef, personal killings to intimidate an individual or group, opportunity killings to rob or simply because a convenient victim presented himself, and relationship killings between men and women. None seemed to fit this double slaying, but it wasn’t random, either. It appeared very much targeted. But based on my conversations with neighbors, the adult victim didn’t have any history of gang or drug involvement, except her brother. Still, it was a stretch to believe his enemies would choose his sister and niece to get to him. He also didn’t have a vicious reputation, so it was a long shot that he would merit such a gruesome message, although not impossible.

After several hours, my calls had yielded nothing. The fact that people weren’t talking told me this was something big. Usually, sets readily want the word out that they’re responsible to shore up their reputation and to instill fear and respect. But nothing was turning over, which meant someone was in hiding, something went wrong, or it was an internal gang beef. I had no choice but to stand down and wait for the grapevine to start filtering back to me. All the while, I knew the clock was ticking—Rock was no chump. He had tight control of the hood and was feared by many. People knew someone was going to pay for this, and soon.

A day or two went by, and the grapevine and my persistent calls turned up something—I found out who didn’t do it. I was contacted by concerned shot callers, the leaders from the area’s two main gangs, who were big drug and turf rivals. Both disavowed responsibility for the killings. They asked what they could do so fingers weren’t pointed at them, and requested I set up an informal mediation with each other. I readily agreed. Even if these two gangs weren’t responsible for these homicides, it was key to get a ceasefire or stand-down in place, or at least start the process, because one side could start shooting the other over old beefs under the guise of retaliation for this current situation. No leader wants an unnecessary war, or one that his set is not going to benefit from.

I suggested a neutral place outside of either gang’s turf—my team’s headquarters, which was a private location where we held mediations. Each neighborhood, or set, would send several approved reps whose names had to be vetted by the other side, as well as by my team, in advance. No one wanted hotheads or guys out to make their reputations. No weapons were allowed—everyone had to be patted down before entering.

One of the reps was late so we started the meeting without him. This proved a serious tactical error. We were already in the middle of a heated session when the latecomer came in and sat down at the table. Mad-dogging (staredowns) started going down between the latecomer and a guy in the other hood. It made me uneasy, but the parley was going fairly well so I ignored it.

Suddenly, the latecomer jumped up, pulled out a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, cocked the trigger, and aimed it in the air. Fuck all this damn shit! he yelled. I’m gonna do what I came here to do! He flung his chair against the wall.

The atmosphere froze momentarily, although it seemed like an eternity. I stood. In a loud but respectful voice I said, This ain’t the place for that, soldier, this is a place for peace.

One of his homeboys addressed him even more aggressively. This is not what we’re here to do. This is a mediation table, bro, okay? Take that shit out of here! Everybody is here in peace, trying to get to the bottom of this damn thing.

I don’t care about this bullshit! the guy said. I’m gonna handle my business.

The set leader again told him it wasn’t the venue. The guy shoved the weapon back in his waistband and marched out in a fit of anger. My people followed him to the parking lot to make sure he left.

It was a very tense moment. If he had fired, anything could have happened in that room, and it would have spilled out into the street in a matter of minutes and turned into a full-fledged war in hours. I apologized to the reps from the other gang, who thought they had been set up. The renegade’s shot caller also tried to excuse his homeboy’s behavior. That ain’t the way we roll, he said. We handle our business in the street.

The other set didn’t buy it at first, but we managed to convince them it wasn’t an ambush. Still, it put an end to the mediation right away.

My team’s credibility took a hit. I was supposed to guarantee a safe house, but the gun had got through because my security team did not conduct a serious search. They’d rushed it because they wanted to get back to the session. I also had not personally checked out each hood rep because I’d been so busy. After that incident, I implemented stringent security protocols and made sure my staff stuck to them. I also made did my own community background check on each name. It was a valuable lesson I still remember to this day. I made sure this wasn’t going to happen again, and it hasn’t.

Clarity

I got the warring parties back to the table several weeks later. By then, I had found out what went down with the murders, but I was still trying to confirm the information. The killings were committed by a gang from outside the area that was looking to rob a stash of drugs from the apartment. It turns out they had the wrong address or mistook the apartment since the buildings all looked alike. When the woman said she didn’t have anything, they probably thought she was holding out on them and blasted her and her daughter. It was typical of the viciousness of the crack-cocaine wars that were erupting in the