Carnival of cruelty

A tale of two riots, 1945 and now

Market Street, San Francisco peace riot, August 15, 1945. Photo from San Francisco Chronicle archives.

What happens when the powerful don't just look away from violence but actively cheer it on?

I've been thinking about this a lot since President Trump pardoned over 1,500 January 6th rioters. We're watching something unprecedented unfold in real-time—a leader who doesn't just excuse mass violence, but who sees it as a feature, not a bug.

Back in 1945, something happened in San Francisco that feels eerily familiar today. When World War II ended and victory was declared, the streets everywhere erupted in celebration. You've seen the pictures. But here's the thing—celebration can turn on a dime.

Picture this: A streetcar stopped in the middle of the jubilant celebration. People singing, dancing—total euphoria. Then someone yells, "Tip it over!" And just like that, the mood shifts. The conductor watches in terror as the same people who were just celebrating start working together to destroy. Meanwhile, businesses sell liquor to anyone with cash, police watch but don’t intervene, military leaders allow personnel to run wild.

The aftermath of San Francisco's peace riot was brutal. Eleven deaths. A thousand hospitalizations. At least six rapes. And most chilling to me? The leaders just looked away.

Crowds are weird. Seriously weird. People who would never choose violence alone can suddenly become part of a destructive mob. It's like celebration suspends our normal rules—creates this wild carnival where anything goes.

Can you imagine if President Truman had been actively cheering this on in 1945?

Today? We're seeing this on steroids. The president and his administration aren't just looking away—they're reframing violence as patriotism. Attackers become heroes. Victims become the problem.

When someone in charge fails to maintain order, the crowd takes it as permission to continue. But here's the twist—now it feels deliberate. Not weakness, but strategy.

The sailors who committed violence on the celebratory streets in 1945 weren't hardened criminals. They were young guys caught up in a moment of victory, using patriotism as permission. Sound familiar? We're seeing the same playbook now, but with the highest authority explicitly encouraging it.

History may not repeat—but boy, does it rhyme.

The line between celebration and violence is thin. Razor-thin. It's maintained not by walls, but by our collective commitment to accountability, empathy, and the rule of law.

All that, and moral courage.

True then. Still true now.

Be brave,