Jay, which is not her real name, recently told me that she’d been out late at night, spraying red paint around her neighborhood. She said she had done it on four or five nights and was not hesitant to do it again. When I heard this, it was hard to picture this kind-hearted, petite young woman—a mother of two small children—engaging in such an act.
Jay has lived in San Francisco’s Mission District for 20 years and had always felt at home. That changed in October 2023 when the Israel-Hamas conflict reignited, and news emerged about the Israeli government’s blockade on the Gaza Strip, cutting off supplies and lifelines for Palestinians living there. Suddenly, anti-Israel graffiti covered neighborhood walls, and Palestinian flags, along with messages such as “Stop the Genocide” and “Hands off Rafah,” started to appear in the windows of shops and homes.
Jay took me around her neighborhood to show me where she had found these messages. Graffiti—ranging from small scribbles to artistic expressions—was everywhere once you start paying closer attention. Although she said their frequency had significantly declined from its peak, we still spotted them on her next-door neighbor’s property, the side of another neighbor’s mailbox, the window of a neighborhood café, a pole at the traffic light, a stop sign—where “Israeli Occupation” had been added to make it read “Stop Israeli Occupation”—at an intersection, and on the sidewalk in front of the post office entrance, right where people would glance down while closing their umbrellas on a rainy day.
Jay grew up in an American family in San Francisco Bay Area and is well aware that freedom of speech is a constitutional right. Yet, she believes that some of these statements—such as “Intifada Now!” and “No Peace Until There Is Justice!”—have crossed the line from political solidarity to outright anti-Semitism. “Intifada,” she explained, is an Arabic word that literally means “uprising” but is also known as a dog whistle calling for the killing of Jews.
Seeing that word in her own community felt like a threat for her as a Jew, which eventually compelled her to take action. She responded by covering these messages with red spray paint or adding her own bumper stickers to share her counter-perspective—bringing out the trauma inflicted on Israeli civilians by Hamas’ indiscriminate attacks and commemorating Hersh Goldberg-Polin, a 23-year-old Bay Area native who was held hostage and later murdered by Hamas. We later found that many of her resistances had been scraped off or replaced with new stickers displaying the Palestinian flag or the silhouette of Palestine from the river to the sea, shutting out her differing views.
While the long and complex history of the Israel-Palestine dispute elicits contrary opinions and sometimes strong emotions—often shaped by personal proximity to either of the involved ethno-religious groups—one might expect public sentiment to be more neutral in a culturally diverse city like San Francisco, which is geographically far removed from the conflict. However, in Jay’s neighborhood, the reality seems to be otherwise—public sentiment has distinctly shifted to one side. This shift seems to at least partially stem from the resonance of current events with local history, such as territorial struggles and cultural assimilation, making the issue feel personally relevant. As a result, a unique micro-climate has developed in the neighborhood, which may not be as pronounced in other parts of the city.
Layers of History in the Mission District
San Francisco’s Mission District, where Jay and her family reside, sits on land that was once home to the Ramaytush Ohlone people, the original inhabitants of the San Francisco Bay Area, long before the arrival of Spanish and Mexican settlers in the 18th century. The Ramaytush Ohlone, a tribelet of the larger Ohlone people, lived along rivers that were later landfilled as the neighborhood expanded. The 19th-century Gold Rush brought waves of European immigrants, followed by a post-World War II influx of Latino Americans. Over time, this area became known as the Mission District, a predominantly Spanish-speaking Latino and Chicano neighborhood.
In recent years, gentrification and the influx young high-tech workers have been criticized for displacing lower-income, Spanish-speaking families who have lived in the Mission District for generations. Simultaneously, the community has been reflecting on its history, acknowledging that its foundations are rooted in the oppression and near-eradication of the Ramaytush Ohlone people, who remain an often-overlooked part of the neighborhood’s past and present. As a result, a strong sense of solidarity with marginalized communities persists among locals, fostering deep emotional connections to similarly oppressed populations elsewhere.
As Jay and I walked through the neighborhood, we observed various public expressions of political identity: the communist hammer-and-sickle symbol, the red and black poster of Che Guevara, homeless advocacy icons, digital illustrations of monarch butterflies—native to North and South America—symbolizing support for undocumented immigrants, the Black Lives Matter signs, and multiple variations of the rainbow flag. While some of these symbols are unique to this neighborhood, many are prevalent throughout the city.
The Power—and Consequences—of Political Symbols
Political symbolism permeates the United States. From bumper stickers to yard signs, people openly express their beliefs in public, collectively reflecting the values and priorities of a community. In San Francisco, a city known for its progressive activism, symbols representing domestic social justice causes—some of which Jay and I observed in the Mission District—are a common sight. In addition, over the past two years, Ukrainian and Palestinian flags have become increasingly visible on the streets, reflecting local sentiments on international affairs.
It’s easy to assume that people display flags and signs out of genuine concern for injustices beyond their immediate world. But what happens when these symbols create division rather than unity within our own communities? To one person, a Ukrainian flag may represent solidarity, while to a Russian neighbor, it might feel like a condemnation—regardless of their stance on Vladimir Putin.
It is important to remember that Putin was elected through a democratic process, meaning that the majority of Russians actually support him, despite his portrayal as a dictator in U.S. mass media and the limited exposure many have to alternative perspectives. It shouldn’t be surprising if a neighbor supports Putin—just as, in today’s political climate, it shouldn’t be surprising if a neighbor supports Donald Trump.
Likewise, a Palestinian flag may symbolize resistance and liberation to some but exclusion and hostility to others. When the dominant social narrative leans too far in one direction, those with differing views—or those associated with the criticized nations or groups—may feel marginalized in their own communities.
Jay’s experience is a case in point. Her Jewish identity and family ties to Israel—once personal and uncontroversial—suddenly became a source of discomfort in the very place she had called home for decades. To her, the graffiti and signs in her neighborhood were not merely criticisms of a government—they made her feel personally unwelcome and even hated. She is likely not the only one who feels this way. If that weren’t the case, we would see Israeli and Russian flags on the streets as well—but we don’t.
The Challenge of True Inclusivity
San Francisco prides itself on being an “all-are-welcome” city, symbolized by officially celebrated rainbow flags and a distinct multi-cultural school education. But what happens when that inclusivity isn’t always consistent? Certain progressive movements, despite their well-intended goals, can create an atmosphere where dissenting voices feel silenced—or even vilified.
Even widely accepted anti-racism symbols, such as a raised fist, can sometimes be alienating. A conservative Caucasian resident who feels most comfortable among like-minded friends and family isn’t necessarily racist, yet they might feel judged in spaces where progressive rhetoric dominates. Similarly, while the Black Lives Matter movement is a powerful force for justice, it may unintentionally make white police officers feel condemned when prominent signs appear on nearly every street corner, as once observed in some areas of San Francisco.
If an advocacy campaign intended to promote inclusivity ends up excluding certain groups, doesn’t that defeat its purpose? In fact, the perception of overly left-leaning diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) movements is believed to have contributed to Donald Trump’s increased popularity in the latest U.S. presidential election, as some voters sought to restore what they saw as a sense of balance.
The Balance Between Individual Conviction and Community Sensitivity
Setting aside explicit political slogans, one might argue that symbols themselves are harmless—a national flag or a figurative logo, on its own, does not inherently convey violence, and people may simply be too sensitive to political imagery. However, symbols can be just as powerful as written political statements, and that power can sometimes make a neighbor—someone with whom you have no personal conflict—feel uncomfortable. If political symbolism causes even one neighbor distress, is it worth displaying on your storefront or in your home window?
In today’s hyper-polarized world, it’s easy to fall into the trap of moral righteousness. We see it all the time—people demanding to be heard while dismissing opposing perspectives or assuming that the majority opinion is automatically correct. However, not everyone shares the same experiences, and what seems like an obvious stance to one person may feel alienating to another.
Displaying political symbols may feel empowering, but they are ultimately a one-sided expression—a way of broadcasting a belief without inviting discussion. These symbols may also be interpreted in unintended ways, taking on meanings beyond their original intent. When widely adopted, they can reinforce dominant narratives, sometimes making it harder for quieter or less common viewpoints to be heard.
Responding with opposing symbols, as Jay attempted, does not always lead to constructive engagement. Even when they are not overpowered by larger or more forceful counterforces, they may still contribute to an ongoing cycle of symbolic opposition rather than encouraging meaningful dialogue.
Instead of resorting to political symbolism to assert our individual convictions, how can we find more thoughtful ways to express our beliefs—ways that encourage open dialogue and create an environment where everyone feels safe to share their perspectives? True inclusivity cannot thrive in an atmosphere that silences opposition. It requires cultivating a strong and intentional sense of community by embracing complexity, demonstrating empathy, and committing to coexistence rather than shutting out differing viewpoints.
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