Charles Krupa/AP

A photograph of former President Donald Trump hangs on the wall as former New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie listens to a question in Manchester, New Hampshire, June 6, 2023. Mr. Christie launched his bid for the Republican nomination for president on Tuesday after casting himself as the only candidate willing to directly take on Mr. Trump.

Of the 10-plus Republicans now vying for the 2024 presidential nomination, only two have been down this road before. 

One, of course, is former President Donald Trump, who in 2016 beat out 16 other GOP aspirants and shocked the pundit class to claim a mantle as party leader that he has never relinquished, even after his 2020 electoral defeat. 

The other is two-term New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie. In announcing his campaign in New Hampshire Tuesday, Governor Christie made clear that his path to the nomination will hinge on momentum from its first-in-the-nation primary, although that bet did not pan out for him in 2016.

He also made clear that that path will have to go directly through the former president – a factor looming over every non-Trump Republican in the race and, increasingly, raising questions about how many of them ought to be running. 

The GOP field is officially crowded. Former Vice President Mike Pence formally threw his hat in the ring today in Iowa, where he has been courting the evangelical voters that were his political base when he served as Indiana governor. North Dakota Gov. Doug Burgum, a former software entrepreneur from a hardscrabble prairie town, also announced a run on Wednesday. Other candidates in the mix include Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis, former United Nations ambassador and former South Carolina Gov. Nikki Haley, and South Carolina Sen. Tim Scott.   

Charlie Neibergall/AP

A staffer for Republican presidential candidate Vivek Ramaswamy puts up campaign sigs before Sen. Joni Ernst's Roast and Ride event, June 3, 2023, in Des Moines, Iowa.

The question for the Republican Party is whether past is prologue: Will Mr. Trump triumph over another large field by nosing ahead in winner-take-all primaries, securing the nomination with a mere plurality of GOP voters? Or will most of his 2024 opponents step aside in time for Republican voters to potentially consolidate behind a single non-Trump candidate?

In his kickoff speech, Mr. Pence said he was grateful for Mr. Trump’s service and record in office but criticized his former boss for betraying the constitutional order on Jan. 6, 2021, when he urged supporters and the vice president himself to stop the counting of electoral votes for Joe Biden in Congress.

“I believe that anyone who puts themselves over the Constitution should never be president of the United States. And anyone who asked someone else to put them over the Constitution should never be president of the United States again,” Mr. Pence said. “Our liberties have been bought at too high a price.”

One factor already differentiating this cycle from 2016 is that Mr. Trump has one rival whose poll numbers put him in a different tier from the rest. Governor DeSantis started the race in a relatively strong position among GOP voters compared to all those jostling for support in 2016, says Dante Scala, a politics professor at the University of New Hampshire. In an April poll of likely New Hampshire primary voters, Mr. DeSantis was backed by 29%, behind Mr. Trump at 42%. 

Jonathan Ernst/Reuters

Supporters of former Vice President Mike Pence hold their hands over their hearts as they recite the Pledge of Allegiance while waiting for Mr. Pence to make his 2024 presidential campaign kickoff announcement at a Future Farmers of America enrichment center in Ankeny, Iowa, June 7, 2023.

Perhaps equally important, Mr. Trump also started this race in a different position. For one, he’s no longer the ultimate political outsider. “In 2016 Trump was a new sort of candidate. Now that’s not true,” Professor Scala says. As a former president, Mr. Trump has a record that can be attacked. He’s also facing mounting legal woes.

Trump’s enduring popularity

Yet the challenge of knocking Mr. Trump off his pedestal could prove harder this cycle, given his enduring popularity with the party grassroots. “You have to tell people who have voted for him in two elections not to do so. That’s a heavy lift,” says Michael Wolf, a political scientist at Purdue University. 

That exalted status is why many Republican aspirants have, so far, largely treated Mr. Trump with kid gloves. A notable exception is Mr. Christie, an erstwhile friend and ally who has telegraphed his intention to take the fight directly to the former president. On Tuesday, he described Mr. Trump, whom he endorsed in 2016, as a narcissist and liar who never admits to mistakes, and he mocked other candidates for offering veiled criticisms without ever naming their target. “It’s Voldemort time, everyone,” he said, referring to the “he-who-shall-not-be-named” villain in the “Harry Potter” series. 

Mr. Christie insisted that he was not simply in the race to take down Mr. Trump, but was serious about winning the nomination – emphasizing that those two goals are necessarily linked. “There is one lane to the Republican nomination and he’s in front of it. And if you want to win you better go right through him,” he said. 

Sophie Park/Reuters

Former New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie answers a question as he launches his bid for the 2024 Republican presidential nomination at the New Hampshire Institute of Politics in Manchester, New Hampshire, June 6, 2023.

For his announcement, Mr. Christie drew a crowd of around 120 people that included independents and even some Democrats, along with Republicans who have soured on the former president. 

“It’s time for new ideas,” says Sylvain Theroux, a Republican from Hooksett, New Hampshire, who runs a construction company. He voted twice for Mr. Trump but says he won’t again, citing the Jan. 6, 2021, riot at the U.S. Capitol. “He didn’t do the right thing. There’s got to be some morality in this world.” 

Mr. Theroux, who brought his 18-year-old son to the Christie town hall at Saint Anselm College, said he liked Ms. Haley but was keen to hear what Mr. Christie had to say. Was the former New Jersey governor a viable candidate? “Maybe,” he says. 

Dennis Cronin, a retail-industry consultant from Bedford, says he voted for Mr. Christie in 2016 and would consider doing so again. “I like him. He’s very smart and knowledgeable.” Mr. Trump wouldn’t be his first choice, Mr. Cronin says, but “if he’s the nominee I will vote for him.” 

The grace to bow out

Mr. Christie’s launch came on the same day that the state’s popular Republican governor, Chris Sununu, ended speculation about his own campaign for the nomination. In declining to run, Mr. Sununu, a frequent Trump critic, pointedly gave his fellow Republicans a deadline for consolidating, to prevent the former president from winning again. 

Jack Dura/AP

North Dakota Gov. Doug Burgum and first lady Kathryn Burgum wave to the crowd after he announced his bid for the Republican nomination for president, June 7, 2023, in Fargo, North Dakota.

“No one can stop candidates from entering this race, but candidates with no path to victory must have the discipline to get out. Anyone polling in the low single digits by this winter needs to have the courage to hang it up and head home,” he wrote in The Washington Post. 

In 2020, the Democratic Party successfully navigated a crowded primary field, as several opponents to Mr. Biden dropped out and endorsed him after he won the South Carolina primary in March. That allowed Mr. Biden to consolidate the establishment vote against Sen. Bernie Sanders, a challenger from the left. 

But for that to happen, there needs to be consensus about which candidate should become the party’s standard-bearer. And the GOP field includes many who may view themselves as laying claim to that role.

One candidate who has universal name recognition, and the résumé, to boot, is Mr. Pence, Mr. Trump’s vice president. Yet he also has the most baggage among Trump supporters who still resent his refusal on Jan. 6 to halt Congress’s counting of electoral votes.

“He’s a known quantity,” says Professor Wolf. But “he’s public enemy number one to a lot of voters he’s going to want in his camp.” 

Charlie Neibergall/AP

South Carolina Sen. Tim Scott greets an audience member during Sen. Joni Ernst's Roast and Ride, June 3, 2023, in Des Moines, Iowa.

Meanwhile, Senator Scott, the only member of the U.S. Senate in the race, has drawn notice for his optimistic brand of politics and gained the endorsement of South Dakota Sen. John Thune, the second-ranked Republican in the chamber.

Ms. Haley, the only woman in the race, is also well known as a former Trump administration official and has her own power base in South Carolina. Eric Tanenblatt, an Atlanta-based fundraiser for Ms. Haley, says her getting an early start in a crowded field was important. “She got into the race early and didn’t wait for anyone else, and that has paid off,” he says. 

Still, that crowded field may not stay crowded, says Mr. Tanenblatt, a veteran of Georgia political campaigns. “After this week, the field will be set. But I’m not sure everyone will be in the race come the fall,” he says. 

Jeremias Gonzalez/AP

Mostafa Mohamed celebrates after scoring during a match between Nantes and Monaco in Nantes, France, April 9, 2023. French soccer club Nantes fined Mr. Mohamed for refusing to play when teams across the country wore rainbow-colored numbers on their jerseys to support the fight against homophobia.

Last month, French professional soccer players were tasked with a simple mission: wear a jersey with a rainbow-colored number during a match, to mark May 17, the International Day against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia. Before each of their matches, players from the 40 participating Ligue 1 and Ligue 2 clubs stood before cameras behind a wide banner reading, “Gay or straight, we all wear the same jersey.”

But what was intended to be a small act against discrimination turned into a controversy after several players refused to participate on the grounds that it went against their personal beliefs. While some who refused stayed silent, others took to social media to ask for understanding.

“Given my roots, my culture, the importance of my convictions and beliefs, it was not possible for me to participate in this campaign,” Nantes striker Mostafa Mohamed wrote on Twitter. “I hope that my decision will be respected.”

The French government was unequivocal in its criticism of those who opted out – Sports Minister Amélie Oudéa-Castera said the players in question should be sanctioned. One week later, the Nantes club fined Mr. Mohamed an undisclosed amount, which was then donated to the French nonprofit SOS Homophobie. Other players who refused the jersey were sidelined during their matches.

There have only been a handful of such incidents that pit French soccer players’ personal beliefs against club obligations, and the route forward for the appropriate response remains unpaved. Equality is a fundamental right in France, but so is freedom of expression. Players may not have a contractual obligation to participate in such campaigns, but many argue they have an ethical one.

Stephanie Lecocq/Reuters

Minister for Sport Amélie Oudéa-Castera (center) called for sanctions against players who refused to participate in the French league's events for the International Day against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia.

When it comes to French professional athletes, where is the line between institutional and moral responsibilities?

“Sports are an echo of what is happening in society, and we’re seeing the same challenges of how to address delicate issues [like homophobia] in our workplaces and across society as in professional sports,” says Frédéric Buy, a professor of sports law at the University of Aix-Marseille. “I expect we’ll see more cases of athletes going against their clubs in the future. But right now, we’re in uncharted territory.”

“There is still a taboo”

French soccer clubs are obligated to undertake a certain number of social actions if they want to benefit from a percentage of local government subsidies, be that volunteering in hospitals or working with young people in marginalized communities. The campaign against homophobia, in its third year, is part of a larger attempt by France’s Professional Football League (LFP) to show that it’s committed to tackling major societal issues like discrimination.

The LFP has led a similar campaign, in its second year, against racism and antisemitism. While French – and European – soccer has struggled to wipe out racism, it is increasingly recognized and condemned.

However, the same cannot be said for homophobia. Chants, banners, and slurs remain regular parts of French soccer culture, and thus far, no active professional male player here has come out publicly as gay.

At least five French players refused to participate in this year’s anti-homophobia campaign – as well as former Paris Saint-Germain player Idrissa Gueye last year – but it is difficult to know the true number. Some players cited illness or injury as reasons to avoid stepping on the pitch in the rainbow-numbered jerseys.

“There is still a taboo surrounding homosexuality in soccer, and the issue has not evolved in decades,” says Didier Reynaud, a member of Rouge Direct, a nonprofit that fights against homophobia. “Did we see any players speak out to condemn those who refused to participate in this campaign? No. One campaign per year isn’t going to make a difference unless the [French Football Federation], clubs, trainers, and even announcers start denouncing homophobic behavior.”

“To say you don’t support homosexuality because of your religious beliefs is a pseudo-justification,” says Jean-Christophe Lapouble, a sports law professor at the University of Poitiers. “French sports are secular. We can’t allow players to use the excuse, ‘My religion says homosexuality is a sin.’ That cannot be tolerated.”

The federation conveyed its “regret” over the “behaviors of certain players,” but its national ethics council said it would not bring them before a disciplinary committee. Instead, the council said players would have their actions on their conscience and that in refusing to participate, they endorsed discrimination.

Daniel Cole/AP/File

Nimes fans hold up a banner that reads "with us, no homophobia" before the start of the Ligue 1 match between Nimes and Brest at the Stade des Costieres in Nimes, France, on Aug. 31, 2019.

But when it comes to sanctioning players – financially or otherwise – it’s a gray area legally. Homophobia is considered a criminal offense in France, and nondiscrimination is part of the country’s new sports ethics code. But no players explicitly spoke out against homosexuality.

“Freedom of expression can be both positive and negative. It allows for the right to say something but also the right to not say something,” says Mr. Buy, the law professor. “These players clearly used that right to not take a stand [against homophobia].”

It’s also unlikely that players’ contracts contain specific stipulations about joining anti-discrimination campaigns. Professional footballers are protected by France’s strong labor laws, and it is difficult to impose things on them, right down to their choice of shoes. But as pressure mounts for players to “do the right thing,” that could change.

“Every player’s contract can be bespoke,” says Andy Scott, an international football editor for the Agence France-Presse in Paris. “It can be as specific as ‘This player will have a VIP box for his family at matches.’ There’s no reason why going forward, participating in these types of [anti-discrimination] campaigns couldn’t be included in a contract. As in, ‘You must participate in these campaigns because it’s damaging for our image if you don’t.’”

The importance of education

Beyond contractual or legal obligations, however, some observers have argued that professional footballers – with their global influence – have a moral and ethical responsibility to take part in campaigns that promote equal rights, and that it’s in their best interest to do so, even if it doesn’t match with their personal values.

“Unlike when this situation happened last year, the French ethics body came out publicly this time to denounce the players,” says Louis Catteau, a doctoral candidate at the University of Paris Nanterre who is researching the frontier between ethics, law, and sports. “So even if there’s no legal weight behind that, it’s an official public reaction about what the right thing to do is, and that inevitably has an impact.”

But doing “the right thing” is subjective, and French professional footballers are a celebration of diversity, in terms of age, education, and socioeconomic background. And that can create tensions.

“Each player comes to the team with their own identity, belief system, and things they’ve been taught their entire lives,” says Michaël Barer, the director and co-founder of Les Racines de Demain, a nonprofit that promotes interfaith cooperation.

“In this instance [of the anti-homophobia campaign], the club needed to explain to players why they were doing it and why it was important,” he says. “You can’t ask people to support something they don’t understand. Then, they could address the concerns of players who were against it instead of just reacting afterwards when there’s a problem.”

A ray of orange light shoots through a hail-size hole in the stained-glass window of what was once a church. On this evening, some of the lightbulbs are broken, and a folding table covered with a white sheet passes as a dais.

This is the new Town Hall complex of Camp Hill, Alabama, and Mayor Messiah Williams-Cole would like to make sure it stands for something. But for a predominantly Black town of 1,000 people struggling through grief, that has proven more difficult than he expected. 

Four miles away on April 15, many Camp Hill kids were at a Sweet 16 party when six teens from another town swept in and started firing. More than two dozen teenagers were injured, including two of Mr. Williams-Cole’s cousins. Four died, and several others were paralyzed. Five defendants – all between the ages of 16 and 20 – were indicted May 22 by a grand jury on charges of reckless murder and assault. The case of a sixth defendant, age 15, is being handled by juvenile courts.  

Seeking some small measure of healing, Mr. Williams-Cole had an idea: to rename the new Town Hall complex in honor of one of those slain, football star Philstavious “Phil” Dowdell. But the proposal has become an unexpected flashpoint, throwing Camp Hill headlong into fraught national conversations about gun violence, racism, and how America talks about its past. 

Patrik Jonsson/The Christian Science Monitor

Camp Hill Mayor Messiah Williams-Cole talks about his bid to name a new town hall complex after one of the victims of the Dadeville mass shooting.

At a time when guns are the No. 1 cause of death for children and teenagers in the United States, how these victims are honored and remembered points to deep divisions and differences. While the nation universally mourns the victims of high-profile mass shootings, the vast majority of gun violence – and mass shootings – is largely ignored, even accepted. 

How much is race a part of that calculus? And what is the best path forward? The national conversation has found no clear answers, yet Camp Hill must now attempt to find its own. It is a monumental task for the 23-year-old mayor, a law student who was elected two years ago and tasked with restoring Camp Hill after decades of decline. How can the town work through its grief and confront a national scourge of gun violence? 

Now, all these challenges have become wrapped up in the naming of a local building.

“A lot of the problems are our own fault, and that is something we have to address,” says Mr. Williams-Cole. “But my point is that ... five gunshots is what separated Phil from becoming everything I became, or LeBron James or Oprah. What people don’t want to confront is that the American normal is not normal.” 

Mass shootings vs. drive-bys

Earlier this month, when the mayor made his proposal, several members of the Camp Hill Town Council objected. Councilor Juanita Woody says Camp Hill has many people from the past and present deserving of such an honor. “It doesn’t feel right to leave all those people out,” she says.

Others around town cast the debate in more pointed terms. “The argument against naming the complex after the victims seems to be: All these people did was get shot. What was their accomplishment? Do they deserve it?” says Camp Hill resident Dean Bonner.

The issue of how mass shootings are seen goes well beyond Camp Hill. While some white residents were among the victims in Dadeville, a majority are Black, and all of those arrested are Black. According to the way society talks about violence, such shootings among minority groups can be played down or ignored – less deserving of national attention, says Robert White, a humanities professor at Alabama State University.

“White men commit mass shootings, and Black men commit drive-bys,” says Professor White, a native of Tallapoosa County, which includes Camp Hill. “Well, a drive-by is a mass shooting. The major distinction is who the victims are and who the offenders are. These things fit into different paradigms ... that propagandists use.”

Jeff Amy/AP

A bullet hole is visible in the glass at the Mahogany Masterpiece dance studio in Dadeville, Alabama, on April 16, one day after a shooting at a birthday party there.

These distinctions in how society categorizes acts of violence are coming under increasing scrutiny not only here, but nationwide.   

Delaney Tarr, a survivor of the Parkland, Florida, shooting in 2018, says the biggest mistake she and other white, middle-class activists made was to focus on school shootings when far more people are affected by one-on-one gun violence and urban, multi-victim shootouts. Regardless of what form gun violence takes, the impact on families and communities is the same.

“We had to expand our view of [gun violence] pretty quickly, because people of color from marginalized communities, especially, called us in and said, ‘The policies that you’re advocating for aren’t going to help us,’” says Ms. Tarr. “The solution is not going to be calling the cops; the solution is not going to be banning an assault weapon. That’s not the cause of it.” 

Camp Hill resident Jesse Francis, whose stepson was paralyzed by a bullet, has listened to the local discussions around naming the new Town Hall complex. But to him, the questions of motive and merit seem beside the point. 

“This was the first party that a lot of these kids had gone to,” he says. “They had nothing to do with the shooters. They were dancing and having a good time, and now their lives are changed forever. To me, there’s nothing else to talk about. That’s a mass shooting.”

Hail, then bullets

The shooting was not the only misfortune to hit Camp Hill in recent months. It came weeks after a devastating hail storm pierced roofs and destroyed nearly half the town’s cars. When the town applied for federal assistance, the request was denied. An appeal, too, was denied.

Without outside help, a two-person county emergency management office and an all-volunteer force built a case file of about 400 damaged properties. Now residents are working to scrape together money to get temporary housing for some victims.

Through the twin disasters, Camp Hill has pulled together, rediscovering a sense of purpose and determination, says the mayor. “The outpouring of support has been enormous.” 

Like several of the Camp Hill teens killed or injured, Kendarrius Heard, Mr. Francis’ stepson, was an athlete, headed to college on a scholarship. Kendarrius remained in the hospital for a month, returning home in late May. But the trailer where he lived with Mr. Francis and his mom became unlivable after the hail storm. So supporters gathered over several days to build a wheelchair ramp at his grandparents’ house. 

Despite concerns from doctors that Kendarrius would never walk again, Mr. Francis says the teen has been in good spirits from all the support. He has regained some feeling in one of his legs, which Mr. Francis credits to his fighting spirit and community prayers.

On a recent day in May, GOP state Rep. Ed Oliver of nearby Dadeville – where the shooting took place – is here to discuss the town’s next moves after the two disasters. He is part of a small delegation, including two staffers from Republican Sen. Tommy Tuberville’s office, to assess what the town needs after both disasters.

Patrik Jonsson/The Christian Science Monitor

Alabama state Rep. Ed Oliver meets Camp Hill Town Councilor Juanita Woody during a tour of the town on May 16.

He’s greeted warmly by Ms. Woody, the Camp Hill councilor. Their families go back decades. Mr. Oliver’s father, a longtime lawyer, at one point helped keep Ms. Woody’s brother out of jail. Ms. Woody’s family has long used the Oliver law firm to take care of their legal matters, from deeds to wills.

During the visit, talk turns to a bill Mr. Oliver has written, which would ban the teaching of “divisive concepts” in Alabama. Examples include critical race theory, commonly taught in law schools, with its arguments that the United States continues to be fundamentally shaped by white supremacy – seen in laws and norms that perpetuate racism in American institutions.

For Mr. Oliver, a page for former Alabama Gov. George Wallace at the 1976 Democratic presidential convention, the bill is a crucial part of the solution. He says it is impossible to move forward together on difficult issues like gun violence if society is always digging into the past to find points of contention. Pointing to an erosion of what he calls “patriarchal homes” and respect for authority, he says the country can’t “go forward if we keep pointing fingers at each other and finding reasons to make us different.” 

The Dadeville shootings, he says, are “a report card on what we’re doing with our kids, and it has as much to do with parents as it does kids.”

But as Mr. Oliver steps away, Ms. Woody, who is Black, shares her own thoughts on the way forward. 

“My great-great-grandfather was a slave driver,” she says. “If we ban talking about the past, how can we be sure we don’t repeat it?” 

A town “wrapped in amber”

Around town, many agree with her. 

Camp Hill has long served as a stage for Black Americans’ often-violent struggle for rights, recognition, and equal treatment. 

Past residents include Ned Cobb, a former sharecropper whose reflections in the 1974 book “All God’s Dangers” helped America understand the peculiar and dangerous dynamics of race in the Deep South. Armed conflicts between sharecroppers and Jim Crow authorities here in the 1930s led directly to key provisions in the New Deal that improved prospects for Black citizens nationwide. After writing “To Kill a Mockingbird,” author Harper Lee spent months in the area researching a potential true-crime novel about the sensational murder of a preacher at a funeral home.

To many, past and present are too intertwined to ignore. 

“This town was wrapped in amber,” says Warren Tidwell, who has studied Camp Hill as head of a local nongovernmental organization. “It has now been galvanized” to find answers.

Patrik Jonsson/The Christian Science Monitor

Warren Tidwell stands outside the Town Hall complex in Camp Hill, Alabama, on May 15.

Like Mr. Oliver, Alabama State’s Professor White wants to talk about what he sees as abandonment of children – especially Black boys – by parents and society. But he says it will be tougher if Alabama bans conversation on uncomfortable subjects.

As an example of the challenges Black youth face, Professor White recounts the scene at a recent youth flag football game in Montgomery, Alabama. Also a pastor, he asked the players carrying weapons to lay them in the grass. About 20 did. 

In Camp Hill, residents cite another example: Most of the teens arrested for the Sweet 16 shooting traveled from Tuskegee, an hour away, where the violent crime rate is nearly twice the national average.

Historical patterns of discrimination certainly aren’t the only cause of these problems, but they are an element, many here say. And how can they be addressed if they can’t be discussed?

Getting to the bottom of these patterns of violence doesn’t mean closing off conversations but opening them up, Professor White says. The goal of efforts to ban discussion of divisive topics, he suggests, is “to make dialogue state property ... to prevent the conversations from taking place, to control the policies. In some ways, it’s ridiculous. But if I was standing on as shaky ground as they are, I would ban conversations, too.”

Understanding what’s next requires a sense of clarity, adds Mr. Williams-Cole. Naming the Town Hall complex after the victims is a matter of moral certitude, he says. 

In the end, the Town Council tabled the mayor’s resolution. A compromise might include naming one of the complex’s several buildings. 

Mr. Williams-Cole vows to press on: “What I’m trying to do is take that support and make it mean something for the town and for its people – especially those who lost someone they loved.”

Sarah Matusek/The Christian Science Monitor

Lifeguards perform a demonstration for citizens academy participants at the Woodland Aquatic Center in Woodland Park, Colorado, April 3, 2023. The eight-week program for civic-minded locals ends with a graduation.

The lifeguard’s legs disappear into the pool. A few tense seconds pass. He emerges with an arm around a limp young man whom he hauls to the deck for CPR.

The audience applauds. Over a dozen Coloradans on bleacher seats are touring Woodland Park’s aquatic center, a sparkling, tiled complex with ample lap lanes. They convened earlier that April evening to learn about Parks and Recreation – not the hit sitcom, but the city department that hires local teens as lifeguards. The evening’s visit is part of an eight-week citizens academy, which ends with a graduation ceremony.

“It’s been super interesting,” says Dan Carroll in the pool parking lot. His doubts about the building’s $11.9 million expense to the city were quelled, he says, after learning about its use.

“I’m going to promote it,” says Mr. Carroll about the academy program. “I think more and more people need to know how the city operates.”

Communities across the country have set up citizens academies over the past two decades. The programs educate civic-minded folks about the gears of local government, and how they might chip in. Proponents also say they have a role to play in shoring up trust.

Sarah Matusek/The Christian Science Monitor

Dan Carroll and his wife Ilene, participants of the Woodland Park Citizens Academy, stand outside Woodland Aquatic Center in Woodland Park, Colorado, April 3, 2023. “I'm going to promote it,” says Mr. Carroll about the program. “I think more and more people need to know how the city operates.”

“It’s a cheap, easy, very direct way to get meaningful community engagement,” says Michael Lawson, Woodland Park city manager. 

“Every municipality should be working very hard on engaging with its residents,” he adds. “Never stop working on earning trust.”

What exactly does my city do?

Outside Mr. Lawson’s office towers a snowy summit of the Rocky Mountains. The town of roughly 8,000 in conservative Teller County has had its share of community tension recently, with national attention on its school board, which has sparked local protests.

The city itself, however, doesn’t run schools. Neither does it handle social services like food benefits – that’s the county. Explaining the limited purview of what the city does is a key feature of the citizens academy, Mr. Lawson says. 

“I don’t have the red phone to Joe Biden, or to Jared Polis,” the Democratic governor, he says. “Some people seriously – I’ve heard this – think that I talk with Jared Polis about once a week.” 

The city manager chuckles: “I’ve met him once.”

Despite such confusion, Americans typically see local government more positively than state or federal levels, a trend that continued through the pandemic. Between 2019 and 2022, however, those favorable views sunk three percentage points from 69% to 66% of adults, Pew Research Center reports.   

Experts consider citizen police academies, which grew out of the community policing movement, as precursors to the citizens academy trend. There are at least 1,000 citizens academies across the country, estimates Rick Morse, professor at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill School of Government.

The programs, which go by different names, can last several weeks and are often free. Participants meet local officials like the mayor and visit a range of departments – public safety, waste management, zoning offices – led by local staff. 

Citizens take advantage of local services daily, like when they turn on the tap or take trash to the curb, but that exists as “background noise for most people,” says Dr. Morse. Through citizens academies, he adds, “that faceless bureaucracy now becomes a person.”

That’s a lesson the Decatur 101 program in Georgia tries to hit home.

Participants receive “a book with a picture of all the people that have talked and what their job description is and what they do,” says Shirley Baylis, business development manager, “so they know how to reach each of those people.”

Dr. Morse conducted a 2016 survey of 658 citizens academy participants across six states. He found 84% of respondents said their program “somewhat or significantly positively” shaped their level of trust in local government.

Photo Courtesy of Enita Jubrey

The Citizen's Academy of Windsor, Connecticut, lets participants view historical documents dating back to the 1600s in the town clerk's vault. By one researcher's estimate, there are at least 1,000 such programs in the United States.

A behind-the-scenes look at the water treatment plant in Wichita, Kansas, inspired a perception shift for participant Christopher Parisho. 

“I already knew it took a while and that it was really expensive, but now I had a better understanding of why,” he says. 

“We tend to learn more about the next vehicle we’re going to purchase than we do how our city functions,” says Mr. Parisho, who was inspired to run for City Council, then the state House of Representatives after taking the class. Though not successful in those races, he says he plans to run for another position.

Understanding how your city works doesn’t just help in knowing the right person to field complaints, he adds. It can help someone “reach out to the right people when something is done right.” 

Floridian Aaron Weber, a recent citizens academy participant, was already vocal in his community on issues like land use. Still, he was impressed to learn about court-diversion programs for people with substance use disorders in Alachua County.

“Social workers were really impressive,” says Mr. Weber. Among the message that resonated with him: “Basically, be empathetic to each other and realize that everybody’s got their own baggage.”

Several participants say learning about the fiscal responsibility and budgets of their towns is compelling – after all, cities and states can’t rack up debt as easily as the federal government. That includes longtime Woodland Park resident Catherine Nakai. She joined the program in early 2020, between volunteering on a local land-use board and running for City Council. 

“I understand the budget a whole lot more,” because of the program, says Councilmember Nakai. “It was really cool to see all of the functionality of the city and realize that it’s a well-oiled machine, when it’s staffed properly.”

Making academies accessible

Staffing is one area that citizens academies report as a challenge, in terms of the time commitments the programming demands. And while some academies have waitlists, others struggle to generate interest. Broadening access to a wide range of residents presents another hurdle.  

That’s why Alachua County Citizens Academy in Florida tries to ensure its sessions take place along community bus loops. In Georgia, Decatur 101 offers evening and morning sessions to accommodate different schedules.

Matt Leighninger, director of the Center for Democracy Innovation at the National Civic League, challenges programs to think beyond the hope that spreading the gospel of government functions will automatically invoke trust. That’s a “defensive posture,” he says, and not always earned. Public officials can also work to better trust their constituents.

“It’s not enough just to say: Here’s how government works,” says Mr. Leighninger. “The question really should be: Here’s how a government could work,” with more citizen input.

“Government people, understandably, tend to think of themselves as the main problem-solvers,” he adds. Yet by drawing on residents’ own assets, like education or access to technology, “there’s so much capacity of citizens to help solve problems.”

Back in Colorado, Mr. Carroll is considering answering his city’s call for recreational volunteers someday. 

“I would love to help out at the aquatic center,” he says. “Or, I’m a hockey nut, so I would love to teach kids how to play and how to skate.”

When George Lucas first created the “Star Wars” universe nearly five decades ago, he probably didn’t imagine extraterrestrial worlds crawling with fynbos, the brightly colored, prickly shrub land of South Africa’s Western Cape. Nor did he likely envision his Jedi warriors channeling the energy of sangomas, southern African traditional healers. 

But when South African filmmakers Nadia Darries and Daniel Clarke were asked recently to create their own version of the “Star Wars” universe for an animated short film, their alien world bore distinct imprints of their Earthly homeland. 

“We weren’t super intentional about it, but of course we are South Africans, so we are drawing on real experiences from our own world,” says Ms. Darries, an animator from Cape Town whose work has appeared on the BBC.

The pair’s 15-minute film, “Aau’s Song,” is part of a recently released anthology called “Star Wars: Visions,” in which animation studios from around the world were invited to re-imagine the famous fantasy universe through their own eyes. The resulting shorts feature Jedi in saris, anime-inspired Sith lords, and lightsaber-wielding teenagers with thick Irish brogues. 

“The ‘Star Wars’ universe is an incredible sandbox,” says Mr. Clarke, whose film with Ms. Darries was the only African film in the anthology.  

Since its inception, “Star Wars” has been the world’s darling. And its films have long had a dedicated following across the African continent. In 2015, for instance, “The Force Awakens” had the single most profitable opening day in South African cinema history to that point. And the Earthside location of Darth Vader’s twin-mooned home planet, Tatooine, is in Tunisia, where it’s been a popular site of pilgrimage for both local and international fans. 

Courtesy of Disney+

Capetonians Nadia Darries and Daniel Clarke co-directed "Aau’s Song," the final short film in the second volume of the "Star Wars: Visions" anthology, now streaming on Disney+.

But the franchise itself has often been slow to reflect back the diversity of its audience. The first “Star Wars” film, the 1977 “A New Hope,” had no characters of color in speaking roles, and only 6.3% of its dialogue was spoken by women.

“As someone growing up in South Africa, my perception of sci-fi and fantasy was that the central character will have pale skin, speak English, and probably be a man,” says Omar Morto, a South African radio presenter, musician, and lifelong “Star Wars” fan. 

In recent years, however, “Star Wars” has made strides to look more representative of planet Earth, featuring protagonists of color and female characters who actually speak – sometimes even to each other. But its universe is still being imagined, largely, by Westerners. 

Two years ago, Lucasfilm, the “Star Wars” production house, released a series of short, “Star Wars”-inspired films made by Japanese anime studios called “Star Wars: Visions.” The reaction to that series was so positive, producers said, that they decided to create a second volume, this time featuring animators from around the world. The idea was to “open ... up bold new ways of seeing what a Star Wars story can be,” said James Waugh, the program’s executive producer, in promotional materials.  

But for Ms. Darries and Mr. Clarke, who made “Aau’s Song” with the South African studio Triggerfish, the project never felt quite so cosmic. They simply wanted to tell a story that meant something to them, Mr. Clarke says. 

“Aau’s Song” takes place on a planet called Korba. Its inhabitants mine the kyber crystals used in lightsabers, which have been corrupted by the Sith of the Dark Side. Enter Aau, a young girl who has a magical singing voice that can alter the crystals – and a protective father afraid she’ll put herself in danger if she uses it. 

In that way, she is not unlike Ms. Darries, who grew up “sneaking out to sing in rock bands underage at bars, with my father mostly unaware,” she recalls. For her, when imagining a new Star Wars universe, “singing felt like a natural way for someone to connect to the force.”

It also felt natural, she says, that the story’s wise woman – a visiting Jedi named Kratu – would resemble a kind of wise woman found in her own family, a sangoma, or diviner. Like Jedi, who often act as peacekeepers and have the power to connect to people’s thoughts, sangomas heal personal and social rifts in part via their connections with the ancestral world. 

And though the story is about a girl with the power to purify lightsaber crystals, Mr. Clarke says they saw it as fundamentally being “about a character healing a poisoned land, which is a very South African story.” 

Mr. Morto, the radio presenter, says he can still remember the rainy Cape Town afternoon in the 1990s when his uncle came back from the video rental store with “Return of the Jedi.” From the moment “In a galaxy far, far away” rolled across the screen, he was transfixed. “Since then, it has been my life,” he says. 

And so, seeing a Star Wars universe that looked like South Africa in “Aau’s Song” “was special to experience,” he says. “It’s very gratifying to see a piece of sci-fi that’s informed by Africa.” 

Reuters

Former head of Serbia's state security service Jovica Stanisic appears in court at the UN International Residual Mechanism for Criminal Tribunals in The Hague, Netherlands, May 31.

A deceitful tactic in modern conflicts – a government’s secret use of Rambo-style proxy militias to harm civilians and thus avoid accountability – just received a major setback. A United Nations court in The Hague issued a final verdict last week confirming that two former security officials in Serbia helped set up “special” combat teams in the 1990s that killed thousands of non-Serbs during the violent breakup of Yugoslavia.

The verdict – which took 20 years of legal proceedings – “leaves no doubt about the involvement of Serbia’s police and security services in the wartime atrocities in Bosnia and Herzegovina, which is something that Serbia’s authorities continue to deny to this day,” concluded Amnesty International. The two former officials, Jovica Stanišić and Franko Simatović, were given sentences of 15 years by the court, known as the International Residual Mechanism for Criminal Tribunals.

The verdict creates a welcome precedent for finding the truth about atrocities committed by other so-called paramilitary groups in conflicts from Ukraine to Sudan to Syria. It might also help end the denial among many Serbs about the war crimes committed by government-backed groups like Arkan’s Tigers and the Scorpions during the Balkan wars.

“Without the truth there’s nothing and each lie provokes another lie,” Goran Zadro, a Croat who survived an attack in 1993 by Serb forces, told Balkan Insight. “Here, each community has its own truth.”

Even though the verdict was a long time coming, the international prosecution of war crimes in the former Yugoslavia has provided a lesson for Ukraine. Soon after the Russian invasion in February 2022, Ukrainian officials began to probe the killing of civilians by both Russian military and the mercenary force known as the Wagner Group. The evidence collected so far – even as the war rages on – could be useful later in linking Kremlin officials to alleged backing of militias that commit war crimes.

The May 31 verdict at the court in The Hague was a major step to establishing the truth and addressing impunity, said Volker Türk, the U.N. high commissioner for human rights. It exposed the tactic of a government supporting an armed group to do the “dirty work” of killing innocent civilians and violating international norms of conduct in war. It also set a primary example, writes journalist Marija Ristic in Balkan Insight, “of how justice for the crimes of state-sponsored paramilitary groups is an achievable goal.”