So a thing happened today. Not a thing that I planned to happen, but it happened nonetheless.
I was invited to participate in a press conference in Boyle Heights by a group of incredible women leaders from organizations that included Black Lives Matter Los Angeles, Black Women for Wellness, Women’s March Action, LPAC, and California Women’s List to denounce Los Angeles City Councilmember Kevin de León for a series of sexist and dangerous actions taken against his opponent Ysabel Jurado and women of color across Los Angeles. This press conference was us coming together as women in Los Angeles as an urgent need to stand against the unchecked misogyny, abuse, and intimidation tactics employed by Kevin de León at a time when women’s rights are under relentless assault nationally, with the looming threat of another Trump presidency.
I went to speak on Kevin de León’s hiring of Najee Ali–a man arrested for rape three times, with a public video of him assaulting his wife–let me say that again–with a public video of him assaulting his wife–and who is fresh off a restraining order for harassment, intimidation and bullying among other things. I also brought the woman who got the restraining order against Najee Ali and she decided that she was ready to speak about it publicly for the first time. It was her choice and I was there to stand by her side.
So we did that. But here’s where it went sideways.
Campaign finance report showing Najee Ali on Kevin de León's campaign payroll
Video of me speaking at press conference and introducing Susan who detailed her abuse from Najee Ali
It was infuriating and downright offensive to witness a Black woman courageously share her trauma—talking about being choked, harassed, and bullied by one of LA’s most visible Black community activists—only for the press in the room to completely ignore her words, acting as if she hadn’t said a thing.
In fact, one reporter said, she didn’t even understand the connection to Kevin de León with Najee Ali which I took to understand as she didn’t pay attention to anything Melina Abdullah, myself, or the woman who shared her story said.
Video of me pointing out the media's bias in real time in reporting on Black women's trauma
If a white woman had been in her place, there would have been immediate outrage and a media frenzy around her story. This double standard is glaringly evident when Black women speak out about domestic violence and abuse. Black women are too often dismissed, their stories sidelined, their pain unacknowledged, even when their abusers are in prominent positions. This lack of media response is precisely why so many Black women don’t share their stories; they know they’ll be met with silence rather than support. The fact is, if this woman’s abuser were anyone else, the press wouldn’t hesitate to cover it. The fact is, if this woman was white, the press wouldn’t hesitate to cover it. Black women deserve to be seen, heard, and defended—no exceptions.
To make matters worse, I saw Dakota Smith from the LA Times cornering the woman just moments after she’d bravely shared her story about being choked, harassed, intimidated, and bullied by LA’s well-known activist Najee Ali. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Dakota engaging with her, and I immediately went over to ask if she was okay. She assured me she was, so I went back to what I was doing, thinking she was safe. But when I returned, I found Ms. Smith not investigating the woman’s recent claims against Najee Ali, but instead dredging up a 2010 restraining order her ex-husband had filed—a decade-old document pulled up on her laptop, as though it had any relevance to her 2023 restraining order against Ali.
I confronted Dakota, asking what this irrelevant, personal history had to do with Ali’s abusive actions. Her response? She defensively claimed she was a reporter, with an entitled I’m-better-than-you attitude as though this justified the interrogation unfolding before me. Let’s be clear: independent media and Black media might not get the respect it deserves from people like her, but I’ve got my own journalism awards and a body of work that speaks for itself. So miss me with that.
Since when did reporting include ambushing a domestic violence survivor with irrelevant personal records, in her face, without an ounce of compassion or basic respect? She wasn’t interviewing her; she was interrogating her, undermining her credibility in the most dismissive way possible.
This was unacceptable. I turned to the woman and told her, “No, let’s go. This isn’t right.” Dakota didn’t like that and was clearly bothered. Words were exchanged, and I finally told her to “go do her white woman thing somewhere else.” Her face lit up with shock, practically recoiling as she repeatedly asked, “Did you just call me a white woman?” Yes, I did. Because in that moment, she was performing the classic “white woman” routine: dismissing the validity of a Black woman’s trauma, digging up irrelevant, decade-old details to smear her, and making herself the story.
Dakota’s behavior crossed every line. She wasn’t interested in reporting on the councilmember who hired Najee Ali—a man arrested for rape multiple times, subject to multiple restraining orders, and caught on video assaulting his own wife. She wasn’t there to tell the truth about the serious, ongoing violence facing Black women at the hands of this man. No, instead, she was bent on tearing down this survivor, casting doubt on her trauma, and ultimately discrediting her story in the most public and invasive way possible. Dakota was wrong on every level. And when she tried to make her argument with me, I shut it down, because nothing she said could justify the blatant disrespect she showed this woman.
This is exactly why Black women don’t come forward. They know that, instead of finding support or even a listening ear, they’re more likely to be met with scrutiny, dismissal, or, worse, judgmental eyes that dig into their past as if it somehow diminishes their right to seek justice. If this were any other city and Najee Ali were any other visible activist, there would’ve been an outcry. The media would’ve been all over this story the moment the restraining order was issued against him or when the video of him assaulting his wife surfaced–whether she filed a police report or not because we all know how victims of domestic violence don’t always tell on their abuser—they’re often confused, afraid, ashamed, or just plain tired of not being believed. But here in LA, the press has shown itself complicit in covering up his actions, allowing him to use his and their platforms to further traumatize the very community he claims to represent.
I actually had a local news station tell me last year they didn’t want to do the story on the restraining order against Najee Ali for fear of upsetting the Black community.
By choosing to ignore this woman’s story—and even worse, by interrogating her personal life on the spot—the media sends a chilling message to Black women: that their trauma, their pain, and their voices are not worthy of the same recognition or protection as others. When Dakota Smith from the LA Times chose to pull up old records from this woman’s past instead of investigating the documented abuses by Najee Ali, it wasn’t just a bad decision. It was an act of complicity, one that gives Ali cover to continue his cycle of abuse, unchecked and unchallenged.
This negligence by the media only perpetuates harm in our community, setting a dangerous precedent. Instead of standing up for justice and accountability, they’d rather sweep Black women’s trauma under the rug, aiding those who harm us to keep doing so with impunity. Until the media stops covering for abusers and starts standing with survivors, the brave voices of Black women will remain silenced, and predators like Najee Ali will continue to wield power, untouched by consequences.
I don’t usually come undone in public, especially not at a press conference or someone else’s event where I’m a guest. But part of this work is speaking truth wherever we find ourselves, and in that moment, I couldn’t let Dakota Smith’s behavior go unchecked. Her treatment of a survivor at that press conference was unacceptable, and as much as I would have preferred to handle things quietly, standing by wasn’t an option. Standing by is what got us Najee Ali.
I will be writing a letter to the LA Times to hold them accountable for her actions, and I suggest that every woman at that press conference do the same. When we remain silent, this kind of mistreatment continues. We owe it to ourselves and to each other to call out these injustices—loudly, publicly, and unapologetically.
