I’ve spent serious time knocking on doors across Asian households on San Francisco’s west side. In many Chinese homes, three generations live under one roof. There’s usually at least one grandparent — often the one who speaks the least English. The working adults are usually out keeping the household afloat. And then, of course, the kids. If you understand these families, you understand why public safety comes first. Elders shouldn’t fear stepping outside. Parents shouldn’t worry whether their child will make it home while they’re out earning a living. Asian families don’t ask for much — just a safe place to live, raise kids, and care for elders. Public safety isn’t something we debate. It’s something we expect.
But when injustice touches other communities, we still show up. Black lives matter, and always will. And Asian Americans showed up for Black lives — as we did in the Civil Rights movement. Together, we formed one of the largest movements in this nation’s history. But when that movement veered into calls to defund the police, it went in the wrong direction. I’m not dismissing the need for police accountability. But what came after those calls wasn’t reform. It was legislative hostility and a citywide culture of vilifying the police. Officers were told their uniforms make people “uncomfortable” on public transit. So they stopped riding the bus. And as a direct result, safety on transit declined — especially for Asian riders. Recently, someone assaulted a young Asian student on Muni in broad daylight. The attacker didn’t bother hiding his hate or face. Unsurprisingly, we faced a severe officer shortage, and fewer and fewer people were willing to join the Police Department. By 2023, staffing levels had dropped to nearly half of the department’s minimum threshold. In 2022, I surveyed Asian residents on San Francisco’s west side — most were homeowners, many lived in multigenerational households. Over and over, I heard the same thing:
“I’ve lived here over 20 years.”
“Thirty years.”
“My whole life — and I’ve never questioned my safety until now.”
When I asked what would make them feel safe again, the answer was always the same:
“More police.”
“More foot beat patrols.”
“Maybe just a cop car near the grocery store.”
For most Asian families I spoke with, police didn’t represent harm — they represented safety. That may not be true for everyone, but we need a justice system that works for us all.
Every person, in every neighborhood, deserves the right to live without fear.
But the failure isn’t just about policing: The entire criminal justice system refuses to keep us safe.
In 2021, 35-year-old Daniel Cauich, a repeat violent felon out on bail for a burglary and enrolled in then District Attorney Chesa Boudin’s failed ankle monitor program, randomly approached Anh Peng Taylor, a 94-year-old Asian grandmother, and stabbed her multiple times through the arm and into her stomach. Luckily, Taylor survived the attack, which occurred in front of her Post Street apartment in San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood. Police circulated a surveillance image and the suspect was quickly identified. Officers located Cauich in the 1300 block of Clay Street and arrested him for Taylor’s stabbing.
The case dragged on until March 15, 2024, when Judge Ksenia Tsenin sentenced Cauich to five years of supervised probation, citing his “mental health issues, drug and alcohol abuse, childhood traumas, and a brain injury stemming from when he was hit by a car in 2020.” District Attorney Brooke Jenkins — who replaced Boudin after he was recalled — objected, saying the sentence was “denied justice.”
A month later, Judge Jeffrey Ross, who presides over Intensive Supervision Court, declared Cauich ineligible for the program because the California penal code prohibits probation from being granted to anyone “who was on probation for a felony at the time they committed a new violent or serious felony offense.” Cauich went back to jail as attorneys continued wrangling over what seemed like a simple decision, considering the unprovoked attack was heinous, and Cauich had a long, violent record that included a 2016 murder charge (later dismissed by a judge for “lack of evidence”).
The Asian community was rightfully outraged, and so we organized. We rallied in front of the Hall of Justice. District Attorney Jenkins stood with us because this wasn’t just about one case. Asian elders, survivors, and families stood together with her demanding safety. Across from us stood a row of attorneys from the public defender’s office shouting us down to defend the man who stabbed her. Their presence said it all: there are people in this city willing to stand with the attacker, not the victim. KQED called me that day for an interview. They asked if I was “advocating to put mentally ill people in prison.” I responded, “What are you doing to keep my community safe?” They didn’t air the interview. Jenkins made stopping anti-Asian hate a top priority, but a small circle of judges continue blocking her, treating the bench like an ideological weapon. And when she spoke out, the media rushed to defend the judges, not the communities they’ve failed. This system self-perpetuates and protects itself; it refuses to change. Meanwhile, Cauich’s case drags on, and Antoine Watson, the man who murdered Grandpa Vicha Ratanapakdee in 2021— one of the cases that sparked this entire movement — still hasn’t seen trial. Justice delayed is justice denied.
Article 3 of the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights states every person has the right to “life, liberty, and security.” The right to feel safe where you live isn’t an ideal, it’s a baseline. And yet in San Francisco, a tier-one American city, we feel less safe than at any point in a generation. And it’s no accident. It’s the result of bad policy, failed leadership, and a city that still refuses to center the values of the Asian communities who call it home. Safety is what lets families root, grow, and stay. And when that breaks, everything else falls with it. For Asian Americans, that cuts at the heart of who we are. And without safety, none of that is possible — not building a life together, not growing old with dignity, not raising children in peace. Because public safety isn’t an Asian demand, it’s a human one. It’s the foundation for everything we hope to build, no matter where we come from or what language we speak at home. Every person, in every neighborhood, deserves the right to live without fear, not just some of the time, but all of the time.