OAKLAND, Calif. — At-risk young men gather around tables inside an Oakland church, joined by prosecutors, religious leaders and shooting survivors all working to demonstrate there’s hope beyond prison, violence or death.
The approach focuses on unwavering support rather than penalties. The participants begin showing signs of engagement.
“We’re going to talk about keeping you and those you love alive and free,” emeritus pastor Jim Hopkins of Lakeshore Avenue Baptist Church explains to those who meet at his facility. “If you put down the gun, start taking the (city’s) services, we’ll help you find another way.”
The California community has reduced murders to unprecedented levels, with analysts crediting a program that identifies individuals most vulnerable to gang involvement and connects them with life mentors to redirect their paths.
Municipal leaders conduct weekly reviews of recent shootings to pinpoint those involved. The city’s Department of Violence Prevention locates and engages these individuals through individual meetings or group sessions at the church, providing various services including life coaching support.
While no single factor explains declining murder rates, city officials point to the Oakland Ceasefire-Lifeline program as crucial, creating change through individual transformation.
Murder statistics have dropped significantly across major American cities recently, but Oakland’s transformation stands out as especially remarkable.
The community of approximately 400,000 residents hasn’t experienced such low murder rates since 1967, during the era when the Black Panthers held influence and hippies gathered in nearby San Francisco for the Summer of Love.
For almost 25 years, Oakland remained among America’s most dangerous municipalities. Police documented yearly murder rates between 16.2 and 36.4 deaths per 100,000 residents, compared to the national average of roughly five per 100,000.
Oakland embraced the lifeline initiative, originally developed in Boston, following 2011 gun violence that claimed three young lives — children aged 1, 3 and 5 in separate incidents. The community saw a 43% murder reduction between 2012 and 2017.
City leaders later weakened the program until it was virtually eliminated during the pandemic, according to a 2023 audit.
Murder numbers only decreased after officials adopted audit recommendations, dropping from 118 in 2023 to 78 in 2024.
Last year, Oakland reached a historic low of 57 murders.
Law enforcement participates only by identifying individuals likely to seek revenge for shootings that injured or killed friends or family, or those who might become retaliation targets.
“People may underestimate how little the clients believe in themselves, and how little they value their own lives,” explained Holly Joshi, violence prevention department chief.
Once chosen, participants meet individuals whose lives gang violence has permanently altered, including parents who lost children or someone left paralyzed who can only communicate by tongue clicks.
Last year, Bernard, a 27-year-old former gang member, joined 200 people paired with life coaches. He was approached while leaving prison after serving six years for attempted robbery. Today, he maintains steady employment, his own apartment and a transformed perspective.
He’s developed greater awareness of community connections, he explains.
“When I was younger, I didn’t realize I wasn’t only hurting myself. I was hurting everybody around me, everybody who cared for me,” Bernard shared, requesting his surname remain private due to concerns about future opportunities.
Initially, Bernard remained distant from his 35-year-old life coach, LaSasha Long.
However, after the young man who missed his mother’s funeral while incarcerated experienced another tragedy — losing a close childhood friend — he needed someone to talk to.
“As soon as I called Sasha, she was there with advice,” he recalls.
Long understood his pain. She experienced a turbulent childhood, moving between relatives after a stray bullet killed her mother during her toddler years. She shared what she believed would have helped her heal: acknowledging his losses while recognizing what he still had to live for. She reminded him his friend would want him to continue living.
He absorbed her words.
“I can’t take the credit for it because it was all him. He was the pilot,” she explains, noting she provided transportation and appointment reminders. “But he wanted to change. He wanted that.”
Now they speak daily by phone. He makes silly expressions while posing for Associated Press photographs. She jokes about being his best man someday. He protests she’s not a man. She counters that he hasn’t seen how sharp she looks in formal wear.
Long characterizes life coaching as “heart work,” helping someone discover hope in darkness.
Bernard hopes to follow Long’s example someday, becoming a coach who can provide support to others who experienced violent upbringings while struggling financially. His mother showed love but battled addiction. His father cycled in and out of incarceration.
He’s found fulfillment in assisting others.
Recently, while on break from his San Francisco street cleaning job, Bernard witnessed a teenager crash his bicycle. His former self wouldn’t have rushed to help, let alone comfort the embarrassed youth by explaining that everyone falls sometimes.
Instead, Bernard cleaned the gravel from the boy’s scraped face and joked: “Tell your girl you got jumped.”
“All some of us need is to see or know that people care,” he reflected. “Once people realize that, I believe they start to do better, they want to do better. They figure there’s more to life.”
