The Path for “Respect” (Dedicated to the Memory of Amadou Diallo)
To mourn Amadou Diallo, a young man who lost his life after being hit by 41 bullets fired by police officers in New York, Mos Def and Talib Kweli spearheaded the creation of Hip Hop for Respect.
Translator’s Note: This column was penned by Sally Morita for BLAST in May 2000. Originally written in Japanese; translated into English for publication. All rights reserved.
On February 4, 1999, Amadou Diallo, a young Guinean immigrant, returned home to his apartment in the Bronx, where tragedy struck. Four plainclothes officers, who had been pursuing a suspected rapist, mistook him for the suspect in the wanted photo. They fired 41 bullets at this innocent young man; 19 of them struck his body. His brief twenty-odd years of life ended instantly.
It was said that when Diallo saw the officers, he reached into his pocket, and that gesture caused the police to pull their triggers. But what he had in his hand was a black wallet. Startled by the sudden appearance of strangers, perhaps thinking they were robbers, he might have pulled out his wallet to protect himself. The fear he must have felt is unimaginable.
The police defense team claimed it was self-defense—that the officers believed Diallo was drawing a gun when he reached into his pocket. Because the victim was an African immigrant and all four officers were white, the incident immediately ignited racial tensions. For about a year, it captured not only New York’s but the entire nation’s attention. Finally, on February 26 of this year, all four officers were acquitted.
The verdict provoked both approval and outrage among New Yorkers, sparking fierce debate and deep shock. The trial was broadcast live every day on local TV and radio, showing the four officers testifying under questioning from the prosecutor. As you may know, trials in America are open to the public. One officer, crying on the stand, testified: “When I ran to Diallo after shooting him and pulled his hand from his pocket, I saw he wasn’t holding a gun but a wallet, and I shouted, ‘Don’t die!’”
Such emotional testimonies continued daily, surely touching the audience’s and the jury’s feelings. Hearing only their side, one might think it was indeed self-defense—but aside from the officers and Diallo himself, no one was there. Diallo, of course, would never take the stand to tell his side. The phrase “the dead have no voice” could not be more true here.
This was not the first case of its kind. Soon after, another incident occurred in which a Haitian immigrant was unjustly arrested and beaten by police during interrogation (in that case, the officers were found guilty). In reality, only a small fraction of such cases ever come to light.
There were, without doubt, many inexplicable aspects about this case and the trial. Even if one or two shots might be understandable, why 41? Moreover, one of the four officers had also been involved, two years earlier in Brooklyn, in the shooting death of an unarmed Black youth, hit by 27 bullets. (Mos Def later remarked with bitter irony, “Will it be 55 next time? 69 after that?”)
Another major issue: why was the trial held not in the Bronx, where the incident happened, but far away in Albany, upstate New York? As you know, the suburbs are largely white, and therefore the jury inevitably consisted mostly of white members. Authorities claimed that protests in New York City might endanger public safety and that a fair trial could not be held there, so they moved the venue to Albany. Black politicians seized the moment, raising banners of “Abolish Racial Discrimination” and fueling more protests. Many demonstrators were arrested.
From my perspective as a Japanese person, what saddens me most is how every one of these incidents is treated solely as a “race issue.” I watched the verdict announcement on the office TV—my Black co-workers shouted, “This is unbelievable!” while the white ones fell silent, offering no comment. At the same time, I remembered the O.J. Simpson trial years earlier. Back then, everyone cheered loudly for O.J.’s acquittal—regardless of whether he was truly guilty—simply because a Black man accused of killing a white person had been found not guilty. Perhaps that was an example of “reverse discrimination.” But of course, such reversals only happen because discrimination existed in the first place.
Soon after the Diallo tragedy, Mos Def and Talib Kweli organized a gathering of many hip-hop artists to respond to it. They called it the Hip Hop For Respect Foundation—a positive community built to raise mutual respect both for their own race and for humanity at large through hip-hop music.
They sent letters inviting artists to join a “Rally for Justice and Harmony” in Brooklyn. In response, Common, Posdnuos (of De La Soul), Kool G Rap, Shabaam Sahdeeq, Tame One from Artifacts, Sporty Thievz, Pharoahe Monch, Rah Digga, J-Live, John Forte, and Wise Intelligent all came together. Producers Organized Noize, 88-Keys, and Mr. Man contributed tracks. The recording took place in Manhattan in April of last year. Many people who weren’t directly involved in the sessions still came by to leave messages—among them actor Malik Yoba and R&B singer Joe.
During the televised trial, someone said something that stayed with me: “If a Black man reaches into his pocket, it’s assumed to be a gun; if a white man does the same, it’s assumed to be a wallet.” Those words summed up the depth and sorrow of America’s racial history. Even in a split-second reaction, how an action is perceived depends on the race of the person performing it. The four officers likely didn’t set out to kill Diallo, but because he was a “person of color,” they assumed what he held was a gun. If he had been white, it might have been dismissed as a simple mistake.
Of course, not all white Americans fit this mold, but it’s undeniable that something intangible persists—something logic can’t erase. It may be prejudice, fear, or a sense of superiority toward Black people. After hearing the not-guilty verdict, Kweli said: “The saddest thing about this verdict is that I wasn’t surprised.” He described that lack of surprise as a tragic condition of being born Black in America—a feeling ingrained by a long history of domination by white power and the state.
He also said, “This case proved we don’t have the right to ask America’s government—or white people—for respect toward Black people.” Mos Def commented: “To New Yorkers who think this is just a Black issue—I’m telling you, it’s a human issue.” He added, “This isn’t only about race; it’s also about the abuse of power by government and law enforcement. To Diallo’s family, to everyone seeking justice, and to those who stand up to oppression—I say, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Allah’s judgment is more righteous than any court.”
While these movements were unfolding, reactions within the music industry were spreading—sometimes in distorted ways. Though not part of the project, dead prez released their album Let’s Get Free on February 8, its concept entirely built around confronting the same issues—the title itself speaks volumes. Their message was angrier and more traditional than that of Mos Def and Kweli, rooted squarely in Black radicalism. Noticeably, however, none of the so-called “big names” showed up for these efforts.
It feels awkward to name individuals, but figures like Russell Simmons and Puff Daddy made no comment, and even artists like Lauryn Hill and Wyclef Jean—Haitian-American musicians from Brooklyn—did not participate. An editor from BLAST magazine (a sister publication of Vibe) explained: “Artists who’ve gotten ‘white money’ are afraid of losing their position.” Even if America seems prosperous, most CD buyers are still suburban white kids from middle-class homes. In other words, a million-selling success depends not only on Black consumers but heavily on white audiences—the “white money.”
For many years, hip-hop was defined by defiance against white society and by confrontation between Black and white. But what Mos Def and Kweli aimed for through Hip Hop for Respect was something different: respect for all humanity. It marked a second stage—a move from pure resistance toward universal understanding. Hip-hop was clearly evolving in a remarkable way.
Tragically, while I was writing this article, another incident occurred: a young Black man mistaken for a drug dealer was shot dead by police, sparking even larger protests in Brooklyn. When will the justice and peace Mos Def and Kweli seek ever reach everyone in the world? Publicly, those who profit from “white money” can’t risk comments that might offend their core customers—but to endorse the verdict outright would invite public outrage. So they remain silent.
Of course, achieving “white money” success is often equated with true success, but once it’s obtained, they’re trapped by it. This chaos, too, was exposed by the Diallo case.
As I reflected on what this project stood for, I learned and realized many things.
At first, I thought it resembled the communities that Public Enemy or N.W.A. once represented—those that shouted “Fuck tha Police!” and directly opposed social oppression of Black people. (And at the time, that message was absolutely necessary.) But both Mos Def and Kweli reject the idea of blaming everything on being Black. They believe that it is tragic in itself.
So instead, they raise the banner of “justice and harmony.” Not resistance or confrontation, but reconciliation. Not a “new fight,” but “a cultivation of peace.” It sounds simple, but it’s hard—because reconciliation requires forgiveness. It means accepting the long history of discrimination and forgiving those who perpetuated it. It means accepting even those who harbor prejudice, fear, or a sense of superiority toward your race. That, they say, is their contribution to hip-hop.
Hip-hop itself was born as a way to express the anger of oppressed Black communities.