At a time when political violence is celebrated, well-meaning citizens must be prepared to respond with nonviolence. One definition of fascism is, simply, the overt desire to dominate. This essay provides a recent example of how attitudes of domination (cultural violence) can lead to injurious actions (direct violence), and how nonviolent intervention can give people a way out.
For the Peace and Safety of Those in Attendance
On February 22, 2025, the Kootenai County Republican Central Committee (KCRCC) hosted a “Legislative Town Hall” in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho (CDA). KCRCC invited the public “to meet your state legislators.” KCRCC member Marc Stewart reserved a high school auditorium because a public venue, rather than a church hall, he believed, would attract “a broader demographic.” School officials okayed his request because it wasn’t a private meeting.
But in his opening remarks, KCRCC chairperson Brent Regan announced that “this is actually a private event. As a result of that, if there’s any disturbances where people can’t maintain decorum, we have security here and you’ll be escorted out of the building.”
Regan seemed to think that simply by declaring “private event,” he could justify the use of bouncers. (“Escorted out” is a common euphemism for “forcibly removed by violence or threat of violence.”) And so it came to pass that Regan’s enforcers violently dragged a woman named Teresa Borrenpohl out of the auditorium.
“Admittedly, I spoke out of turn,” Borrenpohl said, “But do we live in a country where you speak out of turn and the result is three men assaulting a woman?”
In the ensuing days, dramatic cellphone camera footage of the assault “went viral.” Most online commentators affirmed Borrenpohl’s free speech rights and condemned her attackers. Within a week, a GoFundMe page had raised over $300,000 for her coming legal expenses.
Regan responded via Facebook. He blamed Borrenpohl for causing “an 18 minute delay in the meeting” and breaking “the rules…to the detriment of the rights of all present.” He claimed she was removed “for the peace and safety of those in attendance.”
In fact, Borrenpohl didn’t interrupt and delay the “Town Hall.” Contrary to the superficial “viral” observations, something insidious was going on.
Is This a Town Hall or a Lecture?
An estimated 350 people attended the event, including a panel of eight state legislators, all of them male. When the panelists spoke, the lively audience responded with both approval and criticism.
Laura Tenneson, one of the critics, later explained, “We chose to shout out things” to counter the legislators’ assertions. “We weren’t completely disrupting to the point where they couldn’t speak.”
At one point, Rep. Ron Mendive was explaining Idaho politics. “We’re a citizen legislature,” he said.
Borrenpohl, who was sitting next to Tenneson, shouted, “Damn right!”
Mendive nodded in her direction. “We fight it out,” he continued, “and that’s the way it’s supposed to work, and sometimes it gets a little messy.”
When Mendive finished speaking, Borrenpohl shouted that Sen. Phil Hart “stole from public land”—perhaps a non sequitur, but factually correct.
Standing at a lectern, event moderator Ed Bejarana pointed out Borrenpohl. “Everybody pay attention to the little girl over here in the corner who wants attention,” he snarked. “Everybody give her applause.”
Borrenpohl waved, smiled, and blew a kiss.
“Yay, whoo,” Bejarana said sarcastically. “Boy, she can yell really, really loud. That’s impressive.”
Rep. Tony Wisniewski said he was pleased “to see there is so much civic interest and involvement in our government.” People voiced approval when Wisniewski, while discussing “freedom in the medical field,” expressed worry about “the potential cross breeding of human genes and animal genes.”
But one woman asked, “Are you serious right now? That is ridiculous!” A man, just as loud, said, “Kick her out!”—echoed by others. Wisniewski may have appreciated the spirited give-and-take, but some attendees seemed to prefer repression of opposition.
Wisniewski’s misleading comment about doctors being “forced to do abortions” triggered more commentary. “Women are dying,” one woman said. A second added, “Doctors are leaving our state”—a reference to Idaho’s severe abortion laws.
Borrenpohl yelled, “Is this a town hall or a lecture?” Borrenpohl has run for office against Wisniewski, is an advocate for women’s rights, and has a doctorate in education. A lecture is a monologue, she was suggesting, while a town hall is for dialogue.
Bejarana, the moderator, is a professional voice actor. On his business website, he calls himself “your go-to male voice-over talent” and encourages people to “speak with passion” because “your voice is your success.” But he didn’t appreciate the women who were passionately talking back to the legislators. He called them “not smart enough,” “crazy people,” and “rabble-rousers.” He seemed to have forgotten his announced intention “to foster a productive and respectful environment.”
Could anyone possibly make things worse?
Your Voice Is Meaningless
Sheriff Robert Norris decided it was up to him. Flanked by two men, Norris rushed toward Borrenpohl and signaled for her to leave. The audience noise suddenly increased. People in front rows turned to watch the confrontation. Norris commanded Bejarana, “Stop the meeting.” In fact, the verbal chaos, provoked by Bejarana’s insults and Norris’s actions, had already halted proceedings.
Norris threatened Borrenpohl, “Get up or be arrested.” He ordered two other audience members to leave. They remained seated.
Bejarana fed off Norris’s posturing. “Get ‘em out!” he barked. “If you can’t be civil,” he said uncivilly, “get out!”
“This is not a negotiation,” Norris apprised Borrenpohl, who still wasn’t budging. “I’m telling you to leave.” He pulled on her arm.
“Please don’t touch me,” she said calmly.
“Do you want to be pepper-sprayed?”
As audience members continued shouting, Bejarana provided the male voice-over talent. “I’m simply overtalking you because your voice is meaningless right now,” he crowed. “I can talk over all of you.” Then he mocked Borrenpohl: “And look at this—this little girl is afraid to leave. She spoke up and now she doesn’t want to suffer the consequences.”
Borrenpohl hadn’t expected “consequences” for “speaking up” at a public event. “I felt comfortable expressing displeasure,” she later explained, “because people were very openly expressing their appreciation for the legislators there.”
Having failed to frighten Borrenpohl into leaving, Norris ordered his backup team to oust her. The leader was Paul Trouette. His underlings were Christofer Berg, Jesse Jones, and Alexander Trouette. Their gang colors were black jackets and olive pants.
As Berg and Jones moved in, Borrenpohl asked, “Who are you? Where’s your badge?” They refused to identify themselves.
Slouching at the lectern, Bejarana affected a female voice: “Oh, no, I shouldn’t be removed. I should be allowed to cry and yell and scream.” Bejarana’s character was revealed. This was his big moment. He was playing Trump.
“We’ve just got to be a little aggressive with some of these folks here,” Bejarana continued, urging physical assault on a nonthreatening woman.
Borrenpohl loudly asked Sheriff Norris if Berg and Jones were his deputies. “Get her out!” Norris commanded, losing his composure.
“Who the fuck are these men?” Borrenpohl yelled, as Berg, Jones, and Paul Trouette yanked her from her seat. Alexander Trouette stood by with zip ties.
“Leave her alone!” some people demanded. Others voiced approval.
“We have some 150-year-old Social Security recipients,” Bejarana babbled, now trying to direct attention away from the violence he had instigated. “We know that government has been mismanaging funds.”
“You’re hurting her!” a woman objected.
“Ma’am,” one of the attackers said to Borrenpohl, “just cooperate, and it will be one hundred times better.”
“Yeah,” she replied, struggling to escape his grip, “that’s what they say to rape victims.”
Executive Protection
The “Town Hall” was held on a Saturday afternoon. Two days earlier, Paul Trouette had informed Jared Reneau, the CDA police department’s school resource officer, that KCRCC had hired his company, LEAR Assets Management, to provide event “security.” As contracted guards, Trouette insisted, his team could carry guns.
On Friday, Officer Reneau learned that LEAR had not been hired. Caught in a lie, Trouette admitted that he would be volunteering his time. (Regan later said they had an informal arrangement.) Trouette also acknowledged not having an official contract stating the services to be provided. In that case, Reneau advised him, the LEAR team could not legally bring guns on campus.
LEAR is controversial in northern California for blurring the boundary between public law officers and private agents, and for vigilante actions. In 2019, for example, a LEAR squad assaulted and detained several nonviolent forest protectors.
Trouette likes grandiose operations, likes to exaggerate his importance and power. For raids on illegal marijuana fields, he and his team dressed for combat—fatigues, body armor, assault rifles—and performed military maneuvers. Reporters identified them as “paramilitaries” and “mercenaries.”
For the “Town Hall,” Trouette originally informed a school official that he would be providing “executive protection” for “dignitaries” and needed to conduct an “advance sweep” to prepare for an emergency evacuation; his team must be armed. But he admitted to Reneau that his main purpose was “to help keep order” if someone tried to “filibuster the event.” (Filibuster means to speak at length, within the rules, in order to obstruct legislative business.)
Private guards, or “rent-a-cops,” operate in a gray area, posing as police but lacking official authority. Typically, they use police-style vehicles, uniforms, and badges and claim to be “coordinating” with law enforcement. They depend on people acquiescing to their commands rather than challenging their legitimacy.
CDA city code requires that such private agents 1) have “SECURITY” prominently printed on their uniforms, which must be “easily distinguishable” from police uniforms, 2) possess a company-issued photo I.D., and 3) if working for a third party, carry with them a copy of the contract. At a city council meeting in 2024, Trouette objected to the contract and I.D. requirements because they would cut into his profits.
Cellphone footage shows the four LEAR agents, not properly marked as “SECURITY,” tackling Borrenpohl, possibly pulling her hair, dragging her along the ground, pinning her down—much like the start of a sexual assault. According to Tenneson, “At one point, they had her shirt almost entirely off. Her undergarments were exposed.” Borrenpohl suffered scratches and bruising, Tenneson added, and went to an emergency room.
Borrenpohl described the assault as “really violent and really traumatic…they were forcing me down on the ground. I just wanted to make sure I could still breathe.” She recalled confusion, saying, “I didn’t know if I was being arrested by the sheriff’s office or if I was being kidnapped.”
According to CDA police officer Emily Taylor, who was summoned by school officials, the attackers claimed victimhood. Trouette complained that Jones had been battered and “punched in the groin.” Berg wanted to press charges. He stated that Borrenpohl had been “trying to throw punches.” She had “grabbed his hand and pulled it towards her”—precisely what the footage shows him doing to her—and then she bit him.
Borrenpohl admitted to the bite, which didn’t break Berg’s skin. Officer Taylor described the injury as a “small red spot, about the size of a pea,” but still cited Borrenpohl for misdemeanor battery.
On Monday, the city prosecutor dropped the charge. The initial informants, the prosecutor’s motion stated, hadn’t mentioned the “potential violations of [Borrenpohl’s] First Amendment rights.” City officials revoked LEAR’s business license due to improper behavior and lack of appropriate “SECURITY” identification.
Local-Level Lawfare
Sheriff Robert Norris appears to be uncomfortable with female sexuality. With bodycam on, he has searched public libraries for items he personally considers “obscene.” In 2023, he stole two such books, including one which educates teenaged girls on body changes and relationships.
In April 2024, when the book theft was discussed at a KCRCC forum, an unhappy Norris reportedly stated that a certain woman, who was in the audience, photographed pornography and enjoyed oral sex. The woman, backed by the written statements of eyewitnesses, is suing Norris for slander and defamation. Norris claims that he’s the real victim—of “local-level lawfare.”
Norris is similarly uncomfortable with politically engaged, outspoken women, particularly Borrenpohl. In July 2024, while speaking to a Republican group, Norris denied the earlier slander and defamation, then suddenly shifted topics: “And Teresa Borrenpohl…she’s another activist. We need to make sure that we don’t elect activist leaders in this community.”
Clearly, misogyny and personal resentment were involved when Norris and Bejarana singled out Borrenpohl at the “Town Hall.” Norris became visibly angry because Borrenpohl stood her ground (sat, actually). Bejarana disparaged the “little girl” for daring to “speak up” and being loud, then bragged about his “nice loud voice” and “big microphone.”
Just to be clear: Borrenpohl was participating in the “Town Hall.” Bejarana and Norris interrupted it.
Norris later said that he had been invited to the lead the Pledge of Allegiance and wasn’t involved in security arrangements. In that case, he intervened—and violated Borrenpohl’s constitutional rights—as a self-appointed private citizen but under the guise of official authority. His hat indicated sheriff’s office; his badge was visible on his belt; he identified himself to Borrenpohl as “sheriff” and threatened to arrest her.
What could he arrest her for? This wasn’t his event, he didn’t have the legal authority to kick her out—as Borrenpohl seemed to understand—so he couldn’t charge her with trespassing. He could have called for CDA police assistance, but this wasn’t about enforcing laws or maintaining public safety. So he directed the LEAR gang to do his dirty work.
Trouette, no doubt, was pleased. He was coordinating with a law officer, taking charge of the situation, feeling important and powerful. This is why he had volunteered. No guns—thank goodness!—but he got to play cop. Trouette falsely advised Officer Taylor that he and Norris had “arrested” a “combative” woman for trespassing.
In fact, Sheriff Norris asked CDA police officers to arrest Borrenpohl. They declined. “In an open forum, where people can cheer and jeer,” Police Chief Lee White later explained, “there is an expectation that someone’s right to free speech will not be infringed upon.” Some people, he noted, might want police to “silence a voice that’s in opposition to theirs at a town hall,” but “we have to make sure people have the protections afforded them under the Constitution.”
Soul Force
Borrenpohl’s resistance was critical. To leave, when ordered by Norris, would be to suggest that she was in the wrong. The bullying duo—Norris and Bejarana—would have been empowered. The “Town Hall” wouldn’t have made the news. You wouldn’t be reading this essay.
By remaining calm and seated—nonviolent noncooperation—Borrenpohl placed Norris in a dilemma. He could either back down, at the expense of his ego, or reveal the physical violence (threat power) that underpinned his claim to authority. He chose the latter.
By drawing Norris’s imperiousness and cruelty to the surface, Borrenpohl dramatized the tension in U.S. communities—between those who believe in democratic cooperation and those who celebrate domination. In suffering physical and emotional trauma, Borrenpohl won much sympathy (thanks to cellphone footage) and claimed the moral high ground. She was in the right.
Will you do as she did?
Borrenpohl’s message, intended or not, was Don’t surrender your rights! Unfortunately, she didn’t have much help.
The footage is startling, not just for the violent assault, but for absence of nonviolent intervention. The panelists sat mutely at their microphones. Audience members shouted or gawked; some appeared to smirk. One woman shoved a cellphone in Borrenpohl’s face to record her anguish. But no one, not even Borrenpohl’s friends, put their bodies in the way. Perhaps they didn’t know how.
There were at least two moments where nonviolent intervention would have been appropriate and effective. The first came when Sheriff Norris backed off and waved in Jones and Berg. Concerned citizens could have quietly moved into Borrenpohl’s row and the one behind her, stepping over chairbacks if necessary.
Ideally, the intervenors would have surrounded Borrenpohl, faced outward, and linked arms, presenting the LEAR team with a human barrier of calm but unyielding energy. “We don’t want violence,” the protectors might have said. “We don’t want anyone hurt.”
What happens next in this scenario?
Jones and Berg don’t want to harm Borrenpohl, but they have orders—from both the sheriff and their employer—and don’t want to appear disobedient or incapable. Also, they are caught in reactive energy, adrenaline pumping, primed for fight.
The nonviolent intervention gives them a way out. There’s no guarantee, but Jones and Berg, upon encountering the unexpected human barrier, probably pause. They wonder, Are we supposed to manhandle all these gentle folks just to get to a seated woman? Can we even accomplish it? They turn to Sheriff Norris for direction.
Norris, too, has a way out. The conflict is no longer simply him versus Borrenpohl. The audience’s focus is now on the nonviolent protectors. Norris can save face, can still appear in charge, by saying what the protectors are already demonstrating: “Okay, everybody, just relax.”
At a deeper level, the contest is dehumanization versus rehumanization. To be fully human is to see all others as fully human, to understand that they, too, need well-being, love, and freedom. In the words of Jesus of Nazareth, love your neighbors and enemies as yourself.
Bejarana, Norris, and the audience members who called for Borrenpohl’s eviction dehumanized her, declared her less than fully human. In their eyes, she was inferior, a problem, an uppity female, an enemy, not deserving compassion. They wanted her treated in a way they would never want to be treated.
In the hypothetical scenario, the nonviolent protectors rehumanize Borrenpohl. By coming to her aid, by displaying a willingness to risk injury on her behalf, they powerfully demonstrate that she is worth caring about. They rehumanize Berg and Jones, too, by awakening them from their violent stupor.
The nonviolent protectors—the true security guards in the room—have brought love into the equation. (Mohandas Gandhi called it “soul force.”) The entire audience, mostly without realizing it, gets the message.
The second opportunity for nonviolent intervention was when Jones and Berg pinned Borrenpohl to the ground, then dragged her up the aisle. In this scenario, one nonviolent protector lies down right next to Borrenpohl and says, “I’ll help you. Hold on to me.” Instead of biting an attacker, Borrenpohl embraces an ally and doesn’t let go. You can ponder what comes next.
Here’s one possibility: The first courageous intervenor inspires five more, or ten, or twenty. They sit or lie down in the aisle. The bouncers are stymied. Consider how cellphone footage of that display of soul force might play.
One more thing to consider: Will you be ready when your moment comes?
About the Author
Timothy Braatz is a historian of nonviolence, a playwright, novelist, and Peace Studies instructor. His books include Peace Lessons, From Ghetto to Death Camp, and Surviving Conquest.
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Damn right I’ll be ready!
Great piece, very helpful for those of us who don’t know what to do in situations like this but want to help. Thank you!