Buildings stand in the downtown area ahead of the the Republican National Convention (RNC) in Cleveland, Ohio, U.S., on Sunday, July 17, 2016. A key Republican National Convention committee crushed a long-shot attempt by rogue delegates to block Donald Trump's nomination, as internal strife that's roiled the party for much of the past decade was on full display Thursday amid fights over governing rules for the next four years.Victor J. Blue/Bloomberg
Over the course of one weekend, Cleveland finally got the attention it has long craved, but for all the wrong reasons. As Donald Trump readies to accept the nomination of the Republican Party here this week, the eyes of the planet are trained on this anxious city – not because of the urban miracle that has transformed the city once called "the mistake by the lake" but because of the mayhem that is descending on it. Despite the decades of civic improvement, one of the world's best orchestras and an NBA title, Cleveland is no longer that Cleveland. Instead, it has become the accidental destination for all that ails the country, if not the world, a volatile laboratory of gun control, racial tensions, policing and protest. And Mr. Trump is the provocateur who could either tamp it down or blow it up.
Just as Cleveland finished its careful preparations for the four-day Republican National Convention, violence in Baton Rouge, La., and Nice, France, disrupted plans and turned it into pop-up mayhem. On Sunday, a gunman in the Louisiana capital shot and killed three police officers in an ambush. On Thursday night, a terrorist in the French seaside resort killed at least 84 people while driving a 19-tonne truck.
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The fear from the attacks became viral and universal, the kind of globalization that no wall can shut out. For a moment at least, Cleveland had to set aside concerns about the pageantry of anger coming to town: the Bikers for Trump; the right-wing militants from the Oath Keepers; the anarchists using black bloc techniques; and the New Black Panthers. It had to think about trucks.
Police erected concrete barriers in front of critical government buildings. The city started looking a little more like Beirut. But then in the middle of downtown, snow plows arrived, the great monsters of the Great Lakes blocking the vehicle entrances to Public Square. "[They] will stop pretty much anything," noted a memo sent out by Densus, a Cleveland-based security advisory company. As for the concrete barriers, "They will stop most large vehicles, unless the driver is very lucky."
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Helicopters hover, forcing people walking on Euclid Avenue to glance up from their iPhones and remember the sky. Dozens of sweltering policeman glide past like black swans on bicycles, dressed in heavy helmets and bulletproof vests. They are supposed to put people's worries to rest, but they look so suffocated in the unremitting sun that they themselves might detonate.
In many respects, the Cleveland police must be more scared than anyone else. The Dallas massacre of five officers during a protest on July 7 is still top of mind, and there is chronic strife between the local police force here and African-Americans.
The civility that followed Dallas between politicians, police and the rabid commentariat on both sides, however, was just starting to ease tensions. Mr. Trump cancelled his rallies and called for national unity. And just as a small, collective healing began across the nation, Baton Rouge happened, turning Cleveland into a makeshift national plebiscite on gun control.
Within hours of the attack in Louisiana, the head of Cleveland's largest police union, Stephen Loomis, asked Ohio Governor John Kasich to temporarily restrict the state's open-carry gun laws during the Republican National Convention.
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"He could very easily do some kind of executive order or something – I don't care if it's constitutional or not at this point," Mr. Loomis told CNN. "They can fight about it after the RNC or they can lift it after the RNC, but I want him to absolutely outlaw open-carry in Cuyahoga County until this RNC is over."
Ohio law permits licensed firearm owners to wear weapons in public. So a Biker for Trump or Oath Keeper can legally stroll downtown or in the convention's "event zone" with any firearm or weapon that the state has not banned, such as sabres or tennis balls.
While Mr. Kasich has responded that he doesn't have the constitutional power to suspend the state or federal law, Mr. Loomis has threatened himself to turn the law on its head. "We are going to be looking very, very hard at anyone who has an open carry," he said. "An AR-15, a shotgun, multiple handguns. It's irresponsible of those folks – especially right now – to be coming downtown with open-carry [assault rifles] or anything else. I couldn't care less if it's legal or not."
If all these frightening developments are redolent of the tension surrounding the Democratic Party convention of 1968, that event didn't have anyone as unpredictable as Mr. Trump as circus master.
Mr. Trump perhaps faces his greatest test this week, the graduation from candidate to leader. Will he cool down this cauldron or shake it until it froths over? Will he heal his party's rifts or further alienate factions of the GOP? Leading members of his own party are staying way away from the event, including Governor Kasich. And it's not because he doesn't like Cleveland.