Oklahoma: The Forgiving
stewart...@netzero.com
22nd March
OKLAHOMA:
The Forgiving
For many it became a kind of redemptive tableau: the bloodied child in
the
protective arms of a fireman, pulled from the wreckage of the bombed
Alfred P Murrah Federal Building. Within 24 hours Baylee Almon, in her
white socks and yellow vest, and Captain Chris Fields, giving the
tragedy
some kind of nobility, had become the universal image of the Oklahoma
bombing. The picture, captured by an amateur photographer, defined a
monumental moment in American history. It became an unspoken eulogy. It
enshrined the past. But the image doesn't tell the whole truth.
Out of the frame, a policeman in civilian clothes was shouting that he
had
a critical infant before passing her to Fields. Fields took Baylee to
an
ambulance across the street, while the policeman returned to the
building.
"The first thing I did was check for breathing and circulation," says
Fields, when we meet in Oklahoma, "any signs of life. And there were
none." In the picture she looks unconscious. But Baylee was dead. She
never really stood a chance. Given over to the clutches of pure
physics,
the first wave of super-hot gas hit the building at 7,000 miles an
hour.
Fields, whose own son was 3 years old at the time, thought to himself:
"Man, somebody's world is ready to fall apart and collapse today." For
Aren Almon Kok, Baylee's mother, the Oklahoma bombing gradually blocked
out the light in her life.
Baylee had turned one year old on April 18, 1995. On April 19, at
9.02am,
Gulf War veteran Timothy McVeigh exploded a 4,800-pound cocktail of
fertiliser and fuel oil, detonated remotely, in a rented truck beside
the
Murrah building. Baylee was enrolled in pre-school at America's Kids,
the
day-care centre on the 2nd floor of the building. There were little
cut-out hands and flowers in the window. Within seconds the bomb,
planted
in hatred of the government, had completely rearranged the physical
nature
of the building and the people within it. The bomb had no favourites:
it
killed every race, age and gender. It killed solid people, the kind who
stuck to their lunch hours, worked towards their pensions, who never
caused a fuss. There were 168 dead, including 19 children, 15 of whom
were
in the day-care centre.
10 years on and the bitterness, says Aren, has receded and the pain
diluted. Even the photographs on the wall gather more dust now than
grief.
Yet, despite her considered and dignified demeanour, she looks like she
might implode. She starts speaking calmly before looking hard at the
floor. She sighs. She cries a little. She cries some more. Then she is
silent, and the silence telegraphs around the room her abject loss.
"She
would be 11 now," says Aren, without animation, "going into sixth
grade.
That's what I think about, who my daughter would have become. That's
what
makes me truly sad."
Aren, who sits heavily on the edge of her sofa, lives in a two-storey
house in Midwest City, outside Oklahoma City. A large American flag
flutters outside, dominating the front lawn, which is neatly tended.
The
large back lawn is fenced off in order that her 2 children - Bella, 7,
and
Broox, 4 - don't stray too far from her or their father, Stan Kok, whom
she married over a year after the bombing. Baylee's father, a young
marine, left Aren before their child was born. She had met him at the
Oklahoma State Fair while taking a shot on the Pirate Ship ride. A few
months later she was pregnant; at first she'd mistaken it for
appendicitis. But when she called to tell her boyfriend, she was
accused
of trapping him, so she settled into the life of a single mother,
moving
into an apartment beside the Murrah federal building and enrolling
Baylee
in the day-care centre. Then McVeigh struck. By the time Aren had found
her daughter in a nearby hospital, her life was already falling apart.
The evening after the bombing, Aren stayed awake most of the night at
her
grandmother's house. Her own apartment had been blasted apart. The only
thing that remained hanging on the walls was a smiling portrait of
Baylee.
The following day she would be haunted by another image. She first saw
the
picture of her daughter with Chris Fields in the Daily Oklahoman
newspaper. Although much of the child's face was obscured, she knew it
was
Baylee and, at first, was shocked by it. But she liked the picture, the
way the fireman held her daughter, the way he cradled her. The way a
circle of intimacy had developed around them. So she set out to meet
him.
"I met Chris about two days later," she says, her body motionless like
the
trunk of a fallen tree. "We talk about a lot of things, but never about
what happened. We just never."
Over the following weeks and months Aren and Chris met regularly. It
became a communal rite of passage. Chris, who was 31 at the time, would
stop whatever he was doing if she called, to comfort her. Mostly he
found
her depressed and shattered from all the medication she was taking. "I
was
sick to the stomach when I heard Aren wanted to see me," he says. "I
was
afraid she was going to scream at us for not doing enough. But all she
wanted to do was thank us for getting her baby out." Aren was just 22
at
the time. "I can't think of anyone who could have handled it as well as
she did."
One of the hardest things for Aren became seeing the photograph of her
daughter in shops, reproduced on T-shirts, lapel pins, belt buckles and
even key-rings. Only 11 people were visually identifiable after the
bombing, but she had to see her daughter dead every day. The image was
everywhere, defining the infant although she never had the chance to
define herself. "She was my daughter and I was not consulted. But we
had
no rights to the picture because when you die your rights are
relinquished. I met the photographer once, and he told me the Lord
tells
him how to use the picture. The Lord told him to make money off my
suffering." Aren went to court to try to limit the use of the image and
lost. The photographer won the Pulitzer Prize for his picture.
Other victims began to resent the photograph. In interviews they
reminded
people that Aren's daughter wasn't the only child lost in the bombing.
Despite the condolence letters and the donations - around $50,000
helped
her get a new apartment and car - she doubled her medication. Even back
then she often imagined what it would be like 10 years from her
daughter's
death; if someone would be wearing a T-shirt with Baylee's faded face
on
it. "I went through all kinds of emotions," she says, her body shaking.
"I
think it helped that I was so young. I didn't have the anger that a lot
of
people had. All I wanted was for everyone to look at me and think that
Baylee would have grown up to be a good person. There was anger, but I
didn't want to let it out."
Just 90 minutes after the bombing, 33-year-old Timothy McVeigh was
pulled
over by police for driving without a licence plate. Shortly before he
was
due to be released on April 21, McVeigh was recognised as a bombing
suspect and charged with the bombing. When McVeigh's ex-army friend
Terry
Nichols discovered he was also wanted for questioning, he handed
himself
in to police and was later charged with involvement in the bombing.
The motive for the attack was apparently retaliation against the US
government for the bloody end to the siege near Waco, Texas, in which
82
members of the Branch Davidian religious sect died. The Oklahoma bomb
exploded exactly 2 years to the day after the final assault at Waco.
McVeigh was convicted of federal conspiracy and murder charges, and was
executed by lethal injection on June 11, 2001, in Indiana. Nichols, 49,
was sentenced to life in prison in 2004 for his role in the worst act
of
US domestic terrorism. He was spared the death penalty when the jury
deadlocked on a sentence.
More than 2,000 survivors and relatives of the 168 dead victims were
eligible to witness McVeigh's execution. Of the approximately 300 who
initially told authorities they wanted to watch McVeigh die, 231 showed
up
at the federal prison facility. Aren attended a closed-circuit showing
of
the execution in Oklahoma. "It didn't feel good or bad," she recalls,
Broox playing at her side. "I wasn't saying, 'Yes, he's gone.' I know
what
it's like to lose a child and that's hard. It would still have been
difficult for his parents. I never really cared for enjoying that. And
I
didn't want to know why he did it either. His reasons were never going
to
be good enough." She stops. A few minutes pass in silence. "My bad days
are getting less and my good days are getting better. But it's still
very
hard.
"It doesn't bother me that Nichols is still alive. Timothy McVeigh
thought
he had done something great. Terry Nichols, I think, feels bad now that
it's all said and done. An eye for an eye isn't going to bring my
daughter
back, or make me feel any better. But you could talk to everyone who
lost
someone and you'd get 168 different answers."
Someone made a painting of the photograph of Baylee with the fireman
and
sent it to her. She keeps it away in a closet and never looks at it.
She
has a house full of happier photographs of her daughter. Chris Fields
used
to keep a poster-sized version of the picture behind a pile of old
shoes
in a closet. He hasn't seen the picture in years.
Philip James Allen, known to everyone as PJ, wheels his bicycle through
the living room of the house belonging to his grandmother, 53-year-old
Deloris Watson. He says it cost $170. The 11-year-old has lived with
his
grandmother for more than a decade; she adopted him from her own
daughter,
who was unable to look after him following a bad marriage. PJ, the
youngest survivor of the Oklahoma bombing, has few visible signs of
injury
except his constant wheezing and some scarring on the back of his head,
where small concrete rocks were once embedded. There is also scarring
from
his tracheotomy tube, removed more than a year ago. I ask PJ about the
bombing. He just shrugs. "I can't really remember," he answers
politely.
Deloris has dedicated her life to looking after the youngster - who, at
19
months of age, was blown through a wall on to a pavement below the
day-care centre. When she found him at the local children's hospital 5
hours later, PJ was suffering from second and third-degree burns over
55
per cent of his upper body. His left arm was broken in three places and
he
had inhaled gas and heat, charring his lungs and leaving his vocal
cords
permanently damaged. He was 1 of 6 children to survive that day. He was
sent home from hospital 45 days later.
In her devotion to the boy Deloris has sacrificed her job and then her
marriage, divorcing her husband, who blamed himself for PJ's injuries.
He
was supposed to take PJ to the day-care centre that morning but wanted
to
stay in bed, so Deloris took him instead. They arrived earlier than
normal. If her husband had taken him at the usual time, they would have
arrived after the bomb exploded. "He took on that mental anguish and
became very angry and I did not want to raise this child angry at
anyone,"
says Deloris.
Throughout the trials PJ remained very sick and Deloris refused to get
involved in the proceedings. Three years passed before she even
discovered
the names of all those who had died. "I was just trying to keep my boy
alive," she says. "It's not like I'm opposed to the death penalty. I
just
don't want my son to ever feel like it's okay to kill anybody for any
reason."
Throughout this time the American Red Cross and other organisations
paid
living expenses and provided mental-health counselling for the family.
The
federal government, she insists, gave her family nothing. "We are
neglected compared to the victims of September 11 in terms of funding
and
financial assistance. I'm not opposed to these people being helped,
they
deserved it, but where was our help? The federal government failed to
provide us with medical care." Her mouth is working angrily now, as if
trying to expel something distasteful.
The Unmet Needs Committee, a group of churches and non-profit
organisations that created a special fund for bomb victims, built PJ a
room to protect his body from damaging ultra-violet rays. It also had a
humidifier and germ killer to prevent the spread of illness. PJ now
attends school after being taught at home for years. After many delays
and
problems over funding - Deloris lives on welfare benefits and charity -
his tracheotomy was finally removed at the end of 2003. When McVeigh
was
executed, Deloris bought PJ a little bear from the Oklahoma Memorial
gift
shop and wrote the date on the tag. "That will be his only memory of it
when he is older." The image is a poignant one. She knows her grandson
was
lucky.
Edye Lucas, formerly Smith, had just bought a house the day before the
explosion. She had been off work on both Monday and Tuesday, due to
sickness. She had planned on taking Wednesday off, which would have
meant
her two sons, Chase, four, and Colton, 2, wouldn't have gone to the
day-care centre, but her co-workers at the Internal Revenue Service had
arranged an office "pre-birthday party" even though her birthday was on
Friday. "Everybody was waiting for me to cut my cake," she recalls.
"When
I got up to blew out the candles, the bomb went off." And that was the
moment her life was changed forever. "The night before I had stayed in
their room. We lived in my mom's house and they had twin beds and we
lay
there for over an hour. We read books and sang songs, but that night
was
different. I was probably excited about moving house and all that
stuff,
but that night really stays with me."
We meet at her house in Norman, an area of flat Oklahoma farmland that
has
changed little in decades. Photographs of her dead children line a
hallway; there are more on the fridge. She keeps hundreds more in
numbered
photo albums in a closet in her bedroom. "The next morning I dropped
them
off, got a hug and a kiss. Chase was a real comedian. He was bright and
funny, a nice little boy to be around. He opened doors for people. He'd
say, 'Here you go, pretty lady.' Colton didn't talk a whole lot and he
was
really fat. He ate all the time. People called him Chunky Monkey. They
were best friends." Her brother, Danny, a policeman, found the bodies
of
the boys at the bomb site. He made her promise never to ask about that
day, and what he saw or what they looked like. "I just try to remember
them the way they were when I dropped them off." The boys are buried
together in a single white casket.
There was a time, says Edye, an engaging 32-year-old, when she was so
angry she didn't care what happened to her. If she had died it would
have
been fine. "I'd be with them, I was afraid of nothing. But I picked up
the
pieces and life went on." She didn't seek therapy and thinks that
perhaps
she was in shock for some time. She had divorced the boys' father
before
they died, but they remarried in 1995. She divorced him again a year
and a
half later. Remarrying had been "a big mistake". Then she married again
and had one son, Glen. The marriage didn't last, and she married a 4th
time. It lasted four years. About 5 weeks ago she married again.
"I knew things would get better," she says, biting her lip, "because
they
couldn't get any worse. But I didn't hate Tim McVeigh, he was just an
idiot. I don't hate him. Terry Nichols? I don't have any ill will
towards
him either. This is what I was taught growing up. You don't hate
people,
and I don't. It just comes natural." About seven years ago Nichols sent
a
letter to Edye, followed by Christmas cards. In the letters he thanked
her
for "her kindness". Edye had dinner once with Nichols's ex-wife. She
told
her he talked about God a lot. Edye never replied. "It's no big deal."
Ten years on and Edye is devoid of anger. The more I press her, the
more
she insists it is true. "I don't have anything to be angry about. He is
a
nice person, he just did a bad thing. The Bible teaches forgiveness so
I
just forgive. What good am I going to get from being angry? I chose not
to
do that. I don't hate them." The hardest times were the years she went
childless. That was horrible. After Glen was born a lot of it changed.
"I
didn't even know who I was then. I'm not the same person now." She's
32,
had five marriages and two dead children. She smiles a huge smile. Tiny
lines crack her face like a broken glass jar. A smudged tear forms on
her
mascara-covered eyes.
Some search for truth, others are desperate for a final conclusion.
Most
are prone to outbursts of anger. But they all share this in common:
that
one event ten years ago changed their lives for ever, and that they are
all now vastly different people. They lost their families and, at some
point, lost themselves. Bud Welch lost Julie, his 23-year-old daughter,
in
the bombing. At one point he couldn't wait until "that bastard fried
and
the gates of hell swung open". But that's in the past.
At the Oklahoma National Monument, near the reflecting pool and a
bronzed
gate framing the place where the bomb exploded, Bud sits patiently
recounting the events of the past ten years. The bells of a nearby
church
ring out. The outdoor memorial opened on the fifth anniversary of the
bombing; one structure is engraved 9.01, another 9.03. The bomb went
off
at 9.02am. The times symbolise before and after. In between are 168
empty
bronze chairs facing the pool. The Alfred P Murrah building was never
rebuilt. Bud doesn't come here often because it brings back too many
difficult memories. A cordial man with abundant silver hair, he talks
proudly of his daughter, a daily communicant at her local Catholic
Church.
Julie worked in the Murrah building as a Spanish translator for the
Social
Security Administration, serving her government in one of the least
exalted positions: helping the poor. After they found the body,
rescuers
said if she had been able to walk another three seconds from where she
stood, she would probably have survived. Anecdotal details matter: two
weeks after Julie's death, Bud learned she had planned to announce her
engagement. Mostly he was tormented by his daughter's last moments,
turning them over in his mind, wondering if she died instantly or if
she
suffered. As he sank deeper into depression, he turned to alcohol.
"The pain was so great," he says, "that I wanted them executed: no
trials,
nothing. And I was always against the death penalty before. I struggled
with this for about ten months. But then I remember going to the site
in
January 1996. It was the last place she was alive. My head was sore
from
abusing alcohol, everything was a mess. I just thought I needed to move
forward. I finally realised that taking these men from their cages to
kill
them was not part of my healing process. I was living with revenge and
hate and it was destroying me. It destroyed Tim McVeigh. It destroyed
168
people."
Part of his healing led him to Bill McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh's father.
"I
met him three and a half years after the bombing. That helped, because
what I found was a bigger victim of the bombing than myself. Every
morning
Bill awakens he's got that noose around his neck that his son is
convicted
of all these murders. It was helpful for both of us. We've never really
talked about the bombing itself, just personal, private things.
"I was talking to Bill about Terry Nichols being remorseful, and Bill
doesn't like Nichols, he blames him for leading Tim astray. I asked
Bill
if he thought there were other people involved and he said no. He'd
asked
his son several times, and said that when you would ask Tim a question
about things he would never lie to you. If he answered your question he
would tell you the truth."
Bud talks for a little while longer, then says: "As far as I am aware,
Tim
said sorry for what he did. He said it to a priest and a bishop who
went
to see him the last few days of his life. One of them gave him the last
rites of the Catholic church. They won't say which one. To receive the
Last Rites you have to be sorry. And I don't think Tim would have lied
about that so close to his death. If he said that he was sorry, I think
he
truly meant it."
In 1999, Bud Welch was named Abolitionist of the Year by the National
Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty for his work against capital
punishment. Since the explosion at least six people closely connected
to
the bombing have taken their own lives.
Jannie Coverdale is among a resolute group of survivors and members'
families who are still searching for evidence of a wider bombing
conspiracy. "I will never stop asking questions until I get answers,"
says
the sprightly 67-year-old. "I'll give up when they put dirt on my
face."
No-one can tell her to get over the deaths of her grandchildren
Elijah,
five, and Aaron, 2 - and move on, "because they died horribly". Like
Deloris Watson, she had custody of the boys because her son, their
father,
had a troubled marriage. That these children were alive at all was both
a
miracle and a mystery to her. Then they were gone.
Jannie lives in a small apartment with Adrian, an 11-year-old
Hispanic/Native American boy she adopted. Surrounded by a babble of
furniture and hundreds of angel ornaments and pictures, her face is
filled
with desperate fatigue. All the kids in the neighbourhood black, white
and Latino - call her Granny. Some call her Miss Jannie. She viewed
McVeigh's execution on closed-circuit television because she wanted to
watch him die. Then she began to concentrate on Nichols.
"After he didn't get the death penalty I got angry again," she says.
"But
after some time I began to see things differently. I realised we can't
keep killing people. I felt a burden being lifted. I wrote Terry
Nichols a
letter saying that God had felt fit to spare his life and that he
should
tell the truth about what really happened. I told him I didn't hate him
any more, I love him, and I thank my God for that. I will never like
him
but I will love him." For the past few years Nichols has been writing
to
her. "He thanked me. In the letter he says it [the bombing] should
never
have happened. I think one of these days he will tell who else was
involved."
She promised Nichols she would not show his letters to anyone. "In the
courtroom Terry looked like he could be easily persuaded. Then you look
at
Tim and you see a leader. Terry was a follower." Not for the first time
does she mention them by their first names. "Over the years I have got
to
know Tim and Terry. They have made themselves part of my life. I didn't
choose them to be in part of my life. I feel I know them quite well."
Then
she pauses. Aaron was a lovely child, Elijah more mischievous but
bright
for his age. He could recite the alphabet, count to 20 and knew all his
colours. She kept their clothes and toys for a long time until she
could
no longer bear it. She sent their clothes to orphans in Rwanda. Their
bicycles went to the Oklahoma Memorial Museum. Elijah's stroller is
tucked
away in a closet. She cannot look at it. For a long time there is
silence
in the living room. "Sometimes I feel like it was all yesterday. I just
wish I could remember what they were wearing and then I could lay them
down to rest."
When the bomb went off, Randy Ledger, a maintenance worker, had just
left
the day-care centre where the boys were playing, after replacing
fluorescent lights. "I had watched one of the female workers rock a
baby
while some of the children put their faces against the window, looking
outside," he says, grappling for some dim, distant memory. "Nothing
justifies the murder of these children."
Randy was a 280lb bodybuilder and the impact, though injuring him
dreadfully, did not kill him. His myriad infirmities were horrendous -
a
severed carotid artery and jugular (he lost 2/3 of his blood); the left
side of his face blown off from his cheek to the rear of his skull; 30
per
cent tissue loss from the left side of his face and throat; a severe
puncture to his larynx, causing a cracked oesophagus; severed nerves to
his left shoulder - the list goes on and on.
He is still paralysed on the left side of his face, and suffers severe
headaches and emotional trauma including memory loss, anxiety attacks
and
dyslexia. He talks quietly, deliberately, as if the pain of the bombing
spills out with every word. We talk for more than an hour. He will
attend
the anniversary events, like many of the others, but maybe this year
the
survivors and those who have lost family members will dig their heels
in.
Try to stop any further descent into bitterness.
Randy Ledger says he forgives McVeigh for what he did. "Jesus forgave
the
sinner, so I must be able to forgive." He closes his eyes again to
concentrate on memories, blurred by rubble and the screams of the
dying.
It is humbling to listen to him. "The old is past," he says. "All
things
are new."
(source: The Herald (UK) )
One reason Ted Kennedy did not die the martyr's death of his two
brothers is because he decided it was not his fight alone. He did not
see the american people outraged enough to STAND UP AGAINST THE
LIARS...
the average american is like Ted Kennedy... "let someone else fix the
problem..." that is entirely what the entrenched Bush Regime with the
CIA in its pocket is hoping americans and the rest of the world will
do.
Mantra of the Insane Bush-Regime:
"WAR IS GOOD BUSINESS, WAR IS GOOD FOR BUSINESS, WAR STIMULATES THE
ECONOMY... OH YEAH LOTS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE DIE TOO... OH WELL WHAT CAN
YOU DO ABOUT 'COLATERAL DAMAGE' WE MUST STIMULATE GROWTH OF MONEY...
Mantra of the Insane Bush-Regime:
"WAR IS GOOD BUSINESS, WAR IS GOOD FOR BUSINESS, WAR STIMULATES THE
ECONOMY... OH YEAH LOTS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE DIE TOO... OH WELL WHAT CAN
YOU DO ABOUT 'COLATERAL DAMAGE' WE MUST STIMULATE GROWTH OF MONEY...
Mantra of the Insane Bush-Regime:
"WAR IS GOOD BUSINESS, WAR IS GOOD FOR BUSINESS, WAR STIMULATES THE
ECONOMY... OH YEAH LOTS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE DIE TOO... OH WELL WHAT CAN
YOU DO ABOUT 'COLATERAL DAMAGE' WE MUST STIMULATE GROWTH OF MONEY...
Mantra of the Insane Bush-Regime:
"WAR IS GOOD BUSINESS, WAR IS GOOD FOR BUSINESS, WAR STIMULATES THE
ECONOMY... OH YEAH LOTS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE DIE TOO... OH WELL WHAT CAN
YOU DO ABOUT 'COLATERAL DAMAGE' WE MUST STIMULATE GROWTH OF MONEY...
Are you going to continue to follow the new Hitler?
Drive around McClean, VA(the home of CIA headquarters) and read the
road signs: "George Bush's CIA"
Nixon is spinning in his grave wondering what Bush has to do to be
impeached.
"Fascism should rightly be called Corporatism, as it is a merge of
State and Corporate power." ---Benito Mussolini, the father of modern
fascism.
David Halpern
<stewart...@netzero.com> wrote in message
news:1111567304.5...@g14g2000cwa.googlegroups.com...
stewart...@netzero.com
Question: What would JFK have done with Social Security?
THE ANSWER HAS TO DO WITH ANOTHER REASON THE FLEDGLING BUSH-REGIME'S C
I A ASSASSINATED JFK.
We are now at a historic time in the history of the USA. The CIA had
the Truth sealed away for 75 years, from Public Eye concerning what
really happened to JFK, RFK MLK. Claiming it was for "National
Security" reasons. By the time that time period has expired the
Fascist takeover of the US will be complete and it will not only not
matter that the truth is known... the CIA killed the great Human Rights
leaders at the behest of the a small group of
Texas-Oil-Oligarchy-Corporate-Leaders, primarily the Bush-Family who
are now establishing themselves as the entrenched THUG-RULERS of the
most powerful military/intelligence/espionage/political system in the
history of mankind.
ie the "Anti-Christ" head of the world.
The only way this can happen is if the people let it... if the american
people remain asleep and allow a LIAR to keep LYING because they are
too afraid to STAND AGAINST THE LIAR.