Wednesday, April 07, 2010

MOVE: An Oral History March 26, 2010

For years, the hostility between the city and the
radical West Philly group MOVE had escalated. But
nobody was prepared for the horrific way the
fight would end one May afternoon in 1985. Now,
25 years later, the people who were there that
day tell the still-unbelievable story

By Victor Fiorillo

IT WAS A standoff years in the making at 6221
Osage Avenue ­ the headquarters of a group called
MOVE. The neighbors were fed up. The cops had
warrants. And the members of the extremist
back-to-nature organization had barricaded
themselves inside. Their demand? Justice for nine
MOVE members incarcerated ­ wrongly, some say ­
for the 1978 murder of Officer James Ramp. On May
13, 1985, shots rang out. Bystanders ­ including
a young Michael Nutter ­ took cover. And then, as
the sun began to set, a police helicopter flew in
and released a bag filled with explosives onto
the headquarters, making ours the only American
city ever to drop a bomb on its own citizens. At
the end of the day, 61 houses blazed, and 11
people ­ five of them children ­ died, the
nightmarish images forever burned into
Philadelphia’s consciousness. Next month marks
the 25th anniversary of that day. Here, the
people who lived through it tell the extraordinary story of the MOVE bombing.

Ramona Africa, MOVE spokesperson and the sole
adult survivor of the 1985 fire: MOVE was formed
in 1972 by John Africa. He gave us one common
belief, in the all-importance of life. We had
peaceful demonstrations: the Zoo, the circus,
furriers, Dow, du Pont, and unsafe boarding homes for the elderly.

Andino R. Ward, father of Birdie Africa (now
Michael Moses Ward), the sole child survivor of
the 1985 fire: One day in the early ’70s, my wife
Rhonda had a friend who was telling her about
this group, MOVE. At this point, Rhonda and I
were separated. Not long thereafter, I went to
her mom’s house to pick up Mike. Her mom said
they no longer lived there, she’s with MOVE. I
went to the Powelton MOVE house, almost went to
blows with John Africa. Then a guy came with a
hatchet, so I got out of there. Later, Rhonda
told me that her new family was MOVE, that John
Africa was Mike’s father, that I could forget any involvement.

Michael Nutter, current mayor: In the late ’70s,
there were various public activities involving
MOVE. I was studying at Penn, and really only generally aware of them.

James Berghaier, retired Philly police officer:
I’d see them acting up in the courtroom, but I
didn’t give them any credibility.

Ramona Africa: The cops would come out and tell
us we had to break down and go away. MOVE would not accept that.

Tigre Hill, director of The Barrel of a Gun, a
forthcoming film about Mumia Abu-Jamal: John
Africa came to be at a time of all the cults. Tim
Leary. Jim Jones. John Africa wanted to blow up
capitals. They were anti-cop, anti-government, anti-technology.

Sam Katz, three-time mayoral candidate: These
folks made life in the neighborhood intolerable ­
they were disruptive of civil life to the extreme.

Angel Ortiz, former City Councilman: This was an
intolerant time. If you were different, you were
pursued. The MOVE members fit into that pattern.
They were loud. But I don’t believe they were
plotting subversive action against the state.

Ramona Africa: The government couldn’t explain
their position, didn’t want to hear us. That’s
when the beatings and unjust jailings started.
MOVE men and women ­ pregnant women ­ were beat.

James Berghaier: And then there was the guns-on-the-porch incident.

Ramona Africa: We are not a violent people. We
are uncompromisingly opposed to violence. But we
do believe in self-defense. You’re violent if you
don’t defend, because then you’re endorsing violence.

Andino Ward: In the mid-’70s, I went to the
Powelton house. I tried to initiate conversation,
and somebody shot at me. I took off running. I
wouldn’t see my son for another 10 years.

Tigre Hill: Today you have this revisionist
history of this peaceful group in West Philly. They were not peaceful.

Ramona Africa: In May of ’77, we took a stand
after MOVE people were beat bloody. You come at
us? We’re coming back at you. We took to a
platform built in front of our house, and we displayed weapons.

James Berghaier: We got called in. The
commissioner said, “I don’t want any crazy
shootings. Find good positions. If shooting
starts, do you have a problem taking them out?” I said no.

Charles “Tommy” Mellor, retired Philly police
officer: I never heard of MOVE until ’77. When I
saw them brandishing their weapons, I was taken
aback. Them standing out there with automatic
weapons, and no one was doing anything about it.

James Berghaier: From 1977 to 1978, 24 hours a
day, we sat outside and listened to the rhetoric.
If they came out, we were to apprehend.

Ramona Africa: Our main demand was that the
members in jail for riot and weapons be released.
Mayor Rizzo said he didn’t negotiate with terrorists, so we stood our ground.

Frank Rizzo Jr., son of then-mayor Frank Rizzo:
My father made the decision to evict them with a court order.

Ramona Africa: They turned off our water, didn’t
pick up our trash. Then on August 1st, the city
said they wanted every MOVE person out, we had to
give up our home, and we said no. It wasn’t about
the house. They wanted to get rid of ­ to murder ­ MOVE.

William Richmond, former Philadelphia fire
commissioner: In ’78, I was deputy chief in
charge of research and planning, and we were
involved in the planning process for that
episode. I went on-site and looked at the
geography, saw what problems we might encounter.

Tigre Hill: In 1978, I was 10. My mom and I drove
to the compound to stop and look. There were TV
trucks. Police barricades. The next day was the shoot-out.

Ramona Africa: In the middle of the night,
hundreds of cops marched out with the fire
department. Not to arrest, but to kill.

James Berghaier: Bullshit. I didn’t go out there
to kill. I went in to put in my eight hours. I was there to call their bluff.

William Richmond: We set up deluge guns to knock
down the wooden slats they had over the windows.

Ramona Africa: They pumped almost six feet of
water into that basement, knowing there were men
and women and babies and dogs in there.

James Berghaier: After Monsignor Devlin wasn’t
able to talk them into coming out, the fire
department started the deluge gun. I thought they
were going to come out, I really did. I didn’t
think they were that devoted. The worst thing you
can do is underestimate your adversary.

Tommy Mellor: We broke down the fence surrounding
the house. I was the third person through the
front door. We eventually got to the basement with the tear gas.

James Berghaier: Pretty soon, gunfire erupts. I fired two or three rounds.

Tommy Mellor: Bullets were flying, hitting pipes.
We were in water up to our waist, and there were
rats and feces. It was a bad place to be.

William Richmond: When the shooting started, our
firefighters were in the wrong place. We had a
number hit. Whatever plan was in place didn’t flow.

Tommy Mellor: I couldn’t tell what was going on.

James Berghaier: I can’t say I saw a MOVE member
shoot, and I can’t tell you I saw a cop shoot.
But I did see the result of it. Officer Ramp was
dead. After the shooting, the women came out with
the kids. That was the end of it. They knocked the house down.

Ramona Africa: The cops emptied their guns and
then emptied them again. James Ramp was on street
level facing MOVE, and he was shot by a bullet
traveling downward. Obviously, somebody above him killed him.

Tigre Hill: From all of the documentation I’ve
seen, it’s clear that Ramp was killed by MOVE.

Angel Ortiz: Did the MOVE members shoot Ramp?
This has never been fully answered. The MOVE
compound was razed without proper forensic analysis.

Ramona Africa: A team came to demolish MOVE
headquarters. They were accusing my family of
killing a cop. That makes it the scene of a crime. Why destroy the evidence?

Frank Rizzo Jr.: A lot of people feel there was a
police cover-up. Friendly fire. The person who
killed Ramp was in the basement of that house.
And the person who killed him, those people are in jail.

On August 4, 1981, nine MOVE members were sent to
prison for the murder of Officer Ramp. In the
years that followed, during which time MOVE
supporter Mumia Abu-Jamal was sentenced to death
for the murder of Officer Daniel Faulkner, MOVE
relocated its headquarters to 6221 Osage Avenue,
and continued to fight for the MOVE 9, becoming
even more of a thorn in the side of the
neighbors, the city, and the new mayor, Wilson Goode.

Seth Williams, current district attorney: In the
early ’80s, I was in high school at Central. MOVE
bought a home on Osage. My house was just around
the corner. I played basketball with the MOVE
guys. There was no political talk. Just the
trash-talking that goes on at pickup games in West Philly.

Angel Ortiz: When I joined Council in 1984, MOVE
was still having problems. Neighbors complained about hygiene and loud music.

Charles Diamond, former priest at St. Carthage:
The church was a half-block from Osage. They were
constantly blaring messages. My congregants were
hearing people running over their roofs at night.

Ramona Africa: We had met with Wilson Goode when
he was managing director. But when Wilson became
mayor, we couldn’t get near him. He wasn’t going
to do anything for us. So we set up our
microphone and started boarding up our home.

Theodore Price, former resident of neighboring
6250 Pine Street: I didn’t have too much
confrontation with them. I worked nights. But I
knew people who had lots of problems with them.

Ed Rendell, current governor and then--district
attorney of Philadelphia: The neighbors were
complaining about everything from loud noise to a
horrible smell. All sorts of nuisance complaints.

Seth Williams: By the spring of ’85, they’re on
bullhorns shouting obscenities all the time.
People were fed up. The public forced the hand of
the managing director [Leo Brooks] and police to do something.

Ramona Africa: The cops claimed we were bad
neighbors. Since when has this government shown
any interest in black people complaining about black people?

Ed Rendell: The police came to me and said, “What
do we got here?” And I said, “You might advise
the neighbors to come file a private criminal
complaint.” But there were no felonies, probably
nothing to get an arrest warrant on.

Angel Ortiz: You could see it developing if you
had any sense. It was a police state. But I thought it could be handled.

James Berghaier: With Goode being the mayor, I
thought the chances of negotiations would be
greater. I thought it would get resolved.

Ed Rendell: Then weapons were brandished, I
believe. And tied with the threats ­ it became
actionable. Not major, but actionable.

Frank Powell, retired police lieutenant: Late
April of ’85, we got word that the city wanted
them out, to come up with a plan. I was the head
of the bomb squad back then. So we got together ­
the bomb squad, the firearms training unit and
the tactical -division. The plan was to go to the
homes adjacent to the house ­ remember, this was
a rowhouse ­ and blow small holes in the wall
using a charge and inject tear gas.

Ed Rendell: I guess maybe 10 days before the
fire, I went out there and talked to one or two
members over the fence. I said, “Look, guys, you
can’t go on like this. No good can come of this.
Why don’t you just surrender?” They were very
respectful, but they basically said no. And I didn’t have any further contact.

Frank Powell: MOVE had built a bunker on the roof
of the house, and it was clearly a problem. It
covered any operations on Osage. Police
Commissioner Sambor asked me if I could get up on
the roof and put a charge on the bunker. But I
couldn’t. I’d be exposed to shooters in the bunker.

Bob Brady, current Congressman and then-deputy
mayor for labor: I was in Goode’s office. There
were a lot of people there. Richmond. Sambor. All
these military men giving advice. I thought it
would be a good idea if we got a boom crane to
knock that bunker off. But somebody above my pay scale decided against it.

Ed Rendell: The police came to me in Goode’s
office and showed me aerial photographs. There
were weapons and big cans of oil on the roof. I
authorized arrest and search warrants.

Wilson Goode, in testimony before the MOVE
Commission, October 15, 1985: I directed [police
commissioner Gregore Sambor] to be in charge of
[a] … plan that would enable us to make arrests
of such MOVE members as the D.A. was able to
provide warrants for … the protection of police
officers and firefighters and occupants of the
house was paramount. … We did not want persons
involved who may have a hot temper, who may
emotionally have been attached to 1978. … What I
said to him was … “I’m the mayor, and I must rely
upon you to go and do a proper kind of plan.”

Gregore Sambor, former police commissioner, in
testimony to the MOVE Commission, October 17,
1985: We had lessons from sad experience. In the
spring of 1977, we had hoped that armed threats
would disappear if pacified. By the fall of that
year, we had thought that an indefinite state of
siege would starve MOVE into submission. By
August of 1978, we hoped that an overpowering
police presence … would intimidate MOVE to
peaceful surrender. The plan for May 13th was the
most conservative, controlled, disciplined and
safe operation that we could devise based upon these lessons.

William Richmond: Late Friday, I get a call that
there was a meeting at the police administration
building on Saturday morning. At the meeting, we
were told that Sambor would make a pronouncement
by bullhorn for MOVE to exit the house. If they
didn’t exit, we’d start the squirts and throw
water at quite a volume to neutralize the
bunkers. Then the police would get the tear gas
in. But we hadn’t been out there. The planning was terrible.

James Berghaier: We were going to breach walls in
the basement and second floors and use tear gas,
leaving the first floor as an escape for MOVE
people. And I think, I’m okay with this.

Theodore Price: On Sunday, May 12th, 1985, the
police told us that we had to go somewhere and
stay. I went to a hotel on Baltimore Avenue.

Ramona Africa: We knew something big was about to
happen. Police told people to go out and visit
family, that they could come back the next night. Boy, were they wrong.

Michael Nutter: In 1985, I was Councilman Ortiz’s
chief of staff. He asked me to look into the
situation that Sunday. There were police
barricades, news vans, and a general sense of
tension in the air. I talked through a screen
door with Ramona Africa. She expressed that the
family was upset about the members locked up, and
they were prepared to take whatever actions
necessary to try to make their release happen.
Soon, there was increasing presence by the
police, specialized officers, SWAT teams. I was out there most of the night.

Tommy Mellor: We get out to the house at 4 or 5
a.m on Monday. It was very quiet. Dark. Eerie. I
was carrying a tear gas machine.

William Richmond: I rode out on the squirt truck.
This was the first time I had seen the bunker or
Osage. We positioned on 62nd Street. That’s when
we saw the trees in our way, and I thought, The squirts aren’t going to reach.

Michael Nutter: Police presence significantly
increased again. The power had been turned off.
And then the commissioner made an announcement
that the folks should come out of the house.

William Richmond: I’ll never forget it. “This is America …” he started.

Ramona Africa: He said, “Attention, MOVE. This is
America. You have to abide by the laws and rules of America.”

Frank Powell: Then one of them gets on the
loudspeaker and calls the commissioner a motherfucker.

Michael Nutter: At some point, what sounded like
gunfire broke out. People were running for cover.

William Richmond: Once the shooting started, we
turned on the squirts, but they were too far. We
couldn’t neutralize those bunkers.

Tommy Mellor: What major city lets people build a
bunker on their roof? You try to build a fence and L&I will shut you down.

William Richmond: The bunkers were critical. They
overlooked everything. High ground, in military parlance.

Ramona Africa: Firefighters are sworn to protect
life, but they were the first phase of the
attack. The water was pouring into the house, and
then we heard that the police were going to try to use tear gas.

James Berghaier: We used the charge in the wall
next door, and Tommy Mellor started to put the pipe through but hit something.

Tommy Mellor: We didn’t realize how
well-fortified the house was. I could barely make
a dent in it to get the tear gas in.

James Berghaier: They had walls inside of walls.
But we did get through and get gas on for a bit.

Marc Lamont Hill, Columbia University professor
and former Fox News correspondent: I was only
seven, living in Germantown. During the day, as
things developed, the teachers were talking about
it. I remember one was crying. They were upset.

Michael Moses Ward, formerly Birdie Africa, in
1985 testimony before the MOVE Commission: We was
in the cellar for a while … and tear gas started
coming in and we got the blankets. And they was
wet. And then we put them over our heads and started laying down.

Ramona Africa: They were shooting. They knew
there was children. They had arrest warrants,
yes, but we hadn’t been convicted of anything.
And what they claimed to be arresting us for was
not capital offenses. They had artillery of war.
M16s. Sidearms. Sniper rifles with silencers ­ the weapon of an assassin.

James Berghaier: The bomb guys were using some
sort of charge to try to breach the wall. We
attempted to get back into the [neighboring]
house, but the way it was explained to me, MOVE
violated the integrity of the house by knocking
down joists. The first floor of the house we had been in collapsed.

Frank Rizzo Jr.: My father never had much respect
for Sambor. People thought my dad was excessive.
But Sambor ran around in fatigues. Dad heard that
they were planning to drop an explosive.

Frank Powell: Around 4 or 5 p.m., they call me
into a meeting. Sambor asks if we could use a
helicopter to blow the bunker off. I don’t know,
I say. I never dropped a bomb out of a
helicopter. What happens if they shoot the
helicopter down and it lands on a house? What happens if I miss?

James Berghaier: We hear that a helicopter is
going to drop a bomb. We’re supposed to take a
defensive position. I blew it off: You’re not going to drop a bomb.

Tommy Mellor: They had pulled us out of the
house, so I went to Cobbs Creek Parkway. Ducking
bullets all day tires you out. I went to sleep in
the dirt. Somebody woke me up, and I heard they
were going to throw a device to knock the bunker
off. Of all the strange things going on then, it didn’t seem strange.

Gregore Sambor, in testimony: The use of the
device itself gives me the least pause. It was
selected as a conservative and safe approach to
what I perceived as a tactical necessity. I was
assured that the device would not harm the
occupants. What has imprinted that device on the
mind of the city is, in fact, the method of
delivery. If it had been carried or thrown into
position or if it had been dropped from a crane,
the perception of that action would be quite different.

William Richmond: So the decision was made to
take a helicopter, and use a satchel charge ­
that’s the term for explosives in a gym bag. The
helicopter made two or three passes with Frank Powell strapped in.

Frank Rizzo Jr.: I’ll never forget it. My father
was in the family room, watching it all on TV.
When he saw the state police helicopter, all the
intelligence he had started coming together, and
he said, “Son, they’re going to drop a bomb on this headquarters.”

Frank Powell: As soon as I dropped the satchel,
the pilot got the hell out. The rotor wash blew
it across the roof. I said, “Oh shit!” And then
it went off. There was a football-shaped hole. It missed the bunker.

Michael Ward, in testimony: That is when the big
bomb went off. It shook the whole house up.

William Richmond: Frank dropped it, which took a
lot of moxie. The concussion knocked out windows
of nearby homes. Debris went everywhere. Minutes
later, someone said to me there was a fire on the
roof. These things start small and build up over time.

Ed Rendell: When I heard that they used an
incendiary device on the roof, I was amazed,
because you could clearly see drums of oil up
there. And it would seem to me to have been
lunacy under those circumstances to drop an
incendiary device. But they did. And as the
afternoon rolled on and the fire started, it became almost a holocaust.

Frank Rizzo Jr.: When my father saw the fire
department shut the water off, he couldn’t
believe that anyone in the U.S. would use fire to
force people from a building.

William Richmond: Originally, the police wanted
to access the property via the hole in the roof.
We couldn’t leave the squirts on, because we’d
wash off police attempting to breach. And the
squirts caused a tremendous amount of smoke ­ the
fear was that MOVE members would exit shooting
from different locations. There was a managing
director’s directive in place. One commander in
place: the police commissioner. We were under authority of police.

James Berghaier: There’s so much fire and smoke.
We can’t tell what’s gunshots and what’s windows
popping. And we hear over the radio that someone is coming out.

Tommy Mellor: And then Ramona comes out,
surrounded by smoke. And Birdie comes out next.

James Berghaier: It was like fantasy. Like he
came out of fire. He was barefoot. Ramona tried
to pick him up but lost her grip. He landed on
his head … I scooped him up. And Tommy took Ramona into custody.

Tommy Mellor: By this time, the fire had already spread to other houses.

Angel Ortiz: I was coming out the back of the Art
Museum with Ed Rendell and my wife. We saw the
plume of smoke, and Ed and I looked at each other. It was one hell of a fire.

Ed Rendell: Later that night was the spring
Democratic dinner over at the Franklin Plaza, and
we watched the houses in flames on one of the little TVs in the bar.

Seth Williams: My friends and I watched the fire
in disbelief. It went from a minor tragedy to a
catastrophic event. Eleven of my classmates lost their homes.

Tigre Hill: I came home from Archbishop Carroll.
I lived ­ and still live ­ in Wynnefield. It was
on TV, and from my house, which is a distance
away, I could see the smoke. My mother and I, we were just so stunned.

Theodore Price: We had no idea what was going on,
so we checked out of our hotel on Monday. When we
got to the street, there was a whole lot of
action. And after they dropped it, the fire
starts trickling to each house. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Sam Katz: I was landing in an airplane in South
Philly, and the sky was bright orange. I had no
idea what it was. But it was a remarkable scene
from up there. Then I was on the ground in my
car, with KYW on. The whole thing just careened completely out of control.

Theodore Price: It burnt 61 houses. It looked
like a war zone. My house was completely
destroyed. I had just put in new siding and
picture windows. I lived in that house since 1957. It was bought and paid for.

Wilson Goode, in a press conference that night: I
stand fully accountable for the action that took
place tonight. I will not try to place any blame
on any one of my subordinates. I was aware of
what was going on, and therefore, I support them
in terms of their decisions. And therefore, the
people of the city will have to judge the mayor, in fact, of what happened.

Gregore Sambor, in testimony: I remain convinced
that any approach on May 13th would have
presented an immediate and deadly danger. … It
remains a fact that if MOVE members had simply
come out of the building, they would be alive
today. But they announced that morning that they
would never surrender and that they would kill as many of us as they could.

Marc Lamont Hill: I’ve talked to Goode. He
regrets his actions. I would argue that it’s the
biggest regret he has in his life. It haunts him.
I wouldn’t be surprised if his move to the clergy
was prompted by his deep sense of regret and guilt.

Sam Katz: I don’t want to point the finger at who
should be punished, but there was a moral
breakdown here, both in the act and the
aftermath. I think it affected Goode profoundly.

Wilson Goode, in a 2004 interview with
Philadelphia magazine: In the whole scheme of
things, MOVE was a bad day. It was a really bad day.

On March 6, 1986, the 11-member Philadelphia
Special Investigation Commission ­ or MOVE
Commission ­ issued a report condemning city
officials, stating: “Dropping a bomb on an
occupied rowhouse was unconscionable.” No
criminal charges were filed against anyone in
city government. Wilson Goode was reelected to a second term.

A burned Ramona Africa served seven years in
prison for charges relating to the May 13th
confrontation. Following her 1992 release, she
won a civil case against the city for $500,000.
Michael Ward was reunited with his father, Andino
Ward, and later won a $1.5 million judgment against the city.

The 250 residents who lost their homes had yet
another saga to endure: rebuilding, a process
plagued by patronage, politics and incompetence.
It continues, to some extent, to this day.

Many of the police officers involved were
profoundly affected by their experience. James
Berghaier quickly left the force due to
post-traumatic stress disorder. Another officer committed suicide.

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