Lesson of Oklahoma City forgotten in Cincy
Published 12:00 am Monday, May 7, 2001
On Good Friday I went through the recently opened museum at the Oklahoma City National Memorial and, as always on my several visits to the memorial, I did a lot of sober thinking.
Monday, May 07, 2001
On Good Friday I went through the recently opened museum at the Oklahoma City National Memorial and, as always on my several visits to the memorial, I did a lot of sober thinking. The significance of the day struck me, because it commemorates the day on which the Prince of Peace was executed by a conspiracy between the national religious establishment and an imperial government. The Memorial purposefully focuses on the prevention of violence as a means, futile as it is, of settling conflict. In my exit conference with the museum’s executive director, however, I commented I wish I could have taken with me certain people from Cincinnati, because some people still don’t get it. The specific point of the Oklahoma City Memorial is to dramatize that social and political conflict absolutely cannot be resolved by violence despite how valid the cause is or, more frequent, is thought to be.
Six years ago Timothy McVeigh assisted by Terry Nichols bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, because they were angry at the FBI seizure of the Branch Davidian compound at Waco. They arrogated to their evil and sick selves the roles of police, prosecutor, defense counsel, witness, jury, judge, and executioner. Worse, they targeted innocent public servants who had nothing to do with the alleged offense. The chairs represent 168 American citizens killed, but the emotional trauma is infinitely greater. One person asked how many were hurt, another replied: "260 million Americans."
The museum exhibits begin with a routine depiction of the morning of April 19, 1995, a day that began as any other but ended like none other. We moved into a replica of a conference room in the neighboring Water Resources Board building, now razed as completely destroyed. A hearing had opened at 9 a.m. that day and the proceedings began to be recorded. I sat in one of the chairs at the conference table and listened intently. The hearing officer got as far as stating the purpose of the hearing and the procedure to be followed. Then: the sound of the 9:02 explosion accompanied by lights flickering and then going out. A picture of the bombed Murrah Building flashed in front of us as if we looked out the window and across the street to see it torn to its guts. The recording continued with the sounds of confusion and panic.
The consequent chaos is next re-enacted by throwing recovered artifacts around in randomly positioned Kiosks. We listened to the anguished recollections families, survivors, and rescuers.
The Memorial Registry offers felt tip pens and magnetic tiles, and visitors are invited to write a thought or a message and place it on the wall. I wrote: Peace is not the absence of conflict, but the overwhelming power of love.
I thought of pictures on the news that very day – that Good Friday – of mobs rioting in Cincinnati. They turned over and burned vehicles, smashed into and destroyed small businesses, and attacked police and everyone else who tried to reason with them. They went mad. A young man, several times previously arrested, had been shot and killed by police as he attempted to escape apprehension for yet another violation. Three other Black men had been killed by Cincinnati police within the year, and some charged the police with racial bias. This may be true and should be determined, but this is not at all the point.
This rebellious mob was as convinced as were Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols – and they followed the same course of action. I thought of Jesus dying on the cross between two criminals and of the mocking mob of on-lookers. I thought of these two criminals, neither of whom has repented, and I thought of these particular Cincinnati Blacks. Both nurtured grievances and broke out into wanton violence to seize attention. A mass tantrum that destroys everything within reach and assaults anyone in the way. "We were forced into it," is the excuse. They were not. They just were not. Violence has never and can never solve conflicts and disagreements, and we must never tolerate the lie.
I crossed Harvey Street to St. Joseph’s Church and again stood silent, on this Good Friday, before the statue of Jesus – his back turned toward the bomb site, his head bowed. I read the biblical inscription on its base: "Jesus wept."
Wallace Alcorn’s column appears Mondays