6221 Osage Avenue sits in a narrow, tree-lined, ghostly-quiet street bordered by snug brown brick row houses, many of them sporting plywood for windows and dangling white strands of Tyvek HomeWrap for exterior decoration. An eerie mixture of renewal and desertion hangs in the air: two lawn chairs frame a pot of blossoming red roses on one inviting porch, while across the road a beat-up mailbox gapes open next to a padlocked front door. 6221 is nearly indistinguishable from its neighbors, save for two small signs in front of the house informing passersby - in a supreme jolt of irony - that parking is reserved for the Philadelphia Police Civil Affairs unit.
The West Philadelphia home bears little resemblance to what it looked like on the afternoon of Monday, May 13, 1985, when a Pennsylvania state police helicopter dropped a satchel of high-grade plastic explosives on the building - the headquarters for a radical, back-to-nature organization known as MOVE. The subsequent explosion sent plumes of black smoke and fierce yellow-orange flames leaping into the air, which, along with a spate of gunfire from flak-jacketed Philadelphia policemen, killed six adults and five children and destroyed 61 neighborhood homes. That tumultuous day marked only the second time in American history - the 1921 Tulsa race riots being the first-that an aerial bombing had occurred on American soil.
The two decades since have proven that the roller coaster-like saga between MOVE and the city of Philadelphia is far from extinguished. MOVE members continue to live in West Philadelphia and to carry on their revolution, albeit in a more subdued manner than before. Homeowners from the 6200 blocks of Osage and Pine Streets are still locked in a battle with government officials to retain their homes and gain compensation for the losses they have incurred. Questions about accountability, injustice and racism linger unanswered in a city that many agree has tried to put the painful memories of May 13 and of the government's protracted struggle with MOVE behind them.
"Early on MOVE had demanded every right and privilege that comes with American citizenship while rejecting any responsibility to be lawful," says Philadelphia journalist and Temple professor Linn Washington, who covered MOVE extensively in the 1970s and '80s. "In terms of the city, you have an entity that reacted and reacted harshly without trying to address some of the underlying issues."
"This story is virtually forgotten," Washington adds. "It's sad in large part because there are people who are still suffering."
MOVE's story has a distinctly West Philadelphian flavor. In the early 1970s, a middle-aged black man named Vincent Leaphart moved to the racially and socio-economically diverse neighborhood of Powelton Village, situated between Leaphart's native Mantua and Drexel University. At the time, Powelton was both a bastion of counterculture activity and an area in the midst of gentrification. Washington, who lived at 33rd and Powelton during this period, remembers Leaphart as a "character" who could always be seen walking "these mangy dogs."
Earning his living as a handyman, Leaphart soon began preaching a radical, naturalistic philosophy that drew crowds. He changed his name to John Africa in homage to the continent where life began. Working with a Penn School of Social Work graduate student named Donald Glassey, Africa created a philosophy that became known as The Teachings of John Africa, outlining his beliefs on the corruption and oppression of the industrialist-run "system," the supremacy of life and its creator, "Mama Nature," and the urgent need for revolution.
John Africa and his growing number of followers converted an imposing Victorian house at 309 North 33rd Street in Powelton into a fenced-in compound with refuse decomposing in the yard. They began collectively adopting the surname "Africa" and calling themselves MOVE, serving not as an acronym, but as a call to action. They let their hair grow in thick, "natural" dreadlocks, shunned electricity, ate only raw food, and insisted on having the women in their "family" give birth without drugs or medical assistance. Using electric bullhorns, they instructed the neighborhood in profanity-laced tirades about the teachings of John Africa and the brutality of the police force and the government.
Sociology professor Elijah Anderson, who at the time rented an apartment in the neighborhood to conduct an ethnographical study, says that while many liberal-minded community members initially supported MOVE, public resentment grew when questions surfaced about violations of health codes at MOVE headquarters, the possibility of illegal weapons and bombs in the MOVE compound, and the treatment of MOVE children, who were encouraged to play outside naked in cold weather.
Soon, Philadelphia policemen were arresting MOVE demonstrators on minor charges in increasingly violent and antagonistic clashes. On August 8, 1978, policemen under orders from Mayor Frank Rizzo engaged in a vicious gun battle at the MOVE compound. Nine MOVE members - now referred to as the "MOVE 9" - were sentenced to 30 to 100 years in prison following the confrontation, based on evidence that the bullet came from the basement where MOVE members had barricaded themselves, though MOVE claims that the bullet fatally wounding Officer James Ramp came from friendly fire.
In the early 1980s, 6221 Osage Avenue became the new headquarters for MOVE. Neighborhood relations in the predominantly middle-class black neighborhood started out friendly, but turned sour with MOVE's increasingly confrontational tactics. Neighbors banded together and appealed to all levels of government for help.
These complaints, coupled with then-judge Lynn Abraham's signing of arrest warrants for four MOVE members, provided the basis for Wilson Goode - the city's first black mayor - to give his approval on May 13, 1985 for a police encirclement of MOVE headquarters. In addition to dropping a bomb, police used tear gas, water cannons and 10,000 rounds of ammunition to flush MOVE members out of the house. Among the 11 MOVE members killed that day was John Africa, whose decapitated body was discovered amid the rubble.
"The police commissioner had ordered the fire department not to fight the fire, so the fire was burning for about an hour before the firemen arrived on the scene," Washington, who was covering the May 13 clash for the Philadelphia Daily News, recalls. "When the firemen arrived, it seemed like they were getting off the truck in slow motion. And the fucking neighborhood was burning down!"
Today, the outside of the MOVE house near Clark Park in West Philadelphia looks cold and uninviting. A wire fence surrounds the premises, while a thick green bush obstructs the view of the front door. Inside, however, the communal space pulsates with life. Little children with budding dreadlocks run rampant in superhero pajamas, occasionally letting out shrieks of merriment. Adult MOVE members see to the needs of their children or enter and exit doors rapidly with leashed dogs, occasionally greeting each other with the standard MOVE salutation, "Ona move!"
"MOVE . has been through . the beatings, the jailings, the burning alive of our family, our people in prison for 30 to 100 years, but we're still here, still going strong," Ramona Africa, one of only two MOVE members who survived the bombing, declares.
"When you walk down the street and you see a little tree root about two inches wide pushing up a slab of concrete, that's power," Will Africa explains. "Life will never stop, it can't be stopped. That's the belief that has kept us fighting for 35, 40 years now."
Though MOVE does not divulge specific locations of houses or statistics on current members for security reasons, Ramona Africa says that MOVE has a number of homes in the Philadelphia area and has developed a network of close "supporters" or "friends" all over the world, from Spain to Austria.
According to members, MOVE currently includes people of different socio-economic and educational backgrounds, and though MOVE is predominantly black, there are members from other ethnic backgrounds as well. Though not putting much stock in the legal institution of marriage, MOVE members believe in monogamy and frequently take partners within the organization. To support the extended MOVE family financially, MOVE men seek out labor-intensive jobs such as landscaping, while MOVE women assume the roles of educators in home-schooling their children.
The 1985 bombing generated increased awareness about MOVE, and members now travel to Harvard and Yale, to Cuba and France, to speak.
Today, MOVE members are quick to point to the Iraq war for evidence of the government's supposedly sinister nature and the need to focus on "government of self" instead. Ramona Africa asserts that mounting troubles in contemporary society, coupled with the injustice that she feels the city of Philadelphia continues to display, only strengthen MOVE's revolutionary resolve.
"The only thing I see progressive in the system, and it's almost an oxymoron, is that things are getting worse and worse," she says. "The worse it gets, the more it will push people to deal with reality."
Though MOVE members preach an anti-technology mantra, they admit that they have had to make certain compromises with the system in order to further their revolution. They use electricity in their houses now, travel in cars and planes for speaking engagements, and maintain a website that even features a section for MOVE merchandise, including a documentary on the organization narrated by historian Howard Zinn. A number of members have cell phones and many of them wear clothes that, if generic in style and design, still appear to be store-bought. To promote their views, MOVE members have even established their own rap group, Seeds of Wisdom, which puts MOVE guidelines to music to "appeal to a younger generation." The group has performed with musical artists such as Mos Def, Chuck D and Rage Against the Machine.
Nevertheless, MOVE members say they are working toward a time when humans will return to a pristine, natural, viceless form of existence. While they stress the impossibility of determining when exactly the system will be overthrown, they are convinced it will happen.
Members of the organization continue to agitate for the release of the eight family members - the ninth member, Mo Africa, was killed in prison - who were incarcerated following the 1978 confrontation with police, and who will be up for parole in 2008. They also campaign vigorously for the liberation of Philadelphia journalist and political activist Mumia Abu-Jamal, who, in a highly publicized case unrelated to MOVE, was sentenced to death in 1981 for the murder of police officer Daniel Faulkner. Peter Terryn, a "friend" of MOVE from Belgium, said in an e-mail interview that when a number of MOVE members visited him in the late '90s, he brought them in contact with Belgian and European Union politicians to discuss Abu-Jamal's case. He said the delegation was influential in the European Parliament's decision to adopt a resolution urging former Pennsylvania Governor Tom Ridge not to execute Abu-Jamal.
Though Ramona Africa received $500,000 compensation for the Osage Avenue bombing in a civil lawsuit against the city, she says, "The only reason that I even filed a lawsuit was because none of these city officials had ever been held legally accountable, never charged with murder, assault, nothing, so it was the only option I had. Who gives a damn about money? And please, it's $500,000. People got more money for spilling hot coffee on themselves at McDonald's."
"They can't bring our family back," she adds. "The only thing the government can do is release our people [from prison] and leave us alone."
Washington says that a number of questions regarding "institutional racism" and "systemic injustice," stemming from MOVE's lengthy struggle with the city, have not been properly addressed. He cites a finding made by the commission investigating the bombing that events leading up to the incident would not have happened if a similar situation had occurred in a white neighborhood.
Former mayor Goode, who now directs a youth mentoring program, and the office of Philadelphia councilwoman Jannie Blackwell - whose constituents include MOVE members - both did not return calls for this article. The office of Mayor John Street - a city councilman in 1985 - declined comment.
Penn School of Social Policy and Practice professor Walter Palmer, a prominent mediator in the '70s and '80s between MOVE and City Hall, agreed that Philadelphia has yet to reflect sufficiently on the tragedy.
"With the question 'Why did it ever happen?' the 'why' has never been addressed," he says. "How do we allow health violations to lead to a major assault in '78? If MOVE was becoming a nuisance in '85, how do we allow it to escalate to a bombing?"
Gerald Renfrow loves his neighborhood. The roofing contractor is so attached that when he got married, he decided to purchase a house on the same 6200 block of Osage Avenue where he had grown up and where his family first moved in 1959. When he speaks about the area and his neighbors - whom he describes as "extended family" - his voice becomes charged with enthusiasm, optimism and pangs of nostalgia.
"This is a super-duper prime location," Renfrow says. "Chestnut and Walnut Streets have synchronized lights, so if you hit the first light you can go all the way to 30th Street without stopping. We've got churches, schools, a brand new swimming pool. We breath the fresh air from [Cobbs Creek] park every day."
The houses destroyed by the Osage Avenue bombing were rebuilt by the city in the 1980s, but they proved to be woefully substandard. Repeated repairs only found more items in need of fixing. When John Street took office as mayor, he offered $150,000 to each homeowner if they would vacate their houses.
Only 24 families decided to file a lawsuit against the city rather than accept the buyout. In April 2005, a federal jury awarded each household around $530,000, to be used in part for rebuilding houses on the same land. The city has appealed the verdict twice, and the case is currently before the Third Circuit Federal Court of Appeals.
Describing the initial jury verdict as "fair," Renfrow, who lives directly across the street from 6221 Osage, says that he and his fellow homeowners see no reason to leave the neighborhood they love, and feel that the money the city has offered them in the past would not allow them to purchase comparable houses. He maintains that he and the other residents are motivated to win the case more for the sake of principle than capital.
Renfrow believes the city's many attempts to show the remaining homeowners the door may signify not only a craving for land, but also a desire to erase its troubled past with MOVE.
"They want to eliminate the residents on Osage Avenue because we are the ones who can tell the story about what happened.
"It's an un-prosecuted murder that still exists here in our City of Brotherly Love," Renfrow continues. "We look at the MOVE house with the police on duty there every single day of our lives."
According to Renfrow, the police now occupy 6221 Osage because in 1988, John Africa's sister Louise tried to regain ownership of the house with the help of Al Sharpton. Not desiring to associate themselves with MOVE-related people so soon after the bombing, Osage Avenue residents implored the police department to occupy the house. At this point, though, Renfrow says the city should conclude a financial settlement with Louise rather than burden taxpayers with additional expenses to maintain the police on the block.
Renfrow, who attended a MOVE event at the African American Museum in Philadelphia with his wife a few years ago, said that his relations with MOVE members since 1985 have been "amicable."
"We didn't have problems with them personally, but their philosophy conflicted with our peace and serenity," Renfrow says.
According to Mike Africa Jr., a similar rapprochement between MOVE and the system is possible, but not likely.
"If the system can tell us something right, we'll accept it. but so far they've been giving us everything wrong," he explains. "Because the system is the way it is, MOVE is the way we are"
