This week's cover story is about modern survivalists.
August 23, 1992, was an exceptionally shitty day in America. Hurricane Andrew was gathering strength over the Caribbean, and by nightfall, it would plow over South Florida with category-five winds, ripping whole neighborhoods to pieces, knocking out power, and claiming dozens of lives.
Three thousand miles away, at Ruby Ridge, Idaho, the weather was calm, but the anger and tension were unbearable. Hundreds of federal troops at Ruby Ridge were in the fourth day of a siege on the house of conspiracy theorist Randy Weaver. They had already killed his dog, his son (shot in the back), and his wife (shot while holding their baby).
Media reports portrayed Weaver, who had moved to the woods to escape government and society, as a dangerous white supremacist. The feds wanted him on gun-trafficking charges. Down the road from his blood-soaked mountain cabin, hundreds of people gathered to protest the siege. From this, the modern American militia movement was born.
For the following decade, until the September 11 attacks gave
us a common enemy, the popular image of "survivalists" would be tied up
in ideas of paranoia and unhinged militarism. The next year, a similar
siege occurred at the Mount Carmel Branch Davidian ranch near Waco,
Texas, where isolationist leader David Koresh and many of his followers
were burned alive by fires started either by the Davidians themselves or
by grenades launched by the feds, depending on whom you ask.
That
inspired Timothy McVeigh to bomb the federal building in Oklahoma City.
Some militia members, appalled by what they saw as the federal
government running amok, started to plan for a future without dependence
on the government. They stockpiled food, weapons, and knowlege -- a
tradition as old as human history, but newly fueled by political
skepticism.
The news images of the attacks -- bloody corpses,
buildings going up in flames, angry men with guns -- in turn became
associated with the popular conception of "survivalists." During the
Clinton years, an uneasy relationship persisted between those people,
the government, and the millions of Americans sitting at home forming
opinions in front of their television sets.
The stigma -- and the
reality of gun-rights advocacy and distrust of the government -- still
hangs around "survivalists," and it's part of the reason many of
them are unfriendly toward the media. The adage for survivalism has
been to stock "beans, bullets, and Band-Aids." Even for people who
aren't caliber connoisseurs, it's a fact of preparing that they may
someday need more firepower than their hungry neighbors.
But that
other event on August 23, 1992 -- Hurricane Andrew -- did as much to
shape modern survivalism, at least in South Florida. Here was the
greatest disaster many younger people in the area had ever seen,
leveling property, local economies, the electrical grid. Neal Wiseman, owner of Dixie Guns and Ammo and a "prepper" featured in our cover
story this week, recalls volunteering in the cleanup effort and seeing
power lines on the ground, dogs running wild, a scene like nothing he
had known.
Joe "Dr. Bones" Alton, a prominent survival-medicine
teacher, was holed up in a hospital room with many of his late-term
patients, with only a pane or two of glass separating them from the
winds that were blowing a concrete bus bench down the street.
Jorge
Villa, who runs a business that manufactures 18-ton bunkers in Kendall,
was holed up in his warehouse south of the Tamiami Airport with his
pregnant wife and family, listening to the other warehouses in the area
blow away. When he emerged the next morning and looked at the
devastation, he embarked on a new project. He spent seven years devising
the shelters he sells today, which are designed to protect against any
natural disaster or human attack.
The people who prepared after
that -- those who envisioned some kind of greater future disaster --
were spurred on by the recurring reality of natural disaster in South
Florida. At the same time that they were reimagining what kind of
disaster was possible in the wake of the cat-five devastation, they were
hearing the news reports about other people who were taking the future
into their own hands, other people who had glimpsed how governmental
authority might fail in a time of need.
So, to
simplify a lot, we proceeded until September 11. At that point, even those who sat in
the air conditioning, clucking their tongues at the weirdos with guns
and generators, realized that absolutely anything was possible. We took a
deep breath and tuned into the news with a collective civic interest
that hadn't been seen across America since the second world war.
And then we went shopping.
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