James Rawles - Founders

Ben and his family fearfully watched as men ran back and forth between the vehicles. They expected more trouble, so Ben took the precaution of running all the pages of his address book through his cross-cut paper shredder.

Five minutes later, a UNPROFOR patrol approached the front door. A German soldier shouted with a heavy accent, “Man of the house, come out!”

Ben walked out with his hands on top of his head, and said, “The only others here are my wife and children. Please leave them alone.”

The patrol leader unslung a rifle from his shoulder and held it out. Ben recognized it as his son’s .22, now missing its bolt. The soldat asked, “Your gun, is this?”

“Yes, I believe that is my rifle, but I’m not certain. If that is mine, then it is registered in my name, in full accordance with the law. Where did you find it?”

“It was being carried by a young, er, man, now dead.”

Rebecca began wailing.

“Have you any other guns in the house?”

“No.”

The soldiers spent an hour noisily ransacking the house, while others held Ben and his terrified family at gunpoint outside. Their youngest daughter, just recently out of diapers, wet herself as they waited. One team searched the house, while another searched the barn and outbuildings. Ben alternated between intense feelings of fear and anger at the situation. They watched helplessly as the soldiers carried off Rebecca’s jewelry box, her iPod and dock, and many other small possessions. This included nearly 200 rounds of .22 hollow points that were taken as “evidence.”

Finding nothing actionable, the soldiers left without explanation or apology.

Ben and Rebecca went inside to find the house a shambles. Several stretches of Sheetrock in the hall and master bedroom had been kicked in and the upholstery on their couches and two of the mattresses had been slashed open. Two cabinets had been pried completely off the walls, and were left dumped on the floor, coated in Sheetrock dust. There were shattered dishes and plates littering the kitchen and dining room floors. A broken pipe was spraying the front bathroom cabinet with water. Ben soon turned off the well pump and shut the valve for the service line to the house. That stopped the water from further flooding the bathroom and hall.

After a pair of honks, the UNPROFOR convoy left in a cloud of dust and diesel smoke.

Ben and Rebecca walked out to the north end of their property to look for Joseph. After ten minutes of searching, they found his body eighty yards from the county road, and about 300 yards from the house. He had been shot six times in the back and buttocks. Two gutted quail were still in his game bag. His white T-shirt was red with blood, and his blue jeans were stained red to the knees.

For a half hour, Ben sat cradling the lifeless form of his eldest son, crying and rocking. Tears ran down his face. Nearby, Rebecca and their three surviving children sat hugging each other in a huddle, crying, moaning, and praying aloud. Finally Ben stood up. He looked down at his son’s corpse and said, “You wait here. I’m going to get a shovel, a sheet, some water, towels, and olive oil.”

He was back a few minutes later and almost immediately began to dig. As Ben dug just a few feet from his son’s body, he said forthrightly, “We’ll find no remedy or recourse in the courts, Rebecca. These are tyrants, tyrants. I need to fight them.”

He then continued working quietly, digging into the soil and small rocks with fervor. He didn’t stop until the grave was head-height deep. Blisters were forming on his palms, but he hardly noticed. As Ben dug the grave, Rebecca washed her son’s body, and rubbed olive oil onto his skin.

They gently lowered Joseph’s body into the grave and Ben folded the boy’s arms across his chest. They shrouded the body with a sheet. Rebecca helped Ben back up out of the grave. After saying prayers, each member of the family poured in a shovelful of earth. Rebecca then did most of the shoveling as they refilled the grave, weeping yet again.

After the grave was refilled and mounded, each family member selected a stone to mark the site. Ben found one beside Joseph’s favorite fishing hole.

They recited the Kaddish, a sanctification ritual in Judaism, found in the Siddur, the Jewish liturgy book read in Jewish temples on the Sabbath and High Holy Days.

Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh rabba. Be‘alma di vra khir’uteh veyamlikh malkhuteh veyatzma purqaneh viqarev qetz meshi eh be ayekhon uvyomekhon uv aye dekhol bet yisrael be‘agala uvizman qariv ve’imru amen. Yehe shmeh rabba mevarakh le‘alam ul‘alme ‘almaya Yitbarakh veyishtabba veyitpaar veyitromam veyitnasse veyithaddar veyit‘alleh veyithallal shmeh dequdsha, brikh hu. Le‘ella lella mikkol min kol birkhata veshirata tushbe ata vene emata daamiran be‘alma ve‘imru amen.

(May His great name be exalted and sanctified is God’s great name in the world, which He created according to His will! May He establish His kingdom and may His salvation blossom and His anointed be near. During your lifetime and during your days and during the lifetimes of all the House of Israel, speedily and very soon! And say, Amen. May His great name be blessed forever, and to all eternity! Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, above and beyond all the blessings, hymns, praises, and consolations that are uttered in the world! And say, Amen.)

As they walked away from the grave and back toward the house, Rebecca carried the shovel. With both sadness and anger, she spat, “Yes, go. Fight them! You have my blessing. Don’t worry about us. We will be safe and waiting here. The Lord will protect all of us, and provide for all of us.”

That evening, with aching hands, Ben dug up the length of eight-inch-diameter PVC pipe buried beneath their pair of grated trash-burning barrels. The PVC cache tube contained Ben’s heavily greased guns: a Galil .308 rifle, a Browning A-5 semiauto 12-gauge shotgun, and an HK USP .45 Compact pistol. All three guns were considered contraband, so they hadn’t been registered under the recent edicts. Packed along with the guns there were seven Galil magazines, three 200-round battle packs of Portuguese 7.62mm ball ammunition, and seven boxes of shotgun shells, each wrapped in separate Ziploc bags. After he had cleaned and loaded the guns, Ben organized his backpacking gear. He put the Galil and magazines in a guitar case, padded by extra clothes.

As Ben organized and packed his gear, Rebecca served the children some leftovers. They had to eat sitting on the couch, because the kitchen was still littered with broken glass. After they had eaten, Ben gave each of his children lengthy hugs. He told them to be brave and reverent, and to obey their mother. He tucked them into bed and said prayers with each of them.

Back in the living room, Ben spoke with Rebecca, who was busy sweeping up glass. “The chances that they’ll return our .22 rifle are about .001 percent, so I’ll leave you silver that you can use to buy another .22 rifle for small game. And I’ll be leaving you the 12-gauge for anything bigger, man or beast. I think under the old chest freezer would be a good hiding place for it. Did you notice that the soldiers didn’t touch that? You can ask some of the neighbor men to help you patch up the house.”