BishopAccountability.org
	How Arizona's Polygamist Raid Paved the Way to Texas By Jaimee Rose The Arizona Republic August 16, 2008 http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/arizonaliving/articles/2008/08/16/20080816shortcreek0816.html It's hard to see your way in polygamist country, always has been. The nights are dark, and street lamps rare or absent altogether. The people prefer to be guided by God's light, leaning on the moon and stars to show the way. The first time the children were taken, in the summer of 1953, police crept into town beneath an eclipsed moon. A trail of sedans bounced over the muddy road from Fredonia to Short Creek, Ariz., with headlights dimmed. Their mission hinged on surprising the polygamists before they could flee. Overhead, a full moon glowed with a ruddy red light then faded slowly into the Earth's shadow. The airwaves hummed in the dark. Ham-radio operators were carrying messages from Gov. Howard Pyle to the police and relaying news from Short Creek's sheriff to the Arizona attorney general. Pyle had vowed to shatter the serenity of Short Creek, where nary a girl had reached age 15 "without having been forced into a shameful mockery of marriage," he said. Over the radios, the ham operators forecast a grim scene: Signal lanterns burned high on the red sandstone cliffs above, and the Short Creek schoolyard was filling with men armed with clubs, vowing to spill blood in the name of God. But when the police pummeled into town at 4 that morning, their sirens piercing the last hour of darkness, they found the town tranquil instead. The polygamists were gathered in the schoolyard singing America, with children playing at their feet. "Our father's God to Thee, author of liberty, to thee we sing. Long may our land be bright with Freedom's holy light, protect us by thy might, Great God, our King." The police seized the women and children, and hoarded the men into jails. Short Creek was emptied, but the polygamists' faith was filled. The raid was a test from God, they said, and the faithful would rise up, armed with all the strength of their Lord. Now, 55 years after the Short Creek raid, the nation is deep into another invasion of polygamist country, in Eldorado, Texas. And this time, it's even harder to see the way. Should the law spare families or save children, prosecute polygamy or look the other way? And there's the matter of freedom's holy light, which shines even on the darkest nights across that ranch in Texas. The right to worship is one of America's most precious liberties, but are the parents at that ranch earnestly permitting their children that same freedom to choose? The ethics here are treacherous and the road to the end looks labyrinthine and long, but buried deep in the tale of the Short Creek raid is a map, of sorts. This has happened before, right down to children clutching their mothers' skirts and polygamists suffering in song. The story of Short Creek offers a glimpse at an arduous path to come. For all the darkness that enclosed them that night, the people of Short Creek saw things clearly. It was a test, to be sure, but of polygamists and Pyle alike, a test of the law and the Lord. The Short Creek folks believed they were right about him, too, for whether the families found fortitude in God or in their own hearts, they did rise up, stronger than before. Fleeing to God's land Short Creek is tucked into the cliffs of the Arizona Strip, one of the emptiest places in America. Carved away from the state by the crevices of the Grand Canyon, the strip measures 3,000 square miles and is larger than Connecticut, Rhode Island and Delaware combined. In 1953, these 5 million acres were home to just 700 people. Short Creek itself straddles the Arizona-Utah border and is known today as the twin towns of Colorado City, Ariz., and Hildale, Utah. It has long been country given over to God. According to The Polygamists, by Short Creek historian Ben Bistline, the land was first used in 1867 as grazing pastures for cattle owned by the Mormon Church. In the 1890s, the church disavowed polygamy, and long-established plural families were being prosecuted. Wives were sent to the Short Creek valley to hide from police. In 1935, devout polygamists who chose to defy the Mormon Church's plural-marriage ban began to search for a spot where they could come together in worship. They believed the ban came from political pressure, not divine inspiration. The end of polygamy helped secure statehood for Utah and ended legal threats against the church. God had not revoked his commandment to take plural wives, the devout believed, and God wasn't going to let them into heaven with one wife alone. Sympathetic property owners at Short Creek offered their land. The polygamists moved in, and, almost immediately, the state began trying to move them back out. There were raids in 1935 and 1944, convictions for unlawful cohabitation and for the mailing of obscene material - the polygamists' Truth magazine, which espoused plural wives. A few men went to jail, but none served more than two years. Others were released on parole and a signed promise to leave polygamy behind. They agreed, and went promptly home to their wives and more weddings. Pyle and his staff spent two years preparing for the raid of 1953. "It has been, frankly, the one and only real sorrow of my administration," Pyle said of Short Creek in a radio address the morning after the raid. His task force plotted every house in town, listing and observing its residents, slowly building the state's case. Special investigators even posed as a movie company making a film in Short Creek, giving residents jobs and learning about their lives. They got close enough to find the perfect day to strike. Tipped off In Short Creek, the celebration of July 24 is almost bigger than Christmas. It's Pioneer Day, the anniversary of the Mormons' arrival in the Salt Lake Valley after a deadly wagon trek across the Plains. As Mormon prophet Brigham Young rolled up over the Wasatch Mountains in 1847, multiple wives in tow, he declared that "this is the place" where his people could worship free of persecution. The Short Creek polygamists honored the Pioneer Day holiday as their own. Each year, the Saturday closest to July 24 brought all the Short Creek clan back home. While rumors of a raid were whispered around town, the people of Short Creek focused on festivities. They huddled around a barrel of lemonade and homemade cookies, remembers author Bistline, then cleared out the schoolhouse to make way for a town dinner and a family dance. At the end, they gathered in a circle on the dance floor and bowed their heads in prayer. They gave thanks for one another and their corner of the world, and asked the Lord to keep their persecutors at bay. Pyle and his task force knew that with the homes and beds of Short Creek filled, this was the night to raid. But the polygamists had been tipped. They sent a teenage boy to stand sentry on the edge of town. Deep into the night, he came running into Short Creek, straight to the feet of the polygamists' prophet Leroy "Uncle Roy" Johnson. "They are coming, they're coming!" the boy cried. "And there are hundreds of them." Johnson ordered his flock to stand firm. "My feet are tired of running, and I intend to turn to God for protection," he said, according to author Carolyn Jessop's account of the raid in Escape. Families torn apart Sirens bleating and lights aglow, the state burst in with a force 100 strong. There were sheriffs, highway patrolmen, members of the National Guard, judges from both Juvenile and Superior courts as well as the entire staff of the state liquor department, just for good measure. They held warrants for 36 men and 86 women on charges that included rape, bigamy, polygamy, adultery, violation of Arizona's corporation laws, tax evasion and misappropriation of school funds. The 263 children of Short Creek were to be adopted into other families. The state also invited 25 carloads of media personnel from across the globe to accompany the invaders. As the officers swept through town and surrounded the schoolyard, weapons dropped, the singing stopped and one of the Short Creek residents shouted, "We have run from you for the last time. We will shed our blood right here if need be." Not a bullet was fired as officers moved the men into the schoolhouse and pulled crying children from the arms of screaming mothers, but the photographers' flashbulbs fired away. These turned out to be the most powerful weapons of all. Photos of families being torn apart appeared on front pages of newspapers across the country and left a public pleading in favor of the polygamists. By Tuesday, an editorial on the front page of The Arizona Republic proclaimed the raid "a humiliation to the citizens of this state." "Are those pig-tailed brides a threat to the safety of all Arizona?" the editorial read. Pyle soldiered on. The men were taken to jail in Kingman. The children were released back to their mothers, who had to accompany the children on a bus to Phoenix or lose custody altogether. While the men were freed on bail, the women and children were farmed out to shelters and the homes of sympathetic Mormon families across Arizona. The state threatened the mothers with the permanent adoption of their children if the women left for even one day. A lonely time With all the women and children gone, Short Creek was a solemn place. "It wasn't fun at all to be there alone," remembers Ben Bistline, who was 17 on the night of the Short Creek raid. Unmarried and of legal age, he was one of a few left in Short Creek. "I missed my mom, of course, but life just went on. We had cows to milk. We had to get up at 4 o'clock in the morning." Every day, the men gathered at Fred Jessop's home on the Utah side of the border for breakfast and dinner, served by Jessop's wives. Most of the polygamists in Utah were spared arrest. In September, Life magazine published a pictorial of the men fending for themselves: "The Lonely Men of Short Creek." "It was hard, that first Christmas, with gifts for the little ones lying on the bed and me there all alone," remembered Dan Barlow, in a 1991 interview. Bistline spent nights writing letters to his 15-year-old sweetheart, who was in state custody with her mother. He remembers they went something like this: "Dear Annie, I miss you and blah blah blah, Love, Bennie." Says Bistline, now 73: "I was mighty glad when they came home." On Nov. 30, 1953, the Short Creek men went back to court, and 26 pleaded guilty to "conspiracy to commit open and notorious cohabitation." The misdemeanor carried a sentence of one year's probation. The state dismissed charges against 62 women and seven men. It turns out that in Arizona, polygamy is not a prosecutable crime. The state Constitution bans polygamy but gives no punishment. The men left with a promise not to practice polygamy and a lecture from Judge Robert A. Tollar. "I don't honestly believe that I can rehabilitate you gentlemen," Tollar said. "You have an unshaken belief, and I have heard not one word of repentance from any of you. To imprison you would not deter others but would make you martyrs." And back to Short Creek they went. "Organized polygamist activity no longer exists in Arizona," proclaimed Paul La Prade, Arizona's assistant attorney general. But the following year, a lawyer for the mothers found a law that put Short Creek back together. It stated if a child's parents were living, that child could not be taken from the family without the parents' consent. Nearly two years after the raid, the mothers and children went home. Living in fear Pyle lost his bid for re-election in 1955, his political career ruined by public outrage over the raid. The polygamists retreated behind the sandstone cliffs of Short Creek, galvanized by their victory. The raid had been a test, and the law failed while the righteous prevailed. They believed God had blessed them for their perseverance and punished Pyle. "They picked up this big new religious fervor," says Carolyn Jessop, who lived in Colorado City for 35 years and wrote the best-selling book Escape about fleeing her faith. The blessing of being reunited demanded strict new standards "that would set everybody in the community apart from society," she says. The restrictions were piled on: No more pants for women, and no more choosing their own husbands, either. "The Short Creek raid sabotaged the trust women had in the outside world," Jessop wrote in Escape. "They'd seen their terrified babies ripped from their arms. Uncle Roy stood up to the state of Arizona and won. He credited the victory in part to the faithfulness of the women . . . (who) believed they must be even more obedient to the prophet in the future." The women stopped believing in freedom's holy light and looked to the light of their prophet instead. When they were told to obey their husbands or risk losing their children, they complied, even when this meant suffering and even disguising abuse, Jessop says. When the prophet commanded that they marry a man 40 years older, they thanked him and obeyed. The law was no place to turn for help: Local police reported to the prophet. Contact with outsiders was forbidden. Even conversation with family members that turned against polygamy was not allowed. After the raid of 1953, it was hard to see any way out of Short Creek. Leaving for Texas Flummoxed by the difficulties of prosecuting polygamy in Arizona, state officials played laissez-faire with Short Creek for years. Even now, polygamists avoid the law by marrying "spiritually," without marriage licenses. These unions aren't legally valid or, therefore, legally wrong. "You get killed quicker in government doing your duty than turning your back," Pyle said in a speech 25 years after the raid. And just like the polygamists promised on that night long ago, they found strength they hadn't had before. By 2003, when Utah and Arizona authorities renewed their efforts to prosecute crimes in the area and polygamists began leaving the Short Creek/Colorado City area for the ranch in Texas, the population had grown to nearly 8,000. Multiple sects of Mormon-offshoot polygamists now worshipped there, each descended from the original Short Creek clan. Even when authorities found secure grounds for prosecuting the polygamists, for charges like underage marriage or sexual conduct with minors, they were hard-pressed to find a woman who would aid the law and testify against her husband, against her faith. History repeats itself The second time the children were taken, in April of this year, police again approached polygamist country in the dark. An allegation of child abuse gave officials a pathway into the Yearning for Zion Ranch in Texas. They surrounded the ranch with an armored car and automatic weapons and again found the polygamists peaceful. While the officials searched their homes, the sect members sang and prayed. Authorities took 449 children from the arms of their parents. Grandmothers who suffered through the Short Creek raid watched in tears. Mindful of the path to freedom they walked before, the polygamists posted the pictures of crying mothers and children on their Web site. Again the public balked. Again, the children were released back to their mothers. "It's an exact repeat, right down to the way it's playing out," says Ken Driggs, an Atlanta attorney who has written and studied the history of the FLDS, or Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, a name this sect adopted in 1987. "This kind of tactic has always backfired." A greater fear It's hard to see your way in polygamist country, and the most dangerous pathway through this, says Utah Attorney General Mark Shurtleff, is the one that came before. Arizona and Utah officials have carefully worked to carve exit routes from Colorado City for those who want to leave. They established the Safety Net Committee to help domestic-violence victims, and on the road into Colorado City, a large billboard now advertises a "safe talk" hotline. But "if they fear us more than they do their abusers, they're never going to seek help," Shurtleff says. "It's this fear of government they've been taught from the cradle - 'See what happened in '53? If you seek help, they'll come and take everybody.' We keep telling them, 'No, no, no. If someone needs help, we'll handle that one case. There won't be a raid.' "And now the polygamists are saying, 'See, we told you, we told you it would happen again,' " Shurtleff says. There's another force at work here, too, a kind of unlikely glory that comes each time the police knock on the polygamists' doors. Nothing makes a religion like a martyr. The Bible leans on the stories of those who put faith first, who sacrificed their freedom and their families, who laid down their lives for the Lord. Through all their persecution, the polygamists talk of nothing but strength. "The outside pressure from the government only reinforces their convictions," says Driggs, "reinforces the belief that 'We are God's chosen people, and we are going to be persecuted for living God's laws.' " In the polygamists' darkest hours, they say, the light shines more brightly on the pathway to God.
Any original material on these pages is copyright © BishopAccountability.org 2004. Reproduce freely with attribution.