Pathways of an ‘Early’ De-Escalation: the Case of the Weather
Underground Organization
Luca Falciola1
Abstract
Between 1969 and 1970, the Weather Underground Organization (WUO) was the most violent avant-garde
among the North-American white radical movements. Not only its rhetoric, but also its first (attempted)
actions clearly proved the group’s willingness to engage in anti-personnel violence. However, despite the
initial trajectory, the Weathermen, in less than one year, disengaged from murderous violence and opted for
‘demonstrative violence’. As a matter of fact, in the following seven years of activity, the organization
targeted only property with bombings and avoided hurting people. Why did WUO systematically eschew
political assassinations, kidnappings, attacks against civilians, and other acts endangering people? Such a
change of strategy has been conventionally attributed to the shocking episode in which three of the
Weathermen blew themselves up while assembling an explosive device. Surprisingly, all the other factors –
at micro, meso, and macro levels – that could have potentially contributed to making those individuals more
likely to de-escalate still remain unexamined. To fully address this question, the paper proposes, first, to
integrate three dimensions: 1) individual and group dynamics; 2) group-state relations; 3) interactions
between groups and their ‘radical milieu’. Second, it employs both a set of interviews with radicals who
engaged in the WUO and historical sources to grasp the factors that drew those people toward this
pathway. The research identifies the de-solidarization by radical milieu as the key factor accounting for the
restraint of violence. The article proves that radical constituencies systematically criticized and alienated the
WUO, as soon as the group attempted to escalate, targeting people or not caring about the human costs of
its attacks. Radical milieu did not reject violence per se, but refused tactics that appeared counterproductive
and dangerous. Therefore, in order to safeguard the ‘solidarity pact’ with their constituencies, Weathermen
were forced to adjust and moderate their repertoires. The paper also demonstrates that the three main
alternative factors – 1) the trauma generated by the townhouse explosion; 2) the militants’ socio-economic
background; 3) the deterrence by law enforcement – had only a secondary impact over the process of deescalation.
1
Catholic University, Milan, Italy. Contact: luca.falciola@unicatt.it
1
Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
Introduction
On March 6, 1970, an explosion stroke the heart of Manhattan, turning a Greenwich Village
townhouse into a heap of smoking ruins. Three Weathermen, assembling an explosive device in
the basement, died incinerated. As a matter of fact, after this episode, the group engaged in a lowintensity armed propaganda that avoided violence against people as a means to bring about
political change. Bombings and arsons against property, preceded by warning calls to clear the
buildings, became its favorite repertoires of action. In some seven years of violent attacks – 34
according to FBI sources (FBI, 1976: 176-185) – WUO never killed nor injured anybody2.
This bloodless outcome has been rarely questioned. Yet, at least four reasons make this
restraint of violence an empirical puzzle, deserving further investigation and more systematic
scrutiny.
First, between 1969 and 1970 Weatherman3 organized itself as a foco-style group, and was
ideologically and technically ready to engage in murderous actions. Weatherman was a tiny white
radical faction, composed by some prominent and charismatic organizers that in 1969 took over
the leadership of the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), the largest white radical
organization in the US. The Weatherman confronted the movement with at least four issues. First,
the urgency of a ‘socialist revolution’, while all over the world people were ‘rising up and fighting
for their freedom’ (new left notes – the fire next time, August 1969: 2). Second, the vanguard role
of the black movement: ‘[i]t is black people who led the action, fought back first against the pigs.
Black people raised the cry of revolution and the flash of exploding firebombs. […] Their love for
their people and their willingness to die in the fight is a model for all who will fight’ (SDS new left
notes – the fire next time no. 27, August 1969: 3). Third, USA was vulnerable. Vietnamese were
defeating Americans ‘in a country smaller than Pennsylvania, under the constant terror of 540,000
US troops and daily B-52 bombing raids’ (SDS new left notes – the fire next time, August 1969: 1213). Fourth, the necessity ‘to pick up the gun in order to end the need for the gun’ (SDS new left
notes – the fire next time, August 1969: 13). Hence, Weathermen emphasized the importance of
an immediate escalation from mass demonstrations to ‘mass confrontation’ (SDS new left notes –
the fire next time, 20 September 1969) and, eventually, ‘toward armed struggle’ (Fire!, 21
November 1969). In the collectives, militants trained with firearms and explosives, organized
propaganda actions, and were educated as zealous revolutionaries (‘smashing’ bourgeois habits
and engaging in criticism-self-criticism sessions for rectifying their revolutionary line). In other
words, WUO could have realistically killed and injured people. Instead, respect for human life was
adopted as a (quite) rigorous code of conduct.
Second, this restraint occurred during a period of resurgent political violence in the USA. After
thirty years of ‘liberal consensus,’ unrest on campuses, race riots, and street confrontations were
on the raise. The Vietnam War fostered rage and frustration, disseminating violent repertoires. US
2
START Global Terrorism Database lists 48 attacks, whereas Hewitt catalogues 33 attacks. Weatherman
claimed responsibility for 27 attacks. Cf. respectively www.start.umd.edu/gtd/; Hewitt, 2005; Dohrn et al.,
2006.
3
Originally called America’s Weathermen, they later changed their name into Weather Underground
Organization. The group is commonly known as Weatherman or Weather Underground.
2
Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
white radicals also acted in solidarity with the anti-racist and anti-colonial struggles. They lionized
the black liberation movement; yet, organizations such as the Black Panthers (BP) and the Black
Liberation Army (BLA) engaged in self-defense and retaliatory violence against people. Similarly,
white radicals acclaimed other minorities’ revolutionary fringes, such as the Puerto Rican Fuerzas
Armadas de Liberación Nacional; yet these groups took up arms and killed political enemies.
Third, US white radicals were not only internationalist, but were also acting as a part of a global
post-1968 revolutionary movement. Like other Western leftists, they were driven by the principles
of Marxism-Leninism and were inspired by Chinese and Cuban revolutions. They embraced the
widely-circulating foco theory (Debray, 1967), that stressed the importance of exemplary violence
even in absence of a mass revolutionary front. Their ranks counted mostly middle-class students;
they had the same vilified targets—capitalism, imperialism, authoritarianism—and shared a sense
of urgency—an imminent revolution. Yet, contrary to what happened in Italy and Germany,
attacks against the system never included violence against people.
1. Research design
Why did Weatherman systematically eschew political assassinations, kidnappings, attacks
against civilians, physical violence against law enforcement agents, and other acts endangering
people? This article seeks to answer this question through a fine-grained historical reconstruction
and a multilevel analysis. In so doing, it attempts to dynamically integrate three dimensions: 1)
individual and group dynamics; 2) group-state relations; 3) interactions between groups and their
‘radical milieu’.
The research identifies the de-solidarization by radical constituencies as the main factor
accounting for the restraint of violent repertoires. The paper employs historical documents and
oral testimonies to support this claim and to downsize the three main alternative factors: 1) the
trauma generated by the townhouse explosion; 2) the militants’ socio-economic background; 3)
the deterrence by law enforcement.
The paper adopts Waldmann’s definition of ‘radical milieu’ to indicate the segment of the
population that sympathizes with violent groups and supports them ‘morally and logistically’, by
virtue of a ‘social structure’ and a ‘solidarity pact’ (Waldmann, 2008). Building up on this
theoretical basis, the role of the ‘radical milieu’ – also indicated as ‘radical constituencies’ – is
assumed to be decisive in shaping armed organizations’ behaviors.
The term ‘violence’, unless otherwise specified, is employed to indicate the deliberate infliction
of damage on property or individuals, for political purposes. However, the paper refers to antipersonnel violence vs. violence against property, emphasizing the qualitative difference between
the exertion of physical force against objects or, conversely, against human beings. The term
‘terrorism’ is explicitly avoided, due to continuous variation (across time and groups) of the
meaning and the scope of white radicals’ violence.
The present work is mostly based on qualitative primary sources: original documents
elaborated by radical groups, reports drawn up by law enforcement agencies, and a set of 10
3
Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
interviews, personally conducted with radicals who engaged in the Weatherman4. Although the
sample of interviewees is not truly representative of the group, I believe with Horgan (2009) that
even a concise number of idiosyncratic accounts can be useful in tracing more general pathways.
Furthermore, the paper makes use of secondary literature, mostly militants’ memoirs.
The article proceeds as follows. First, it draws attention to the literature gap about the restraint
of anti-personnel violence. Then, the paper illustrates how Weathermen – in an early phase –
crossed (although unsuccessfully) the boundary of anti-personnel violence. In the following
section, it uncovers the process of de-solidarization by the radical milieu. In particular, after
tracing the boundaries of leftist constituencies, the article explores their reactions to antipersonnel violence and their ensuing isolation of armed fringes. Lastly, the paper shows that the
three alternative factors had only a secondary impact over the process of de-escalation. The
conclusion summarizes findings and discuss future avenues of research.
2. A case of de-escalation of violence
Conflict studies literature, when deals with the processes of de-escalation of violence, generally
investigates the factors that push and pull individuals to leave terrorist organizations (Horgan,
2009; Bjørgo & Horgan, 2009), explains why terrorist campaigns decline and groups disband (Ross
& Gurr, 1989; Crenshaw, 1991; de Graaf & Malkki, 2010), or explore how armed formations step
away from violence and restructure along civilian lines (Edwards, 2009). The case of militarized
groups that resolve to avoid physical harm against people, while still using violent repertoires, is
largely overlooked. Such a tactic – alterna ve to both indiscriminate a acks and nonviolence is
taken into consideration only in a few studies (Crenshaw, 1996) and is still waiting for rigorous
empirical enquiries. Yet, an analysis of radicals’ choice to calibrate – albeit not rejecting – violence
holds a broader interest, especially for scholars building general theories of de-escalation,
disengagement, and de-radicalization.
Historiography on US white radicalism does not dwell on this phenomenon, focusing instead on
the radicalization of the New Left. The violence restraint, if taken into account, is conventionally
explained as a result of the trauma caused by the loss of three militants. The townhouse incident,
according to the majority of the reconstructions, had such a sobering effect that provoked a
reconsideration of Weathermen’s tactics, guiding them toward a safer ‘armed propaganda’.
Surprisingly, all the other factors that could have potentially contributed to make those individuals
more likely to de-escalate still remain unexamined. Partially filling this literature gap, Varon (2004)
proposes an insightful comparison between the WUO and the German RAF in which he addresses
the question of the different outcomes in terms of anti-personnel violence in the two countries.
Nevertheless, Varon’s analysis does not provide a straight answer, stressing both the ethical value
4
Kit Bakke (November 25, 2012), Lyndon Chomstock (August 4, 2013), Ron Fliegelman (January 15, 2013),
Jonathan Lerner (December 12, 2012 and January 15, 2013), Roger Lippman (November 18, 2012), Michael
Novick (November 19, 2012), Mark Rudd (January 15, 2013), Mike Spiegel (January 19, 2013), Laura
Whitehorn (January 8, 2013), Cathy Wilkerson (December 3, 2012).
4
Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
of Weatherman’s choice and the positive effects of the low intensity repression in the USA (if
compared to West Germany).
Cross-national comparisons of ‘terrorist violence’ tend to explain variations with structural
preconditions and provide insights on the logic of violence restraint in the USA in only a few cases.
Katzenstein (1998) acknowledges that the reasons why US militants drew back from ‘a full-scale
campaign of violence’ are ‘still too complex to unravel’ and discusses instead a variety of factors
that presented differences across western countries. Sánchez-Cuenca (2009) shows, with
quantitative data, a strong association between past dictatorships and revolutionary violence.
Similarly, Engene (2004) finds statistical evidence that European ideological terrorism was
correlated to macro-level indicators, e.g. human rights, democracy, and economic growth. From
these findings, one can infer that a country such as the USA did not offer the context for a violent
escalation. However, highly aggregated analyses cannot explain why—and through which
process—groups or individuals adopted specific behaviors.
3. An a priori rejection of anti-personnel violence?
Some reconstructions and testimonies claim that Weathermen, before the townhouse incident,
never planned to kill or injure people. For instance, Mike Spiegel, SDS National Secretary and later
in the WUO, suggests that the idea of hurting people never crossed their minds: ‘it was totally out
of bounds’, ‘it was not even a possibility’. The excesses of 1969-1970, according to him, were
produced by a handful of people who eventually blew themselves up. The rest of the group ‘never
thought about hurting anyone’ (Spiegel interview).
However, other testimonies imply a much less linear path. Specifically, in the early phase of the
group’s life cycle, a clear awareness of the dangers of some actions was often absent. Therefore,
the possibility of killing was not a concern. Jonathan Lerner (interview), who was in the New York
Weatherman, remembers that during the heated months between the Days of Rage – when, in
October 1969, Weathermen went rampaging in Chicago and raided the business district – and the
townhouse incident, they thought they should be ‘as wild as possible and do as damage as
possible […] and that if people get hurt that’s great’. Ron Fliegelman (interview), another member
of the Weatherman, states that until the townhouse incident the question of physical violence
against people was never clearly addressed – ‘we weren’t cautious at all at that time’ – and the
respect of boundaries ‘had to do with individual people’. Cathy Wilkerson (interview) confirms:
‘those actions before the townhouse were very confused on that question. I think that some
people thought that they were actions against people and other people thought were actions
against property. There wasn’t agreement about it’.
In addition, it is possible to find robust factual evidence that, in a relevant number of
circumstances, some militants not only engaged in violent acts regardless of the collateral
damage, but also unsuccessfully attempted to hurt people. Two cases regard the New York
Weatherman collective. The group firebombed Judge John Murtagh’s house.5 The attack, as
Wilkerson (2007: 325) recalls, was dangerous for people because the building was guarded by cops
5
The judge Murtagh was presiding the Panther 21 trial.
5
Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
24 hours a day. The Molotov cocktails ‘fortunately’ broke against the front steps and did not reach
anybody. In a later communiqué, Weatherman admitted that New York collective was
disappointed by the futility of this attack ‘because [it] did not hurt the pigs’, so the group moved
to more effective “antipersonnel violence”’ (Berkeley Tribe, 17–24 December 1970). Thus, the
same collective planned an attack intended to wound and kill people (with nails in the pipe),
targeting an Army officer ball at Fort Dix. The explosive device accidentally ignited and caused the
townhouse blast.
Moreover, there were many other unreported cases. Lerner (interview) recalls:
One time we were trying to test a little device we made. The place we went to test it was a derelict building
down on West St., on the waterfront of the Village, which we knew was inhabited by people, and we set
this device at the front door of this building. We knew that there were quite possibly people asleep
upstairs. This is how much we cared about people. Thank God it did not blow up.
Similarly, Whitehorn (interview) remembers another experience while in Chicago:
After Fred Hampton was murdered, I went around with two other people in another city, putting little
bombs under tires of police cars [so that when the cars started, the bombs would explode]. When I went
back to Chicago, I listened to the radio and I remember being disappointed that we didn’t killed any cops
and just damaged the cars. I’m not proud of that.
Furthermore, testimonies never mention the possibility that they were restrained by a moral
revulsion of violence. Instead, violence was interpreted as a moral act. Following the classic
revolutionary rhetoric, a smaller violence was necessary to stop a larger violence. Every act of
violence was always presented as an act of self-defense or counter-violence. The morality of civil
rights and pacifism was considered ‘a whole utopian trip’ and was substituted by a new morality of
action and violence (Fire!, 21 November 1969). ‘If you live in a country whose government is
breaking international law and causing irreparable harm to oppressed people, – explained Laura
Whitehorn – you have a responsibility to try to stop that. To fail to act in some active manner
because of respect for the laws of an illegal regime, we reasoned, is in itself immoral’ (Tropea,
2013). Mark Rudd (interview) summarizes the consequences: ‘I believed that was moral to kill
people’. At the time, he was far from being alone. Pleas for violence and arm struggle were
increasingly insistent, even from the hippy movement: ‘we have to arm and we have to prepare to
defend ourselves militarily – declared Abbie Hoffman –. We are in a life or death struggle. […] I
think young people should begin the task of training themselves to be armed fighters […] right
now non-violence serves the aims of the White House’ (Madison Kaleidoskope, 17 June 1970).
In light of this, it is possible to temporarily conclude that for Weatherman, in an early phase,
respect of human life was neither a prerogative nor a moral commitment.
6
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Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
4. The key-factor: the de-solidarization by radical milieu
The basis of support
Weathermen were acting on behalf of the student movement, the antiwar movement, the
working class movement, the black liberation movement, the minorities’ movements (e.g.,
Chicanos, American Indians, Puerto Ricans, etc.), and their international allies (in primis,
Vietnamese and Cubans). All together, these reference communities formed their radical milieu.
Within it, WUO looked for political, moral, and psychological support. These symbolic goods were
essential both to keep guerrilla living and to infuse motivation about the feasibility of the
revolution. Naturally, leftist constituencies provided also material and financial aids, but were not
vital in that respect. These forms of help never lacked completely, as Weathermen could rely on
their affluent families’ and friends’ money and safe houses. Underground life was indeed possible
for extended periods (Dohrn, 2006). Political and psychological isolation had more significant
consequences: it exposed the disconnect between their commitment and the attitude of their
constituencies. If this hypothesis is correct, the rationalization of underground rebels (i.e., we put
our lives on the line; if other people do not follow us, it is because they are not ready to sacrifice)
and their self-deception (in the whirlpool of in-group dynamics, we deny the reality that
contradicts our beliefs) weakened significantly just before the moderation of violent repertoires.
A deep sense of isolation was indeed felt by the majority of the interviewees, as soon as they
progressed in their escalation (Bakke, Whitehorn, Wilkerson interviews). Lerner (interview)
remembers this feeling as ‘a thought back’, which was initially denied with arrogance inside the
Weatherman. However, after the first violent actions, the external constrain grew: ‘the larger
network of supporters, friends and comrades that were watching from the outside, still in
academy or in school, or little older, may be with kids must have said “What are they doing?” This
is crazy. You have to back up’. ‘I do not think’ – clarifies Lerner – ‘that our leadership came up with
it entirely out of their own brilliance, seeing that they had been leading the other direction just
two minutes before the townhouse’. Rudd (interview) recalls that he understood this alienation
after the demonstrations of May 1970:
I realized that the mass movement was about to get even bigger. And we weren’t a part of it. We were not
even in relation with it. […] I got the realization while I was sitting on a bench in a park in Philadelphia,
reading a newspaper. A half a mile away, there were thousands of people demonstrating. And I couldn’t go.
The student and antiwar movement
As soon as Weathermen approached the line of anti-personnel violence, the student milieu
promptly de-solidarized with their actions. The radical press, which represented, also for
clandestine groups, the best indicator of their aboveground networks’ mood and opinion provides
evidence of this shift.
After the Days of Rage, the reference Marxist antiwar newsweekly Guardian launched a
campaign to condemn the ‘tragedy of the Weatherman line’. Calvert, former SDS National
Secretary, stated that when revolutionaries cast themselves in this mold ‘they turn from tragedy
to tragicomedy and then to farce’ (Guardian, 11 October 1969). For weeks, the magazine criticized
the ‘low grade, camp version of Bonnie and Clyde’ and praised the rest of the movement for its
7
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Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
‘revolutionary wisdom to stay away’ and boycott the ‘adventurism’ (Guardian, 18 October 1969).
After the townhouse explosion, despite the initial abash and the uncertainty about the event, a
chorus of critics progressively rose. Guardian (21 March 1970) condemned once again the
‘individual terrorism’, labeling it as an ‘act of frustration’.
Tom Hayden, one of the founding fathers of the movement, who had previously supported the
Weatherman, after a few months of escalation, wrote on Ramparts (July 1970):
To us revolution was like birth: blood is inevitable, but the purpose of the act is to create life, not to glorify
blood. Yet to the Weathermen bloodshed as such was ‘great’. […] Their violence was structured and
artificial, because in their heads they were part of the Third World. They were alienated from their own
roots […]. They were not guerrillas swimming like fish among the people; they were more like commandos.
Even the Berkeley Tribe (27 March–3 April 1970), theoretically less critical of the armed
struggle, started questioning radicals’ bombs and sabotage, because they ‘can simultaneously
discredit and retard revolution’. What mattered the most – the Tribe explained in an interesting
editorial – was ‘the attitude developed among the people’. ‘The Vietnamese experience shows
that sabotage as a politically isolated act quickly turned against the revolutionary forces. It only
proved useful as a carefully planned part of a total revolutionary program’. So ‘[t]he hip
community has to make clear that only certain sabotage operations serve the people, that
carefully selected institutions which enslave people should be the targets, and that lives should be
spared’. In conclusion: ‘[i]f good-hearted revolutionary fools plan bombings which harm the
people then they must be denounced and opposed. […] the revolutionary’s value of human life has
to be made distinct from the Capitalist society’s property ethic’.
Later on, other articles condemned the growing ‘isolation and apartness’ of armed fringes from
the mass movement, and the risks of ‘unnecessary deaths’, that could have occurred as a result of
the incautious bombings (Berkeley Tribe, 12–19 June 1970). Criticisms were also raised in the
aftermath of policeman Tsukamoto’s killing6, even though the responsible was unknown, and after
Robert Fassnacht’s death7 (Berkeley Tribe, 23 September–2 October 1970). Some voices were even
denouncing their own blame: ‘It is OUR responsibility, the senseless miming of “off the pig” &
“pick up the gun” without a proper understanding of what it all means. […] There must be a clear
distinction between banditry and guerrilla warfare’ (Berkeley Tribe, 12–19 June 1970).
The antiwar movement, at large, was dominated by nonviolent currents and always kept its
distance from white bombers. If the legacy of nonviolent activism was worn out within armed
groups, the same did not occur in this larger cohort. For many of them, violence was still morally
unacceptable; the idea of not replicating the inhumanity of the enemy and the conception that
‘your scope is already within your methods’ were still claimed as guiding principles. For example,
Walter Teague, co-founder of the Committee to Aid the National Liberation Front of South
6
On August 1970, in Berkeley, police officer Ronald T. Tsukamoto was mysteriously shot and killed, after he
stopped a motorcycle rider and engaged in a discussion with him about Vietnam War and countercultures.
7
In the predawn hours of August 24, 1970, the white radical group New Year’s Gang set up a car-bomb at
the Army Math Research Center of the University of Wisconsin, in Madison. The huge explosion – at the
time the most damaging attack in the US domestic history – killed Robert Fassnacht, a physics researcher
working late in his office, and injured three others.
8
Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
Vietnam, remembers attempting to discourage some Weathermen from pursuing their potentially
dangerous attacks during meetings at the New York Methodist Church8.
Even people advocating radical means, such as the popular Catholic priest and peace activist
Daniel Berrigan, criticized violent excesses. In October 1970, Berrigan sent a letter to the
Weathermen trying to discourage them from using anti-personnel violence: ‘if the people are not
the main issue, there is simply no main issue and you and I are fooling ourselves also, and the
American fear and dread of change has only transferred itself to a new setting. […] The mark of
inhuman treatment of humans is a mark that also hovers over us. It is the mark of a beast,
whether its insignia is the militancy or the movement’ (Berrigan, 1972).
The working class
A real connection between working class and white radicals never materialized in the US. In the
summer of 1969, the Weatherman developed the so-called ‘action projects’ to enlist working-class
youths into the revolution. The organization sent groups of militants to several low-income
neighborhoods of industrial cities, such as Seattle, Detroit, and Columbus. But the working-class
kids reacted coldly, sometimes engaged in fistfights against radicals, and eventually rejected the
offer to engage in the group (House of Representatives, 1970). Weathermen resigned to consider
the working class as reactionary and racist, backing American imperialism, and sharing “shortrange privileges” coming from super-profits accumulated by corporations (Jacobs, 1970: 65).
Indeed, blue collars remained unreceptive to revolutionary messages, considered as ‘romantic
talks’, and were hardly interested in ‘smashing the state’. Quite content with labor relationships,
most working-class people sustained the Vietnam War or at least their sons at the frontline. In
1970, the Hard Hats Riot in New York clearly indicated that white radicals’ and working-class’
positions were almost irreconcilable. Construction workers proved to be violently hostile to young
antiwar protesters, beating up hundreds of them in a huge melee (Bigart, 1970).
By contrast, working-class radicalism took the form of grassroots community organizing. In
blue-collar and Appalachian migrant neighborhoods, such as Uptown Chicago, alternative white
radical groups developed, adopting a ‘long-term approach’, refusing both ideological dogmatism
and gunslinger rhetoric. Job or Income Now (JOIN), Young Patriots Organization (YPO), and Rising
Up Angry (RUA) set up in Chicago; October 4th Organization grew in Philadelphia; White Lightning
established in New York (Sonnie & Tracy, 2011). During the Days of Rage, groups such as
Revolutionary Youth Movement II, Black Panthers, and Young Lords organized separate meetings
in order to not blend with Weatherman. When several Weathermen were arrested within a RYM II
rally, RYM II militants refused to offer any help (Sale, 1973).
More predictable, but still without any hesitation, was the Socialist and Communist parties’
critique of violent radicalism (Green, 1971).
The black movement
With a few exceptions, Black Panthers’ attitude toward white radicals’ violent excesses was
either critical or indifferent. Although Weatherman and other groups designated Panthers as the
vanguard of the revolution, the relationship between black and white radicalisms was ‘strained’
8
Interview with the author (January 30, 2013).
9
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Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.
(Fliegelman interview). Wilkerson (2007: 286) defined it as ‘troubled inconsistent, and
characterized by growing distrust’. Black constituencies did not dissent on the issue of
revolutionary violence, but treated with contempt the idealistic attitude of white revolutionaries
and were worried about the repression that, triggered by white radicals’ attacks, could have fallen
back on black militants. Furthermore, despite Panthers’ co-founder Huey P. Newton and, later, the
Panther 21 defendants endorsed Weatherman’s violence (Berkeley Tribe 7–13 November 1969;
Berkeley Tribe, 12-19 February 1971), the black movement at large denounced white radicals’
excesses.
Rudd (interview) remembers demonstrations in 1969, to oppose repression against Panthers,
where the majority of people were white. ‘The black base was simply not there. By and large, we
became the Black Panthers’ base and that was not good’. When in July 1969 Black Panther Party,
Young Lords, and Young Patriots Organization called for a United Front Against Fascism
Conference, white armed factions were already excluded. Panthers’ chief of staff David Hilliard
declared in that occasion that among white revolutionaries the Panthers respected only the
unarmed Young Patriots (House of Representatives, 1970). Fred Hampton’s critique of the
Weatherman’s tactics during the Days of Rage – that he described as ‘adventuristic’ and
‘custeristic’ – was another serious blow for the group. Finally, the indifference before white
radicals’ attacks on the pages of the official Panthers’ newspaper, between 1969 and 1970, seems
to be particularly revealing. Lastly, it is worth noting that diehard white radicals, during late 1970s,
to keep revolutionary projects living and to win over black constituencies’ support, had to federate
with black armed militants. May 19th Communist Organization epitomized this tendency.
The Vietnamese and Cuban allies
The Vietnamese and Cuban allies in the anti-American struggle increasingly disapproved
Weathermen’s means and eventually withdrew their ‘certification’ (Tilly & Tarrow, 2007),
enhancing political and psychological isolation.
Radical groups were in direct contact with Vietnamese and met their representatives in Cuba
and Eastern Europe. However, as Spiegel (interview) recalls, Vietnamese became progressively
very critical. They had asked for a mass movement and large demonstrations to support their
government against the American invasion, but instead the white violent fringes isolated
themselves, thereby jeopardizing the unity of the antiwar front.
Similarly, leftist leaders held several meetings with Cuban representatives at the UN Mission in
New York and traveled to La Habana. Committed to build a ‘revolutionary conscience,’ SDSWeatherman organized the first Venceremos Brigade in November 1969 and sent a group of
American volunteers to Cuba to join the sugarcane harvest. After the second trip in February 1970,
however, the Weatherman – by then underground – lost connections with the Cubans and
therefore control of the initiative (FBI, 1976). Rudd (interview) remembers that he realized at the
time that even Cubans thought Weathermen were ‘crazy’ and that was ‘pretty important’ in the
reconsideration of their repertoires of action.
Two general trends
In the United States at least two general trends altered the psychological environment in which
radicals and their milieu cultivated revolutionary dreams. The first was the decline of ideological
militancy during early 1970s, that dried up leftist constituencies. The end of the draft and the
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gradual withdrawal from Vietnam particularly affected this demobilization process. It became
clear that the large opposition to the war had distorted the perception of the radical milieu’s size:
armed groups relied upon an area of consensus largely inflated by this specific issue (Whitehorn
interview).
Second, the early diffusion of feminist consciousness contributed to shifting attention away
from imperialism and revolution. By 1971, underground magazines discussed mainly sexual and
environmental issues. This process relocated activists’ interests toward more private concerns and
grass-roots practices, while feminist voices were explicitly taking a stance against violence. It is
possible that this factor presents a reverse causality, so that the frustration regarding an out-ofreach revolution steered activists’ efforts to other priorities. But what is important to the sake of
my argument is that violence rapidly appeared out of touch with reality. Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz,
after a year underground, published a statement repudiating leftist organizations’ strategy of
violence and sectarianism. Instead, she proposed a working-class based movement, AfricanAmerican, Latino, and women’s organizations (NO MORE FUN AND GAMES, 1972). Similarly, Jane
Alpert, after participating in her boyfriend’s – Sam Melville – campaign of bombings in Manhattan,
published a resonant manifesto condemning armed struggle as inherently male (Ms., August
1973).
5. The townhouse trauma
According to conventional explanations, the townhouse incident had such a sobering effect
that forced a reconsideration of Weathermen’s tactics, guiding them toward a safer attacks
against property.
There is no doubt that the townhouse incident represented a watershed. The deaths of the
three comrades profoundly struck the group and a portion of the student New Left: distress and
fear were paralyzing. Shortly after, Weatherman’s stories made the national headlines (New York
Times, 15 March 1970) and some of their names were included on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. The
‘tragedy’ epitomized a political failure and forced a critical debate over the direction of the justbegun strategy. The outcome of this process was a shift toward symbolic actions: ‘bringing the war
home’, as planned before, ‘but with measured force, with precision’ (Ayers, 2006: 27). In practical
terms, they bombed property and avoided hurting people. Warning calls requesting to clear the
buildings became their signature.
The conversion was publicly announced with a communiqué, issued on December 6, 1970. In
the document, Weathermen affirmed that the townhouse forever destroyed their belief ‘that
armed struggle [was] the only real revolutionary struggle’ and acknowledged the ‘military error’,
that is the tendency ‘to consider only bombings and picking up the gun as revolutionary, with the
glorification of the heavier the better’ (Berkeley Tribe, 17–24 December 1970). As Weatherman
Jeff Jones (2006: 46) puts it: ‘we remembered that, before we had embarked on a military
strategy, most of us had joined the movement because we believed in participatory democracy
and empowerment’. According to Bill Ayers (2001: 227–230), who was part of the Weather
leadership, they ‘fanned out across the country in search of lost comrades, autonomous fighters,
militant youth who were on the loose’. They tried ‘to prevent further disasters like the townhouse,
to talk politics, argue strategy and tactics, and to disarm the crazies’.
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Yet, the linearity of this de-escalation process of Weatherman is questionable.
First, after a trauma one would expect an immediate backlash. However, the official dismissal
of anti-personnel violence appeared nine months after the incident. In the aftermath, the reaction
was a different statement: A Declaration of a State of War, May 21, 1970 in which they
proclaimed: ‘We’ve known that our job is to lead white kids to armed revolution’ and
‘Revolutionary violence is the only way’ (Dohrn et al., 2006: 149–151). Up until a few days before
the public announcement of de-escalation, Weatherman issued another communiqué that
threatened violent actions against people, without preemptive alerts (Berkeley Tribe, 4–11
December 1970).
Second, the decision came after a tense internal debate. A majority, led by Bernardine Dohrn,
probably the most charismatic leader, became convinced that murderous actions were
counterproductive, but a minority was still persuaded that anti-personnel violence was necessary,
in order to intensify the struggle (Jones, 2006). For instance, John Jacobs, a leader whose belief on
the necessity of assassinations was not amendable, was expelled. Similarly, Mark Rudd, who was
on Jacobs’ positions, was sent to California, in order to ‘detoxify’ himself from violence by virtue of
the ‘contamination’ with libertarian countercultures. Rudd (2009: 196, 206) admits that, in the
day-after atmosphere, ‘no one dared question the basic strategy’: ‘I remember thinking the cliché.
If you fall off a horse, the best thing to do is to get back on’. Within a week, he organized a day of
‘therapeutic’ shooting practice for the surviving members of the NYC collective. All this suggests
complex and faltering pathways, with different de-escalation rhythms.
Third, if the incident represented a way to get in touch with the reality of death and the risks of
extreme militancy for some, for others it could have played an opposite effect, encouraging more
technical training, more skilful assembling of devices, and safer planning of attacks.
Fourth, how to make sense of the general restraint of violence that characterized – with a few
exceptions – all US white radical groups? Across the country, as of 1968, a still unclear number of
collectives flourished, militarized, and planned armed struggle. Between 1968 and 1982, white
radicals carried out 670 bombings and arsons, 30 robberies, and 26 shootings. These actions
resulted in 66 people injured. But in only a few cases radicals planned to hit them. Out of 8
ascertained fatalities, only one was a premeditated murder — the others were either
unintentional victims of bombings (1) or people shot during robberies or police stops (6)9. Nothing
suggests that other contemporary groups or groups that built up armed organizations a few years
later were substantially influenced by the Weatherman’s trauma. Moreover, there is at least one
reported case of an armed radical group – the cell led by Sam Melville, in New York City – that
followed the same de-escalation pathway of Weatherman several months before the townhouse
explosion. Its first attack on July 1969, a bombing of the Marine Midland bank in Manhattan, left
17 people injured. After this bloody onset, all attacks against property (7 in total) were preceded
by warning calls and followed by political communiqués to the press (Pickering, 2007).
In conclusion, townhouse was an exogenous shock and a ‘catalyzing agent’ able to elicit a
discussion and a strategy reconsideration. However, its importance for in-group dynamics has to
9
Author’s elaboration of Hewitt’s chronology (2004), that seems to be the most accurate at our disposal.
START dataset presents some duplicates; FBI data are chronologically incomplete and too aggregated.
12
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be associated with three circumstances: 1) it happened in coincidence with one of the first attacks,
before Weatherman could experiment with violence against people; 2) a charismatic leadership, in
full control of its followers (Chomstock interview), was able to implement the new strategy
through a small and rather cohesive group – in this period Weatherman had about 150 members
(Varon, 2004: 171)10; 3) the radical milieu reacted negatively to this ‘dress rehearsal’ of violent
escalation. In sum, the event that triggered the self-reflection and the reassessment cannot be
confused with the reasons that laid behind.
6. White middle-class privilege
Literature often discusses connections between poverty, education, and terrorism. Even if
several studies (Krueger & Malečková, 2003) showed that any link is indirect, complicated and
probably weak, there is still no consensus and the specific question of the correlation between
anti-personnel violence and socio-economic status in the US context has never been addressed.
So, a related argument can be formulated: ‘white middle-class privilege’, to use radicals’ formula,
prevented Weathermen from killing or injuring people because such behavior was alien to their
education, social background, and culture.
We lack fully reliable data on the socio-economic profile of white American radicals. Yet, the
prevalence of middle-class or upper middle-class youths, with college education, is out of
question. This does not mean a uniform social profile, but it indicates a tendency, that has been
quantified as follows: more than 67% of leftist ‘terrorists’ completed college and more than 85%
of them had a father with a white-collar or professional occupation (Handler, 1990).
Some testimonies, indeed, highlight how their upbringing and social environment made
violence extraneous and somehow fearful. ‘In families like mine’, explains Whitehorn (interview),
‘having a fight meant only having a dispute. It was a privilege. I realized that in prison, when I have
seen that a fight is so brutal. When I was a child I did not event watch Tom & Jerry: it was too
violent’. ‘We were chickenshit’, condenses Rudd (interview).
As a matter of fact, armed groups constantly complained about the ‘pacifying effect’ of the
‘white-skin privileges’. In their view, ‘[m]iddle-class people are brought up with the notion that
violence is only physical, and that fighting or shooting are bad’. So, it was necessary to convince
them that ‘there is a violence worse than armed violence; and it can be seen in the ghettoes, in
the rural south, in the villages of Asia, Africa, and Latin America’ (Berkeley Tribe, 15–22 May 1970).
As Wilkerson (interview) specifies, both a ‘dehumanizing process’ and a ‘theoretical justification’
was necessary for it, something that ‘if you are poor, under the gun yourself, you don’t need’.
Moreover, once a few of them decided to make the leap and engage in violence, they had to
exercise in order to toughen for it. To achieve genuine solidarity with Third World revolutionaries
and become ‘a new generation of John Browns’, white radicals had to purge their lives of the
comforts that inhibited political militancy (Naison, 2002: 121). And they did it: with physical
10
After the townhouse incident, there were at most 50 persons underground altogether (Fliegelman
interview).
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training, firearms practice, and new outfits (Ayers, 2001: 150–153). The diffusion and the
fascination for guns among radical revolutionaries was, to some extent, part of a gut check: ‘It was
to see how far we could go for ourselves’, remembers Ron Fliegelman (interview). Conversely,
there is evidence that, within the Weatherman, this development of a negative identity was
increasingly perceived by some members as absurd (Stern, 2007). Indeed, when the de-escalation
happened, a ‘great relief’ was perceived, as if they were ‘taking off a costume, a suite of arms’ that
was controlling them (Lerner interview).
Although a range of testimonies suggests that the ‘white middle-class’ factor was relevant in
restraining violence, I argue that socio-economic status was not a key determinant for at least
three reasons. First, the ‘pacifying effect’ of white middle-class origins was essentially an
ideological byproduct. Weathermen’s urge to get rid of comforts and acquaint themselves with
physical violence was not correlated to their social profile. Rather, it was linked to the more
common ‘fear of not being able to meet the terrible obligations of combat’ and, ultimately, to the
‘innate human resistance toward killing’ (Grossman, 2009). The rejection of white and middle-class
privileges was another way to interpret and frame the typical mechanisms necessary to overcome
natural resistances to violence. Second, anecdotal evidence shows that, among the most zealous
militants, those who ended up federating with Black Liberation Army, a violent Black Panthers’
spin-off, people coming from affluent backgrounds were well represented. Kathy Boudin is a
perfect example (Braudy, 2003). Third, within the American white radical galaxy there were violent
groups, such as the George Jackson Brigade and the United Freedom Front, whose social
composition was almost entirely working-class. Yet, these armed formations respected the same
constrained behavior, trying to avoid victims (Burton-Rose, 2010).
7. The law enforcement
Although the question of the influence of law enforcement over the processes of de-escalation
of violence is still controversial, literature tends to establish a direct correlation between high
levels of state repression and the escalation of oppositional violence (Gurr, 1970; Parker, 2007).
Stepping away from these approaches, I propose to unpack the outcome of law enforcement
along two dimensions: 1) the effects of the measures directly targeting armed militants; 2) the
indirect influence of law enforcement. In so doing, I argue that direct policing measures had
narrow effects over Weathermen’s choices; vice versa, two indirect influences played a significant
role in their de-escalation process.
Sources are ambivalent in describing the outcomes of direct policing measures. On one hand,
the majority of protagonists claim that they did not restrain their violence because of the scare of
repression (Chomstock interview). Rather, they suggest that law enforcement bred their
escalation. Some (Lerner and Rudd interviews) were blinded by the ‘level of repression’ and, as a
result, they thought that a ‘total war’ could only be faced with more violence. Others (Bakke,
Fliegelman, and Whitehorn interviews) hold that ‘once you take a revolutionary stand’, the risks
are part of the game and fatally accepted. On the other hand, we know that oral testimonies tend
to minimize the effectiveness of law enforcement. They are naturally inclined to deny that the
state might have forced their de-escalation. For instance, they obliterate the scare of repression
(Wilkerson interview) and they remove from memory that a few FBI informants infiltrated the
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group and facilitated the seizure of clandestine militants (United States Senate, 1975). They also
rarely mention the internal purges WUO conducted in 1970, in order to avoid infiltrations (Varon,
2004: 171).
It is common knowledge that COINTELPRO – the FBI counterintelligence program against
domestic dissent – targeted white radical groups for at least three years (1968-1971). The
methods employed included psychological warfare, disinformation, harassment, illegal
wiretappings, incitement of internal conflicts, infiltration, and provocation (Churchill &
Vanderwall, 1990). As a result, WUO, blamed as a major threat for national security, was certainly
damaged and worn out. In contrast, Davis (1997) and Cunningham (2004), by analyzing FBI
memos, stressed the relative inefficacy of COINTELPRO actions and concluded that white radicals
were not at the mercy of FBI. For instance, SDS-Weatherman even held bogus meetings on
sabotage and explosives to attract FBI agents, or explicitly misinformed agents who wiretapped
their phones (Pardun, 2001).
At judiciary level, trials succeeded in weakening militants, raising suspects, and draining their
economic and psychological resources. Internal documents indicate that Weathermen grappled
with judicial ‘persecution’ (Weather Underground Organization, 1971). In November 1969, 23
Weathermen were arrested in Boston on spurious attempted murder charges; in the same period,
Chicago red squads intimidated and arrested members of the local collective (Varon, 2004: 153).
The Nixon administration initiated a series of ‘conspiracy trials’ against radical leaders. Federal
Grand Juries, in April and July 1970, indicted respectively 12 and 13 Weathermen (House of
Representatives, 1974). Nonetheless, the large majority of the charges were dismissed because
they were built on manufactured or illegally obtained proofs. Eventually, punishments were light
and didn’t have substantial deterrent effects.
Finally, white armed factions received a preferential treatment, compared to black
revolutionary groups. The latter were considered the number one enemy of national security, and
their more explicitly violent methods made them easier to neutralize. The harshness of state
policing against the Black Panthers, that included even selective assassinations, has been widely
demonstrated (Churchill & Vanderwall, 1990). With the exception of the Los Angeles siege against
the Symbionese Liberation Army – when 6 members of the group who refused to surrender were
killed in a TV broadcasted shootout – white radicals were never targeted in this way. And they
were somehow aware of this license. Spiegel (interview), a lawyer’s son graduated at Harvard,
recalls that: ‘We knew that they could do that against black people […]. If they had done it to
people like me, the reaction of America at whole would have been different. As crazy as we were,
we were still the children of middle-class people’. In sum, evidence is too elusive to establish
whether the effect of direct law enforcement measures was predominantly sobering or
radicalizing. Conversely, law enforcement was able to bridle Weathermen’s violence by virtue of
two indirect influences.
First, contrary to armed militants who made the choice of clandestine struggle, aboveground
organizers and sympathizers undeniably feared police relentlessness and FBI surveillance. The
extensive law enforcement action fueled the so-called ‘pig-paranoia’, brought innocent people to
courts, and exhausted energies. Evidence shows that this ‘chilling effect’ was particularly effective
within the university milieu, where students were concerned about the consequences of political
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engagement over their professional careers (Goldstein, 2001: 532). After the Kent State killings11,
the lesson was unmistakable: ‘the government would go to any lengths, including killing, to
repress the forces working for significant change in America, and from now on death had to be
considered part of the stakes of student protest’ (Sale, 1973: 553). The repression, confirms
Michael Novick (interview), ‘resulted in the political isolation and demoralization of a
revolutionary trend among white youth’. The generational disconnect grew very rapidly, as the
1970s progressed, and ‘those who maintained their commitment, advocating or defending
revolutionary violence, became increasingly isolated’. WUO itself, in Prairie Fire, the group’s most
mature political manifesto (WU, 1974: 14), clearly acknowledged that repression against anti-war
and revolutionary movements, by intimidation, espionage, grand juries, long trials, and selected
murders, ‘temporarily succeed[ed] in creating a climate of distrust and suspicion on the left’.
The second influence can be resumed as follows: armed groups were also constrained by an
invisible, yet overwhelming, sense of state power. Asymmetry between state and rebels’ military
capabilities was an assumption of guerrilla warfare theory. Faced with an enemy stronger by
definition, both Mao (1965: 97-98) and Marighella (1985: 60-61) taught that guerrillas had to rely
on surprise, speed, secrecy, and mobility, in order to harass, demoralize, and wear out the
Leviathan. Nonetheless, it is plausible that state control in the USA appeared more unassailable
than in other contexts such as Italy. The presence of this cognitive space partially explains why
several protagonists describe political assassination as outside of the possibilities (Spiegel and
Whitehorn interviews). Indeed, when Weatherman announced the change of strategy, it clearly
admitted that most of its actions ‘have hurt the enemy on about the same military scale as a bee
sting’ (Berkeley Tribe, 17–24 December 1970). In other words, being ‘in the belly of the beast’
appeared strategically unfavorable: standing before such an oversized and hyper-technological
power made difficult to understand whom and how to target.
Conclusion
The paper offers evidence that the containment of violence was the result of an adaptive
process, strongly associated with one key-factor: the de-solidarization of the radical milieu vis-àvis anti-personnel violence. The article proves that leftist constituencies systematically criticized
and alienated the WUO, as soon as the group attempted to escalate, targeting people or not
caring about the human costs of its attacks. The Radical milieu did not reject violence per se, but
refused tactics and means that appeared counterproductive and dangerous. Then, in order to
safeguard the ‘solidarity pact’, Weathermen were forced to adjust and moderate their repertoires.
The paper also shows that, contrary to conventional explanations, the correlation between the
townhouse incident and the de-escalation was essentially spurious. The explosion and the ensuing
trauma created a space of self-reflection and reassessment, however the forces driving WUO
toward the moderation were exogenous. Moreover, the townhouse represented a turning point
11
On May 4, 1970, during a demonstration at Kent State University against the invasion of Cambodia, Ohio
National Guard opened fire on unarmed students, killing 4 and injuring 9. The shootings led to fierce
protests on campuses throughout the USA and triggered the first nationwide student strike in US history.
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because it was associated with three specific circumstances: 1) the incident happened in an early
phase of the group life; 2) a charismatic leadership controlled a small and cohesive group, thus
was able to implement the revised strategy; 3) the radical milieu reacted negatively to this
preview of violent escalation.
Furthermore, the paper illustrates that the socio-economic background of militants, although it
was quite homogeneous within the Weatherman, remains an unreliable predictor of violent deradicalization. Similarly, psychological and moral barriers against extreme forms of violence –
never mentioned in protagonists’ accounts – appear to be very secondary. Therefore, the restraint
of violence did not result from the rejection of some values: it was a behavioral distancing from a
specific modus operandi that showed declining utility and rising dangers. This finding also supports
the argument – frequently discussed in the literature (Bjørgo & Horgan, 2009) – that de-escalation,
at least in a first time, is often unrelated to de-radicalization.
In addition, the paper demonstrates that direct policing measures against armed militants had
contrasting, and eventually limited, consequences over the (de)escalation process. One might
surmise that they produced both sobering and radicalizing effects that canceled each other out.
However, law enforcement generated two indirect influences that contributed in moderating
Weatherman’s repertoires of action. First, it frightened and demoralized the radical milieu;
second, it helped to shape the radicals’ perception of an overwhelming state power.
In sum, violence restraint resulted from a pragmatic re-evaluation, aimed at complying with
relational and environmental pressures. Hence, external and local conditions appear to be
particularly relevant, corroborating the argument that de-escalation is a context-bound
phenomenon (Schmid, 2013).
A fruitful area for future research might concern the cultural background of US radical milieu
(e.g. pragmatism, lack of ideological references, resilience of nonviolent repertoires, absence of
class consciousness or contentious traditions) in order to understand what made this typology of
supporters refusing anti-personnel violence. Another research avenue – particularly relevant for
generalizing the present findings – might lead to analyze the pathways of other armed radical
groups, such as Action Directe in France, that conducted murderous attacks despite apparent
isolation by their constituencies. Overall, the paper encourages more thorough researches to
grasp the meaning of the bond between supporters and violent groups, and to uncover the
mechanism that underpin their solidarity, leaving ‘guerrilla fishes’ without water.
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Draft paper, prepared for ECPR General Conference, Sciences Po Bordeaux, 4-7 September 2013.
Please do not circulate or quote without author’s permission.