Oregon militia stand their ground but local residents want 'these thugs' gone

Sam Levin

As the armed militia – many traveling from out of the state – flock to and transform the Malheur wildlife refuge into a tight-knit community, on the outside a growing chorus of locals grow wary.

Melissa Cooper doesn’t know when she will see her three children again. The 37-year-old Arizona warehouse worker said goodbye to her kids 10 days ago and for the last week has been stationed full-time inside a federal building in a remote part of the high desert of south-eastern Oregon – hundreds of miles from home. Cooper is one of the few female members of an armed militia that forced their way into the headquarters of a national wildlife refuge last Saturday, taking over a number of government buildings for an indefinite occupation.

“It’s hard being away from the children. They want mom and dad,” said Cooper, whose husband Blaine is a high-profile member of the militia. But as she sorted piles of donated food and supplies on Friday, Cooper, who was unarmed, admitted that it could be awhile before she reunites with her 17-year-old son and two daughters, ages eight and nine. “We will be here as long as it takes.”

Cooper and several dozen other protesters say they are standing up for land-use rights and fighting the federal government over oppressive regulations that hurt ranchers. The militia has trespassed on a number of federal properties at the Malheur national wildlife refuge – sleeping in US Fish and Wildlife Service staff dorms, cooking large meals in on-site kitchens, hosting strategy meetings inside a quaint bird museum and even driving around a government truck that they found with keys left inside. With each passing day, the occupiers have further transformed the public property into their private living space – allowing them to form a group that they describe as a tight-knit residential community of patriots. “The spirit is really high here,” said Debra Carter Pope, a 61-year-old Fallon, Nevada, resident and the militia’s main cook alongside Cooper. “These are gonna be lifelong friends.”

But outside the refuge, the sentiment is much less cheerful. The week that began with defiant promises that the occupation would last for “several years” ended with a growing chorus of local Harney County residents demanding that the militia, most of whom are from out of state, leave the refuge. Despite the highly publicized outcry in Burns, the closest town to the refuge located 30 miles away, leaders of the militia, who claim they have the support of county families, are not backing down. As a result, rightwing extremists, constitutionalists, conspiracy theorists, armed militia groups, Tea Party activists and anti-government radicals from across the country continue to flock to the refuge to join the increasingly tense battle.

The occupation is rooted in the prosecution of Harney County cattle ranchers Dwight Hammond, 73, and his son, Steven, 46. The Hammonds, whose ranch is located near public lands under the jurisdiction of the federal Bureau of Land Management, were convicted of arson charges stemming from a fire they started that consumed 139 acres of federal lands. Last Saturday, two days before the men went to prison for a five-year sentence, residents of Burns held a peaceful rally to protest against what many saw as a harsh and unjust conviction that symbolized the federal government’s mistreatment of local ranchers and its wasteful use of public lands.

But a small armed contingent eventually broke away from the rally and seized the wildlife refuge, making vague threats of violence and spouting much broader grievances about government overreach. Within a day, a huge media circus landed in the small rural town in Oregon.

Leading the occupation is Ammon Bundy, son of Nevada rancher Cliven Bundy who made headlines in 2014 when he led a similar armed standoff with the federal government over cattle grazing rights. Many of Cliven’s supporters came to Oregon with Ammon and his brother Ryan this week, armed and ready for another fight in the national spotlight. But in an effort to prevent bloodshed and avoid a repeat of the rightwing standoffs of the 1990s that ended in horrific violence, local and federal law enforcement officials have adopted a wait-and-see approach, choosing not to ambush the compound.

Harney County judge Steve Grasty told the Guardian on Saturday that the passive tactics of law enforcement were unlikely to change, even as the backlash grows: “All I hear over and over is, ‘We are not going out there.’” There is genuine fear, he added: “These thugs, criminals, militia … I don’t know what they’re capable of. No one does. People are afraid in this town.”

With no police presence or threats of arrest and a growing number of anti-government activists visiting the refuge, the occupation by the end of the week had devolved into something of a chaotic free-for-all. Reporters and curious residents and ranchers mingled with armed militiamen – some of whom had their wives, children and grandchildren visit them on Friday. For the most part, there was little order or organization – other than Jon Ritzheimer, an anti-Islam activistand de facto guard occasionally blocking media from entering. People walked freely into government administrative offices, a wildlife museum and other federal buildings. Militia members and media could leave and return to the refuge at any time, making it clear that the occupation won’t end due to a lack of food. Cooper showed the Guardian that the group on Friday afternoon had four freezers filled with meat and so many piles of donated goods from supporters that it was a daunting task to organize.

Though they have not been a presence at the Bundys’ colorful daily press conferences, a small group of women in the militia appeared to play an important role in coordinating meals, supplies and other logistics. In interviews, they were also quick to push back against the media portrayal of the protesters as a group of unhinged, violent men – especially considering that many women have come to visit the occupation in recent days. “We are not bad people. We are patriots and we love our country,” said Pope, an air force veteran who is unarmed and has been at the occupation since it began.

After a week of exhaustive news coverage, many lamented that the media and local townspeople were misinformed and were unfairly demonizing the protesters.

“These guys are just normal everyday people,” added Duane Ehmer, a 45-year-old occupier from Irrigon, Oregon. He frequently wandered around the refuge on his horse, Hellboy, while carrying a large American flag and wearing a USA jacket –making him a popular subject for the many photographers stationed at the refuge. He said there’s nothing newsworthy or violent about people carrying firearms here: “Everyone in this part of Oregon has a gun.”

Occupiers were also defensive about the widespread criticisms on social media that the militia is benefiting from white privilege and that if Black Lives Matter or Muslim protesters organized an armed siege of government property, police would respond with violence and arrests. “I don’t see anyone here going to the streets and breaking down windows,” said Jimi O’Hagan, a 61-year-old farmer from Westport, Washington, who wore a baseball hat that said “Don’t Buck With My Rights”. He added: “I don’t see anyone here talking about discharging a weapon.”

Quinn Alexander, a 22-year-old from Bend, Oregon, who showed up on Friday morning, said that it makes sense for police to stop disruptive protests in busy city streets – but that it was obvious the Malheur militia was peaceful. “If violent people are rioting, we need action,” said Alexander, who was warming up by a small fire near the entrance to the headquarters. “There’s a push to portray this as domestic terrorism. But that’s not what I saw.”

Leaders of the militia have said they intend to maintain peace and that they have families back home eager to reunite with them. But they’ve also made clear that they would stay put until their vague and seemingly fluid list of demands were met. That includes the release of the Hammonds from prison and the return of federally owned lands to the control of local people – both highly unlikely outcomes, especially in the short term.

“We are not in the least bit ashamed of the actions we have taken,” a teary-eyed Ammon told a sea of news reporters huddled together in the cold on the side of the road by the refuge on Friday morning. “We understand them to be correct. We understand them to be lawful. And we understand them to be necessary.”

Ammon’s speech came after two days of loud calls for him to retreat and an in-person offer by Harney County sheriff Dave Ward to peacefully escort the occupiers out of state – an invitation he boldly declined. And in packed, emotionally charged community meetings in Burns on Wednesday and Friday nights, the majority of residents said the Bundys had made their point and it was time for them to call it quits.

Most residents have expressed outrage over the Hammonds’ prison sentence and gratitude that the world finally seemed to be paying attention to the plight of local ranchers. For years, they have complained that the federal government, which manages about 73% of Harney County land, has adopted laws and regulations that they say unjustly prioritize conservation and protecting endangered species and take away their livelihoods. But Bundy’s gang, they said, went too far.

“As a community, we would support anyone in trouble,” said Sue Kovar, a 64-year-old Burns resident who owns two historic buildings in town. “But when they took over the refuge, that’s a line in the sand. That refuge is beloved by many.” As the militia of outsiders contend that the government has stolen land from local ranchers – and while leaders of the federally recognized Burns Paiute Indian tribehave tried to remind people that their ancestors were the original landowners – Kovar said she wanted the refuge to remain a protected wilderness sanctuary with public access for all. “The militia are the land grabbers, because they want to privatize it and cut off universal appreciation.”

As the occupation entered its second week with no end in sight, both sides were pondering what would happen when the media go home and whether the standoff could conclude in a non-violent manner that positively affects ranchers. Crowded into a standing-room-only meeting at a Burns senior center Friday night, some residents offered their solution: they publicly demanded that Bundy end the occupation, but vowed to carry on his agenda with the objective of establishing local control of federal lands through a newly formed committee. “We need food consumers to band with us on government overreach and extreme environmentalism,” Erin Maupin, a Harney County rancher in attendance, told the Guardian. “We see this as a platform.”

But on Saturday morning, Grasty, the local judge who has worked for years to push back against excessive federal regulations, said he feared the Malheur takeover could severely impede the very efforts the militiamen say they support. “Bundy just put us back a decade or two,” he said. “The message weeks, months, years from now – everybody will see this as a dangerous place to come. That just makes me sick.”

On the refuge, even some Bundy supporters were expressing doubts by the end of the week. “I hope to see them lay down their firearms,” said Melvin Lee, a 45-year-old protester from Tucson, Arizona, who has been a regular presence at the occupation and has recently encouraged friends to leave with him. “We need to put the story back on the corruption and the federal government.” He admitted that he also fears bloodshed if this lasts much longer: “I’m trying to keep them from getting killed.”