When Philadelphia bombed its own residents

Forty years ago today, eleven people died in the alarmingly little-known attack on the communal group MOVE

By Shalise Manza Young

Forty years ago, on May 13, 1985, Philadelphia dropped a bomb on its own residents, killing 11 people and destroying over 60 homes. It was the only time the American government has taken such action in a residential neighborhood. Shockingly, this attack is not well known outside of Philadelphia.

The bombing was the horrifying culmination of a highly contentious, largely one-sided, years-long battle between the city’s police force and members of MOVE, a communal group that called themselves a family, advocated respect for all living beings, eschewed modern science and technology, and fought for racial justice and liberation. Its members ate raw food, grew dreadlocks, and homeschooled children.

MOVE (the letters aren’t an acronym) was founded by Vincent Leaphart in 1972. Leaphart changed his name to John Africa (most MOVE adherents changed their surnames to Africa as a nod to the continent where life began). Though most of its members were Black, MOVE became a multi-racial organization. Members lived by “The Guidelines,” Africa’s handbook. Followers called him “The Coordinator.”

MOVE’s protests outside zoos and circuses—places members thought animals were being enslaved—caught attention from police. Their longtime nemesis, Philadelphia police commissioner and eventual mayor Frank Rizzo, saw them as a cult; as radicals to be stopped by any means necessary.

Rizzo ruled Philadelphia with an iron fist. There were numerous incidents of police brutality during his reign, many of them aimed at Black people. He raided gay hangouts in the 1950s. In 1967, high schoolers demanding Black studies be taught were beaten bloody by Rizzo and his officers. In 1970, he led a raid of the Black Panthers’ office and strip-searched those inside in full view of news cameras.

In May 1976, MOVE members gathered to celebrate “family” who had been released from jail. Dozens of police quickly arrived, claiming they’d gotten a disturbance call. Janine Africa was holding her 3-week-old baby, Life, when she said she was knocked over by an officer who stomped on the infant’s head. Life died. Police initially denied it. Frequent harassment by the police became a full-on battle.

In May 1977, members brandished weapons on a platform at their home. Sue Africa said it was a “strategic” demonstration, and that the guns were not loaded. But Rizzo and his police had no qualms about abusing their power. Any display of weapons would be viewed as a provocation.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Rizzo put a starvation blockade around the MOVE compound, sealing off access to food and shutting off water and electricity. MOVE members who left their home would be arrested, so they were stuck inside for weeks.

The city wanted to evict MOVE, and the two sides agreed to negotiate with civil rights activist Walt Palmer as mediator. MOVE demanded the release of five members in state prison for relatively minor infractions in exchange for allowing the police to search their home for weapons.

The city acquiesced on the the deal, and Rizzo proposed moving the group to a farm in New Jersey. MOVE said no, but negotiators set a deadline to vacate and Rizzo ended the starvation blockade. Things quieted down, temporarily.

In the predawn hours of Aug. 8, 1978, hundreds of police and firefighters surrounded MOVE’s compound for their supposed eviction procedure. Law enforcement brought M16 rifles, tear gas, smoke bombs, and high-powered water hoses.

Palmer, granted permission to enter, begged the members to surrender. They refused. Just the women and children, he pleaded. No. Just the children. No. ‘This is our home, and we are going to defend it,’ they told Palmer.

With MOVE members in the basement, Palmer suddenly heard a gunshot. Sgt. James Ramp, standing on a corner near the house, was struck. Smoke bombs and tear gas were released, but when even that didn’t force members out, firefighters began flooding the space.

Then the shooting began. When they were done, Philadelphia police had shot thousands of rounds into the home, then razed it within hours, destroying all forensic evidence.

The medical examiner determined bullets had hit Sgt. Ramp from behind and above; MOVE had been positioned in front and below him. It didn’t matter. With Ramp dead, MOVE’s fate was sealed. Nine members of the group—Eddie, Chuck, Delbert, Michael, Merle, Janet, Phil, Debbie and Janine Africa—were charged with murder, and, in a preposterous move, were tried together.

MOVE refused public defenders and held mock trials to prepare for the real thing. Though evidence and multiple eyewitness testimonies proved that the bullets that killed Ramp likely weren’t shot by a MOVE member, the nine were found guilty; sentenced to 30 to 100 years in prison.

After the verdict, the bond among members who weren’t incarcerated began to fray. But John Africa, “The Coordinator,” wasn’t with them: He had moved to Rochester, N.Y. By 1981, he faced federal weapons and conspiracy charges, with the Justice Department claiming he wanted to plant fake bombs in cities around the country to free the MOVE 9 from prison.

Defending himself in court, a jury acquitted Africa, based on the flimsy nature of the case. Africa rejoined MOVE members in Philadelphia and reestablished primary headquarters in a rowhouse at 6221 Osage Avenue, owned by Africa’s sister, Louise James.

Soon, neighbors on Osage began complaining, filing petitions to force MOVE out over sanitation issues that led to bugs overrunning their homes, concerns about child neglect, and harassment.

Many in the city’s Black community had sympathized with the group, presuming they were innocent in Ramp’s murder. But MOVE destroyed that goodwill by unapologetically bullying residents in their predominantly Black neighborhood.

Louise James was eventually forced out, enduring beatings from her own son. She moved in with a sister, yet continued receiving relentless threatening calls and intimidating letters. She told police she wanted her home back, giving them reason to evict MOVE. Determined to do so, police began preparing arrest warrants for parole violations and terroristic threats. MOVE, in turn, built a bunker on top of the house. According to Ed Rendell, the DA and future governor, aerial photos showed oil cans and weapons in the bunker.

On May 12, 1985, neighbors were told to evacuate for 24 hours. Some initially refused, until the utilities on the block were turned off. Around 5 a.m. on May 13, police, SWAT teams, and firefighters moved into position, beside television cameras and reporters ready to broadcast.

Police commissioner Gregore Sambor used a bullhorn to read the warrants. “Attention MOVE. This is America!” he began. “You have to abide by the laws and rules of America.”

MOVE had long since established its obstinance—they would not surrender.

The shooting started. Police contended that MOVE members shot first, though the four MOVE guns found later couldn’t fire. After that first shot was fired, ten thousand rounds of ammunition were shot. Ten. Thousand.

Smoke pours from rowhouses after explosives were dropped on the MOVE headquarters. (Screengrab from NBC10 Philadelphia)

Twelve hours later, a heretofore unthinkable decision was made. Four pounds of Tovex and C-4 plastic explosives on a 45-second fuse were dropped from a helicopter, allegedly with the intent of destroying the rooftop bunker. It exploded, everything shook, then a fire began. Sambor instructed firefighters to “let it burn.” Sambor and fire commissioner William Richmond did nothing as the flames spread to neighboring structures. By the time they had it under control, 61 homes had been destroyed, leaving over 250 people homeless.

Of the 13 (including John Africa) in the MOVE house, only Ramona Africa and thirteen-year-old Birdie Africa escaped. Ramona, her skin burning, was immediately arrested, charged with inciting a riot, and sentenced to seven years in prison.

Under pressure from city residents, the mayor empaneled a special “MOVE Commission” to investigate. Its 1986 report declared the obvious: “Dropping a bomb on an occupied rowhouse was unconscionable.”

No matter what MOVE members had done, bombing their headquarters and watching as their home and neighborhood burned was so extreme it’s hard to fathom even now, 40 years later.

Ramona and MOVE members not present that day continued fighting for the freedom of their brothers and sisters convicted of murder. Seven of them spent at least four decades in prison; two died before their release.

Ramona Africa was the only person jailed for what occurred on May 13, 1985. She won a civil lawsuit against the city after her release and was awarded $500,000. Birdie Africa, who was placed in his father’s custody and changed his name back to Michael Ward, won $1.5 million in a lawsuit against the city.

Philadelphia did not apologize for killing the 11 MOVE members until 2020. Thanks to a resolution passed this month by the City Council, today is a day of reflection and remembrance in honor of the victims.

Much of the information in this story came from two sources: “MOVE: The Untold Story of an American Tragedy,” a nine-episode podcast on Audible; and “MOVE: Untangling the Tragedy,” a multi-part podcast produced by the Logan Center for Urban Investigative Reporting, Temple University’s Klein College of Media and Communications and the Philadelphia Inquirer.

Shalise Manza Young was most recently a columnist at Yahoo Sports, focusing on the intersection of race, gender and culture in sports. The Associated Press Sports Editors named her one of the 10 best columnists in the country in 2020. She has also written for the Boston Globe and Providence Journal. Find her on Bluesky @shalisemyoung.

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