CORRESPONDENCErnLetter From Wacornby Mary Alice CookrnA Visit to Mount CarmelrnWc are headed north on Interstate 35rnfrom Austin to Dallas, on the tail end ofrnan unexpected trip to Texas. The dogrndays of August have not been quite asrnunbearable as wc anticipated but are stillrnstartlingly hot bv our Alaskan standards.rnBeside the interstate, we glimpse manyrnsmall Protestant churches, mostly of thernSouthern Baptist variety, interspersedrnwith the upstart Pentecostal competition.rnThe Grace Gospel Campgroundrnproclaims by way of the ubiquitous largernplastic sign that “Jesus Heals!” We arcrnpassing through Waco, in the middle ofrnthe buckle on the Bible Belt.rnIt is Sunday morning and we are hungry,rnso wc hae breakfast at the CrackerrnBarrel, that quintessential interstaternhighway mecca for “country cookin'” atrnwhich one mav conveniently eat andrnpurchase from an abundance of useless,rnpotpourri-scented items. I am vaguelyrnsurprised at the number of casuallyrndressed folks in the dining room. Surelyrnthey cannot all be tourists, and yet Irnwould have expected the denizens ofrnWaco to be on their way to the “churchrnof their choice.” Never mind. Neitherrnare wc on our way to the church of ourrnchoice. We have decided to take a lookrnat Mount Carmel, once and futurernhome of the Waco Branch Davidians.rnW’c ask directions from a womanrnpumping gas at a convenience store andrnfrom a man fishing on a sluggish creek.rnBoth arc friendly, smiling at our inquir’rnin the way that amused locals do whenrnobserving the antics of out-of-towncrs.rnBut their directions are vague and unclear;rnwe drive several miles out of ourrnway down a pretty “farm to market”rnroad, winding up at a little settlementrncalled Elk. Retracing our path, we spot arnman whacking weeds beside the road, sornwe slow down, rolling down the windowsrnto call out to him. Before we say a word,rnhe says peremptorily, “Go down to thatrnintersection, turn right and it’s the firstrnright after that.” We surmise that he hasrngiven these directions many times, yet herndoes not seem annoyed. We laugh andrnthank him, and in a couple of minutesrnwe are greeted by a sign which says,rn”Congratulations—you found the compound.”rnSabbath services are listed onrnanother sign—morning prayer is at 9:00rnA.M. and Bible study at 3:00 P.M. I wonderrnwhat attendance is like these days.rnI am somehow surprised that we dornnot find a heavy iron gate and armedrnsentinels. Instead, we see only a smallrndog and a blonde, weatherbeaten womanrnwho is doing chores, oblivious to ourrnarrival. There are two or three ramshacklernbuildings which appear to be heldrntogether with duct tape; one, made ofrnplywood and painted black, is identifiedrnas the “Loud Cry Museum,” and we arernadvised that admission is free. Anotherrnbuilding, topped with a white woodenrncross, appears to be a tiny office, whilernthe function of a third is not readilyrnapparent but seems to have some sortrnof stage attached to it. The only otherrnstructure in this cluster is an outhouse.rnThe weatherbeaten woman greets us,rnand in response to our inquiry says thatrnwe are welcome to walk all over the site.rnFrom the information in the museumrnand the literature she sells, we learn thatrnshe is Amo Paul Bishop Roden, wife ofrnGeorge Roden, whose parents foundedrnthe Branch Davidian sect. It was fromrnGeorge Roden that a handsome youngrnhippie (her description) calling himselfrnDavid Korcsh wrested control of the Wacornproperty along with dominance of thernsect in 1987. Amo Roden was presentrnwhen George was shot in the chest byrnKoresh, and since that time she hasrnfought to regain control of the property.rnShe has apparently spent the last eightrnyears writing legal briefs, fighting thernTexas welfare department for custody’ ofrnher daughter, and struggling to navigaternher way through the murky waters of sexrnand drugs surrounding the Davidianrnsect. By her own account, she is a college-rneducated “systems analyst” whornonce assessed the likelihood of a nuclearrnfirst strike by the Soviet Ihiion; she offeredrnher findings to the United Statesrngovernment but was rejected. She is 50-rnsomcthing, an untidy-looking womanrnwearing a loose denim dress and leatherrnsandals. Her teeth are bad, and she hasrnan unfashionable amount of body hair.rnMost people of modern sensibility wouldrnbe repelled by her.rnThe Loud Cry Museum contains ninernsmall bicycles, mangled and rusty, a fewrnbattered toys, and many pages of textrnwhich are an apologia for the BranchrnDavidian beliefs. The explanatory signsrnare hand-lettered, and on one we read,rn”Thirty years ago, the New WorldrnOrder planned for you to be: Too dumbrnto notice, too stressed to care, too poor tornact . . . [and] unarmed.” Another signrnadvises us that as part of the UnitedrnStates government’s ongoing persecutionrnof the Davidians, Amo Roden isrnsubjected to nightly tear gas attacks,rnalong with repeated theft and destructionrnof religious artifacts from the site.rnVehicles are barred from moing furtherrninto the compound by a sawhorsernbarricade, so we proceed on foot. A signrnwarns that hazards here include: “brokenrnglass, nails, sharp metal, razor bladernwire, deep water, open pits, unmarkedrnwashouts, rubble piles, wildlife—EnterrnAt Your Own Risk.” It is about 10:00rnA.M., and the morning heat seems to bernrising from the earth in steamy waves. Atrnthis point, there are no other sightseers,rnand the only sound besides the crunch ofrngra’el is the whir and buzz of many insectsrnin the tall dry grass. We see a smallrnaltar in front of an old delivery truckrnwhich appears to be someone’s livingrnquarters. A sign says that “Christ thernBranch was crucified afresh and becamerna curse for the sins of his followers.”rnThere is no scriptural reference, so it isrnnot clear to whom this refers; given thernbad blood between the Rodens andrnDavid Koresh, it is difficult to believernthat it refers to the latter. However, inrnher quest to transform Mount Carmelrnfrom a few areas fought over by warringrnsectarians into a place of memorial forrnthe Davidian martyrs, perhaps Amo Rodenrnhas seen fit to bury the hatchet. Besidernthe altar is a donation box for thern”Living Waters Branch of Righteousnessrn—Rebuilding Fund.”rnAcross from the altar is the most strikingrnsight in the whole compound. In arnwell-tended plot of ground are rows ofrnwhite wooden crosses, each shaded byrna blooming pink Crape Myrtle bush.rnWith a few exceptions, each cross displaysrnthe name and, in some cases, a pic-rnDECEMBER 1995/37rnrnrn