How searchers are agonizingly scouring for Texas flood victims, including children – and absorbing an emotional toll
The intense flurry of search activity at what was once an RV park in Kerr County, Texas, paused for a moment Wednesday morning when the body of an infant was pulled from the debris.
'You know, all of this was moving faster than it was just a minute ago. You catch the smell. You mark a dog, you have a mark and the place goes quiet,' said Joe Rigelsky, a founder of Upstream International, a Christian nonprofit involved in the grim task of searching for the scores of people missing from devastating floods that struck Texas Hill Country nearly a week ago and killed more than 100 people.
The cadaver dogs detect the scent of bodies, give a 'positive mark' to their handlers and the searchers start digging into the ravaged landscape. Power saws whirred as Rigelsky spoke to CNN. Nearby, searchers on their knees dug with their hands through muddy soil and rubble. The smell of decay wafted through the air. Among the dead, Rigelsky said, are livestock and other animals that also were carried away by the fast-moving waters.
When searchers get a mark, they'll use 'equipment to hopefully clear some of the heavier debris and keep them hand poking and digging,' Rigelsky said.
The scene plays out over and over along piles of debris stretching for miles, largely along the Guadalupe River, which severely flooded early Friday and winds through 40 miles of Kerr County, where the toll is the worst: nearly 100 deaths there alone, including 36 children. The debris stretches several more miles downriver in nearby Kendall County, where some bodies also have been found.
On Tuesday evening, Rigelsky said, there were two marks from a dog nearby. Searchers dug up a truck. And while the dog kept marking the vehicle, no body was found. The next day was different.
'This morning … they ended up taking an infant out of this area,' he said.
'Last night going home to my wife, it was the discouragement of knowing that you had a mark but didn't find anything,' he said. 'So going to bed … knowing that we still had work to be done here, yeah, that's heavy.'
More than a summer's worth of rain had fallen in the area overnight into Independence Day, swelling part of the Guadalupe River from about 3 feet to 30 feet in just 45 minutes and transforming the beloved waterway into a killer. The flooding laid waste to communities across Kerr and Kendall counties, where neighborhoods and RV parks, as well as the 18 or so youth camps attended by thousands of kids each summer, were swept away in its fury.
The state's deadliest freshwater flooding in more than a century quickly killed numerous people – including locals celebrating Independence Day, child campers and camp leaders – while destroying homes, businesses and cabins.
A captain with the Virginia Beach Water Rescue Team, whose crews are assisting in Texas, said it will likely take 'days, if not weeks,' to thoroughly search along the Guadalupe River.
'We have a long, long way to go to really thoroughly search this area,' Capt. Max McQuarrie said Tuesday, noting that crews will be looking at 60 miles of river.
At least 150 people were reported missing in Kerr County alone, where the river begins.
Crews were contending with treacherous terrain, downed trees, mounds of debris and the searing Texas heat, McQuarrie said.
'It's going to be a slow, methodical process … to really provide the answers that everyone's looking for,' he said.
Many people died trapped in cabins along the river. Others presumably drowned or died in their cars or RVs, which now lay overturned, smashed and piled together at various locations. Accounting for people camping in RVs and calculating the number of RVs in the area at the time have been particularly challenging, officials said.
And debris piles, grimly, may contain more than wood and mud and belongings – a point that authorities have had to stress to the public.
Kerrville police Sgt. Jonathan Lamb on Wednesday urged residents to not use heavy equipment on 'debris piles until they've been checked by a search party because it's possible there are victims in that debris pile.' Officials also urged people to avoid burning debris.
As local authorities fended off questions about their preparation and early response to the disaster, they sought to focus on the efforts of first responders who managed to safely rescue people from vehicles and homes. 'I know that this tragedy, as horrific as it is, could have been so much worse,' Lamb told reporters.
'It's surreal, when you see the raw power of what this water did, and it is emotionally taxing on them, and they will push themselves to the point of exhaustion, trying to find and bring these people's loved ones home,' Amanda Nixon, a disaster trauma specialist, said of search personnel on the scene. 'I try to just let them be human in the moment and feel what they need to feel, and let them know that's OK.'
Josh Gill, incident coordinator for the United Cajun Navy, called the magnitude of the devastation 'unbelievable – one of the worst that I've ever seen.'
'The hardest part is working through the emotions. We know that there's children missing and there's families missing — trying to work through the emotions,' Gill told CNN. 'We want to hit every treetop, every rubble pile and find as many people as we possibly can, and we still hope, every morning, and we pray that we're going to find survivors.'
United Cajun Navy chaplain Tony Dickey's voice cracked as he recalled the strain of the search effort.
'You take the first responders, the search and rescue guys that are out here on the river, they're taking an extreme, hard, traumatic, emotional hit,' he told CNN Wednesday.
'If you were one of them going through a debris pile, and you pull that debris back, and there lays one of these precious children, that image is there. But they're willing to take that emotional toll to bring that loved one home to that family.'
A small army of searchers from across the US and even Mexico continued to work the perilous terrain on Thursday – aided by helicopters, drones and boats, as well as dogs and mules.
'You talk to any of those guys on those ground teams and they're tell you they're not going home until they find everybody,' said Mike Toberer, president and CEO of Mission Mules, a Christian nonprofit that provides disaster relief. The mules help searchers traverse the difficult terrain, which includes toppled trees and overturned vehicles.
In Kerr County, Rigelsky, who founded the Texas nonprofit with his wife of 23 years, Sami, said: 'Every day that there's a missing person, that's all hands on deck.'
CNN's Lauren Mascarenhas, Rebekah Reiss, Chris Boyette, Zoe Sottile, Sarah Dewberry, Alisha Ebrahimji, Ashley Killough and Michelle Krupa contributed to this report.
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I never said more than the required 'Hello, Auntie' before vanishing into another room. I was intimidated by her glamour. But when I found myself in San Francisco in the early 1970s, I sought her out. I'd left Baltimore in September 1971 with $80 and an overnight bag, looking for the revolution. The revolution was finished on the East Coast, but embers of it still glowed out West. I made my way up the coast from San Diego, stopping in Belmont, California, then a humdrum town not far from the airport where single stewardesses and the like lived in flat apartment buildings with tiny swimming pools. I worked for a year at a drive-in movie theater until I landed a job coordinating tutors at a junior college. My boss and his wife were Black, proud, and beautiful. They looked like they'd stepped out of a Hollywood movie. As activists who'd participated in the upheaval at Berkeley, they emanated late-'60s glamour. Dave never sat behind his desk, choosing instead to perch on a counter, puffing on a cigarillo, musing philosophically or railing against injustice. Jazz played in the background. The point of everything, he told me, was to change the world! He had a plan for me: 'You need to get your Ph.D.!' In what? 'Education!' I continued north to San Francisco. I was on a lark, with no place to live, and no real plan, but San Francisco was a lot more alive than Belmont. It was enchanting! The bay, the fog, the chill, the cable cars! I felt inspired—but to do what, I had no idea. I tried to get a job volunteering as a stage manager at a theater in town, only to learn that it was a union house. But I saw that they offered acting classes, so I decided to try one, just for fun. I auditioned and somehow was accepted. I hadn't realized the place was a serious conservatory—turned out I'd have to go to school all day. 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'I hear you want to become an actress,' she had written in a messy scrawl. 'Please don't take off your clothes. Here's five dollars, buy yourself a new dress. Love, Grandma.' Grandma's effect was still far-reaching. Part of me wondered if what I was doing was sinful. I put the $5 in my pocket, and taped the letter inside my journal. If I was the least likely person to end up at that conservatory, the most likely person was a tall woman with a Philadelphia Main Line accent and vocal resonance. She looked like Katharine Hepburn. Everything she did had a sense of urgency. One night she rushed into the café where we'd planned to have a cheap dinner and said: 'Beethoven's Ninth starts in a few minutes at the cathedral! Let's go.' We bolted the five blocks to Grace Cathedral, on Nob Hill. After only the first two words of 'Ode to Joy' — O Freunde —my perpetual sense of non-belongingness was transformed into a sense of oneness. I was one with the chorus. I was one with the music. 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About 20 years ago, I met a bull rider from Shoshone, Idaho, named Brent Williams. Here's a photo of him, by the great photographer Diana Walker. We was in West Jordan, Utah. And I had this bull shove my face right into the metal chutes. Some buddies drove me to the hospital. Took, like, five hours to sew me up. When they straightened my nose, I had to be at a rodeo that night. I didn't really wanna go under the anesthesia, or however you say that word. So I told 'em just to do it without it. They shove these two rods up your nose, and work their way up, and that straightens your nose all up. Felt like they was shoving it clear through my brains and it was gonna come out the top of my head. And everyone that saw it, they said it should have killed me. Shove my face right into the metal chutes: Over the past two decades, I've said those words thousands of times. But it wasn't until a few months ago that Brent's words knocked on the door of my subconscious and released a memory into full consciousness: 'You don't look like anything.' Long pause. 'Will you go as Black or white?' A Shoshone bull rider gave me the words to express what I'd felt on that agent's couch. The casting couch holds many different kinds of offenses. 1977: New Rhythms, New Intentions A simple A-frame building with a huge wraparound porch in the Sierras near Lake Tahoe, California, was the headquarters of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, a week-long conference where wannabe writers like me enjoyed tutorials with big shots: poets, novelists, screenwriters, directors. The place was peppered with East Coast literati, but the vibe wasn't as pretentious as a certain East Coast theater workshop I'd attended where one of the directors walked around with a cigarette holder and a coat over his shoulders. No need to genuflect to Frank Pierson, who'd won the Best Screenplay Oscar for Dog Day Afternoon and been nominated for another, for Cool Hand Luke. No hush fell when Sam Shepard ambled into the beat-up saloon, and made his way to the pool table. I was in the hang on the wraparound porch when a car full of poet-teachers crossed the field and stopped in front of us. A rail-thin poet-teacher stepped out. He looked like a monk who'd been on a month-long fast. The guy had presence. He gave a public reading. I sat in the front row—nothing between us but a music stand. One of his poems was quite brief but, like Beethoven's 'Ode,' it caused a physical reaction. The next morning, all my muscles were sore, as if I'd just done a massive full-body workout or been beat up. Or was it the flu? At the welcome cocktail party that night, I walked right up to the poet and told him that I'd woken up with aching muscles and that I thought his poem was the cause. His face lit up. 'That's because I wrote that poem as a curse against my ex-wife.' he stated. The power of language comes from its intention. 'Ode to Joy,' with lyrics from Friedrich Schiller's poem, had been full of good intentions. The poet's poem was full of bad intentions. His poem was written to make somebody feel some pain. As I developed my own artistic approach in the years to come, I never forgot this. 1979: Gatekeepers and 'Hostile Circumstances' I'm in my fifth-floor walk-up in New York City. I'm living gig by gig now because I chose to leave a very fine tenure-track position at an excellent university for the sake of my 'art.' Freed from the demands of being junior faculty, I walk dogs. I work as a temp in a JCPenney basement office. I work in the complaint department at KLM Airlines. (The complaint department was crucial to my development as a dramatist. Those letters of complaint were filled with drama and emotion.) One Sunday morning I hear two unusual voices coming out of the radio. By now my study of people's speech and its effect has become for me a lifelong project. Drawn to the rhythmic differences in their vocal patterns, I grab a tape recorder and press 'Record.' Turns out, the interview had originally taken place in 1959. This is a five-minute extract of a 20-minute conversation. Mike Wallace: Our guest was an unknown, unpublished writer until early this year, when her play A Raisin in the Sun came to Broadway. And was voted by the New York Drama Critics as the best play of the year. Better even than plays by Tennessee Williams, Archibald MacLeish, and Eugene O'Neill. And now to our story. One night, Lorraine Hansberry, a girl who had dabbled in writing, made a brash announcement to her husband. She was going to sit down and write an honest and accurate drama about Negroes. John Chapman, the drama critic for the New York Daily News, wrote that he has great respect for your play, but he feels that part of the acclaim may be a sentimental reaction—an admirable 'gesture,' I think is the way that he put it—to the fact that you are a Negro, and one of the few Negroes ever to have written a good Broadway play. Lorraine Hansberry: I've heard this alluded to in other ways—I didn't see Mr. Chapman's piece. I would imagine that if I were given the award because they wanted to give it to a Negro, it'd be the first time in the history of this country that anyone had ever been given anything for being a Negro. I don't think it's a very complimentary assessment of an honest piece of a work. Or of his colleagues' intent. Wallace: Well, let me quote him. He said, 'If one sets aside the one unusual fact that it is a Negro work, A Raisin in the Sun becomes no more than a solid and enjoyable commercial play.' Hansberry: Well, I've heard this said, too. I don't know quite what people mean. If they are trying honestly to analyze a play, dramaturgically, there's no such assessment; you can't say that if you take away the American character of something then it just becomes, you know, something else … The Negro character of these people is intrinsic to the play; it's important to it. If it's a good play, it's good with that. Wallace: Is it fair to say that even in proportion, very few Negroes have distinguished themselves … as playwrights, novelists, and poets? … How come? Hansberry: Whether they've distinguished themselves is kind of difficult to discuss because we always have to keep in mind the circumstances and the framework that Negroes do anything in America—which of course is a hostile circumstance. We've been writing poetry since, you know, the 17th century in this country, been writing plays that simply never see the light of day, because the circumstance, as I say, is hostile. Wallce: But the same is not true in the case of Negro athletes, Negro entertainers. Hansberry: Yes, well— Wallace: I think in proportion there are more of them who become hugely successful. Hansberry: Yes, of course, because one of the features of American racism is that it has a particular place where it allows Negroes to express themselves! We're not very warm to the idea of Negro intellectual exploration of any kind in this country. We presume, or at least the racists do—not me—that it's all right to display physical or musical or other features like that, but don't go writing and don't go trying to suggest that anything cerebral is within our sphere, you see … There're any number of professional playwrights who simply don't get their scripts read by Broadway producers. So I'd be the last person to say that it's because they write poorly. An awful lot of poor scripts get to Broadway and, uh, I don't think that's the reason why theirs don't. Wallace: What is the reason why theirs don't? Hansberry: Racial discrimination in the industry, of course. Daniel Pollack-Pelzner: The theater world has never understood Lorraine Hansberry The relationship between the gatekeepers and those of us who do not fit their picture depends on, to use Miss Hansberry's word, circumstances. In 1993, 34 years after that recording was made, Toni Morrison would win the Nobel Prize. This would change how Black-women writers and intellectuals are regarded, and significantly open up opportunities for them. It did for me. 1979: Chasing That Which Is Not Me While still at acting school, I'd sought new dramatic forms. At that time, the American playwrights who were getting their work produced were white heterosexual-presenting males. Like others across the country, but not so many at my conservatory, I thought that our art form could benefit from fewer stereotypes, and from greater particularity, more physical details in characters who lived on our stages. I also thought the sonic life of the theater could use new rhythms, new intentions—like when bebop emerged on the jazz scene. I drew inspiration from something my grandfather used to say when we were kids: 'If you say a word often enough, it becomes you.' In 1979, I set out with a tape recorder to record unique voices, unique stories, with the intention of becoming American word for word. My tape recorder was soon an appendage. I would interview people around the country, especially in moments of disruption and discord. It was in those moments that people spoke in sometimes-profound ways—as they tried to make sense out of disarray, tried to put together the exploded fragments of assumptions that follow catastrophe. This required chasing that which is not me. It was a chase that would never end. I called the overall project, which now includes about 18 plays (the first 12 never made it to major stages), ' On the Road: A Search for American Character.' It meant embodying the words of people who were very different from me and with whom I did not agree, and absorbing them into my heart. What have I learned after interviewing thousands of Americans? Most do believe 'you can make it if you try.' Even rebellion is a sign of belief in that credo. Why protest for fairness, equality, and dignity if you don't think those things can exist? The Martinican poet and philosopher Édouard Glissant, a close comrade of Frantz Fanon, left revolution behind in favor of what he called the 'poetics of relation.' 'Sometimes,' Glissant wrote, 'by taking up the problems of the Other, it is possible to find oneself.' The not-me and the me are related. In my work, my goal was to get to us. April 12, 2015: 'Just a Glance' Freddie Gray is arrested and beaten. He dies in police custody. The beating is filmed. Riots explode in Baltimore. I interview the man who took the video, Kevin Moore: The screams was what woke me outta my sleep. So I jumped up and threw some clothes on and went out to see what was going on. And then I came out that way, and I'm like, 'Holy shit!' They had him all bent up and he was handcuffed and, like, face down on his stomach. But they had the heels of his feet, like, almost in his back? And he was handcuffed at the time. And they had the knee in the neck, and that pretty much explains the three cracked vertebrae and crushed larynx, 80 percent of his spinal cord being severed and stuff. And then when they picked him up, I had to zoom in to get a closer look at his face. You could see the pain in his face. On Mount Street, [they] pulled him out again! To put leg shackles on him. You put leg shackles on a man that could barely walk to the paddy wagon? Then you toss him in the back of the paddy wagon like a dead animal. You know what I'm saying? Then you don't even put a seat belt on him. So basically, he's handcuffed, shackled, sliding back and forth in a steel cage, basically. I was like, Man, somebody has to see this. You know what I mean? I have to film this. I just basically called every news station that I could and just got the video out there! I asked Moore what triggered the incident. Eye contact. That's how the officers, I guess, wrote the paperwork: that Freddie made eye contact. And he looked suspicious. Oh. 'And that gave us probable cause to' … do whatever. We know the truth, y'know what I'm saying? Just a glance. The eye-contact thing, it's like a trigger. That's all it takes here in Baltimore—just a glance. 'Just a glance.' Don't stare. Why are you so interested in those people? They are not interested in you. 2018: Brokenness and the Promise of Fairness I'm in Montgomery, Alabama, to do my pilgrimage to the National Memorial for Peace and Justice —commonly known as the 'lynching memorial.' While there I am going to interview Bryan Stevenson, its founder. From a distance, the memorial is beautiful and majestic. In close proximity to the columns that constitute the memorial, a story of terror unfolds. There are 800 steel columns, each representing a county. On the columns are etched the names of people who were lynched there. Here's a portion of what Stevenson told me: Some of these were what we call 'public-spectacle lynchings,' where thousands of people came downtown and watched Black men, women, and children being burned alive. Some of these lynchings are as recent as 1949, 1950. I had a case not that long ago where we tried to stop an execution. The man was scheduled to be executed in 30 days. And I learned that he suffered from intellectual disability. Our courts have banned the execution of people with intellectual disability. And so we went to the trial court and said, 'You can't execute him. He's intellectually disabled.' And the trial court said, 'Too late. You should have raised that years ago.' And I went to the state court, and they said, 'Too late.' The appeals court said, 'Too late.' The federal court said, 'Too late.' Every court I went to said, 'Too late.' And we went to the U.S. Supreme Court, and they reviewed our motion, and about an hour before the scheduled execution, the clerk called me and said, 'Yeah, the Supreme Court's going to deny your motion. You're too late.' And I got on the phone with this man and I said, 'I'm so sorry, but I can't stop this execution.' He started to cry. It's literally 50 minutes before the execution, I'm holding the phone, and the man is just sobbing. And then he said, 'Please don't hang up. There's something important I have to say to you.' And he tried to say something to me, but in addition to being intellectually disabled, he stuttered when nervous. He was trying to say something, but he couldn't get his words out. Tears were just running down my face. And then he said to me: 'Mr. Stevenson, I want to thank you for representing me. I want to thank you for fighting for me.' The last thing he said to me was, 'Mr. Stevenson, I love you for trying to save my life.' He hung up the phone. They pulled him away. They strapped him to a gurney. They executed him. And I thought: I can't do this anymore. I just can't. Something about it just shattered me. And I was thinking about how broken he was, and I just couldn't understand: Why do we want to kill broken people? What is it about us that when we see brokenness, we get angry? All of my clients are broken people. I represent the broken. Everybody I represent has been broken by poverty or disability or addiction or racism. And then I realized that the system I work in is a broken system. And in that moment something said, You better think about why you do what you do if you're not gonna do it anymore. And it was in that moment that I realized why I do what I do. And it surprised me. I don't do what I do because I've been trained as a lawyer. I don't do what I do because it's about human rights. I don't do what I do because if I don't do it, no one will. I do what I do because I'm broken, too. It's in brokenness that we understand our need for grace, our need for mercy. Brokenness helps us appreciate justice. It's in brokenness that we begin to crave redemption. That we understand the power of recovery. It's the broken among us that actually can teach us what it means to be human. Because if you don't understand the ways in which you can be broken by poverty or neglect or abuse or violence or suffering or bigotry, then you don't recognize the urgency in overcoming poverty and abuse and neglect and bigotry. I even feel broken by this history. When I was a little boy, everybody had to get their polio shot. I was, like, 5. Black people had to go through the back door. So we line up out back. They gave all the shots to the white kids before they gave shots to the Black kids. They had little sugar cubes they were giving the white kids, and by the time they got to the Black kids, they ran out of sugar cubes. The nurses were tired. And they just had lost their capacity to be kind to these little children. And so they were grabbing these Black kids and giving them these needles. And my sister was in front of me, and when she was next, she was so terrified, she looked to my mother, and she said, 'Please, Mom. Please, please don't let them do this.' And they grabbed my sister, and they pulled her aside, and took the needle, and they jabbed it into her arm. And they pulled me aside, and they were about to jab me. And then all of a sudden I heard glass breaking: And my sweet, loving mother had gone over to a wall, picked up a table of beakers and glasses, and was slamming them against the wall. And she was screaming: 'This is not right! This is not right! Y'all should not have kept us out there all day! This is not right!' And the doctor came running in and said, 'Call the police.' And two Black ministers came running over and said, 'Please, doctor. Please, sir. Please don't call the police. We're sorry. We're gonna get her out of here.' One of the ministers fell to his knees. Was, like, just begging: 'Please, please. Please give the other kids their shot.' And he persuaded them not to call the police, and to give the other Black kids their shots. And so I got my polio shot. They didn't arrest my mom, which I was happy about. But you can't have a memory like that without it creating a kind of injury. A consciousness of hurt. That's what I mean when I say I'm broken, right? That consciousness of hurt creates a kind of anxiety that requires a response. I just think a lot of us were taught that you just have to find a way to silently live with your brokenness, with this injury, with that memory. And I don't think that's the way forward. I'm looking for ways to not be silent. Stevenson believes in the promise of treating humans with dignity, as expressed by a law that should keep an intellectually disabled human from being executed. Stevenson believed in that promise all the way up to 50 minutes before the scheduled execution, when the Supreme Court denied his final appeal. Which is when he realized that he works with broken people in broken systems where promises are broken. From the June 2024 issue: The lynching that sent my family north Stevenson's mother believed in the promise that she and her children should be treated equally. That's why she screamed, 'This is not right! This is not right!' When that promise was broken, his mother indicted the system. The preacher believed in the promise, which is why he got down on his knees and begged the doctor not to call the police and to give the other kids their shot. He surely knew that this promise was not yet realized in 1960s Delaware, where this scene took place—but he would not have begged if he did not believe that the promise of fairness was in sight. 2025: Errantry and Hope It's around broken promises that we have a chance at restoring, changing, improving. But of course we need a deep belief in the promise to do that. I am particularly interested in what happens to language when a promise is broken. Sometimes the shards make something intoxicating. Such an assemblage of broken shards can be found Atopolis: for Édouard Glissant, an extraordinary 2014 painting by the late African American artist Jack Whitten, which is being exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art through August 2. Glissant, the Martinican poet and philosopher whose 'poetics of relation' I mentioned earlier, said: 'The thought of errantry is not apolitical nor is it inconsistent with the will to identity, which is, after all, nothing other than the search for a freedom within particular surroundings. One who is errant (who is no longer traveler, discoverer, or conqueror) strives to know the totality of the world yet already knows he will never accomplish this—and knows that is precisely where the threatened beauty of the world resides.' Whitten wrote the following about Atopolis: Elsewhere, Whitten wrote: 'Ever since white imperialist entrepreneurs forced us into slavery, Black identity has been linked to our not having a 'sense of place.' This 'sense of place' for us had to be created through hard work involving all of our faculties of being.' In America, that hard work has been done with courage by individuals who have, to some extent, found 'us' through: 1. Unique meetings of their 'me'-ness and their 'not me'–ness. (Sometimes there was bloodshed around that meeting.) 2. Recognizing when good intentions become bad intentions. 3. Practicing hospitality. 4. Manifesting grace. 5. Understanding that, as Senator Cory Booker once told me: 'Black folks have to resurrect hope every day.' Amazing Grace In 2015, I interviewed the late Congressman John Lewis, and then portrayed him in my play and film Notes From the Field. I been going back to Selma every year since 1965, to commemorate the anniversary of Bloody Sunday, that took place on March 7, 1965. But we usually stop in Birmingham for a day. And then we go to Montgomery for a day. And then we go to Selma. On one trip to Montgomery, we stopped at First Baptist Church, the church that was pastored by the Reverend Ralph Abernathy. It's the same church where I met Dr. Martin Luther King and the Reverend Abernathy, in the spring of 1958. A young police officer—the chief—came to the church to speak on behalf of the mayor, who was not available. The church was full. Black. White. Latino. Asian American. Members of Congress. Staffers. Family members, children, and grandchildren. 'What happened in Montgomery 52 years ago durin' the Freedom Rides was not right,' the chief said. 'The police department didn't show up. They allowed an angry mob to come and beat you,' and he said, 'Congressman? I'm sorry for what happened. I want to apologize. This is not the Montgomery that we want Montgomery to be. This is not the police department that I want to be the chief of. Before any officers are hired,' he said, 'they go through trainin'. They have to study the life of Rosa Parks. The life of Martin Luther King Jr. They have to visit the historic sites of the movement. They have to know what happened in Birmingham, and what happened in Montgomery, and what happened in Selma.' He said, 'I want you to forgive us.' He said, 'To show the respect that I have for you and for the movement, I want to take off my badge and give it to you.' And the church was so quiet. No one sayin' a word. And I stood up to accept the badge. And I started cryin'. And everybody in the church started cryin'. And I said, 'Officer. Chief. I cannot accept your badge. I'm not worthy to accept your badge. [ Long pause.] Don't you need it?' He said, 'Congressman Lewis, I can get another one. I want you to have my badge!' And I took it. And I will hold on to it forever. But he hugged me. I hugged him. I cried some more. And you had Democrats and Republicans in the church. Cryin '. And his young deputy assistant—a young African American—was sittin' down. He couldn't stand. He cried so much, like a baby, really. It was the first time that a police chief in any city where I visited, or where I got arrested or beaten durin' the '60s, ever apologized. It was a moment of grace. It was a moment of reconciliation. The chief was very young—he was not even born 52 years ago. So he was offerin' an apology and to be forgiven on behalf of his associates, his colleagues of the past … For the police chief to come and apologize, to ask to be forgiven—it felt so good, and at the same time so freein' and liberatin'. I felt like, you know, I'm not worthy. You know, I'm just one. I'm just one of the many people who were beaten. It is amazing grace. You know the line in there, 'Saved a wretch like me?' In a sense, it's saying that we all have fallen short! 'Cause we all just tryin' to just make it! We all searching! As Dr. King said, we were out to redeem the soul of America. But we first have to redeem ourselves. This message—this act of grace, of the badge—says to me, 'Hold on.' And, 'Never give up. Never give in. Never lose faith. Keep the faith.' Keep the faith, yes. But don't look away.
Time Business News
a day ago
- Time Business News
How Travelers Can Celebrate Indian Independence Day Responsibly?
India's Independence Day is a vibrant national celebration. Tourists of Delhi Darshan packages are often drawn to its color and culture. Excitement fills the air but responsibility must be remembered. The day is not only for fun and photos. Deeper meaning should be understood and respected. Certain behaviors are best avoided during this time. What should be done will be revealed next. Flag hoisting ceremonies are held in many public places. The national anthem is played after the flag is raised. Silence should always be maintained during this special moment. Mobile phones should be kept on silent or switched off. Photos can be taken only if permission is given. Standing still is considered a sign of deep respect. Traditional Indian clothes can be worn by respectful travelers. Outfits like kurta and saree are often appreciated locally. Bright colors are usually preferred during festive national events. Sacred symbols should not be printed on any clothing. Clothes must be kept clean and worn properly always. Offensive designs should be strictly avoided in all cases. Cultural attire should be chosen with care and understanding. Local customs must be respected through thoughtful clothing choices. Sacred places are often visited during Independence Day events. Loud music should not be played in these areas. Dancing and shouting must always be strictly avoided there. Peaceful behavior is expected by everyone in such spaces. Prayers are often being offered by local worshippers nearby. Quiet steps should be taken when walking around temples. Respect must be shown through silence and gentle actions. Sacred places should be treated with calm and care. Parades are enjoyed by many on Independence Day morning. Streets are often filled with people and food stalls. Waste should be thrown only in dustbins provided nearby. Plastic bottles must not be dropped on roads or parks. Clean surroundings are seen as a sign of respect. Littering is considered rude and must be avoided always. Public spaces should be kept neat by all visitors. The Indian flag should always be treated with full respect. It must never be placed on the ground or floor. Torn or damaged flags must be handed to authorities. The flag should not be used as clothing or decoration. Proper handling rules must always be followed by everyone. Folding should be done carefully after each use. The flag must be carried straight and never dragged. Honor should be shown through every small action. Photos of locals should not be taken without permission. Smiles may be given but consent must be asked first. Privacy is valued and must always be respected by travelers. Faces should not be shared online without clear approval. Offense can be caused by unwanted or sudden pictures. Trust can be built by asking in a polite way. Local culture must be honored through careful photo behavior. Respectful actions will always be remembered and appreciated. India's freedom struggle should be studied before the celebration starts. Brave leaders were followed by millions during the long fight. Important events must be remembered with care and respect. Stories of sacrifice should be read by all travelers. Knowledge can be gained through books or short documentaries. Deeper meaning will be felt by understanding the past. The day must not be seen as just festive. Real value is added through learning and reflection. Local markets are often set up during Independence Day events. Handcrafted goods can be bought from nearby small shops during Delhi to Agra bus tour. Traditional items are usually made by skilled local workers. Fair prices should be paid without too much bargaining. Local foods can also be tried from trusted vendors. Support is shown when money is spent thoughtfully there. FAQS What should I do during the flag hoisting ceremony? Stand still in silence and keep your phone on silent or off. Is it okay to take photos during Independence Day events? Only take photos if you have permission especially in public ceremonies. Can I wear traditional Indian clothes as a tourist? Yes but make sure they are respectful and free of sacred symbols. Should I be loud during Independence Day celebrations? No stay quiet especially in sacred or religious places. How should I treat the Indian national flag? Always treat it with full respect and never place it on the ground. Can I take pictures of local people? Only if you ask for and receive their permission first. Why should I learn about India's independence? Understanding the history adds deeper meaning to the celebration. Is littering acceptable during Independence Day events? No always use dustbins and help keep public areas clean. Can I bargain with small shopkeepers during the celebrations? Light bargaining is okay but fair prices show respect and support. Why is it important to follow local customs on this day? Respecting customs avoids offense and shows cultural appreciation. TIME BUSINESS NEWS
