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From Ambler To Avco: A Reflection The blessings of a large family were never more clear to me than on the afternoon of July 4, 1982, when we gathered for a family picnic at our home in Ambler, Pennsylvania. My grandchildren splashed playfully in the backyard swimming pool, surrounded by doting aunts and uncles. Their mothers chattered nearby under the shade of an oak tree. A volleyball game raged in the background while my husband snoozed in oblivion, the newspaper covering his face. On that holiday I was perhaps more acutely aware of my blessings because I knew that I probably would not be part of that tranquil domestic scene for some time to come. Later on, as we gathered around the table, my heart skipped a beat at the thought of being involved in an act of civil disobedience/divine obedience that might possibly mean a long separation from my loved ones. Slowly, over many previous months of serious thoughts and prayers, I had decided to protest the proliferation and continuation of the nuclear arms buildup in a stronger way than I had previously done. I had decided that civil disobedience would be my way of saying no to an insane arms race that threatens all life on our planet. I left home on a July morning of 1983 to join my six compatriots in preparation for our symbolic disarmament action. Our time was spent in sharing, prayer, and solitude. Under the theme “faith in the face of fear,” we celebrated the Eucharist. We all had our own fears and anxieties, which we openly expressed with each other. We broke the bread and shared the wine in remembrance of Christ. And in faith we accepted what would come the next day. Sleep did not come easy that night, and, at 5:30 that following morning, July 14, I watched a magnificent sunrise over the ocean and saw it as a good omen. For the last time we met in a circle, prayed for guidance and, after some hurried hugs, left for our destination. Walking into AVCO, a plant in Wilmington, Massachusetts, that manufactures components for the MX and Pershing II missiles, we carried our household hammers, our blood, photos of our families, various prayers, and statements of peace and justice. On behalf of our thirty-seven children, twenty-four grandchildren, and all future generations, we also issued an indictment against AVCO and its coconspirators, including the “national security state” and the armed forces, for committing crimes against God and humanity by manufacturing for profit weapons of mass destruction. Our intent in issuing this indictment was to show that our acts were justified under divine and international laws—laws that call upon all people to prevent crimes against humanity from occurring. Entering the building went smoothly, contrary to our expectations. Doors were literally opened for us and we were met by greetings of “Good Morning.” Once inside the building, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of oppression. This factory of mass destruction brought images of violence, death, and hell to my mind as we wandered through the vast open area, looking for a suitable place to commit our action. Fear took hold of me. It was not a fear of being caught, but a fear of not being able to express my sense of despair through this action. Still, I knew the truth must be told. Faith led us through an unfamiliar building into an assembly room filled with large crates where we found parts to the MX. We poured our blood over these and symbolically hammered this particular nuclear “sword” into a “plowshare,” praying that our action would bear fruit. Strangely enough, we were in there for quite a while. Even our singing and hammering, sounding like a bell of justice, drew no one’s attention. Eventually, though, we were discovered and apprehended by AVCO’s security and local police—but not before we were able to carry out a direct act of disarmament and expose the nature of AVCO’s work. Later that day, after we were arrested and processed, we were all jailed. The men were taken to Billerica jail in Massachusetts. The four of us women spent the next ten days at the Framingham jail before being released on our own recognizance at the pretrial hearing. Certainly feelings of oppression and powerlessness are very clearly dominant ones for prisoners. But had I not sensed that same oppressive factor at AVCO where workers were “free”? Had I not sensed the very subtle oppression of the kind of work being done there? Had I not sensed the powerlessness of the workers who “must work to support their families”? The atmosphere of prison kept calling me into prayer, for there the stark realities of life are strong and brokenness is a continual reminder of our need to be in touch with the Spirit of God. Questioning injustice has always been second nature to me. As a child living in Nazi-occupied Holland during World War II, I remember asking my father why the police didn’t do something to protect the Jews who were so blatantly subject to persecution. Reading Dorothy Day in the Catholic Worker in the 1950s and 1960s, I wondered why the Roman Catholic hierarchy was not listening to her convictions of pacifism and nonviolence. My personal acquiescent acceptance of the events that led to a war in Southeast Asia will forever remind me that commitment to family does not preclude commitment to the rest of humanity or the call of conscience. So many years of bottled-up, unanswered questions finally erupted in February, 1981 when I became closely involved with supporting the Plowshares Eight during their trial. Their example showed me that I must take responsibility for the world I live in and act on my faith, regardless of the consequences. They filled me with hope for the future. To realize that I had the freedom to act on my convictions was very liberating. I now can foresee a world for my children and grandchildren. I realize that the earth doesn’t have to be governed by fear and violence. I simply decided that raising and nurturing eleven children was too much of an investment to leave unguarded. In opting for a life without nuclear weapons, I decided to take action myself and not let the future of my family be decided by someone else. I also wanted my children to know that questioning authority is right and that acts of conscience should be the norm. During our mid-December jury trial in 1983, I tried to speak about my conscience convictions. The expert testimony offered in our defense also served to communicate my belief that our actions were morally and legally right. Having myself experienced the horrifying effects of Nazism, it was deeply moving to hear the testimony of Dr. Richard Falk, who told the jury that, under the Nuremberg Accords and international law, actions like ours are required not only to prevent future crimes such as those perpetrated by the Nazis, but also to prevent the use of weapons of indiscriminate mass destruction from ever occurring. Also in light of the imminent danger posed by nuclear weapons, Daniel Ellsberg testified that our actions were reasonable and necessary to help lessen the risk of nuclear war and initiate the process of disarmament. These witnesses and others who testified all reconfirmed for me that I have a moral and human duty to act to prevent nuclear war. Despite hearing testimony on the justification of our acts, the judge declared that all of the expert witnesses’ testimony was irrelevant to the case. He also ruled that issues of conscience and moral and international law could not be considered by the jury in rendering a verdict. The jury found the AVCO Plowshares members guilty of trespassing and “wanton” damage to property. The seven of us were immediately taken to jail and shortly thereafter released on our own recognizance, pending an appeal for another trial. Perhaps my youngest son Matthew, then aged ten, summed it up best of all when I questioned him on his feelings of my possible prolonged absence. His answer was thoughtful and simple. “I don’t like it when you are away and I will miss you, but I know why you are doing it and the more of you that are doing it, the better it will be for us kids.”
by Agnes Bauerlein
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