The sound of Page’s wrath echoed throughout the temple, and panicked people called 911 for help. The first calls were garbled. Most of the callers spoke in faint whispers; many with accents that made them at times difficult to understand.
“Squad, I’m taking a report of an altercation, Sikh temple, 7512 S. Howell,” the police dispatcher said. “I have a lot of noise. I’m unable to get much info, but there’s a fight…”
More calls followed in quick succession.
There is shooting … There is shooting in this … He’s shooting!
Someone is shooting us! Please hurry up!
We are just hiding now.
I don’t know where my mother is.
My children are inside!
The initial radio dispatch was followed up with a report of possible gunshots. Seconds later, the dispatcher reported that “a bald male with glasses may have shot someone.”
As police raced to the scene, Page made his way back from the kitchen to the main hallway. A few feet past the prayer hall he encountered eighty-four-year-old Suveg Singh Khattra, a devout man who came to the temple early in the morning and didn’t leave until late at night, coming out of the library. He shot him in the head, killing him instantly.
He then went to the living quarters at the far end of the temple where Punjab Singh was hiding in his room. Punjab was a visiting priest from India. He was a gentle man who loved nature and could create a rose with multicolored petals. He had been tying his turban in preparation for the morning service when the first shots rang out. Barricading himself in his room, he was no match for Page, who was able to force the door open just enough to reach his gun inside and shoot the priest in the face. Punjab suffered catastrophic injuries to his brain and spinal cord.
Across the hall, Dad was locked in another guest room with three other priests, making 911 calls and watching out the window for the police. Prakash, who wanted to get to his children, unlocked the bedroom door and opened it a crack to look out. Page was on the other side. He shot Prakash in the eye. “Maiṁ mara gi’ā hāṁ,” Prakash said as he fell to the floor. I am dead.
The priest Gurmail was able to lock himself in the bathroom before Page could see. He could hear everything from inside. He heard Dad confront the shooter. “What is your problem?” he asked in English. Without answering, Page turned the gun on the third priest, Santokh Singh, shooting him twice, in the chest and the stomach. “What’s wrong with you?” Santokh cried. “Why are you shooting me? Why can’t we talk?”
Page pulled the trigger to shoot Santokh again, but the gun didn’t fire. He was out of ammunition. When he reached down to reload, Santokh pushed through the slightly open door and ran for his life. He was halfway down the hallway when Page ducked out of the bedroom and fired after him. The shot missed and Santokh was able to get out of the temple and stagger to a nearby house. There, he collapsed on the front lawn, his white tunic soaked in blood.
While Page was stalking Santokh, my father made his final 911 call. Had he run out of the room and in the opposite direction of the shooter, he could have escaped through an exit that was no more than ten feet away. But my father would never have left when others were in danger. “Hurry, please!” he pleaded to the 911 operator. “He is shooting!” It was too late. The call cut out with the crack of gunfire.
* * *
OUTSIDE THE GURUDWARA, Lt. Brian Murphy, a tough New York Irishman and former Marine who’d served twenty years on the Oak Creek police force, was the first to respond. Murphy hadn’t been scheduled to work, but he’d traded days off with another officer whose son was graduating from high school. It had been a low-key morning when he got the call about a fight at the temple, which quickly turned into shots fired, and a brief description of a possible shooter.
Murphy arrived at 10:28 A.M. He drove up the long blind driveway to the parking lot, where he discovered the bodies of the brothers. He called for an ambulance, then got out of his car to check their condition. It was clear they were dead.
Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy saw movement. A man wearing a white t-shirt and black fatigues, with a holster on his hip, was rushing out of the temple entrance. He fit the description from dispatch.
Drawing his service weapon, Murphy ran out into the open lot, shouting, “Police! Stop!” They made eye contact. Page seemed surprised to see him. They were standing a mere thirty yards apart. Both men took shots at the same time. Murphy’s missed. Page’s hit Murphy in the chin. The force of the bullet was so fierce that the officer’s head snapped back violently. He felt like he’d been slammed with a sledgehammer.
The officer dove behind a parked car for cover. He was losing blood quickly and his adrenaline was pumping. He poked his head up to look for the shooter. Perhaps he’d hit him? By then, Page had circled around the car and was standing less than fifteen feet behind him. The guy obviously knew warfare, Murphy thought. Page fired again, shooting off half of Murphy’s left thumb. The service revolver flew out of his hand. He was a sitting duck.
Page was all business. His facial expression was flat, pitiless. Murphy had seen more emotion on the faces of his colleagues at target practice. The man was obviously on a mission to kill. With Page bearing down on him, Murphy clawed his way under the car. Gravely injured, he was losing consciousness. Cocooned by a sense of calm and warmth, he caught himself drifting off. Oh no! he scolded himself. I’m not going out like this. And I’m not going out in a parking lot.
Murphy willed himself to stay conscious and alert. As he lay in a ball beneath the car, the shooter coolly reached down and shot him again. Mercilessly, he fired bullets into Murphy’s arms and legs. Murphy wasn’t going to give him anything. The pain of the bullets ripping through his body was crippling, but he refused to make a sound. He thought about the two men lying nearby and wondered how many others were dead inside the temple. If he didn’t do something to stop Page, there would be even more carnage. His only hope was the rifle in his cruiser. If he could only get there.
When Page stopped to reload, Murphy made his move. He crawled out from under the car toward his cruiser. Like that, Page was standing over him. He pumped a bullet into the back of Murphy’s head. C’mon! Murphy thought. When is enough, enough?
* * *
SAM LENDA WAS two minutes behind Murphy. With lights flashing and siren roaring, he ascended the temple driveway, not knowing what to expect. Driving over the rise, he thought he saw a man in white up ahead. His viewpoint was obstructed by distance and parked cars, but as he watched, he saw the man turn away from whatever he was doing and start walking toward him. He noted it wasn’t a normal walk, but an aggressive march.
He radioed in to headquarters. “I got a guy in a white t-shirt walking out of the parking lot toward me.”
“Where is Murphy?” the dispatcher asked.
“I don’t see Murphy!” he responded.
Throwing the car in reverse, Lenda backed up to give himself enough distance to safely retrieve the locked squad rifle from his center console. Lenda was the best marksman around, with a decade of training for active shooters. Unlocking his rifle, he proceeded back toward the temple. Within seconds, Page appeared on the horizon again. Lenda saw Page either reload or check the magazine in his gun. He radioed in again. “I got a man with a gun in the parking lot!”
All hell broke loose. Within seconds, squads from surrounding towns began arriving. Sirens screeched. The police radio squawked desperately with requests for additional backup, ambulances, and questions about Murphy. No one had heard from him since that first transmission when he’d called for an ambulance. Where’s Murphy? Do you see Murphy? Is Murphy down?
Lenda still didn’t see any trace of Murphy. He rolled closer to the shooter. “Drop the gun!” he shouted. “Drop the gun!”
Page darted around the parking lot, aiming his gun. Lenda got out of his cruiser, taking cover behind his open driver’s-side door. Once again, he ordered Page to drop his weapon.
From sixty yards away,
Page took a shot. His bullet exploded through the windshield of the police car, lodging in the headrest of the seat where Lenda had been sitting seconds earlier. Lenda positioned his rifle and aimed at Page. He decided if he missed the shot, he would run him over. Page was not leaving that parking lot and he was not going back into the temple. Not on his watch.
Lenda grasped the wrist of his rifle stock and steadied his breathing so as not to throw off his shot. Aligning his sight with the target, he squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, six times.
My guys are here, Murphy thought, hearing the exchange of gunfire.
Lenda’s second round wounded Page and he dropped to the ground. The officer saw him crawling. He shouted at Page not to move. The next sound was Page, shooting himself in the head.
* * *
I BELIEVE THAT my father died fighting Wade Page. My brother said an FBI agent told him there was a butter knife close to Dad’s body, which they thought he used to fend off the shooter. I wouldn’t have expected anything different. He spoke truth to power and didn’t cower to evil. Dad was shot “multiple times,” according to the autopsy report. Page was a right-handed shooter and most of Dad’s injuries were on his left side—left abdomen; left arm; left chest; left upper back; left neck—which suggested a fierce struggle. While Page was killing him, had Dad picked up a knife to fight back? No one can say for sure, but I know his thought process would have been to do whatever it took to stop the attack. There were people to protect! His wife and his community were in trouble. He wasn’t going down without a fight. If a butter knife was all he had at his disposal, he would have used it.
Lieutenant Murphy miraculously survived Page’s attack. It ended his police career, and he’d had to endure months of grueling physical therapy, but he was lucky to be alive. Murphy is a legend in our Sikh community. After the shooting, he received thousands of cards and letters from Sikhs around the world, thanking him for his service. When he speaks publicly about the tragedy and people—rightfully so—applaud him for his valor, he often defers to my father as the real hero. He told me he, too, has heard the story about the knife found beside Dad and he believes Dad used it for battle. But he needed no more proof of my father’s bravery, Murphy told me, than the fact he fought so valiantly to stop Page’s rampage that his fingernails were ripped off. A man who was so devoted to his flock that he fought to the death trying to protect them was the epitome of a noble warrior. My father was the hero.
Sikh history is rich with examples of martyrs who sacrificed their lives for selfless causes and noble ends. Sikh scripture states, “When all other methods fail, it is proper to hold the sword in hand.” Dad martyred himself trying to spare others. That is his legacy.
Only the brave person dies a worthy death, the scripture says. For he is accepted by the Lord after his death.
NINE
BROTHERS
No one is my enemy and no one is a stranger; God exists in all beings.
Guru Arjun Dev Ji
November 2012
Arno
Three months after the shooting, on Thanksgiving eve, 2012, I was headed to the Gurudwara in Oak Creek at the invitation of Pardeep. The occasion was “Heritage Day,” a celebration of cultures to honor those who were lost on August 5. Par had asked me to be a guest speaker. The idea of entering the temple for the first time, a place where such violence was wrought such a short time ago, and as someone with the same history as the man who brought evil there, was overwhelming.
A week earlier, Life After Hate had been hijacked by my board—the same board of former white supremacists that I appointed—and I was still smarting from it. My “firing” was over some concocted bullshit, but it broke my heart. I had kept the organization running on my own dime for the three years it had been in existence. I often felt like it was a boat that would sink if I stopped rowing, and I couldn’t let that happen. By my own choice, I’d let my IT consulting business go to shit in order to be able to accommodate anti-violence programs and speaking invitations associated with the nonprofit. I saw it as my life’s work, but it reached the point where my bank account was drained and I needed a salary, at least a small one, just enough to pay my bills, in order to keep up the momentum of the program. My board didn’t seem to think my request was a priority, but they weren’t struggling financially. I was.
There was a time when I would have gone down with the boat rather than speak up for myself. After I’d stopped abusing drugs and alcohol in 2004, I gained clarity and confidence, but I still beat the hell out of myself emotionally as a sort of masochistic penance for all the wrong I had done. When bad things happened to me, I reasoned it was because I didn’t deserve good things. I deserved to suffer for the rest of my life, just as I had caused the suffering of so many others.
In an effort to try to forgive myself, I’d recently discovered meditation in the ancient Tibetan tradition of Shine (pronounced shee-nay), the Buddhist practice of calming the mind. Through my practice, I’d finally determined I was worth forgiving. Part of that forgiveness was realizing that I was a good person who did meaningful work and having the confidence to know I deserved to be paid for it.
After making many requests to the board for some kind of a compensation plan, the issue finally came to a head that November and, stressed by the ever-growing pile of unpaid bills on my desk, I blew my top. My board had never seen me lose my temper, and apparently it was not a pleasant sight. I regretted the tantrum the minute it was over and followed it up with a mea culpa email:
My anger was directed entirely at myself for letting my expectations and desperation get the better of me, but it effected [sic] everyone and I’m deeply sorry for that. I tried to make it clear that I wasn’t angry at anyone else but didn’t do a very good job of that either. I am so grateful for your time and energy … I feel fortunate on a daily basis for all the help you have given me and LAH and for your friendship.
I will be more mindful of expectations and desperation in the future. I know better with the former, and there is really no need for the latter, because I am grateful for life and especially to be able to share mine with all of you. I have lined up some IT work and speaking engagements so I can pay my bills, and I am confident that no matter how things shake down, it will be all good.
I believe that the more people you have in your life who you can genuinely say “I Love You” to, the more successful you are.
I feel incredibly fortunate to be able to say that I love each of you dearly.
–Arno
Rather than accept my apology, the board informed me that I was to step down as executive director and take a leave from my organization until I got “professional help,” at which point they would decide if I could return. According to them, it wasn’t just one outburst that concerned them. One of them had secretly filmed me at other times when I’d lost my temper. They also slapped me with some trumped-up charge about “abusing volunteers.” I was certainly intense and passionate about our mission, and I expected others to be, too—but abusing volunteers? That was a bunch of horseshit.
I told them all to take a great big flying fuck.
I was stunned and pissed off. Life After Hate was my concept, my online magazine, my organization, my life. I had built it with my blood, sweat, and tears for three fucking years, doing exponentially more work than the lot of the board combined, and here they were kicking me out of my own thing. And I put them in a position to do it by appointing them and setting myself up as an employee. All along, I’d discouraged the notion that Life After Hate was mine. It was a platform for everyone. Apparently that was an invitation for a hostile takeover.
On the same day I was so unceremoniously pushed out of my job, Pardeep called, asking me to join him at a talk he had scheduled at a local Milwaukee high school. After the shooting, Par had come up with a concept to introduce the Sikh community to the broader public through acts of service. He had a name, Serve 2 Unite, but it was still a nebulous idea waiting to be formed. He had put the idea o
f such an organization out to educators, and a local high school principal responded with an invitation to speak. I’d given plenty of talks during my tenure as executive director of Life After Hate, and he thought our stories would complement each other. I accepted without hesitation. “But there’s something I have to tell you,” I said. “Those motherfuckers on my board just kicked me out of my own organization.”
Pardeep listened patiently and responded with his usual aplomb. “Listen, Arno,” he said. “You’re right. They are motherfuckers. But if you’d been an asshole all the time, the way I am, this wouldn’t have happened. They would have expected you to act that way and it wouldn’t have been any big deal.” Leave it to Pardeep to make me laugh when I was deep in the doldrums. “Secondly,” he said, “this is great news! Now you can come and work with me on Serve 2 Unite!”
First, I had to get through the temple gig, I said. Then we could talk.
The theme for the Heritage Day was that all human culture is beautiful, and when we celebrate all together, we are one. It was very Sikh, and I thought it was brilliant. The Gurudwara was a virtual world map of cultures and teeming with Sikhs and others dressed in colorful native garb when I got there. Pardeep met me at the entrance and led me into the changing room, where I removed my shoes and picked a purple turban from the bin. The temple was pristine and peaceful. It was hard to absorb that such carnage had occurred there, except for the polarity of a bullet hole in the metal frame of the door leading into the prayer room. I lost my breath when I saw it. I had once been capable of such malevolence.
The Gift of Our Wounds Page 15
