Jim Berghaier won almost every award the Philadelphia Police Department gives for heroism and bravery. But for his most famous act as a police officer, rescuing a boy who emerged from the 2,000-degree heat of the burning MOVE compound, the department offered no recognition.

“I didn’t want a medal,” he said. “I wanted understanding.”

None of the people whose names became synonymous with the May 13, 1985, siege carried the scars in a more visible way than Berghaier, the first Philadelphia police officer ever put on disability for post-traumatic stress disorder.

“I lost my job, I lost my family and I almost lost my life over this thing,” said Berghaier, who at times considered killing himself.


Berghaier’s pain did not come from what he did to save a tiny boy the MOVE people called Birdie Africa. “I’ll always be proud of that,” he said.

Rather, it sprang from the position he and his fellow officers were put in that day.

“I think we were used,” he said. “I’m not the only cop who got screwed up over this.”

It has taken nearly a decade for Berghaier’s life to become whole again--he has remarried, has a new baby and owns his own business, cleaning offices.


But the unanswered questions that linger these 10 years later still can drive him to the point of tears and threaten his hard-fought stability.

“I understand that those people were doing what they believed in--they were probably more devoted to their cause than I was to my own on that day,” he said. “But why did they let the kids burn with them?”

The only person alive who could possibly answer that question strode into a classroom at Community College of Philadelphia recently and stared out at a half-dozen young faces.

“Good morning. My name is Ramona Africa and I’m the only adult survivor of the MOVE massacre,” she said in an even voice.


“And I’m here because I don’t want you to hallucinate about the system . . . about how much this government doesn’t care about poor people, about people of color,” said Africa, now 40. “I want you to know for sure what your government is capable of doing.”

Ramona Johnson Africa’s overt emotions are nearly polar opposites from Berghaier’s. Tears well up in his eyes during an interview; indignation rises in her voice.

“I stand strong because I am in the right. . . . I am not having a nervous breakdown and nightmares,” she said. “That comes from having a clear conscience.”

Africa guided Birdie Africa, now known as Michael Moses Ward, out of the MOVE house that day. She was arrested on the spot and convicted the following year of riot and conspiracy. She was released from prison in May, 1992, after serving seven years, the maximum allowed; she had been denied parole because she refused to dissociate herself from MOVE.


Now, Africa is MOVE’s most visible member, serving as minister of communication.

“MOVE is more committed than ever before because it knows more,” she told the students. “We know we can never give in to a system that can burn babies and then act like it’s business as usual.”

Ramona Africa and James Berghaier first crossed paths in the alley behind the MOVE compound. They agree bullets were flying but disagree on who was shooting.

Africa testified that she and Birdie were forced back into the burning house two times by police gunfire. “They were trying to kill us,” she said.


That’s not how Berghaier remembers it.

The fire was burning steadily when Berghaier went into the alley behind the MOVE compound. The occupants were said to be evacuating, but he initially could see nothing through the thick smoke. Then, finally, he spotted a woman with long dreadlocks climbing a fence to an elevated sidewalk. She kept pausing to turn around and wave her hand.

“That’s when I saw this kid,” Berghaier recalled. “All I could do was think about my own son.”

Berghaier said he, too, heard shots, but believes they were being fired from inside the house to prevent Ramona and Birdie from leaving. At one point, Birdie, so malnourished police thought he was 8 instead of 13, fell and landed on the concrete near the fence.


“He wasn’t moving,” Berghaier said. “I had to get him.”

Berghaier handed his shotgun to another officer and jumped into the waist-high water filling the alley, residue from the water cannons fired at the house.

“My first thoughts were: ‘I must be out of my freaking mind.’ Then I just went in and got the kid.”

After the rescue, Berghaier was drained, but decided to get right back to duty as a decoy officer. He lasted about three months before being reassigned to the department’s pistol range; he quit the force entirely in February, 1987.


On his final day as a street cop, he was posing as an old man, trying to catch some robbers.

“It started to rain. . . . I got so cold,” he recalled. “I put on a sweat shirt and my partner kept warning me, ‘Jimmy, you’re not going to be able to get your gun.’

“And then it hit me. Maybe I don’t want to get my gun. I just broke down and started crying. My partner put his arm around me and said, ‘Jimmy, you’re done.’ And I knew right away that he was right. I was done.”