"This Was My Child"

Mt. Airy resident and longtime peace activist Celeste Zappala lost her son in Iraq last year. And she's not about to let the Bush administration forget it.

by Cassidy Hartmann

oud enough to bring her neighbor running, the screaming continued, but the sergeant on her porch remained motionless, staring at the sodden ground.

"In my head I was thinking, 'It's so quiet. It's so quiet. Why is someone screaming?'"

Zappala's neighbor picked her up from the porch and carried her inside, where she was told the news she already knew. She'd heard on a noon newscast that very day that a soldier had died in Iraq that morning in a factory explosion. She'd heard it again on the radio at 6:30, driving home to Mt. Airy from her office downtown.

"I heard it, and I thought, 'Well, I know it takes eight hours to be notified, and that time has passed.' Then I felt bad because I realized if it wasn't us, it was someone else."

But it wasn't someone else. Sherwood Baker, Zappala's 30-year-old foster son, deployed to Iraq only six weeks earlier, had been killed while guarding a factory that was being searched for weapons of mass destruction. The factory exploded, and Sgt. Baker was killed when he was struck in the head by debris. He lived-his family was told-for two hours after being evacuated to a nearby field hospital.

She knew he was dead before she heard the soldier say it at her own kitchen table. She knew even before he spoke his first words on the porch: "Are you Sherwood's mother?"

The dog had been barking, and she'd seen a dim figure standing at her front door. She could see the military uniform, the notebook in his hand, but thought maybe someone had come to speak to her about the election that was being held the following day. She briefly thought he might be a salesman.

Then she saw his medals. "I opened the door and stepped out on the porch, and then it came to me what was going on. And I started screaming."

The sergeant who stood on Celeste Zappala's Mt. Airy front porch didn't stay more than 15 minutes. But it was enough time for her best friend Lynne to get there from down the block, and for Al, her ex-husband and Sherwood's foster father, who'd already received the news, to arrive from South Philly.

"I kept saying, 'What am I supposed to do? I don't know what to do.'"

It didn't take long for Zappala to answer her own question. She wasn't going to wait for another phone call or knock at the door, and she wasn't going to bury her eldest son in silence.

"I decided right away. I decided immediately. One of my friends called me and said, 'It's so horrible. It's so horrible.' And I said, 'You know, I'm going to talk about it. I'm not going to be quiet about it.'"

She traveled to Wilkes-Barre, where Sherwood had lived with his wife Debbie and their 9-year-old son J.D. She and her family spent the first day there, grieving and deciding what to do. By Wednesday they were in Philadelphia, and she'd already agreed to speak about her son with TV reporters. Soon after that there were articles in the Daily News and the Inquirer. Their story was all over the news.

"It was just a very intense period of time-people visiting and reporters coming, clergy coming, our friends. There were people there from 6 in the morning till 2 a.m. I have no idea how many people came to our house. There were so many cards and flowers. Eventually I tried to respond to at least the flowers. I could never respond to all the cards."

Baker was buried near his home in Wilkes-Barre on May 4, 2004. A memorial service was held in Germantown the following day at the First United Methodist Church where Baker was baptized. Though it was the worst of times, Zappala says she found tremendous comfort in her church, where a candlelight vigil was held for her son on Aug. 17, 2005.

But the news stories and outpouring of sympathy and support, though massive and comforting, were not enough. She needed answers.

Since age 18, Zappala, now 58, has been involved in peace and justice issues. She protested the Vietnam War as well as the wars in Central America, and was an advocate for nuclear disarmament. A Temple grad, class of '70, with a degree in social work, she's long been familiar with ways to influence government policy and stimulate social change.

Even before Sherwood's death, she'd been associated with Military Families Speak Out, a national organization of some 2,500 families with loved ones who have either served or are currently serving in Iraq, or families of those who might be deployed. She'd met and become close with numerous other women at events and demonstrations organized by the group.

One, a California mother who'd lost her son Casey in Iraq a few weeks before Sherwood was killed, was Cindy Sheehan.

"In October we were in Washington together, Cindy and I, our families and other people who'd lost their kids, and we did a very tense vigil demonstration," recalls Celeste Zappala. "So we were talking to each other a lot, seeing each other a lot. Then right around the end of November Cindy had the idea that maybe we should start an organization made up of people who had lost loved ones to war."

From that discussion Gold Star Families for Peace was formed. Sheehan and Zappala officially launched the group in January 2005, right around the time of Bush's inauguration. It's since evolved into a loose organization of about 50 members, most of whom have lost someone in the war in Iraq, though several have lost loved ones as far back as Vietnam and even WWII.

"We made it open so that people who have lost loved ones in any war could be part of us," says Zappala. "But the majority are people who have freshly grieved. The majority are also moms and dads, but my kids are involved. There are a couple brothers, a couple wives."

The group gathered together in Fayetteville, N.C., in March, for a demonstration on the anniversary of the start of the war. They also met in Philadelphia over the Fourth of July to formulate a plan for the coming months.

"My house was sort of like a home base during the Fourth of July," she says. "It was a unifying time."

Then, at the beginning of August, Sheehan headed to Dallas for a Veterans for Peace convention. The state of Ohio had recently suffered a major loss of life in Iraq-13 soldiers from Ohio were killed in the first week of August-which only intensified the urgency of the Gold Star Families' quest for peace. When she arrived in Dallas, Sheehan emailed Zappala.

"She said, 'You know, I think I might just go down to Crawford and tell George Bush I want to talk to him,'" she recalls. "So I said, 'Cindy, why don't you take some candles, take some press with you, and go do a vigil?' Cindy thought about that, and when she gave her speech at the convention, she announced she was going to Crawford. She asked me to go with her."

The Veterans for Peace had a bus, and they piled into it with Sheehan in tow. Supporters followed in a couple of cars, carrying nothing but a few folding chairs.

"It was very spontaneous. There was no planning. It was like, let's do this. This seems like something we ought to do, so we'll do it," says Zappala, who met the caravan in Crawford, Texas, three days later.

She had plenty of responsibilities at home, including her two other sons and a demanding position as the executive director of the Mayor's Commission on Aging, which provides employment and training to older adults, as well as Medicare education and other services. On the window of her fourth-floor office at Broad and Chestnut, Zappala displays the current number of American soldiers killed in the war. When she changes the numbers, people on the street often stop and stare.

But Zappala knew she had to do something more. "I always say I'm on a path I didn't want to be on, but I'm on it, and I'm going to do the very best I can. I can't walk away from it. I'm compelled."

Early the following Tuesday evening, Zappala stepped off a plane into the dry heat of Waco, Texas, rented a car and headed east to meet her friend at the edge of the president's ranch. Scores of reporters and cars full of ardent Americans weren't far behind.

Sherwood Baker had always been big. As a grown man he was an imposing 6-foot-4, but even as a child he stood out because of his size. His mother had to argue just to get him on the school bus. Drivers in their Mt. Airy community often thought her son looked too old to ride.

"I'd say, 'No, he really is! He's 7 years old!'" Zappala jokes.

Baker was given up by his biological family at five months when they could no longer care for him. Zappala and her then-husband took him in as their first child.

"It was random. It was destined," says Zappala, smiling. "It was just something we decided we should do."

Baker was 13 months old when he became part of his new family. "So then we just said, 'Okay, he's here, and he's ours.'"

Baker quickly developed a passion for music. By 15 he was DJing events in his community, which eventually led to a job on a local radio show in Wilkes-Barre, where Sherwood moved after enrolling in nearby King's College. It was through that job that he met his wife Debbie, who'd called into the station on multiple occasions.

"She liked his voice," says Zappala, smirking slightly. "He liked hers."

Toward the end of Baker's time at King's College, the two were married. A son-James-Dante Raphael, whom Baker named after his two brothers-was born the following year. After graduation and the birth of his son, Baker worked continually to support his new family. He worked at a nursery school, took a job working with mentally disabled adults and DJed events on the side. But when heavy rains caused flooding on the Susquehanna River, Baker somehow still found time to volunteer.

"You need somebody to help the community? He's on it," says Zappala. "He wasn't a fighter/warrior kind of character. He was a protector."

While sandbagging the river, Baker met several members of the Pennsylvania Army National Guard. He got along well with the men, and admired them for the service they were providing the community. They liked him too, and encouraged him to join their ranks.

"At that point he was a nursery school teacher, and he was getting by with nothing," says Zappala. "So he saw it in several lights-one being to help his income and his family, and another being to help pay off college loans, which were steep. He also wanted to give service."

The son of a lifetime peace activist was suddenly a National Guardsman.

"He used to say to me, 'Don't worry, Mom. The National Guard doesn't go to war. Their job is to stay in the community. The worst thing that could happen is I'd have to arrest you.'"

In mid-March 2004 Baker was deployed to Iraq.

Even after he left, Baker kept trying to put his family at ease. "He kept saying, 'Nobody's been killed in combat from the Pennsylvania National Guard since 1945,'" his mother remembers.

But in 59 years, Baker was the first. He died guarding the safety of others, just as he'd done throughout his life.

His mother-who'd spent the last several weeks holding her breath, and buying her son the phones, global positioning devices and, most disturbingly, both food and water that he lacked-was jolted into another realm of heartache.

The grief could've easily engulfed her.

But just as her son was compelled to uphold the oath he'd taken for his country, Zappala knew she couldn't run away. "He did what he had to do," she says of his decision to go to war.

And she did the same.

"Sherwood always depended on me to try to do the right thing and be aggressive to make things happen. Something would happen, and he'd call me and say, 'Ma, what're you gonna do about it?'"

Just thinking about it makes her chuckle. "You know, like when Bush won the election: 'Ma, what're you gonna do about it?' I always have a sense of him asking me that."

Zappala looks up and smiles slightly, letting the memory of her son push away her anger.

"I'm doing everything I can."

It started out as a thin strip of land. No wider than 10 feet. Just enough space to fit a small tent off the gravel road. The folding chairs had come in handy, providing much-needed rest for the weary protesters who'd been spending most of their days standing, talking and praying, in temperatures approaching 100 degrees. Hot breezes swept through the camp, muffling cell phone interviews and drying fresh sweat and tears. The media showed up in full force.

But no sign of the president.

Celeste Zappala arrived he evening of Aug. 9 to find Cindy Sheehan and some 10 campers and other supporters gathered closely at the roadside. Homemade banners hung from the fences and trees. The group was strictly confined to a meager slice of public land, and was told if the wheels of their vehicles touched the only road leading to Bush's ranch, they would be towed.

"The sheriffs were very intensely watching where we were putting our cars and if our tents were in the road," says Zappala. "There was a lot of discussion of what was public vs. private."

White crosses bearing the names of fallen soldiers were erected on an adjacent stretch of road. Several days later they'd be plowed down by an angry neighbor in a pickup truck. But while Zappala was there they stood, ghostly and firm.

A few days earlier Bush had sent two senior advisers out in a black SUV to meet with Sheehan. They gave her explanations-the same ones Bush spouts regularly on the nightly news-but not the ones she wanted to hear. "I couldn't believe these smart men were actually saying these things to me," Sheehan told Zappala.

To the advisers, Sheehan said: "I may be a grieving mother, but I'm not stupid."

That first night Zappala slept beside Sheehan in a flimsy blue tent. In more ways than one, they were unprepared for the impending storm.

"We had terrible thunderstorms and lightning," remembers Zappala. "And I was lying there thinking, 'It would be pretty ironic if this were the end of me, you know? Out on a Crawford road.'"

The brutal weather was something new, but Celeste Zappala had been here before. More than 30 years ago she'd helped organize demonstrations against the Vietnam War. She'd been trained in nonviolent protesting, and knew how to keep the situation under control.

"I saw my job partially as trying to explain, to help people understand how you don't become angry. It was a group of people brand-new to a political situation, to a protest situation. So what I tried to do is negotiate. I made friends with the policemen who were guarding, and I tried to assist in taking care of the camp."

Sheehan was besieged by a steady stream of interviewers, so Zappala picked up the slack wherever she could. Most people had dropped everything to be there, and were ill-equipped to handle the elements or the emotional strain. She worked to keep everyone calm and the group's message consistent.

By Friday a group of counterprotesters had arrived. They established themselves across the road from Camp Casey, which, unfortunately for the newcomers, turned out to be the sunny side. Zappala was quick to make sure they had enough water.

"They'd come unprepared. It was really hot, high 90s, and it's an intense, drying sun. You get dehydrated quickly, and some of those people were older. A couple of the women didn't look particularly hearty. So an hour on the side of the road was a lot."

She approached the first woman she saw, eager to hear her perspective. The woman had a son in the service but hadn't lost anyone in the war.

"She was all worked up. I talked with her and tried to point out how many things I agree with her on. We're all about supporting the troops. That's why we're here. But she was angry. She had a point she was going to make."

Other run-ins were considerably more positive. Sue Niederer, a Princeton resident and founding member of Gold Star Families who lost her son Seth in February of last year, had a long discussion with another counterprotester.

"They had a good talk, and they hugged each other, and he went back to his bus," says Zappala. "Our goal was to win people over, and I know there are people who disagree with me, but maybe if we dialogue there's some way to move closer to a common ground."

When it comes to grieving families, Zappala has always been understanding toward all sides. "Nobody has a monopoly on grief," she says, adding that people who've lost children in Iraq and support the war have an equally valid perspective.

What she doesn't understand are excuses.

"This week's was that our protests send a bad message. Now isn't that interesting? We've moved off of weapons of mass destruction, Osama is a terrorist, 9/11, bringing freedom and democracy, protecting our friends, and now we're sending a bad message? This is a reason for keeping people at war? You can only live behind deception for so long.

"This whole idea of, 'We have to complete the mission because then the lives that have been lost haven't been lost in vain.' I mean, think about that. You tell me if it makes sense that more people die so that the people who are already dead can feel ... what?"

On a scorched country Texas back road, surrounded by family, friends and a makeshift community of sorrowful strangers, Zappala would rather focus on the living.

Six days after returning from Crawford, Zappala sits in her cozy, cluttered Mt. Airy home, wearing an oversized pink T-shirt bearing a peace sign underlined by the words "WAGE PEACE."

At the moment, she's juggling several interviews at once. Reminders of Sherwood dominate the decor, which consists mostly of old photographs of Zappala's three sons and a slew of leftover materials from demonstrations and ceremonies in Baker's honor.

Propped up against the TV, a huge piece of black-and-white posterboard bears a photo of Baker in uniform and the words: "We Mourn-Sgt. Sherwood Baker KIA Iraq 4/26/04."

A reporter calls from Salt Lake City asking about a Utah ABC station's refusal to air a Gold Star-sponsored ad prodding Bush to talk with Sheehan. Bush will be speaking there in two days. Zappala will be there to greet him.

"How is it possible that speaking against the war is inappropriate in Salt Lake City?" Zappala demands into the phone.

She's developed an assertive, polished way of speaking to the media, undoubtedly due to many days like this. The phone interview ends, and she sits down in the living room to face another. In less than 24 hours Zappala will be on a plane to Utah, but for now she's busy running things here. Her cell phone rings countless times an hour. It's her day off, but that doesn't mean much anymore.

In her own home-her wispy whitish-blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses glowing in warm lamp light-Zappala's motherly manner is more pronounced. She offers drinks from the kitchen and frequently shouts questions upstairs to Raphael, the younger of her two biological sons. She has a comforting presence, but as soon as she starts to speak, it's clear her demeanor can be deceiving.

To explain her approach to anger, she quotes Martin Luther King Jr.: "I've decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden."

Zappala talks about American foreign policy and the history of Iraq with the authority of someone who knows. But she also knows that part of her power comes from her ability to connect with ordinary Americans.

"I think there's something you can't get past when you look at me," she says. "I'm directly affected. This was my child."

Her voice begins to quiver, as it often does when she speaks of the event that brought her here. "That's irrefutable, you know? So I think it resonates with people that this is a human thing. It's not two political talking heads bouncing back and forth. This is real."

Cassidy Hartmann (chartmann@philadelphiaweekly.com) last wrote about Penn researcher Scott Mackler's battle with ALS. This is her first story as a PW staff writer.