Adams: Freedom Riders risked their lives

Janus Adams, historian and social commentator, is the author of "Freedom Days," a history of the Civil Rights movement.

Fifty years ago this week, the Freedom Riders -- James Farmer, executive director of the Congress of Racial Equality, plus seven black and six white volunteers -- risked their lives for the simple right to buy a bus ticket and expect, in return, safe passage and respect.

Such was, and is, the frustration of America's human rights struggle. Unable to fully unpack the baggage of racism, each molehill of affront requires a mountain of activism to uproot it. So we inch on.

Six years had passed since Rosa Parks kept her historic bus seat for freedom and dignity, and 15 since the Supreme Court ruled that segregated travel violated the Constitution.

Yet, in those fabled days of "Camelot" in 1961, interstate southern travel -- buses, trains, restrooms, waiting rooms, water fountains, restaurants -- was still Jim Crow segregated.

Bringing attention to this untenable situation, the Freedom Riders boarded two buses in Washington that would take them on a journey through the South and into history.

Their strategy was to behave as if the existing law was being upheld. They seated one interracial pair in adjoining seats, one black rider up front in the whites-only section, scattered other volunteers throughout the bus, and positioned one black rider in the rear "colored" section to call for help and arrange bail if needed.

In the tradition of Gandhi, Farmer believed in letting one's adversaries -- especially those in power -- know what the demonstrators were going to do. Letters went out to all concerned.

The Ku Klux Klan also served notice: Attack! With Klansmen among the police and FBI, a pact was made giving the Klan 15 minutes to kill, literally, before police intervened.

On May 14, the Riders' bus was mobbed in Anniston, Ala., by whites defending their way of life. Tires of the bus were slashed before it could speed off with 50 Klan cars in pursuit. When the tires gave out, the mob knocked in windows, blocked exits and firebombed the bus.

Only when a state investigator on board fired warning shots did the mob retreat and the Riders escape the flames.

Arriving strategically late, troopers took the Riders to Anniston Hospital, where they were again attacked, then evicted by hospital staffers afraid for their own safety.

Armed black clergymen came to spirit the Riders away. In the coming months, volunteers from across the nation arrived to carry on for the wounded. Waves of Freedom Riders filled bus seats and jail cells until, on Nov. 1, 1961, the Interstate Commerce Commission finally enforced its own law, ordering Greyhound and Trailways to desegregate buses and facilities.

Who were these heroes?

Among the original Freedom Riders, Rep. John Lewis (D-Ga.), then only 21, was badly beaten and left for dead by his attackers.

As he says in the PBS American Experience documentary "Freedom Riders," airing Monday, "Boarding that Greyhound bus to travel through the heart of the Deep South, I felt good. I felt happy. I felt liberated. I was like a soldier in a nonviolent army. I was ready."

Soldiers they were, nonviolent warriors. Such was his commitment that Lewis later suffered a fractured skull at the hands of the Alabama State Police on the historic March to Selma -- an event that led to the Voting Rights Act of 1965 and, decades later, the election of President Barack Obama.

When we honor those who sacrifice themselves for our freedom, the Freedom Riders -- all those who gave or risked their lives to bring freedom to millions here at home -- should be high on the list.

In a time of hypocrisy and unbridled racism, the Freedom Riders braved the worst and rallied our country to conscience.