Crusader’s Violent Death Sows the Seeds of Activism

Arnold Mireles died in defense of his neighborhood. Now his neighbors are repaying the debt by carrying on his work.

Mireles, a 35-year-old grass-roots activist, was gunned down in the waning days of 1997, just a block from the community center that was his base for efforts to reclaim a pocket of Chicago’s Southeast Side--a half-forgotten slice of the city filled with shuttered steel mills, where a once-tidy working-class section has been infiltrated by crime and decay.

Mireles’ wallet was found at the scene, effectively ruling out robbery as a motive. In his briefcase were files and photographs concerning a dozen buildings at which he was trying to get the city to force improvements.

At least one of those buildings belonged to Roel Salinas, who, police say, had served jail time for disdaining court orders to repair his properties. Police have charged Salinas with hiring two teenage gang members to assassinate Mireles. The landlord, whose lawyer denies the accusation, allegedly paid $10,000 for the hit.

The sorry scenario of criminals retaliating against crusading volunteers is not a new one. From St. Louis’ Walnut Park to Los Angeles’ Oakwood section, verbal threats to do-gooders have given way to tossed Molotov cocktails and whizzing bullets. Too often, the effect has been to scare off people who might start a Neighborhood Watch or testify in court--and no one can really blame them.

But this case is different. The killing of Mireles has knitted together blacks, Anglos and Latinos on the streets where he was born and grew up, and has sown a new crop of activists here.

Scores of residents are assuming his mantle. The quick arrests have washed intimidation away. The memory of Mireles’ quiet perseverance has brought forth a new dedication.

The neighbors did more than craft an instant shrine of poinsettias and votive candles on the corner of 89th and Exchange, where Mireles’ blood stained the sidewalk. They did more than turn out by the hundreds for his funeral, watching a bagpiper lead the hearse containing his coffin, which was borne by police officers and draped with a City of Chicago flag.

They did more than pin to their lapels white ribbons that read: “I love you, Arnold.” They did more than propose naming an elementary school after him.

They also answered the emotional call of Mireles’ sister, Sonia Mireles Reedy. “What he wants of us is to work, work, work and to fight, fight, fight for the community,” she begged at one of the many meetings that followed the murder. “Let’s come together.”

The pastor at Sweet Holy Spirit Full Gospel Church asked 50 members to sign up for a community police program. Sixty-five did.

In the basement of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, hundreds more picked up forms to volunteer, signing up to tutor children, translate for Spanish-speaking neighbors or support crime victims as they testify in court.

“We’ve had meetings where we used to have six people and now we get 25,” said Chicago police Sgt. Lucius Moore. “And as more people participate, the people who were already participating are stepping up and taking leadership positions.”

Two of Mireles’ friends have spent the weeks since his death snapping Polaroids of broken windows and yawning holes to carry to Housing Court. Another has taken on Mireles’ role as an organizer for police beat meetings.

A state legislator also is trying to add a layer of protection for good citizens who take action against bad seeds. Illinois Rep. Edward Acevedo, a Democrat, introduced a bill to place such volunteers on the same plane as police officers, allowing prosecutors to seek the death penalty against someone convicted of harming a community organizer.

Mireles, the son of immigrants from San Luis Potosi in Mexico, always lived in the area where he died. His father worked for U.S. Steel for 30 years.

This neighborhood is home to the national shrine to St. Jude, the patron of lost causes. But even as gangs took root and slums spread, Mireles never gave up hoping or working.

In recent years, conditions had actually been getting better, said the Rev. Daniel Drinan, pastor at Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Yet Mireles didn’t slack off. His parents went to Drinan looking for their son on Christmas Day; he was seven hours late for dinner. It turned out he’d been serving meals to the homeless at the local YMCA.

Last month, Chicago’s Housing Court took up the matter of a wooden house occupied by about a dozen tenants, a center for drug dealing and gang activity, according to complainants. It is owned by Salinas.

If Mireles were alive, he and his “bodyguards”--two old ladies who speak only Spanish--would have been in attendance, pressing home the point that somebody in South Chicago cares.

In their place, said Drinan, a church bus carried Mireles’ legacy: 80 newly minted activists.

“That has been the miracle,” Drinan said.