Notorious eco-warrior Rodney Coronado is warning animal researchers at MSU and elsewhere that they are being watched and targeted by the radical environmental movement.
But don't expect Coronado to be the one lighting the fire.
Rather, the 37-year-old who spent 57 months in prison for firebombing MSU research laboratories is traveling the country and inciting a new generation of militant environmentalists to carry the torch.
"Our direct action is more necessary now more than ever," Coronado said during a phone interview last week from his home in Tucson, Ariz. "It is, more than ever, up to citizens to hold corporations and individuals accountable for their environmental crimes."
Coronado, a longtime leader of the underground Animal Liberation Front, has been connected to numerous raids against animal research centers, some of which occurred about a dozen years ago. In the early 1990s, ecoterrorists invaded several fur farms during "Operation Bite Back," an offensive aimed at bringing mink research to a halt.
On Feb. 28, 1992, Coronado and the Animal Liberation Front struck MSU, destroying research and causing more than $125,000 in damage.
The aggressors stormed the office of now-retired animal science professor Richard Aulerich, erasing more than 30 years of exploration into nutrition and the natural decline of mink populations. The bombing also claimed 10 years of work by then-assistant professor Karen Chou, who was studying ways to use fewer animals in experiments.
They also ransacked an MSU mink research farm on Jolly Road, wrecking equipment and opening the cages of animals.
"I wish I could do it again, only I wish I could take all of the animals out of the environmental fur farm," Coronado said. "I have absolutely no regrets, and I hope the same thing continues to happen at MSU and every other college campus that does animal research."
The animals, however, did not leave.
And the researchers didn't stop their work.
After becoming a victim 12 years ago, Chou never surrendered her passion and energy for research.
"I know how strong terrorists' minds are - and mine is just as strong," said Chou, now an assistant professor of toxicology studying the effect of contaminants on human health.
While vowing to persist in her work, Chou said she believes ecoterrorists are often passionate and intelligent people who don't properly channel their energy.
"I just wish they would be opening up their minds and thinking - and communicating - with researchers, instead of attacking," she said.
"They can't open up communication by hiding themselves behind a mask and committing crimes."
No compromise: The persistent threat
Ecoterrorists say there is no time for discussion or using above-ground techniques in the fight to save animals.
"What I'm continuing to do is cutting out the equation that wastes the most amount of time - and that is working within the system," said Coronado, now a spokesman for the Animal Liberation Front and the Earth Liberation Front, known as ALF and ELF, respectively.
Earning public support for their actions is not an objective for the radical wing of the environmental movement.
Rather, their goal is to rattle the minds of researchers, making them think twice before using animals in their experiments.
"The fact is, the attack at Michigan State University wasn't one that was based on winning public support," Coronado said. "It was about affecting that individual research, and that individual researcher - Richard Aulerich."
Aulerich declined to speak about the incident to The State News.
As a convicted ecoterrorist who spent four years in jail for the animal-rights cause, Coronado's fearless reputation gives him the platform to recruit others to join the crusade.
In 2002, Coronado regained his place at the forefront of the movement when his probation terms expired, allowing him to return to the circuit and lend his voice to the revolution.
Since then, he has given dozens of lectures, conducted demonstrations and ushered in those who will succeed him on the front lines of the struggle.
Environmental radicals say there is a growing urgency to recruit more soldiers to address new research in genetic engineering and biotechnology. And they said there is no room for compromise.
"It is the corporations and biotechnology industry that are on the cutting edge of developing a whole new level of oppression of the natural world," said Coronado, who was arrested last month in Arizona for interfering with a mountain lion hunt.
As long as MSU remains "closely aligned" with industries conducting research on biotechnology and genetics, Coronado said MSU "will remain a target."
On Dec. 31, 1999, ELF activists bombed biotechnology facilities at MSU's Agriculture Hall, causing $400,000 in damage.
Coronado, who was released from prison in 1999, remarked that "it is not like anybody is individually targeting MSU." Rather, he said, they are targeting "wherever this research is being conducted."
The ELF has been charged with causing more than $100 million in damage to research laboratories and developments since the mid-1990s. Both ALF and ELF have taken credit for hundreds of small and large strikes across the globe.
Police continue to investigate the 1999 bombing and have not made any arrests.
MSU police Chief Jim Dunlap, who was a deputy chief during the raids, said both cases have caused "significant losses to the university" and had a "chilling effect on researchers."
"They take it personally, as we do, and they have a vested interest in making sure their facilities are safe," Dunlap said. "It is always going to be difficult to fight, but these are not cases that lend themselves to being readily solved in a year or two years."
Coronado, who hasn't been connected to the 1999 assault, said it was justified direct action and proves "MSU is no stranger to genetic engineering and animal-abuse research."
"We continue to monitor the level of genetic engineering that MSU is involved in, as well as what people still involved in fur research are doing," Coronado said.
"There is never any point in time where these people escape our surveillance or our attention - not until they get out of the business."
Coronado said the firebombings of the early 1990s "ushered in a new culture that animals abusers are going to have to live in - one where they know there are people willing to represent those they are oppressing and abusing."
Making it personal
Intimidation isn't an effective way of making a statement, says Chou, who has been conducting research at MSU for more than 20 years.
"Unfortunately," she said, threats and harassment are "something we have to live with."
"I have seen researchers drop out of animal research because of the threat coming toward them."
After the 1992 incident, a faculty member who co-taught with Chou and Aulerich decided to stop working with them because of the threat of violence. MSU researchers affected by the arson also received menacing phone calls after the attack.
"It affects a lot of personal decisions," said Chou, who worried that her children would be threatened after the raid.
Concerns about the 1992 strike extended far beyond the few who were targeted.
After the attack, many researchers declined to speak with the media because they didn't want to draw attention to their work.
Immediately after the bombing, Aulerich told The State News that the researchers felt they did "nothing wrong" and that if the university desired, they could continue.
Sue Nichols, who covered the bombing as a reporter for the Lansing State Journal, said other researchers were forced to consider their own studies and evaluate if they could become potential targets.
"It takes a while to process because you don't know what you are dealing with," said Nichols, now a spokesperson for MSU science and research in the Office of University Relations.
As a reporter, Nichols said it often was difficult to explain the intentions of the Animal Liberation Front to readers.
The activists had unusual methods of communicating, she said. They often sent messages and made broad claims about how animals were treated at MSU. Few of their assertions could be substantiated.
"It was a ghost," said Nichols, a police reporter for the Journal for about 10 years. "You couldn't talk to anyone. It was like they violated all the rules of sources."
The nature of the bombing disturbed parents of undergraduates, who, in some cases, became nervous about campus safety.
"Any time you hit a university, people's children go there. There's a lot of parents all over the state and country who were very concerned about it." Nichols said.
Coronado said "making it personal" is a key component of the movement's plans to cause change among researchers.
He said the movement will stop short of targeting people.
"I do not think our movement has anything to gain by compromising our core principle, which is the protection of life," he said.
"Our actions are always about removing the weapons of mass destruction before they are even used, whether it be a research laboratory, fur farm or a genetically engineered plot of corn."
Coronado also does not classify the actions of militant activists as violence. Instead, raids or arsons are necessary steps taken to protect the natural world, he said.
"It is counterproductive to use violence," he said. "Once you start using violence, you become what you oppose."
Chief Dunlap said attacks by ALF and ELF are hardly nonviolent.
"Those are not people out there who are trying to protest for a cause and make a difference," he said. "That's a long way from the truth.
"These are just common criminals."
At the time of the 1992 bombing, there were two students inside Anthony Hall.
They escaped the fire.
Protecting 'U'
As the network of militant environmental groups expands, investigators and research organizations are countering it with their own surveillance.
MSU police say they are better trained to prevent and investigate an attack on campus after their bout with ecoterrorism in the 1990s.
After the bombing, MSU devoted substantial resources to tracking down the perpetrators and bringing them to justice.
A year and a half after the 1992 bombing, the federal government indicted Coronado for his role in the MSU assault. Coronado became a fugitive until he was arrested in September 1994.
"We were quite thrilled that we could identify, catch up with him and get him into custody," said MSU police Inspector William Wardwell, who investigated the 1992 bombing.
The indictment alleged that Coronado had crossed state lines to steal research materials and carry out the attack against MSU. He faced a maximum prison term of 50 years and a fine of $1.25 million.
In 1995, Coronado became the first activist to go to jail for committing terrorism on behalf of an animal-rights organization. After pleading guilty to one count of aiding and abetting an arson, Coronado was sentenced to 57 months in federal prison and ordered to pay fines.
For police, the sentence was a rare victory in the fight against the elusive soldiers of the radical environmental movement.
Many lessons were taken from that investigation that still are helpful in guarding against future attacks.
"We are much better informed now than we were in 1992," said Wardwell, director of the department's investigations bureau.
Still, the department was caught off-guard when ecoterrorists returned in 1999 and firebombed Agriculture Hall.
"We thought we had taken our hit and we thought we had gone through that," Wardwell said. "Now, we know they can come back and hit us at any time."
But Coronado said it isn't that simple.
"It is not like there are the very same people lurking around the shadows, waiting for the moment to strike," Coronado said. "It is totally determined by what is going on at the university."
If the danger to animals is great enough, Coronado said environmental activists are willing to risk their freedom to protect nature.
"Based on the continuing amount of actions that are taking place under the banner of the ELF and the ALF, I think there is no shortage of people willing to make those sacrifices," he said.
Last month, Coronado was arrested in Arizona and charged with interfering in a state-sanctioned mountain lion hunt. He faces 18 months in jail if convicted.
"That's just a sacrifice that we have to be willing to make," he said. "The only thing that makes our society willing to take notice is when we stand up and challenge laws that are unjust."
A mounting concern
The radical movement is "getting bigger and recruiting more foot soldiers," says David Martosko, the research director of the Center for Consumer Freedom, an organization that monitors radical environmental activists.
"When Rod Coronado burned down that lab in East Lansing, he was a pretty young guy," Martosko said. "He wasn't much older than a typical college student.
"This is a college crop they are recruiting."
Last year, Martosko said his organization received a tape of Coronado teaching students how to build an incendiary device.
Martosko said Coronado is viewed as a "bulletproof" activist who stands at the far fringe of his movement inciting others.
"He sees his role as educating the next generation of violent thugs," he said. "There should be consequences for arming young kids, which is basically what he is doing."
And, Martosko said, extremists are determined to bring "the entire industry to their knees."
Mainstream animal rights organizations, such as People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, or PETA, say they are supportive of anyone willing to bring up animal rights issues on college campuses - including Coronado.
"If Rod Coronado can speak and encourage people, that's really a good thing," said Karin Robertson, PETA's youth outreach manager, who noted that interest among college students in animal rights is soaring.
"His message is supportive of animal liberties and animal rights."
Robertson said PETA promotes civil disobedience and legal means of making a statement for animal rights. Critics, though, say PETA is supportive of the more radical wing of the movement.
"We don't condemn anybody's activities," Robertson said. "We are a nonprofit organization, and we don't do anything illegal."
When students first become involved in the movement, they often are drawn in by video footage of animals in fur and factory farms, she said.
"People are so horrified that they want to go out and make a change," she said. "There is certainly an appeal for new activists to say this animal isn't going to struggle anymore."
A new era of eco-warfare
In the post-Sept. 11 environment where terrorists are broadly grouped, Darryl Cherney, a longtime activist and colleague of Coronado, says it is becoming increasingly difficult for activists to find an outlet for their concerns.
"All of a sudden, environmentalists and activists are being portrayed as terrorists," Cherney said during a phone interview from his home in California.
"Do we change who we are based on the change in politics?" he said. "My gut instinct is that we have to continue being who we are, but understand that the effect we have on society is being perceived negatively."
Cherney said activists like Coronado must not let the current climate lessen their fight.
"When people come back around to a sense of normalcy, they'll go back to people like Rod Coronado and say, 'Maybe I should listen more closely to what people like him have to say,'" Cherney said. "Maybe he is ahead of his time and maybe the times are catching up to him."
To Chou, the activists never will achieve their goals until they are willing to compromise and open a dialogue with researchers.
"There are good researchers and not-so-good researchers," she said. "There are good activists, there are not so good activists.
"How are we going to work together to achieve the common goal? He should take that as a mission."
The solution, she said, could begin with a leader of the movement, such as Coronado.
"If individuals like him, who are so talented and have so much energy, would take a leadership role and organize something, then we can achieve something much sooner than the natural course," she said.
Coronado, though, isn't interested in becoming a leader within the system. Instead, he says it is more effective to encourage others to use any means necessary to spark the end of animal research.
And he prides himself on being one of the "rare individuals who can talk about what it is like to carry out a firebomb attack on a research laboratory."
For now, Coronado will let the actions of militant environmentalists speak for the movement.
"If our government can demonstrate a greater responsibility for protecting our environment for future generations, there won't be as much need for an increased level of direct action," he said.
Until then, Coronado says, researchers should expect the environmental soldiers to "bite back."
Steve Eder can be reached at ederstev@msu.edu.
