They were on the hard marble floor, crouching for cover, long after the majority of the other MPs had been carried to safety.
About three dozen House Democrats were the last ones to leave the house on Jan. 6, trapped in the gallery and occupying balcony seats off-limits to the public according to COVID-19, as the certification of a presidential election gave way to a violent insurgency.
They called their relatives as the danger approached and the rioters attempted to burst down the doors. They frantically searched for homemade weapons and were psychologically prepared to fight. Many people believed they were going to die.
Rep. Jason Crow, D-Colo., a former Army Ranger who did three deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, stated, “When I looked up, I realized we were stuck.” “They were the ones who had vacated the House floor first.” “And they completely forgot about us.”
The politicians were both witnesses and victims of an unprecedented assault on American democracy, bound together by circumstance and sharing a trauma that was unique to them. They remained in the chamber, together with a limited number of staffers and members of the media, while Capitol Police struggled to keep a surging, yelling throng of supporters of then-President Donald Trump at bay.
Approximately an hour after the siege began, the politicians were ultimately evacuated to safety.
Before this week’s anniversary of the attack, ten House members who were in the gallery spoke to reporters about how severely shocked they were by their experience, recalling viscerally the sights and noises among the pandemonium.
They vividly recall the hornet-like buzz of their gas masks. Outside, there was an almighty boom of tear gas in the passageways. Officers’ cries instructing them to get down. The pounding of knocks on the doors below. As the rioters punched through a windowpane, glass shattered. The knobs on the closed doors clanging ominously just a few feet behind them.
The booming clap of a gunshot reverberated across the huge chamber, and that was the most indelible sound.
Crow remarked, “I’ve heard a lot of gunshots in my time, and it was very evident what that was.” “I could tell things had gotten out of hand.”
Officer Michael Byrd fired the shot that killed Ashli Babbitt, a Trump supporter from California who was attempting to crawl through a smashed window of a door leading to the House chamber. The incident was investigated by the Justice Department and Capitol Police, but no charges were filed.
While the gunshot dispersed part of the enraged crowd, politicians in the gallery feared the worst was yet to come.
Rep. Peter Welch, D-Vt., who tweeted video updates as the situation unfolded, said, “I think all of us, myself included, had images of a mass-shooting event.” “At the time, it was horrifying.”
Rep. Mike Quigley, D-Illinois, claimed he could tell the gunfire came from the back of the chamber, near the Speaker’s Lobby, rather than the main doors on the opposite side, where protesters were attempting to breakthrough. He knew why they couldn’t flee at that point: they were surrounded. “You recognized the severity in phases,” he explained.
The mob’s panic was amplified by the fact that they knew what they were up against: preventing Congress from certifying the Electoral College votes that would elect Joe Biden as the 46th president of the United States. Mike Pence presided over the ceremony in the House chamber, where members gathered to hear the certified results from all 50 states and territories, as is usual for the vice president.
Trump had a different plan.
Trump pressed Pence to reject the electors, despite the fact that he was spreading lies about election fraud that his own Justice Department denied – a move that would have gone against the Constitution and thrown the House, and possibly the country, into disarray. Pence refused, but Trump held a rally at the Ellipse in Washington before the vote was counted, asking hundreds of fans to “fight like hell.”
The mob screamed “Hang Mike Pence” as they pushed their way into the Capitol, obliterating cops who stood in their way. Dozens of people were hurt, some gravely, and four officers who were present that day eventually committed themselves.
Rep. Val Demings, D-Fla., was one of the lawmakers who sought refuge in the gallery. She attempted to stay calm, remembering what she had learned as the chief of the Orlando police department. But, without a pistol or any of the other weapons she usually carried on the beat, she felt incapacitated.
When the cops announced the building had been “breached,” she trembled.
“That is probably the word about that day that I will remember more than any other for the rest of my life,” Demings added. “I knew that meant the cops had lost the line in some way.” And, as a former cop, I know they would have done all in their ability to keep that line open in order to protect us.”
“Just remember, we’re on the right side of history,” she says she urged a coworker who was sheltering with her in the gallery. Another group will come in and certify those ballots if we all die today.”
That night, Congress reconvened, and by daylight, Biden’s election victory was certified.
Many of the politicians in the gallery began text messaging each other in the days following the attack. It gradually morphed into therapeutic group sessions and even potluck get-togethers as they attempted to make sense of it all.
They came up with the moniker “the gallery group,” and it stuck.
As they waited to speak on the floor at the request of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, D-Calif., the Democrats were socially separating themselves in the balcony, and those interviewed said they didn’t recall any Republicans cowering beside them. Rep. Kelly Armstrong of North Dakota, a Republican, was in the gallery at the start of the uprising and told a local news station about it later that evening. He, on the other hand, declined to be interviewed. Reps. Markwayne Mullin of Oklahoma and Troy Nehls of Texas were among the Republicans who assisted authorities in barricading the entryway below.
Some of the Democrats who sought refuge in the gallery intend to gather this week at the Capitol, not only to commemorate their own experiences and honor those who helped them, but also to reflect on the country’s near escape from a coup attempt.
Rep. Mikie Sherrill of New Jersey a former Navy helicopter pilot, remarked, “We were the last persons in the chamber.” “I believe we saw the whole thing unfold in a way that no one else on the Hill has seen.”
The first virtual session was organized by Rep. Pramila Jayapal of Washington State on the Sunday following the insurgency. After speaking up on a Democratic caucus call about what the group had gone through and how they felt forgotten, she received many texts from colleagues.
“It turned into a three-hour Zoom,” Jayapal explains. “It was a highly intimate experience.” Many details regarding what they were going through were provided. There were numerous tears. There was a lot of rage in the room. There was a lot of, like, how could this possibly be? “How could this happen in our Capitol when we’re in America?”
Many of the participants went on to seek counseling. Some were diagnosed with PTSD, which was compounded by the heightened tensions on Capitol Hill and a growing number of death threats. Others stated the growing inclination among Republican legislators and some members of the public to downplay or ignore the violence has traumatized them more than the incident itself.
The gallery group, lawmakers said, has been a safe haven throughout it all.
Rep. Norma Torres, D-Calif., adds, “I think it truly saved my mental health.” “It simply seemed like every time someone posted something, we were all awake and responding to each other, no matter what time of day or night it was.” As a result, that was really effective.”
Rep. Annie Kuster, who sought therapy for PTSD, says the gallery group communicates almost daily by text message chain, which was transferred to an encrypted app when several members expressed concerns about security. “It’s sometimes to obtain a ride to a vote,” she says. ‘Who’s cooking, and can you bring a bottle of wine to a get-together dinner?’ And sometimes it’s about how we handle pain and how we can keep our democracy alive.”
On Jan. 6, Kuster, D-N.H., was one of the first lawmakers to be released out of the gallery, fleeing with three other members via the doors moments before the remaining politicians were shut inside. A group of rioters was racing at Kuster’s party as they approached the hallway.
Kuster explained, “We ducked into the elevator.” “And I said to this amazing cop, ‘Oh, my God, what if the elevator doors open and they kill us?'” And I’ll never forget this moment… he said, ‘Ma’am, I’m here to defend you,’ and he was protecting our democracy.”
Fear was growing among those who remained in the gallery. Crow was caring to Rep. Susan Wild, D-Pa., who was upset after speaking with a family member, while also interacting with Mullin on the floor below, who was assisting with the barrier. Rep. Lisa Blunt Rochester, D-Delaware, was yelling a peace and healing prayer. Jayapal, who had just undergone knee replacement surgery and was walking with a cane, was trying to figure out how she would get away if she had to flee. Some of her female coworkers knelt beside her and held hands with her.
Even while insurgents continued to try to smash through the doors downstairs, Capitol Police judged that the upstairs area was clear. The legislators and others were ushered out of the chamber and down a maze of stairwells and corridors. They could see police officers holding five or six rioters down on the ground with pistols pointing at their heads as they walked away.
The rioters were centimeters from the gallery’s doors.
Rep. Jim Himes, D-Conn., says he’s made an effort not to think about what happened. But he can’t get the pictures out of his head of police dragging heavy furniture to the House floor in front of the main doors as rioters sought to beat them down.
Himes says he spends a lot of time in high-security places as a member of the House Intelligence Committee, and he assumed the Capitol was one of them until Jan. 6.
“It was like seeing water go uphill,” Himes explained. “Something you thought was impossible is unfolding right before your eyes.”
One of the most upsetting aspects of Kuster’s experience was not being able to see what was going on outside the chamber. “The noises of the danger — the beating on the door, the shouting in the hallways,” they could only hear.
She watched hours of video from the insurgency when she got home two days later, including horrifying footage from the police clashes outside the building. It merely added to the trauma.
“I remember my spouse walking through the door and me just bawling,” Kuster recalled. “And he grabbed my hand and said, ‘I’m not sure if this is the best thing for you to witness.'”
“However, we must — we must face the reality of what occurred that day.” And what makes it difficult for us is that we are both victims and witnesses to the crime that has taken place in our country.”
