The Radicalisation of Timothy McVeigh: From Ruby Ridge To Oklahoma Via Waco
- dthholland
- Apr 19
- 19 min read
On the morning of 19 April 1995, a yellow Ryder rental truck pulled up outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Moments later, a blast tore through the heart of the structure, killing 168 people—including 19 children in a day-care centre—and injuring hundreds more. In the hours that followed, authorities believed it might've have been foreign terrorists. But the truth would shock the nation: the perpetrator was a clean-cut, 27-year-old Gulf War veteran from upstate New York. His name was Timothy McVeigh—and he was homegrown. How did a quiet loner from a small town become America’s most infamous domestic terrorist?
Early Years: Alienation in Pendleton
Born on 23 April 1968, in Lockport, New York, McVeigh grew up in the nearby town of Pendleton—a rural, mostly white, working-class area with fewer than 2,000 residents. His father, Bill, worked at a car radiator plant, while his mother, Mickey, left the family when Timothy was just ten. He remained with his father and developed an introverted, often solitary disposition.
Friends and classmates later described McVeigh as intelligent but socially awkward. He was fascinated by guns and survivalist literature, and by his teens, had already developed a deep mistrust of the federal government.
He also nurtured a belief in a looming “New World Order”, a conspiratorial notion that global elites were plotting to take over national governments and impose authoritarian rule. These ideas were fringe at the time but were gaining traction in the early 1990s with the rise of militia movements and the spread of alternative media through newsletters and shortwave radio.
Military Service: Discipline Meets Disillusionment
After graduating high school in 1986, McVeigh enrolled briefly at Bryant & Stratton College in Buffalo, New York. He studied business but quickly grew bored and disillusioned with classroom life. He dropped out after just one semester. Like many young men from economically modest backgrounds, McVeigh found himself at a crossroads—uncertain about his future and increasingly disengaged from the civilian world. In 1988, he chose to enlist in the United States Army, seeking purpose, structure, and a sense of belonging.
For a time, military life seemed to suit him well. Stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, McVeigh quickly developed a reputation as a disciplined, competent soldier. He excelled in weapons training, particularly with the M60 machine gun, and was known to be methodical, obedient, and highly focused. In letters home, he expressed enthusiasm for the Army’s orderliness and esprit de corps, describing it as a kind of ideal environment compared to the disordered civilian life he had left behind.
His performance in the Army culminated in a deployment to the Gulf War in 1991 as part of Operation Desert Storm. There, he served as a gunner in the 1st Infantry Division, nicknamed “The Big Red One.” Though McVeigh saw relatively limited combat, he was part of the ground assault that pushed Iraqi forces out of Kuwait. For his service, he was awarded the Bronze Star—a mark of distinction that added to his growing sense of military identity and competence.
At this point, McVeigh began to dream bigger. He set his sights on joining the Army’s elite Special Forces, believing that the rigorous training and covert operations would elevate his sense of purpose. However, the reality did not match his aspirations. In 1991, he entered the Special Forces selection programme but found himself physically unprepared for the demands. After just two days, he voluntarily withdrew.
This failure struck a deep and lasting blow. For McVeigh, who had increasingly tied his self-worth to his performance and identity as a soldier, washing out of Special Forces was more than a setback—it was a personal rejection. His sense of purpose, which had been built up through years of military discipline, was suddenly fractured.
Shortly thereafter, he left the Army with an honourable discharge, but he struggled to reintegrate into civilian life. He returned to New York and began a period of increasing social withdrawal and instability. He moved in and out of temporary jobs—often low-paid, menial work that seemed a far cry from his days in uniform. During this time, McVeigh began to live out of his car, surviving on fast food and using motel showers when he could afford them. He took to selling military surplus items and firearms paraphernalia at gun shows, which soon became a central feature of his life.
It was in this liminal space, between his former military identity and his increasingly fragmented civilian existence, that McVeigh’s political and ideological radicalisation began to deepen. Gun shows were more than just commercial events. In the 1990s, they functioned as informal meeting points for survivalists, conspiracy theorists, anti-tax protesters, and militia sympathisers. At these gatherings, McVeigh encountered a steady stream of literature warning of government overreach and the erosion of constitutional rights. He listened to speakers promoting doomsday scenarios, and found affirmation for his growing suspicion that the federal government was not to be trusted.
The discontent that had quietly simmered within him during his youth now found direction. The loneliness and disenchantment of post-military life merged with ideological fuel he encountered at gun shows. Increasingly, McVeigh saw the federal state not as the imperfect steward of democracy, but as a coercive and illegitimate authority, one that operated outside the bounds of justice and with impunity.
This perspective found powerful reinforcement in two major incidents that dominated the early 1990s: the 1992 standoff at Ruby Ridge in Idaho, where U.S. Marshals attempted to arrest Randy Weaver, a former Green Beret and Christian Identity adherent, who had failed to appear in court on firearms charges. The standoff between Weaver’s family and the federal authorities began as a surveillance operation but quickly escalated into a shootout. In the initial exchange, Weaver’s 14-year-old son, Sammy, and Deputy U.S. Marshal William Degan were killed. The following day, an FBI sniper shot and killed Weaver’s wife, Vicki, as she stood in the doorway of their cabin holding their infant daughter.
Waco and Ruby Ridge: Catalysts of Hatred
The federal siege at Ruby Ridge, wasn't just a flashpoint in the American news cycle, it became, for Timothy McVeigh, a foundational event in a growing mythology of government overreach and civil rebellion. It acted as an ideological accelerant, solidifying his perception that the federal government no longer operated as a protector of liberty but had become a tyrannical force willing to kill its own citizens to maintain control.
In the years that followed, congressional investigations would criticise the rules of engagement used at Ruby Ridge, and the Weaver family received a financial settlement. But for McVeigh and others already suspicious of federal authority, these outcomes only reinforced the belief that the government was capable of lethal excess and then quietly absolved itself.
Waco: The Breaking Point
Just eight months later, McVeigh witnessed what he believed was confirmation of everything Ruby Ridge had suggested. In February 1993, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF) attempted to serve a search and arrest warrant on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. The compound, led by David Koresh, was suspected of weapons violations and possible child abuse. What began as a routine operation turned into a bloody gun battle, killing four ATF agents and six Branch Davidians.
The incident escalated into a full-scale siege that lasted 51 days. During that time, the FBI used psychological warfare tactics, including loudspeakers, floodlights, and eventually tear gas. On 19 April 1993, the FBI launched a final assault, inserting tear gas into the building to force the occupants to surrender. Hours later, a fire broke out and quickly engulfed the compound. Seventy-six people died, including more than 20 children and Koresh himself. Though the exact cause of the fire remains contested—some believe the Davidians started it, others claim it was accidental or indirectly caused by the FBI’s actions—the images of the burning building were broadcast worldwide, fuelling conspiracy and outrage.
For McVeigh, Waco was not merely a tragedy; it was a turning point. He watched the siege unfold on television and later travelled to the site, standing among the ashes of the compound, deeply affected by what he saw as the government’s murder of innocents under the guise of law enforcement. In his mind, Waco confirmed that the federal government would use military-style force against its own citizens and hide behind legal justifications. From that point forward, McVeigh increasingly believed that violent retaliation was not only justified, it was necessary.
Ideological Foundation: The Turner Diaries and Conspiracy Thinking
Perhaps the most alarming and direct ideological influence on Timothy McVeigh was a slim, cheaply printed paperback titled The Turner Diaries, a work of dystopian fiction that has often been dubbed “the Bible of the racist right.” First published in 1978 under the pseudonym Andrew Macdonald, the novel was in fact written by William Luther Pierce, a former physics professor turned white supremacist who founded the National Alliance, one of the most influential neo-Nazi organisations in the United States during the late 20th century.
Pierce did not intend his book to be read purely as fiction. Rather, he designed it as a form of propaganda—a tool to inspire and instruct those sympathetic to anti-government, anti-Semitic, and white nationalist ideologies. In this, he succeeded to a chilling degree.
The novel is framed as the posthumous diary of Earl Turner, a fictional member of an underground white resistance group known as “The Organisation.” Set in a near-future United States, the story imagines a country where gun control laws have been aggressively enforced, multiculturalism dominates, and white Christians are being systematically disarmed and oppressed by a Zionist-controlled government.
Turner and his comrades respond by launching a violent insurgency. The novel portrays a cascade of terrorist attacks, assassinations, and acts of sabotage, all directed at government officials, journalists, academics, and anyone deemed to be working against the supposed preservation of the white race. The Organisation ultimately initiates a full-blown race war, culminating in the mass extermination of non-white populations and the complete destruction of the existing democratic system.
One of the book’s most infamous passages describes a fictional bombing of FBI headquarters using a truck filled with ammonium nitrate and fuel oil—ANFO explosives—the very method McVeigh would later employ in Oklahoma City. In Pierce’s narrative, the bombing is presented not just as a tactical success, but as a noble, almost sacred act of resistance against tyranny.
How McVeigh Engaged with the Book
McVeigh read The Turner Diaries repeatedly. He was first introduced to the novel during his military service and became increasingly obsessed with its content in the years following his discharge. When federal agents searched his car after his arrest, a copy of the book was found inside. Passages had been underlined, and notations in the margins indicated that he had studied the text with a kind of reverent seriousness.
To McVeigh, the book was not metaphorical dystopia or speculative fiction. It was a call to arms, a validation of his growing belief that violent revolution was not only inevitable but morally justified. He saw himself as a kind of Earl Turner figure, someone who, rather than complain about government overreach, would take decisive, transformative action. The novel gave his grievances a narrative arc, a heroic identity, and an endpoint: radical destruction followed by rebirth.
He distributed copies at gun shows and survivalist gatherings. He recommended it to friends and acquaintances, and even referred to it when discussing what he perceived to be the dangers of multiculturalism and federal authority. It was, in effect, his ideological blueprint.
What made the book especially dangerous in McVeigh’s hands was its combination of apocalyptic certainty and tactical guidance. It didn’t simply say that government was corrupt; it showed how to bomb federal buildings. It didn’t just warn of the dangers of diversity; it glorified genocide. And crucially, it did all of this while presenting its protagonist as righteous, embattled, and ultimately victorious.
The Turner Diaries and the Broader Milieu
While The Turner Diaries is widely reviled in mainstream society, within the paramilitary and white nationalist subcultures of the 1980s and 1990s, it was widely circulated and read. Copies were sold in gun shops, mailed to subscribers of far-right newsletters, and openly available at militia events. Law enforcement agencies were aware of the book’s influence, particularly after it was linked to several violent incidents.
Indeed, McVeigh was not the only person to act under its shadow. Members of The Order, a white supremacist group that committed a series of robberies and murders in the 1980s, explicitly cited the book as inspiration. One of the group’s leaders, Robert Jay Mathews, saw himself as a real-life counterpart to Earl Turner. Even after the Oklahoma City bombing, the book continued to appear in connection with various hate crimes and domestic terror plots.
For McVeigh, however, The Turner Diaries was more than an ideological compass. It was an emotional and psychological refuge, a place where his feelings of anger, impotence, and isolation were not only recognised, but weaponised. Its fictional world presented violence as cleansing, death as necessary, and revolution as inevitable.
Planning the Attack: From Thought to Action
By 1994, Timothy McVeigh’s ideology had hardened into violent resolve. After years of internalising anti-government rhetoric and immersing himself in survivalist circles, he moved from abstract resentment to the logistics of domestic terrorism. No longer content with merely expressing his outrage through pamphlets or conversation, McVeigh began to draw up a plan of action—a deliberate, meticulously plotted attack that he believed would strike a symbolic and strategic blow against the United States federal government.
At the time, McVeigh was living a nomadic and increasingly transient lifestyle. He had no fixed address, often sleeping in his car, staying in motels, or crashing with acquaintances. One of the key individuals in his orbit was Terry Nichols, a fellow Army veteran he had met during basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. The two men were not particularly close on a personal level, but they shared a fundamental distrust of federal authority and an affinity for survivalist values. Nichols, older and more reserved than McVeigh, provided a stabilising presence but also offered the kind of practical assistance that McVeigh required as his plan took shape.
Over several months, McVeigh discussed the ideology behind his intended act, as well as the tactical details, with Nichols. While Nichols never travelled to Oklahoma City on the day of the bombing, he played an essential role in the preparation phase—storing materials, helping to mix components, and assisting with timing and logistics. In late 1994, McVeigh began stockpiling the components for an ammonium nitrate fuel oil (ANFO) bomb, a type of explosive previously used in major terror attacks, including the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.
Procurement and Planning
The primary ingredient for the bomb—ammonium nitrate fertiliser—was purchased in bulk under the guise of agricultural use. McVeigh and Nichols sourced it from a farm supply store in Kansas, acquiring over two tons of the substance in 50-pound sacks. They supplemented this with gallons of commercial-grade nitromethane and fuel oil, which would act as accelerants. To enhance the bomb’s destructive capacity, they also added barrels filled with a mixture of chemicals and metal shrapnel to increase the blast radius.
Throughout late 1994 and early 1995, the pair used Nichols’ property and a storage unit in Herington, Kansas, as makeshift bomb-making facilities. They purchased chemicals and supplies in small quantities from different locations to avoid drawing suspicion. McVeigh kept careful notes and calculated blast effects and timing. He read and reread technical manuals, some of which had been circulated in militia circles or printed in underground publications. For him, this was not a suicide mission—it was a carefully considered strike meant to send a message.
Target Selection
McVeigh’s choice of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City was no accident. He had scouted several potential targets across the Midwest, including federal buildings in Missouri, Arkansas, and Texas. But Oklahoma City stood out for several reasons. The Murrah Building housed offices for multiple federal agencies, including the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF)—a particular focus of McVeigh’s hatred due to their role in the Waco siege—as well as the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), the Secret Service, and various military recruitment offices.
More symbolically, the building represented what McVeigh considered to be the oppressive machinery of the federal government. By attacking it, he believed he could strike at the “heart of the beast,” demonstrating to the public that government facilities were vulnerable and that resistance was possible.
He deliberately selected the date of 19 April 1995, exactly two years after the fire at Waco had claimed the lives of 76 Branch Davidians. For McVeigh, this was not just an anniversary, but an act of retribution. He intended the bombing as a “wake-up call” to the American people, whom he believed had grown complacent or complicit in the face of government overreach.
Final Preparations
In the final days before the attack, McVeigh checked into the Dreamland Motel in Junction City, Kansas. Under the alias “Robert Kling”—a name inspired by a fellow soldier and a character from Star Trek—he rented a Ryder truck from a nearby agency. Over the course of the night of 18 April, he parked the vehicle in a secluded area and began to assemble the bomb, filling the truck bed with barrels of explosives and wiring together multiple timed fuses.
The bomb itself, when completed, weighed nearly 5,000 pounds (approximately 2,300 kilograms). The components were arranged in such a way that the force of the explosion would be directed outward, maximising damage to the façade of the Murrah Building and the surrounding area. He built the triggering system using a combination of fuses, including a five-minute safety fuse and a backup delay system in case the first failed.
The plan was brutally simple. On the morning of 19 April, McVeigh rose early, drove the truck approximately 90 miles south to Oklahoma City, and parked it directly outside the Murrah Building’s north entrance. At 9:02 a.m., after lighting the fuse and exiting the vehicle on foot, he walked quickly away. The blast that followed was one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in American history.
The Bombing and Aftermath
The explosion was composed of approximately 4,800 pounds of ANFO—ammonium nitrate and fuel oil—and created a blast so powerful that it registered as a 3.0 magnitude earthquake on seismographs. The shockwave ripped through the heart of downtown Oklahoma City, shearing off the entire north façade of the nine-storey building in an instant.
The resulting devastation was catastrophic. A 30-foot-wide crater, around eight feet deep, was blasted into the street where the truck had been parked. More than one-third of the Murrah Building was reduced to rubble. Floors pancaked atop one another, trapping people under tons of debris. Windows shattered as far as ten blocks away, and the shockwave caused extensive structural damage to more than 300 buildings in the vicinity. Vehicles in the immediate area caught fire and were hurled through the air; their twisted remains were strewn across the street like wreckage from a war zone.
Glass rained down from nearby high-rises, and thick clouds of smoke and dust filled the air, choking survivors and disorienting first responders. Across the city, emergency services scrambled to understand the scope of the disaster. Calls flooded into 911 dispatchers reporting what many initially assumed to be a natural gas explosion. But as fire crews and police reached the site, the scale of the destruction made it quickly evident: this had been a deliberate act.
Rescue workers and volunteers formed human chains to pull survivors from the rubble. Amid the wreckage, the scene was harrowing—office workers dazed and bloodied, children carried from the collapsed building, and silence interrupted only by screams and the steady buzz of emergency radios. Among the dead were 19 young children from the building’s day-care centre, a tragic focal point that would come to define public memory of the bombing.
The death toll ultimately rose to 168 people, with more than 680 others injured. Forensic teams and fire brigades worked around the clock, first in the hopes of finding survivors, then in the grim task of recovering the deceased. Makeshift morgues were established, and grief-stricken families gathered in churches and civic halls for news. It was the deadliest terrorist attack ever committed on American soil at that time, and the worst act of domestic terrorism in the nation’s history.
The Arrest of Timothy McVeigh
While the federal government was launching the largest criminal investigation since the Kennedy assassination, code-named OKBOMB, the man responsible for the attack was already in custody, though at that point only on minor weapons charges.
Just 90 minutes after the bombing, at around 10:20 a.m., Oklahoma Highway Patrol Trooper Charles Hanger pulled over a yellow 1977 Mercury Marquis driving north on Interstate 35 near Perry, Oklahoma—approximately 80 miles from Oklahoma City. The vehicle had no rear licence plate, which was enough to warrant a routine traffic stop. The driver, calm and cooperative, identified himself as “Timothy James McVeigh” and provided a forged driver’s licence bearing the address of a motel in Junction City, Kansas.
During the stop, Hanger noticed a bulge beneath McVeigh’s windbreaker. Upon inspection, he discovered that McVeigh was carrying a concealed Glock 21 semi-automatic pistol, fully loaded and without a permit. Under Oklahoma law, this constituted a firearms offence, and McVeigh was promptly arrested and taken to the Noble County jail. He was booked under the weapons violation and given a $25,000 bond.
At the time, McVeigh was not yet connected to the bombing, and he offered no information that would alert authorities to his involvement. His calm demeanour and clean-cut appearance—he had served in the Army, after all—did not raise immediate suspicion.
How He Became the Prime Suspect
Meanwhile, FBI investigators and ATF agents were combing through the wreckage in Oklahoma City. Part of their task was forensic: collecting evidence that could identify what kind of bomb had been used, and perhaps who had built it. Amid the debris, a crucial clue emerged—a fragment of the Ryder truck’s rear axle with a partial vehicle identification number (VIN) still legible. Tracing that number, investigators were able to locate the Ryder rental agency in Junction City, Kansas.
From there, they obtained records showing the truck had been rented by a man using the name “Robert Kling.” A sketch based on the agency clerk’s description of the renter was widely circulated and immediately raised suspicion among those who had seen McVeigh in recent days. A motel clerk who had encountered him remembered his distinctive appearance—tall, slender, military haircut—and notified authorities.
The FBI moved quickly. After just two days in jail, and on the very day he was scheduled for release, McVeigh was positively identified. Fingerprints taken at the jail matched those found on the Ryder truck rental agreement. On 21 April, federal agents charged him with involvement in the bombing. It was a remarkable turn of events: McVeigh, who had nearly slipped away, was now facing the full weight of a federal investigation.
When the news broke, the public reaction was stunned. This was not a foreign national, nor part of a shadowy overseas network. McVeigh was a white American citizen, a veteran of the U.S. Army. He looked, by all outward appearances, like someone’s neighbour or co-worker. The shock of discovering that the attack had come from within rather than without marked a pivotal moment in how domestic terrorism was perceived in the United States.
Trial and Execution
Following his arrest and formal indictment, Timothy McVeigh’s trial became one of the most closely watched legal proceedings in American history. It began on 24 March 1997 in Denver, Colorado—moved there from Oklahoma due to concerns about the possibility of an impartial jury in the state most directly affected by the bombing. Presided over by U.S. District Judge Richard P. Matsch, the trial would span nearly two months, with opening statements setting the stage for a forensic presentation of one of the most devastating acts of domestic terrorism the country had ever witnessed.
From the outset, the government’s case against McVeigh was formidable. The prosecution, led by U.S. Attorney Joseph Hartzler, presented a compelling narrative supported by extensive physical and testimonial evidence. Witnesses had seen McVeigh at the Ryder truck rental location in Junction City, Kansas, under the alias “Robert Kling,” and their descriptions matched the composite sketch released after the bombing. More damningly, McVeigh’s fingerprints were found on the rental paperwork and on a map of Oklahoma City later recovered from his possession.
The Role of Terry Nichols and Michael Fortier
Two key figures helped build the case against McVeigh: his co-conspirator Terry Nichols and an Arizona acquaintance, Michael Fortier. Nichols, who was tried separately, had assisted McVeigh in gathering the bomb materials and storing them on his property. Though he denied full knowledge of the bombing plan, he was nevertheless convicted on multiple counts of conspiracy and manslaughter in a separate 1998 trial.
Michael Fortier, meanwhile, had been aware of McVeigh’s intentions for months. He had been told of the general plan and target, and although he took no direct part in constructing the bomb or delivering it, his foreknowledge and failure to report the plot made him complicit. In exchange for a reduced sentence, Fortier agreed to testify against McVeigh. On the stand, he confirmed that McVeigh had referred to the Murrah Building as a “military target” and expressed no concern about civilian casualties. Fortier’s testimony was particularly impactful, as it confirmed that McVeigh had not acted impulsively but had planned the attack with clear intent and political motivation.
McVeigh’s Conduct and Defence
Throughout the trial, McVeigh maintained an air of calm detachment. He sat stone-faced as survivors, family members, and first responders gave harrowing accounts of the bombing’s aftermath. He did not testify in his own defence, and his legal team—led by Stephen Jones—focused primarily on arguing that the government’s evidence was circumstantial and that McVeigh was being scapegoated. They even suggested, without substantiating evidence, that others might have been involved or that McVeigh was part of a broader conspiracy.
However, the evidence left little room for doubt. From the forensic analysis of the bomb materials to eyewitness accounts and his own incriminating behaviour in the days following the attack, McVeigh’s involvement was thoroughly documented. The defence’s attempts to cast doubt were ultimately unconvincing to the jury.
What stood out to many observers was McVeigh’s utter lack of remorse. In interviews and statements given after his conviction, he continued to frame the bombing not as an act of mass murder but as a justified act of war against a tyrannical government. He compared the deaths of children in the Murrah Building to the deaths of children in the Waco siege, calling them “collateral damage”—a term he had likely internalised from military jargon, stripped of its moral weight.
Conviction and Sentencing
On 2 June 1997, after deliberating for less than 24 hours, the jury returned its verdict: guilty on all 11 counts, including conspiracy to use a weapon of mass destruction, use of a weapon of mass destruction, and eight counts of first-degree murder for federal law enforcement personnel killed in the bombing. A separate sentencing phase followed, and on 13 June, McVeigh was formally sentenced to death.
The trial had provided a measure of justice, but it did not lessen the anguish of those who had lost loved ones. Many survivors and victims’ families expressed frustration that McVeigh refused to apologise or acknowledge the human cost of his actions. His stoicism, seen by some as calculated defiance, only deepened the pain.
Prisonment and Execution
McVeigh spent the next four years on federal death row at the United States Penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana. During this time, he maintained correspondence with supporters and journalists, notably writing at length to Buffalo News reporters Lou Michel and Dan Herbeck. These letters, along with interviews, were used in their book American Terrorist, which remains a key resource in understanding McVeigh’s thinking and motivation. In those exchanges, McVeigh continued to justify his actions through political and philosophical language, invoking the Constitution, the Founding Fathers, and the perceived right of citizens to rise against tyranny.
On 11 June 2001, Timothy McVeigh was executed by lethal injection. He was the first person executed by the federal government since 1963. He remained emotionless in the moments leading up to his death, reportedly choosing as his final statement the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley—particularly its closing lines: “I am the master of my fate, / I am the captain of my soul.” He made no apology to the victims or their families.
McVeigh was 33 years old.
The Legacy of McVeigh’s Radicalisation
Timothy McVeigh remains a symbol of homegrown extremism. His journey from alienated teenager to domestic terrorist unfolded not in secret cells or foreign battlefields, but in everyday places: rural towns, military bases, gun shows, and the backroads of America. His radicalisation was enabled not only by fringe literature but by a growing milieu of anti-government sentiment that found new audiences in the early 1990s.
In the years since, McVeigh has become a figure of grim fascination—studied by psychologists, historians, and counterterrorism experts. He has also, disturbingly, been venerated in some far-right circles. His story is a case study in how a lone individual, driven by belief and grievance, can unleash unimaginable violence.
McVeigh saw himself as a freedom fighter, but the rest of the world saw only devastation and grief. The bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building killed 168 people, including children who had no connection to the actions in Waco or Ruby Ridge. McVeigh would later call the children’s deaths “collateral damage”—a term that revealed just how far his ideology had taken him from ordinary human empathy.
