1984 Rajneeshee bioterror attack

Based on Wikipedia: 1984 Rajneeshee bioterror attack

In the autumn of 1984, something strange started happening in The Dalles, Oregon. People were getting violently ill after eating at local restaurants. Not one or two people—hundreds of them. Diarrhea, fever, chills, vomiting, bloody stools. Within weeks, 751 residents of this small city had contracted salmonellosis, a bacterial infection that felt like the worst food poisoning imaginable.

Health officials initially blamed poor hygiene among food workers. It seemed like a reasonable explanation. But one congressman wasn't satisfied.

What actually happened in The Dalles would turn out to be the first and largest bioterrorist attack in American history—a deliberate poisoning orchestrated by followers of a controversial Indian guru, all in service of rigging a local election.

The Commune in the Desert

To understand how a group of spiritual seekers ended up weaponizing bacteria against a rural Oregon town, you need to understand what was happening just sixty miles away.

In 1981, several thousand followers of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh—a charismatic Indian guru who would later become known as Osho—had purchased a sprawling 64,000-acre property called the Big Muddy Ranch. They transformed this remote high desert landscape into an intentional community they called Rajneeshpuram. Think of it as a city-sized commune: they built their own infrastructure, their own airport, their own shopping mall. At its peak, the community housed around 7,000 residents.

The Rajneeshees, as the media called them, weren't quite like other spiritual communities of the era. They wore distinctive red and orange clothing. They practiced dynamic meditation. And their guru collected Rolls-Royces—eventually owning 93 of them, which became a symbol of the movement's unusual relationship with material wealth.

At first, the Rajneeshees and their neighbors in rural Wasco County got along reasonably well. That didn't last.

The trouble began with building permits. Local authorities denied the commune permission to expand. The Rajneeshees responded by essentially taking over the tiny nearby town of Antelope—population 75—through sheer numbers. They changed the town's name to "Rajneesh." They won seats on the city council. Suddenly this group of newcomers controlled local government, and the original residents felt pushed out of their own community.

But Antelope was small potatoes. What the commune leadership really wanted was control of Wasco County itself.

The Plan

In November 1984, three seats on the Wasco County Circuit Court were up for election, along with the sheriff's office. The commune's leadership—particularly a woman named Ma Anand Sheela, who served as Rajneesh's chief lieutenant—developed an ambitious strategy to win those positions.

Their first approach was creative, if legally questionable. They launched what they called the "Share-a-Home" program, busing in thousands of homeless people from cities across America. The idea was simple: give them food, shelter, and a place to stay at Rajneeshpuram, then register them to vote. Suddenly the commune would have thousands of new voters who might be inclined to support their candidates.

The Wasco County clerk saw through this immediately. She enforced a regulation requiring new voters to submit their qualifications when registering. Most of the homeless newcomers wouldn't qualify. The Share-a-Home scheme was effectively neutralized.

So the commune leadership pivoted to Plan B.

If they couldn't inflate their own voter numbers, they would suppress everyone else's. The largest population center in Wasco County was The Dalles, a city of about 11,000 people. If enough voters there were too sick to make it to the polls on Election Day, the Rajneeshees might win by default.

They decided to poison the town.

Growing the Weapon

The conspirators chose Salmonella enterica Typhimurium as their biological agent. This bacterium causes salmonellosis—an unpleasant but rarely fatal illness characterized by severe gastrointestinal symptoms. People would be miserable for days. Some would end up in the hospital. But most would survive.

Why Salmonella specifically? It was relatively easy to obtain. A nurse practitioner named Ma Anand Puja—also known as Diane Yvonne Onang—ordered it from a medical supply company in Seattle under the guise of legitimate research. The bacteria arrived in small glass vials called "bactrol disks." Staff at the commune's medical laboratory then cultured it, growing enough to contaminate an entire town.

About a dozen people were involved in the plot. At least eight helped spread the bacteria. The inner circle of planners was smaller—perhaps four or five individuals who understood exactly what they were doing and why.

They called their bacterial solution "salsa."

The Trial Run

Before the election, they needed to test whether their plan would actually work. In late August 1984, two Wasco County commissioners visited Rajneeshpuram. Someone slipped Salmonella bacteria into their glasses of water. Both men fell ill afterward. One was hospitalized.

Encouraged by this small-scale success, the conspirators expanded their efforts. They spread bacteria on produce in grocery stores. They contaminated doorknobs and urinal handles at the county courthouse. These attempts produced no noticeable effect—the bacteria apparently didn't survive long enough on hard surfaces to infect anyone.

So they returned to what had worked: food.

Ten Restaurants

In September and October 1984, teams of Rajneeshees visited ten restaurants in The Dalles. Their method was straightforward. One person would conceal a plastic bag containing the brownish bacterial liquid. While appearing to serve themselves at a salad bar, they would pour the "salsa" over lettuce, tomatoes, and dressing. Then they would leave.

The victims started appearing almost immediately.

By September 24, more than 150 people were violently ill. By the end of the month, 751 cases of acute gastroenteritis had been documented. Forty-five people were hospitalized. The youngest victim was a newborn infant, born just two days after his mother's infection—doctors initially gave him only a five percent chance of survival. The oldest was 87.

All of them were infected with the exact same strain of Salmonella enterica Typhimurium.

The Investigation That Wasn't

Health officials descended on The Dalles. The Oregon State Public Health Laboratory, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (commonly known as the CDC), and local authorities all investigated the outbreak. It was, after all, the largest food-related illness outbreak in the United States that year.

Their conclusion? Poor hygiene among restaurant workers.

This explanation had a certain logic. Some food handlers had fallen ill before patrons did. Perhaps someone hadn't washed their hands. Perhaps raw chicken had contaminated a cutting board. Salmonella outbreaks from restaurant negligence happened all the time.

But one congressman wasn't buying it.

James Weaver, an Oregon Democrat, looked at the facts and saw something that didn't add up. Ten different restaurants had simultaneous outbreaks of the exact same bacterial strain. That didn't happen from individual food handlers forgetting to wash their hands. And there was an obvious suspect living sixty miles away—a group with both motive and opportunity.

Weaver contacted the CDC. He urged them to investigate Rajneeshpuram. According to one account, "many treated his concern as paranoid" or dismissed it as "Rajneeshee bashing." The commune had powerful lawyers and a reputation for suing anyone who criticized them. Accusing them of bioterrorism without proof would be risky.

On February 28, 1985, Weaver took to the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives and made his accusations public. He alleged that the Rajneeshees had deliberately contaminated salad bar ingredients in eight restaurants.

He was right. But he couldn't prove it yet.

The Election

Despite everything, the bioterror plot failed to achieve its goal.

Local residents suspected the Rajneeshees were behind the poisonings. Instead of staying home on Election Day, they turned out in droves—determined to prevent the cult from winning any county positions. The Rajneeshees eventually withdrew their candidates from the ballot. Only 239 of the commune's approximately 7,000 residents voted; most weren't American citizens and couldn't participate regardless.

The attack had backfired spectacularly.

But the damage to The Dalles was real. Local restaurants lost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Health officials shut down salad bars throughout the affected establishments. Fear spread through the community.

"People were so horrified and scared," one resident recalled. "People wouldn't go out, they wouldn't go out alone. People were becoming prisoners."

The Guru Speaks

For four years, Rajneesh himself had maintained a vow of public silence. He still met privately with his personal assistant, but he gave no lectures, held no press conferences. His followers called this his period of "silence and self-imposed isolation."

In September 1985, he suddenly started talking again.

At a press conference, Rajneesh dropped a bombshell. He announced that Sheela and nineteen other commune leaders had fled to Europe over the weekend. He accused them of serious crimes—poisoning his personal physician, attempting to poison his companion, trying to contaminate The Dalles water system, and possibly causing the salmonellosis outbreak. He called them "a gang of fascists."

Then he invited state and federal law enforcement to come investigate Rajneeshpuram.

Outside observers were initially skeptical. This sounded like a leader throwing his subordinates under the bus. But they took him up on his offer.

What They Found

Oregon Attorney General David Frohnmayer assembled a task force that included the state police, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (the FBI), the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and even the National Guard. On October 2, 1985, fifty investigators executed search warrants at the commune.

In a medical laboratory, they found glass vials containing Salmonella bactrol disks. The CDC lab in Atlanta analyzed the samples. They matched exactly with the bacteria that had sickened The Dalles residents.

But that wasn't all.

Investigators discovered what one scientist described as "a bacteriological freezer-dryer for large-scale production" of microbes. They found a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook—a notorious manual that includes instructions for making explosives and other weapons. They found literature on military biowarfare.

They also found an invoice dated September 25, 1984, showing that the commune had ordered Salmonella typhi from a culture collection. This is a different and far more dangerous bacterium than what was used in the attacks—it causes typhoid fever, which can be fatal. Whatever the conspirators had been planning, it might have been much worse than what they actually did.

There was also evidence of an aborted plot to assassinate Charles Turner, a former United States Attorney for Oregon.

Who Knew What

The central question that investigators—and historians—have grappled with ever since is this: Did Rajneesh himself know about the bioterror plot?

The commune's mayor, a man named Krishna Deva (also known as KD), turned state's evidence. He claimed that Sheela had told him she discussed the voter suppression plot with Rajneesh directly. According to KD, Sheela said the guru "commented that it was best not to hurt people, but if a few died not to worry."

Sheela allegedly played audio tapes for doubters—recordings of Rajneesh's voice saying things like "if it was necessary to do things to preserve his vision, then do it." She interpreted this as authorization for murder if necessary.

But were these tapes authentic? Another former follower, Satya Bharti Franklin, noted that Sheela had "had a wide variety of Bhagwan's discourse tapes edited over the years until they said only what she wanted them to say." Videos and films had been "judiciously spliced and edited, rewriting history." Franklin had personally been involved in some of this editing. Whatever tapes Sheela possessed, Franklin wrote, "proved nothing."

Sheela's own husband at the time later reflected that she was "very good at framing the issues in a way that would invite Osho's approval of whatever she approved to do. She might ask a general, broad question, get an answer, and then go back and use that as Osho authorizing whatever it was that she wanted to do."

Most followers believed Rajneesh knew about Sheela's activities. Most also believed him "incapable of doing, or willing, violence against another person." They held both ideas simultaneously—a testament to how complicated the situation was, and how devoted his followers remained.

Rajneesh's own explanation was that Sheela, as his only source of information during his silent period, had used her position to impose "a fascist state" on the commune without his knowledge. He acknowledged that his silence had enabled her actions.

Justice

On October 27, 1985, Rajneesh attempted to leave the country. His plane landed in Charlotte, North Carolina, where federal agents arrested him. He was charged with 35 counts of immigration law violations—not bioterrorism. As part of a plea deal, he admitted to two counts of making false statements to immigration officials. He paid a $400,000 fine, received a ten-year suspended sentence, and was deported. He was barred from reentering the United States for five years.

He was never prosecuted for anything related to the Salmonella attacks.

Sheela and Puja were arrested in West Germany the very next day. After negotiations between the American and German governments, they were extradited to face trial. Both were convicted on charges of attempted murder.

They each received twenty-year sentences.

They each served twenty-nine months in a minimum-security federal prison.

The Aftermath

Rajneeshpuram itself collapsed quickly after these events. The guru returned to India, where he resumed teaching under the name Osho until his death in 1990. Sheela served her time and eventually moved to Switzerland, where she now runs care homes for the elderly. As of the early 2020s, she has never expressed remorse for the bioterror attack.

The Big Muddy Ranch was purchased by a Christian youth organization. The streets and buildings that once housed thousands of sannyasins—as Rajneesh's followers called themselves—have been repurposed for summer camps.

For public health officials, the 1984 attack became a case study in bioterrorism preparedness. It demonstrated how difficult it is to distinguish a deliberate outbreak from a natural one. The initial investigators weren't naive or incompetent—they followed standard epidemiological procedures and reached a reasonable conclusion based on the evidence available. Only the persistence of one congressman, combined with the commune's internal collapse, eventually revealed the truth.

For the residents of The Dalles, the scars lasted longer. Trust in restaurants took years to rebuild. The psychological toll of knowing that strangers had deliberately poisoned their community lingered even after the perpetrators were behind bars.

And for students of human nature, the entire episode raises uncomfortable questions. How do intelligent, educated people—because many Rajneeshees were professionals, doctors, lawyers, academics—convince themselves that biological warfare against civilians is an acceptable means to a spiritual end? How does a movement that preaches love and consciousness produce leaders willing to poison babies?

These questions don't have easy answers. But they're worth sitting with, because the capacity for this kind of moral catastrophe lives within communities of all kinds. The Rajneeshees weren't uniquely evil. They were uniquely isolated, uniquely convinced of their own righteousness, and uniquely willing to follow charismatic leadership to its logical extreme.

Seven hundred and fifty-one people got sick so that a handful of true believers could win a county election. That's the story. And the strangest part is that even after all of it—the poisonings, the arrests, the prison sentences, the deportation—there are still people who revere Osho's teachings, who visit his ashram in India, who believe he knew nothing about what his followers did in his name.

Perhaps that's the most unsettling part of all: not the bioterrorism itself, but how easily we forgive the people we've chosen to follow.