A solemn walk through Highland Park, one year after the parade massacre

There were no marching bands this year. No floats. No church groups throwing snacks at spectators. No American flags along the sidewalks.

Instead, there were prayers. There were tears. And there was a dismal walk down Central Avenue, a collective effort to take back a parade route stolen in a hail of bullets.

For generations, in Highland Park, Illinois, a scenic parade through downtown became synonymous with the Fourth of July.

But in less than a minute last Independence Day, a gunman from a rooftop killed seven people, injured dozens and sent families running for cover, leaving water bottles and red-white-and-blue lawn chairs scattered on the ground.

As the first anniversary of the massacre approached, city leaders faced a seemingly impossible set of demands: honor the people who died. Retake the parade path through downtown. Give people space to celebrate the country’s birthday. And support residents of the Chicago suburbs who still bear devastating wounds, mentally and physically, from last year.

“When there are mass shootings in this country, people move on a day or two later,” said Mayor Nancy Rotering. “But the communities that are directly affected carry this pain and trauma with them forever.”

Among the hundreds who gathered on the lawn of City Hall on Tuesday for a memorial service were residents who were in the line of fire last July 4. Jeffrey Briel, describing how he took cover with his young grandchildren not far from the shooter, said memories of the shooting were everywhere — in pockmarks in the downtown square left by bullets, in a temporary memorial that now stands next to City Hall stands. Highland Park was still grieving, he said.

“I want 2024 to be another parade,” said Mr. Briel, who like many wore a hat that read “HP Strong.” “So maybe this is a way to kick start the healing process a little bit.”

A year ago, Rev. Hernan Cuevas had only been on the job for a few days as pastor of a Roman Catholic parish in Highland Park when the parade took place. Mr. Cuevas had gathered congregants for the church float and bought granola bars to distribute to people along the route. Then he heard what sounded like fireworks.

He said it wasn’t until he saw “a wave of people walking towards us, running, crying” that “we thought, ‘This isn’t fireworks. This is real.'”

They fled a few blocks away to the church, where a hodgepodge of members and other paradegoers, some with blood on their clothes, waited for hours as authorities searched for the shooter. They prayed the rosary. They nervously watched the news on their phones.

Mr. Cuevas said his congregants had processed the day’s trauma differently and had different ideas about how to celebrate the Fourth of July. Some wanted to go back to normal. Some wanted room to mourn. Others left the city for the holidays, seeking distance from the pain.

“It brings back some memories,” Mr Cuevas said of the anniversary. “It triggers some emotions of loss and fear.”

On Tuesday, many residents expressed grief and trauma imbued with a sense of anger that the accused gunman, a local resident who had previously drawn the attention of authorities, could still purchase and use a high-powered weapon, according to prosecutors. The accused, Robert E. Crimo III, faces 117 criminal charges, including murder, and has pleaded not guilty.

Long before the massacre, Highland Park, an affluent and politically liberal lakeside town of about 30,000, was at the center of a national push for stricter gun laws. The city passed a municipal ban on certain high-powered rifles, sparking a legal battle.

After last year’s killings, local officials pressured the Democrats who control the state government in Illinois to tighten the state’s gun laws, which were already among the strictest in the country. In January, Governor JB Pritzker signed a law banning the sale of many high-powered rifles, which gun rights advocates have challenged in court. Mayor Rotering, a Democrat, has called for a national ban on such weapons.

“Someone with a legally obtained gun can choose to end a large part of a community’s life,” she said. “That to me is a violation of human rights.”

Many residents wore shirts calling for stricter gun laws on Tuesday morning, and some held a demonstration in Highland Park in the afternoon.

Last year, Highland Park native Dani Cohn was sitting in a lawn chair outside a pancake house with relatives, including Jacquelyn Sundheim, when the gunfire began.

Although Mrs. Cohn escaped bodily harm, Mrs. Sundheim, who was known as Jacki and who coordinated events at a local synagogue, was killed. Ms. Cohn recalled performing CPR and removing items from an ambulance in an attempt to save her life.

Ms. Cohn said it was important to her to be at the commemorations on Tuesday and to attend the protest calling for stricter gun laws her brother, Lexi, had organized.

“I just meet myself where I am,” said Dani Cohn. “I don’t want to remember the Fourth of July as a tragedy. I want to remember and take action. Do something.”

As July 4th approached this year, city officials decided it was too early to hold another parade, but also important to get together. In addition to the gloomy morning events, the city scheduled a drone show and concert for the evening, giving residents a chance to celebrate the holiday without the noise of fireworks, which still put many residents on edge.

Ghida Neukirch, the city manager, said Highland Park residents did not want their city defined by the tragedy. But when planning the holiday, officials had to take stock of the trauma people still carry with them, especially in large crowds.

“I was at my daughter’s graduation,” Mrs. Neukirch said, “and I’m thinking about it, how am I going to escape from here?” And how can I protect my family if a gunman starts firing among this crowd?”

For some who lost loved ones, the shooting dramatically changed the way they thought about Highland Park. As children, Jon and Peter Straus sometimes attended the parade with their father, Stephen Straus. He was one of those killed on July 4 last year.

Still commuting by train to his job as a financial adviser in downtown Chicago at age 88, the elderly Mr. Straus was a familiar sight in Highland Park, taking long walks around town.

“We were with him the night before he died, and he told me he was going to the parade, and I wasn’t surprised,” Jon Straus said in a recent interview. “He just loved being outside. He loved being where the action was.

The Straus family is one of the few to sue a gun manufacturer over the shooting, claiming that irresponsible marketing of the high-powered rifle used that day led to the tragedy. The violence also changed the brothers’ relationship with their hometown. A few weeks ago, the family sold their parental home.