Ken's article on the drug trade in The Atlantic

   "Snow Fall," a story about cocaine smuggling and the failed US anti-narcotics policy in the July / August 2007 issue of The Atlantic magazine is a gem, one of Ken's last great stories. He pitched the story idea to AFP, but the managers turned it down, so out of the blue he contacted a reporter from The Atlantic, who put him in touch with an editor, which led to the article.
   Make sure to click on the graphic showing the drug flow into the United States. As they say, a picture is worth 1,000 words.
   Ken got most of the information from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency and the Office of National Drug Control (a.k.a. the office of "The Drug Czar").

Ken was born with a passion for social causes.

As a teenager he attended a liberal youth group who discussed the ill-conceived Vietnam War and many other issues. Despite being under draft age he and the group believed protest actions must be taken. He helped place stickers widely around York that said “Vietnam War” and placed them on traffic stop signs.

This drew the attention wanted as well as the police attention. They were ready to issue a warrant for defacing stop signs, public property. His father was distressed to think his son would be branded a juvenile delinquent.

An arrangement was made that if the kids would remove the stickers no charges would be brought. Ken would have liked to express his protest in some meaningful way such as burning a draft card, but he was born too late. He did not turn eighteen until 1974 and by then the draft and the war were over. He never had the pleasure of publicly expressing his well-developed social conscience in that public manner.

Ralph Dermota

"My doctors tell me that at least my cancer is in my second most important organ,"

Ken quipped the first time we met. "How about for you?"

For someone just diagnosed with breast cancer, Ken's comment sparked a welcome burst

of laughter. It was the first of many laughs, and a few tears, we shared about the disease.

Ken faced brain cancer with determination, bravery and humor, and applied his natural curiosity as a journalist to learn all he could about the disease. In the process, he helped others. Shortly after we met, Ken quietly contact his nutritionist to ask what kind of diet might be best for someone undergoing treatment for early-stage breast cancer. (Suffice to say it didn't involve Ken's prescription of 40 grams of fat a day.) I don't know that I ever thanked him, and for that I am sorry.

I also regret that it was cancer that brought us together. Ken and I had much in common: we were both journalists with a deep belief in justice, equity, and the role of a thriving free press in a strong democracy. We spent too little time talking about that and too much time talking about cancer.

I'm thankful for the short year I knew him, and for getting to know Beatriz Elena and Eddie. One of my greatest hopes is that in Beatriz Elena's lifetime, and certainly in Eddie's lifetime, medical researchers will find a cure for the awful disease that robbed his family and friends of a special man.

Kirsten B. Mitchell

I am Hank Harman, father of Richard, Jane, Pat and Pete Harman and pastor, friend and admirer of Ken since 1959.

Yes, "admirer", even though at times I thought of him as an incorrigible "brat."

Our family moved from North Carolina to York, PA in July 1959 when I became Pastor of Memorial United Church of Christ (UCC) to which the Dermota family belonged. Richard (we then called him "Dick") and Ken became fast friends soon and also became known as the meanest little boys in the Sunday School.

One Sunday, when they were about seven or eight, they sat down in one of the front pews, talking and giggling, thinking that people behind them would not see them. I, of course, could see them from the chancel and considered throwing a hymn book down on them. Ken's mother, Mary, was in the choir and see could see them.

During a prayer Mrs. Harman walked across the back of the church, up a side aisle and plopped down between them. This cracked us all up but it also shut them up.

Ken's father, Ed, had not gone beyond high school, but he was one of the most theologically astute persons I have ever known. He not only knew his Bible but he had also read some of the leading theologians of our time, like Paul Tillich. He was an elder of the church and, when Memorial later merged with Trinity UCC, continued as an elder. He was also act in the affairs of the Penn Central Conference of the UCC.

My ministry at Memorial, 1959-67, included times of racial stress, when I tried to be a leader in the Civil Rights movement and bring Memorial Church along. Ed was also a leader in improving race relations and a great support to me. He was able to touch some people who would not respond to a clergy person.

Ed had the reputation of being one of the best upholsterers in the area. That is where Ken got some of his ability for the Furniture Worker Union.

Ed knew that two of the members of our Consistory (church council) were electricians. In a discussion on the next year's budget, one of them favored a raise in the pastor's salary while the other rather vocally opposed. Ed moved that the Pastor's salary be equal to that of a journeyman electrician with same time of service. The motion was not seconded but I got a raise.

Ken's brother, Ralph, became an ordained minister but then he later took over the upholstery business.

Ken's mother, Mary, also helped in the business. They lived above their shop in West York until Ken was about twelve when they bought a house in the West York area. Mary was a Wilkinson so Ed "married into" the business. His shop was Wilkinson Upholstry.

Henry V. Harman, Richmond, VA

Beatriz and Eddie are grateful for the outpouring of affection at this most difficult time.

As Ken requested, on Sunday May 31 Beatriz will be hosting a party to celebrate Ken's life at the Dermota home starting at 4 p.m.

In the meantime, please craft a message for the blog and if you have not already!

Karin W. Rutledge

When I turned 40, Ken presented me with The Art of War and said it was one of the most important books I’d ever read. Upon reading, it was clear to me that Ken applied the same strategic thinking to approach life’s adversities as history’s most successful military leaders. Little did we know that within two years he’d be waging the battle of his life. And although he attacked that tumor and every setback that came with it like a warrior, the white flag finally went up May 11, cloaked in a perfume-coated scarf of Beatriz Elena’s.

What I remember best about Ken was not the fighter who tried to lick Stage 4 brain cancer. Inside that bald, deep-voiced bear of a man was a sense of calm and wonder at some of life’s smallest treasures. He saw the world through a child’s eyes, and as a result he understood where Eddie was coming from, especially when teachers, classmates, and friends didn’t. He cherished music, introducing my five-year-old to Motown’s finest work. He eschewed current toy crazes in favor of vintage metal playthings and the real classic Disney movies.

Above all, he loved Beatriz Elena with a ferocity that was evident even in his gentle eyes. I’ll never forget the way Ken looked at her—like he couldn’t believe God had carved out this amazingly beautiful, brilliant angel and given him the chance to share a life with her. A life that, for all its complexities and accomplishments, was just too damn short.

Kathleen Brady / and Philip, Graham, and Perrin Brady

Envio mis condolencias y mi solidaridad a mi hermana BEATRIZ ELENA LEON y mi sobrino EDWARD WILLIAM DERMOTA. Uniendome espiritualmente a la celebraciòn de la vida de KENCITO, en su casa el dìa domingo 31 de mayo/09.

Ihomara León Sánchez

Ken was a dear friend of mine. We met in graduate school, at SAIS. I remember many great and long political discussions with him over lunch or a coffee. He was always full of ideas, against injustice, and for a better world. We had lots of great laughs as well, also with Beatriz over a great pasta dinner made by none other than the man himself. What a cook!

When he and Beatriz moved to Chile, I remember staying with them for the millennium celebration. I was so ill with a sinus infection, but there was Ken with a big bottle of lemon water and his cheerful encouragement, “use the neti-pot!.” He made a great doctor, and I was better in no time.

Ken loved Beatriz so much, it was an inspiration. You could see the affection in his eyes, and in how proudly he spoke of her. Then there he was also, a wonderful father. He would come by to visit with little Eddie in his arms. The last time I saw Ken was at my wedding, before I moved across the ocean. It is so sad to hear that we will not hear his great stories and join in a laugh with him again. Memories of him will always stay with me.

Rollie Lal - Hawaii

My gosh, he had a big head even back then!
Write your own Ken baby caption in the "Comments" section and we'll post the best ones.

Kenzito de bebe era divino, ?no? Cabezoncito pero lindo . . .

Beatriz Elena

The Greatest

The very day I met your Dad, who as you know was on the XXL side, he had a very little something in his arms.
It was a small baby by the name of Eddie, in the middle of a party, taking it all in.
Your Dad and I worked together as editors, but most importantly we knew that our boys were our absolute greatest joy.
Nothing could make us happier, and that is pretty cool.
We used to enjoy a lot of snacking together. And your Dad gave me the honor of reading his novel, which was ultracool.
Really, we agreed about most things.
We knew the magic of accomplished Latin superwomen who have conquered a foreign nation,
and rendered us senseless with salsa dancing and broad smiles.
I am sure you remember how much your Dad loved music, too.
But he could not have had a joy greater than you.
Once, I remember how he came out to a birthday party at our house (magician included) on the way to work.
Only it was not on his way to work; he drove 30 miles out of the way,
in a hurry
because he did not want to miss seeing you have fun.
That was your Dad.
I know we don't feel anything like lucky when we are missing him.
But we shouldn't forget that it is a pretty fine thing
to be somebody's greatest joy.
So we are lucky, too.

Mike Langan

My fondest memory of Ken is his love for his son, Eddie. Before Eddie was even born, he drove 4 hours on his motorcycle from Washington DC to State College, PA taking back roads, of course, to announce that there would be a new little addition to their family. He was so excited to share his knowledge, enthusiasm and life experiences with Eddie. He wanted only the best for his son - a bilingual school and a microscope and telescope to explore the world around him. I remember him telling us how he taught Eddie how to recognize lower case letters by choosing the lower case setting on his computer. He wanted Eddie to be excited about learning just as he was.
Ken could capture the true memory with his talent for photography. While visiting Ken, Beatriz and Eddie, I loved looking at his photos hanging on the wall. I was grateful for the many that he sent to us as Eddie grew through the years. Two photos that come to mind are one of him and Eddie hiking and one of Beatriz and Eddie in a stadium. From the pictures, you could see true emotion and know that Beatriz and Eddie were his life.

Christine Dermota

Anyone that has ever met Ken knows about his love of learning and experiencing all that the world has to offer. When I was a kid, he was into spelunking (or caving as some call it) and he convinced my dad (Ken’s brother Ralph), my brother Eric, and me to go spelunking with him. He made all the arrangements with the owner of the cave and collected the lights, helmets, and other equipment we needed. The cave was not some commercialized site, of course, that would not have been authentic enough for Ken; the cave entrance was marked only by a wooded sinkhole in a farm field. We spent several hours in the cave, squeezing through narrow openings and marveling at grand caverns while learning things about the cave that had to be experienced in person. This trip was a great experience of my childhood but also a great example of Ken’s way of life where reading or even seeing something in person was not enough, he had to experience every nuance and become immersed in every detail.

Troy Dermota

If your car broke down, or your gun jammed, if you were down to your last dime, outnumbered or just out of luck, you would want Ken around.

You wanted Ken there because he would stay calm and fix what was broken, reassure you with a healthy dose of humor and show no fear. He would listen to you carefully and tell you the truth. He would think for himself and come to his own rigorous conclusions.

He had the analytical mind of a scientist, a writer’s reverence for language, a mechanic’s intuition for moving parts, a drummer’s love of rhythm, a comedian’s instinct for the absurd and an activist’s sense of injustice.

He knew everything about Colombia and Chile and American cars, unions and Spanish curses. He cared deeply about getting something right, whether it was his own writing or someone else’s.

He always had time for other people, his intense, blue eyes gentle and sympathetic as he patiently listened to their stories and troubles.

He was immensely proud of his Beatriz and Eddie. He would quietly recount in wonder Eddie’s latest observations and interests, unwittingly revealing that his son shared his curiosity about the world and a love of nature.

He was a man in the fullest, richest sense, the embodiment of a Hemingway hero showing “grace under pressure.” It was only natural that Ken would endure his cancer with the same grace and guts.

I like to think of Ken strolling into the office on the weekend, a bandana tied around his shaven head, sweaty and content after a roller-blading session in the hot Washington sun. The last time he was at work, he was playing some of his favorite Latin tunes for us, and his delight in the music was infectious.

That childlike joy will stay with us.

Dan De Luce - AFP colleague

I was saddened to hear of Ken's passing last week, but remember him as a very positive force, not least in the inspiring bravery he showed in the last couple of years.

My fondest memories of Ken are of working the Sunday shifts on the English Desk with him, boy did we draw the short straws, when the otherwise deserted office offered time to chew the fat.

What became very clear from those weekends was that Ken was a proud husband, a doting dad, and had a keen passion for politics, teaching and cycling the commute from Capitol Hill. He was a font of knowledge on Latin America, and often helped me improve a Spanish language translation or to explain the background to a bout of political infighting in the region.

One thing I noticed and liked about Ken was that he was a good listener, a rare virtue in today's world, but you knew he was always weighing up and carefully considering what you told him, before giving his considered opinion.

I liked Ken's outlook on the world, he cared about family, colleagues and the underprivileged in the world and we could do with many more like him.

Justin Cole - London - former AFP colleague

When we first learned about Ken's condition some 20 months ago we visited him at home as soon as we could. We were dumbfounded to see him running around the kitchen cooking and being his normal upbeat self after the surgery. Ken's attitude, his fighting spirit and how he took control of his situation have been nothing less than inspirational to us. Who knew at that time that we would come to him one year later for his advice and share experiences in our own personal battle with the same devil.

Beatriz you have been my hero, for I believe I can truly empathize with much of the hell you've endured. Our love goes out to you and Eddie.

Ken we are grateful to you. You have been Lorraine's hero these past 7 months.

We will sorely miss you. God Bless.

Ed, Lorraine and Adam

Sometime after the treatments began, Ken was remarking on how one of the drugs he was using required him to also consume 40 grams of fat every day. 40 grams of fat is pretty hard to find in any good form, especially for a man like Ken, who eschewed fats with great gusto. I offered to bring him the very best sources of fatty acids known to man, if he would agree to grill them for lunch. It was a surprise of sorts: all I told him to expect was some salmon. I went to the market and bought a very nice, wild salmon cut, with scales, which looked as though it was marinated in something extra slippery. Just in case it was too filling and not fatty enough, I also brought with me a very big bag of my favorite potato chips. When I arrived, I showed him the fish, which was suitably impressive. Then I showed him the potato chips -- Grandma Utz's Handcooked Potato Chips -- and I told him the reason these were my favorites in all the world.

The ingredients listed: fresh potato slices and salt, cooked in lard. I strongly urge anyone who was never eaten anything fried in lard to immediately do so. One meal is all it takes, and I can promise you will never taste anything so full of pleasant tasting stuff, without so much as a smithereen of sugar to sweeten the taste. So I told Ken they were my favorites entirely because anything cooked in lard is tastes good, and anything that oily simply must improve circulatory health, because it is, after all, a lubricant.

He snickered, and cast a nostalgic glance upon the bag of Grandma Utz's, and told me that you could not get these too far away. Utz is not a preserved product (generally, that is true), and they spoil if they are taken too far from Pennsylvania. He also said that he knew what I meant about the lard, and he could remember a childhood slogan for them. With a twinkly gleam of the eyes, he said the slogan was "Remember only put UTZ in the GUTZ."

Guy Sherr - family friend

When I started working at AFP in Washington five years ago, I knew that the man sipping on yerba mate from a traditional gourd would be my source for answers on stories from South America.

Indeed, Ken would take time between sips of his drink (he had boxes of this stuff stored in the office's kitchen) to answer my questions about the origins of the conflict in Colombia and the Pinochet era in Chile.

Despite the furious pace of a 24-hour news operation, Ken was always happy to help, and for that I will always remember him. But while I knew Ken the journalist, I wish I had gotten to known Ken the family man better. His eyes would brighten every time he talked about his son Eddie and his wife Beatriz Elena. He also had a sincere, hearty laugh that would boom through the boredom of a long Saturday afternoon spent in front of a computer at work.

My toughts are with Beatriz Elena and Eddie.

Laurent Thomet - AFP - Paris

Dear Beatriz Elena and Eddie,

I work in the accounting department at AFP and I was lucky to know Ken without working with him as a journalist.

I used to meet Ken in the cafeteria where he would be preparing his cup of mate and we often said hello and talked a little bit.

Without really knowing him that well, Ken always conveyed a feeling of warmth and kindness. His little smile and soft voice made everyone around him like him.

After I learned of his illness, I started including him in my evening prayers so that he would get better. But the Good Lord hard other plans for him. He needed him next to Him in Heaven. I am sure that Ken is up there, because from what little I have known him, he could not have hurt anyone on earth.

Eddie, don’t be sad. Dad is in Heaven and he keeps loving you and praying for you so you can grow up and become the good man he wanted you to be.

May the Good Lord bless his soul and give you and all his family the strength to go through this difficult period.

Sincerely, Wilky Semaan

Ken had a certain flair about him. Ask how he was on any given day, and he would answer, "Never been better." This was at AFP, a job he did not love, so that trademark reply conveyed grit, optimism, and a generous helping of irony. He was usually smartly turned out, looking fit, carrying a man purse, his head shaved to a shine. He liked to sip mate from the traditional gourd fitted with a metal straw, and eat tupperware buckets of fresh fruit.

Visit him at home, and another aspect of his world enveloped you -- music. He had an incredible collection of CDs, wide-ranging tastes, an instinct for authenticity of expression. I also remember how one year, an image of a fireplace was drawn in marker on the wall of his sitting room. With that same melancholy humor Ken said it was for Beatriz Elena, who had always wanted a fire place, and how he wanted to give her everything she desired.

He brightened always talking about Eddie, how he and Beatriz Elena fought to get him in a classroom that was the best fit for a bilingual bundle of energy, and how father and son loved to go hiking, overnighting in spots that were just a little too rustic for Beatriz Elena, the two of them savoring their private adventure. He once told the story with evident pride that Eddie, who must have been five or six at the time, had hiked four miles with his shoes on the wrong feet -- "tough little guy." Ken's eyes always shined a bit brighter when he was talking about his son.

Kate Beddall - former AFP colleague

His voice and his big eyes are what I will remember the most of Ken…and of course…his hot chocolate.

As I was the receptionist at the time, I welcomed Ken when he arrived for his interview at AFP… Gosh!…. almost 8 years ago already.

When Ken was given a permanent position, I was delighted. Ken would spend some of his downtime at The Boat chatting with me. We became closer friends when he learned I was studying the role of Paulina in Death and the Maiden. He had met Ariel Dorfman! When I learned this about Ken, he became my source for anything I needed to know about Chile.

We were neighbors and we often walked from Metro together. His main topic of conversation was Eddie. Eddie was just a baby then and clearly had become Ken’s passion.

I am deeply saddened to realize that I will never bump into Ken again in his running outfit on Capitol Hill.

Eddie and Beatriz, both of you are in my thoughts and prayers. I’m certain you will feel the absence for years to come.

Anna Maman, former AFP colleague