Watch the new documentary series “11 Minutes” on Paramount+, which tells the narrative of humanity and survival through emotive firsthand stories and never-before-seen footage of the largest mass shooting in modern U.S. history. On September 27 only on Paramount+.
Five years ago, my life was irrevocably altered. When it did occur. I was wearing these boots at the time. They had been my go-to concert shoes after being purchased at a local thrift store; they were cute, comfy, and had a unique, much remarked pattern. I never put them on with the intention of running for my life, but that is exactly what they became.
On October 5, 2017, I was in the fourth row at the Route 91 Harvest Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada, when a gunman opened fire. Before getting up to sprint, my spouse and I were on the ground for three rounds. I fell repeatedly. 22,000 individuals had spilled their beverages, turning the cement into an ice-skating rink, and cowboy boots are terrible running shoes. After my third fall, we halted and I removed my footwear before resuming to run.
That night concluded with us riding home to Southern California with two kind strangers, learning that I had broken my arm in a tumble, and expressing appreciation for our survival. However, there was one item that did not return with me: my boots.
A photograph of Ashley Hoff taken at the Route 91 Harvest Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada, on October 5, 2017, approximately thirty minutes before the shooting. Jeremy Hoff
I was tormented by the vision of them in the field for the following days. I invited my best friend, a resident of Las Vegas, to go to the warehouse where the remaining items were stored. They were not present. An FBI agent asked whether I want to file a claim. Due to various situations, several goods had been sent for cleaning, and according to this agency, “a catalog would eventually be distributed.”
I almost laughed at the concept that, in the aftermath of one of our nation’s biggest tragedies, someone would prioritize dirty possessions. Even though it seemed ludicrous, I filed the claim. The subsequent months were an emotional roller coaster, and the boots continued to hold my attention. I became fixated. I studied their manufacturer. I monitored online thrift stores. I ordered a pair that was two sizes too small from eBay. I felt in my heart that we escaped with the gift of survival. Why was I unable to let this go?
Six months later, I was working in my office when my email notification rang. There was a link to the promised catalog in my mailbox. Titled like internet shopping tabs, I held my breath and clicked on “shoes”: 77 pages, five pairs each page, signifying 385 individuals who had experienced running barefoot for their lives. It was the first time I felt as though someone may possibly comprehend how I felt. I was astounded by the exhaustive listing. It was evident that this organization was doing everything in its power to identify these artifacts, knowing that they could represent someone’s closure, a symbol of survival, or a remembrance of a lost loved one.
I scanned the pages and found my boots on page 56. Several months later, an FBI agent brought them to me. She asked me whether I wanted company while I opened the package, and something about the way in which she posed the question prompted me to say “yes.” As soon as I removed the lid, I realized why I had been unable to let go of those old boots. They were the final piece of me in that field, a bit of my miracle, and they had returned home. Instantaneously, a chapter of my life ended and a fresh one on my path to healing began.
After the shooting, Ashley’s boots were returned months later. Sherry Hoff
As a journalist, I began to inquire about Debbie’s occupation. She added that a section inside the FBI was established to return objects from acts of mass violence to survivors and loved ones. They understood that these products moved from ordinary to exceptional in the blink of an eye. I cannot express how much it warms my heart to know that this effort exists, considering the FBI is typically depicted as cold and robotic. It is lead by the most courageous and compassionate group of agents who donate their time to be with people through extremely vulnerable and emotional times.
Later, while I sobbed at my kitchen table, I was transported back into the catalog. As I surveyed the thousands of goods within the store – shoes, shirts, jackets, jewelry, caps – I realized that these are not merely objects. They are emblematic of an extraordinary individual’s journey. These are tales of loss, survival, courage, resiliency, and connection. My stomach churned and I felt pressure on my chest; perhaps I was there because I am a storyteller. Perhaps I am still alive because I am obligated to tell the story. And at that point, the journey to produce “11 Minutes” commenced.
Watch the original four-part documentary series “11 Minutes” on Paramount+. Through emotive first-person testimonials and never-before-seen film, the audience is plunged in the largest mass shooting in modern United States history. It is a tale of humanity and survival at a country music festival that was supposed to take place. On September 27 only on Paramount+.