|
Can you believe it is almost hurricane season again? We
could lose New Orleans again this year… seems surreal.
Life is divided between before Katrina and Rita and after Katrina and
Rita. I will never forget my call to our expert on hurricanes the night
before Katrina. Dr. Ivor Von Heerden, even though incredibly busy, was
kind enough to take my call. “How bad is it?” I asked. Ivor
has a soft South African accent and his voice is very soothing and calming.
He said, “It is very very bad.” I got chills up and down
my spine. This is it. This is what I heard about all my life growing
up in New Orleans.
I grew up in the Crescent City, I buried my mother there a year and a
half ago, my father 22 years before that. My brother and his family and
my children’s grandparents live there still. In my house my father
kept a hatchet under his bed and one in the attic. When you went up the
stairs the hatchet was tucked in the right corner of the attic. Decades
ago my father’s secretary was trapped in an attic by floodwaters
for three days. He swore that he would never let that happen to his family.
He said he would rather die on the roof like a man than die like a rat
in the attic. Those words haunted me for weeks after Katrina hit. If
I am truthful, they still haunt me.
When the hurricane hit, we took action. We were the first people to get
food and supplies into parts of Washington Parish. We delivered food
and water to St. Bernard and Jefferson Parish and other hard-hit communities
around the city. I could not believe that the “jewel” of
Louisiana, New Orleans, was abandoned the way it was. I couldn’t
believe my neighbors were dying because they didn’t have food or
water. I am in America... aren’t I? How could this be happening?
It appeared that the agencies that should have been assisting here were
paralyzed. But while our government failed us, people began helping people.
It is what makes our country great. Ordinary people pitched in to assist
each other. Some local and state officials were in boats rescuing anyone
they could get to. Folks called here from all over the country asking, “What
should I send?” As a school principal said in a small rural parish, “Imagine
having nothing. That is what we have. We are starting from scratch.”
Our members lost homes and businesses. They lost family photos and cherished
mementos.
Baton Rouge, the city where we are located, doubled in size overnight
from the evacuees. We had no electricity and communication was difficult.
We were the lucky ones. We helped coordinate getting the first medical
team into New Orleans. A surgeon, nurses and a mobile medical unit were
told by agencies that they were not needed. They called me and asked
if we needed them. I said absolutely, even though I had no idea what
to do with them. We ended up with Major May of the New Orleans Police
Department getting them a special pass and into New Orleans. They treated
the first responders who were wading through water filled with sewerage,
chemicals and dead bodies. We received e-mails when our electricity returned
telling us where people were still trapped in attics. Heartbreaking.
Near our house in Baton Rouge is the helicopter pad for the Louisiana
State Police. Every few minutes day and night you would hear Blackhawks
buzzing overhead. It sounded like the classic TV program MASH. I was
always expecting someone to yell “incoming.” Every time you
heard them you prayed they would make it in time to save some of the
thousands of people still stuck on their roof days after the storm.
Timothy Kerner is mayor of Jean Laffite, LA, a fishing community south
of New Orleans. He also assists the three unincorporated fishing communities
in the surrounding area. Our team met Mayor Kerner at Jean Laffite City
Hall, the only structure in the area that didn’t flood. Mayor
Kerner personally manned the pumps through out both hurricanes. He saved
some folks in his community as the water was rising. He had a small cot
in his office and basically had hardly slept from Katrina to Rita. His
face was the picture of heartbreak. He spoke about how much he loved
his people. How he couldn’t get the help needed from FEMA. He felt
desperate. The anguish on his face showed what a toll the hurricanes
were taking on our citizens. His father died between Katrina and Rita
and they didn’t have time to have a service for him. Crypts were
floating in the street. While they had lost so much, they had not lost
their fighting spirit. They worked tirelessly to repair their homes and
boat docks and vowed they would be back. There was no question ever.
They would return. No hurricane would keep the people of south Louisiana
from returning.
Paul, my son, went into New Orleans the first day that folks were allowed
back in and saw the devastation first hand. He also went in the day the
Lower Ninth Ward was opened. He called and said, “This must be
what Hiroshima must have looked like.” I have walked that area
myself and it is tragic. I am not certain any words can express what
happened or any picture can tell the story. Close your eyes and imagine
your street if a bomb went off big enough to flatten things for miles.
Now imagine there is no sound. No bird, cat, dog, child, no living thing
for miles. Mounds of debris in some places higher than the houses. Mold
covering every surface like an old science fiction movie. The nightmare
we were all afraid of is here.
We worked seven days a week from August until November. We received requests
for everything from nebulizers, help with housing and assistance finding
a love one, to needing a helicopter to save cattle or pets. Our phone
rang from early in the morning until after midnight. Leaders in areas
knew to call us and we felt privileged to try to respond. We had more
than eight people living in our office for more than three months.
That is the reality. But the good news is that New Orleans and the
Gulf Coast will come back.
|
Lower 9th Ward New Orleans. You can see an orange front-end loader on the levee by the bridge. It is working on one of the breaches in the industrial canal levee. Lower Mississippi Riverkeeper Paul Orr with a barge that floated through the breach and came to rest on homes in the residential neighborhood.
|