Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Simply. Fucking. Shocking.

Story being circulated as from a NO survivor. Collected third-hand via listserv account held by Bribri. I'm sure nay-sayers will claim it's all fiction, but honestly, I can't fathom anyone taking this kind of time to write this kind of detail for pure sport. Make of this what you will.
Hurricane Katrina-Our Experiences

Larry Bradshaw, Lorrie Beth Slonsky

Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's store at the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The dairy display case was clearly visible through the widows. It was now 48 hours without electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk, yogurt, and cheeses were beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The owners and managers had locked up the food, water, pampers, and prescriptions and fled the City. Outside Walgreen's windows, residents and tourists grew increasingly thirsty and hungry.

The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and the windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters. There was an alternative. The cops could have broken one small window and distributed the nuts, fruit juices, and bottle water in an organized and systematic manner. But they did not. Instead they spent hours playing cat and mouse, temporarily chasing away the looters.

We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived home yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or look at a newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video images or front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists looting the Walgreen's in the French Quarter.

We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images of the National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the "victims" of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we witnessed,were the real heroes and sheroes of the hurricane relief effort: the working class of New Orleans. The maintenance workers who used a fork lift to carry the sick and disabled. The engineers, who rigged, nurtured and kept the generators running. The electricians who improvised thick extension cords stretching over blocks to share the little electricity we had in order to free cars stuck on rooftop parking lots. Nurses who took over for mechanical ventilators and spent many hours on end manually forcing air into the lungs of unconscious patients to keep them alive. Doormen who rescued folks stuck in elevators. Refinery workers who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats to rescue their neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters. Mechanics who helped hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry people out of the City. And the food service workers who scoured the commercial kitchens improvising communal meals for hundreds of those stranded.

Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from members of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only infrastructure for the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.

On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees like ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and shelter from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and friends outside of New Orleans. We were repeatedly told that all sorts of resources including the National Guard and scores of buses were pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources must have been invisible because none of us had seen them.

We decided we had to save ourselves. So we pooled our money and came up with $25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those who did not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by those who did have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses, spending the last 12 hours standing outside, sharing the limited water, food, and clothes we had. We created a priority boarding area for the sick, elderly and new born babies. We waited late into the night for the "imminent" arrival of the buses. The buses never arrived. We later learned that the minute the arrived to the City limits, they were commandeered by the military.

By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street crime as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out and locked their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to report to the convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered the center of the City, we finally encountered the National Guard. The Guards told us we would not be allowed into the Superdome as the City's primary shelter had descended into a humanitarian and health hellhole. The guards further told us that the City's only other shelter, the Convention Center, was also descending into chaos and squalor and that the police were not allowing anyone else in. Quite naturally, we asked, "If we can't go to the only 2 shelters in the City, what was our alternative?" The guards told us that that was our problem, and no they did not have extra water to give to us. This would be the start of our numerous encounters with callous and hostile "law enforcement".

We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and were told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not have water to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass meeting to decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the police command post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would constitute a highly visible embarrassment to the City officials. The police told us that we could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle in and set up camp. In short order, the police commander came across the street to address our group. He told us he had a solution: we should walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway and cross the greater New Orleans Bridge where the police had buses lined up to take us out of the City. The crowed cheered and began to move. We called everyone back and explained to the commander that there had been lots of misinformation and wrong information and was he sure that there were buses waiting for us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated emphatically, "I swear to you that the buses are there."

We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with great excitement and hope. As we marched pasted the convention center, many locals saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we were headed. We told them about the great news. Families immediately grabbed their few belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then doubled again. Babies in strollers now joined us, people using crutches, elderly clasping walkers and others people in wheelchairs. We marched the 2-3 miles to the freeway and up the steep incline to the Bridge. It now began to pour down rain, but it did not dampen our enthusiasm.

As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began
firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police commander and of the commander's assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to move.

We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as there was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the West Bank was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no Superdomes in their City. These were code words for if you are poor and black, you are not crossing the Mississippi River and you were not getting out of New Orleans.

Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the rain under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided to build an encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on the center divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We reasoned we would be visible to everyone, we would have some security being on an elevated freeway and we could wait and watch for the arrival of the yet to be seen buses.

All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the same trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be turned away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no, others to be verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New Orleaners were prevented and prohibited from self-evacuating the City on foot. Meanwhile, the only two City shelters sank further into squalor and disrepair. The only way across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw workers stealing trucks, buses, moving vans, semi-trucks and any car that could be hotwired. All were packed with people trying to escape the misery New Orleans had become.

Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery truck and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so down the freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations on a tight turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping carts. Now secure with the two necessities, food and water; cooperation, community, and creativity flowered. We organized a clean up and hung garbage bags from the rebar poles. We made beds from wood pallets and cardboard. We designated a storm drain as the bathroom and the kids built an elaborate enclosure for privacy out of plastic, broken umbrellas, and other scraps. We even organized a food recycling system where individuals could swap out parts of C-rations (applesauce for babies and candies for kids!).

This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out for yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for your kids or food for your parents. When these basic needs were met, people began to look out for each other, working together and constructing a community.

If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water in the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the ugliness would not have set in.

Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing families and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our encampment grew to 80 or 90 people.

From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media was talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news organizations saw us on their way into the City. Officials were being asked what they were going to do about all those families living up on the freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of us. Some of us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an ominous tone to it.

Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of his patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the fucking freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its blades to blow away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff loaded up his truck with our food and water.

Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or congealed into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims" they saw "mob" or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay together" was impossible because the agencies would force us into small atomized groups.

In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we scattered once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the dark, we sought refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on Cilo Street. We were hiding from possible criminal elements but equally and definitely, we were hiding from the police and sheriffs with their martial law, curfew and shoot-to-kill policies.

The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with New Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an urban search and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and managed to catch a ride with the National Guard. The two young guardsmen apologized for the limited response of the Louisiana guards. They explained that a large section of their unit was in Iraq and that meant they were shorthanded and were unable to complete all the tasks they were assigned.

We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush landed briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on a coast guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.

There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we were forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds if us were forced to share two filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with any possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) we were subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.

Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been confiscated at the airport because the rations set off the metal detectors. Yet, no food had been provided to the men, women, children, elderly, disabled as they sat for hours waiting to be "medically screened" to make sure we were not carrying any communicable diseases.

This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker give her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street offered us money and toiletries with words of welcome. Throughout, the official relief effort was callous, inept, and racist. There was more suffering than need be. Lives were lost that did not need to be lost.

14 comments:

Geo_Chick said...

Well it isn't just on your site...
http://www.sfsocialists.org/

You can google the two people's names and get several links to them including this...
http://www.socialistworker.org/2004-2/519/519_11_SEIU250.shtml

Elfster said...

Spoke with a SysAdmin who has been in NO since all this began -- with the only working Net connection since the Hurricane came through (a story in its own right). He confirmed that this same story had been relayed to him via the grapevine on the street from other survivors -- and re-affirmed via the National Guardsmen that were patrolling the streets just outside his building.

Renee said...

The New Yorker has a similar story. Read onL

The two families shared a one-story house on South Prieur Street with one good job among them. Thirteen-year-old Timesha Johnson and twelve-year-old Irelle Guidry might have been sisters, with their identically red-tipped cornrows and denim miniskirts. When the city of New Orleans ordered them to evacuate, they gladly would have gone. “I’m poor, but I’m not stupid,” said Timesha’s stepfather, Charles Covington, a roofer, who wears his own hair in short, blond-tipped dreadlocks. But none of them own a car, and their friends who do had no room for extra passengers. There was a rumor of buses, but none appeared. “We even called cabs, but they was all getting out themselves,” Charles said. So they bought what food and water they could, and the eight of them, from Irelle’s grandmother, Janet, down to Timesha’s eleven-month-old sister, Alleiah, huddled up together in the living room.

The house, in which Janet was born, creaked and banged and sighed as the winds blew, but it held together as it always had. Then it was over. That wasn’t so bad, they said. Not as bad as Camille. Not as bad as Betsy. It was only when they pried off the plywood that they realized that their ordeal had just begun.

The water rose so fast that they barely had time to snatch up some food and clothing before it got soaked. First they sat on tables. Then they sat on dressers. Then they pushed Janet and her obese thirty-three-year-old son, Mario, up through the hatch to the stifling attic and climbed in. Luckily, Charles thought to grab a heavy hammer from his tool belt, because it wasn’t long before the water was bubbling through the cracks in the attic floor. They sat on boxes, then stood, and still it rose, pushing them against the exposed points of roofing nails. Charles began banging at the ceiling with the hammer and finally bashed a hole big enough for them to squeeze through. Then they were sitting, exposed, on the sloping, sticky, hot tar roof, expecting to be rescued. That was Tuesday morning.

They sat like that, in the hot sun, eating Pop-Tarts, Rice Krispies Treats, and two-foot-long Slim Jims. They gave most of the water to Tasha Johnson, so she could nurse Alleiah. They took turns holding up shirts as sunshades to protect the baby and Janet, who cannot walk, from heatstroke. Helicopters buzzed in the distance. The sun went down. They heard shooting and mayhem, but none of it came near. Night, though scary, was at least a reprieve from the sun, which returned on Wednesday with malice. Every now and then, a boat crossed a nearby intersection, and they’d shout, but they couldn’t make themselves heard. At around midday, a passing helicopter swerved toward them and hovered, its rotor wash making a frightening maelstrom of loosened pieces of roof. A basket dangled from the helicopter, but a tangle of power lines kept it from getting low enough. Finally, the great whining machine veered away, the crewman at the door gesturing as if to say they’d come back.

Wednesday went by in a blur. Thursday brought some clouds, and a little cooling rain, but no more helicopters. At last, on Friday, a friend paddled by in a small aluminum boat, and they all piled wobblingly aboard. By noon they were sitting amid a vast field of trash at the once stylish corner of Napoleon and St. Charles, waiting for buses out that had been promised by the police. They all had rashes on their arms and legs, from the hot tar. Janet, who is fifty-two but looks seventy-two, slumped in a wheelchair they’d found in the water. “I had a wineglass I really liked,” she moaned through a mouth sagging with few teeth. “Even that’s gone.” Behind her stood Mario, so exhausted his heavy face seemed to be melting. “We’re O.K., we’re O.K.,” he kept whispering to himself, eyes closed. “We’re O.K. We’re O.K.”

If the buses came, they said, they were going to try to call relatives in Irving, Texas, for money and bus tickets. “One eight hundred C-A-L-L-A-T-T,” chanted Timesha, who cradled the baby in her arms. “That’s how you make a collect call.”

The others sat on a set of beautifully carved dining-room chairs that might have come from any of a thousand graceful houses in the neighborhood. “I’ll have plenty of work,” Charles, the roofer, said, “if I ever come back here.”

Bill Ziemer said...

The closure of the bridge was confirmed by
fox news

Cantankerous Bitch said...

Thanks for the article, Renee. I suspect there'll be a frightfully large number of stories like that one.

Cantankerous Bitch said...

Elf,
I presume your SysAdmin bud is ok?

Cantankerous Bitch said...

Thanks, Bill. I'm surprised Fox didn't bury it. /snark

Elfster said...

Yeah...they've been up and running since before the Hurricane hit. They are the only tenant left in a 27-story building near the Superdome. There have been some scary times...but they've never had a moment of down-time.

Cantankerous Bitch said...

Glad to hear it. I have a friend whose brother lives in NO and he was out of touch for several days. Turns out he's fine, thank heavens. I shudder to think that, for every safe person I hear of, there must be a dozen not so lucky.

Elfster said...

Yes, its a terrible thing. For every story that we hear about people who have survived, there will be others that will remain untold of those who didn't. I cannot even begin to express my outrage at how FEMA, the state of Louisiana, the city of New Orleans, Homeland Security, and our President have handled this entire situation. Its a damn near criminal.

Cantankerous Bitch said...

Elf,
I'm one of those people that thinks it IS criminal. However, with GWB investigating, well, himself, chances are we'll see very little in the way of prosecution.

Elfster said...

Most likely, the FEMA Director will be made into the villian on the Federal level, thus insuring that the HLS Director and the President are not sullied by all of this. On the state level, the Gov. will reap her "rewards" once the polls come on...

Sadly, none of them will see jail terms over the slow response to a major disaster...


"A place to stay
Enough to eat
Somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street
Where you can speak out loud
About your doubts and fears
And whats more no-one ever disappears
You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door.
You can relax on both sides of the tracks
And maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control
And everyone has recourse to the law
And no-one kills the children anymore.
And no one kills the children anymore."
--The Gunner's Dream by Pink Floyd

Bill Ziemer said...

NPR picked up this story in this american life and morning edition.

Cantankerous Bitch said...

That's the beauty of the blogs, Bill. I have every cynical reason to believe that if this (and dozens of other tales) hadn't been part of the netroots buzz, it never would have gotten outside of Louisiana.

While the topic gets hashed out cyclically of late & you may be familiar with both sides, here's a particularly good article on MSM v. Blogging. Some think it's little more than a fad, some think it's having a profound effect on journalism and politics. I think it's more of the latter than the former. Remember when traditional print media reacted to the internet with a sleepy "Yeah, whatever."?