[IP] Swimming to New Orleans: Another first-hand account
Begin forwarded message:
From: A Lukaszewski <all1@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
Date: September 10, 2005 6:35:31 PM EDT
To: dave@xxxxxxxxxx
Subject: Swimming to New Orleans: Another first-hand account
Dear Dave,
I do not know how widely this has been disseminated. Here is a first-
hand account written by someone, a New Orleans native who is now a
computer programmer, who went in to NOLA to find family members and
friends. He encounters, among other things, people who do not even
know there is a relief effort in progress.
Albert Lukaszewski
Swimming to New Orleans By Nick Glassman, Pacific News Service
Posted on September 9, 2005, Printed on September 10, 2005
http://www.alternet.org/story/25220/
I just returned this past weekend from my first trip to Louisiana
since Katrina. It's beyond what you can imagine -- it's hell on Earth.
I flew into Baton Rouge, which sits about 80 miles northwest of New
Orleans, and the city is destroyed, but not by the storm. There are
hundreds of thousands of refugees from New Orleans in Baton Rouge.
People are camping on the side of the roads, in their cars if they
have them, and all over the LSU campus. The first thing you notice is
how outraged everyone is.
The people of Baton Rouge don't want us here, and you can't blame
them. There seems to be no plan for the New Orleaneans once they are
dropped off in Baton Rouge, and locals are confused, horrified or
worse. They know this is potentially a permanent situation, or at
least the way it will be for the next several months. It's safe to
say they're as scared as the homeless and exhausted refugees that
litter their streets.
We rented four houses in Houma, La., which is about 50 miles south of
Baton Rouge or about 30 miles west of New Orleans. We spent the
weekend moving our family there, then our friends, and then people we
met who had no other options. When I left, we had perhaps 40 people
and another 20 on the way. It's an amazing thing to see -- your best
friends, family and everyone in between huddled on floorboards,
makeshift beds and sleeping bags. It's truly like a nuclear bomb hit
our city, and we are doing everything we can just to keep everyone
housed, fed and with clean water.
I decide to go into New Orleans as there are far too many people from
our home unaccounted for. It's Saturday, September 3.
There is no way to get into the city. The roads that are open are
being used to bring people out, and no traffic is headed in. I drive
a rental car 30 miles on backroads that I guess won't be flooded. I
make it about half way until can no longer get into the city by car.
With a backpack loaded with as much water as I can carry, two packs
of breakfast bars, three canisters of bug spray, and an extra pair of
shoes, I start walking.
First, there's the climate. It's almost 90 degrees, and the humidity
and the still water have made the swamp come alive with bugs. The
mosquito swarms and other bugs make sound like a blizzard. I have to
wear long-sleeve shirts and pants, and I'm drenched with sweat.
The first group of people I meet are very friendly. I trade my ipod
for a kid's dirt bike so I can make better time, and they give me
extra water. They try to warn me it isn't safe to head into the city.
They warn me about what neighborhoods to avoid, and that above
everything else, it was critical to stay away from the police.
They'll force you to leave by putting you on a bus destined for who
knows where, and if you resist, they'll arrest you. It's the first
time I sense that the police and government are seen as enemies by
Katrina survivors. At first, I simply consider that shortsighted, but
over the next two days, I start to understand why they think that way.
I get to the outskirts of the city by about 2 p.m. -- an upscale
neighborhood called Metaire, where most of the money of New Orleans
lives. To get that far already involved about half a mile of
swimming. Everything is destroyed. The area isn't just underwater,
it's more that the swamps have risen over New Orleans. There are
snakes and alligators everywhere, and the more you see, the more you
realize the city isn't going to be livable for who knows how long.
Then there are the bodies. I first start seeing them as I cross from
Metaire into what is called Midcity, the neighborhood you drive
through to get to Jazz Fest and the fairgrounds. Until now, I've only
seen a few dead bodies in my entire life. Some have been pushed
against dry spots by, I presume, rescue workers. Others are just
floating in the water. There are houses with red marks on them,
meaning there's someone dead inside. The most horrifying part of all
is what happens when a body is floating in the water for two or three
days. It's barely recognizable as a person. When you see one, it's
riddled with mosquitoes and who knows what else.
The city is not at all empty as the news says it is. I find hundreds
if not thousands of people in all the different neighborhoods, and
they have no intention of leaving. First and foremost, they have
nowhere to go. Many people don't want to leave. They don't trust
they'll ever be let back in, and they certainly aren't going to allow
their homes to be pillaged by people crafty enough not to get kicked
out. Finally, they just don't believe the argument that the city will
be unsafe and infested with disease.
They're armed and angry. They have already survived five straight
days of no food and no water, and they don't believe those who
haven't gotten them food or water are going to find a place for them
to live.
I grew up in the 9th Ward, one of the lowest income areas in the city
and the site of the first levee break. To get to my childhood home, I
would have to dive underwater just to get to the roof. I go to the
second house we lived in. Its roof has been torn off and there's a
body floating not 50 feet away from the front porch. I wish I can say
my friends' houses fared better. Most were either completely
submerged in 10 to 15 feet of water or just not standing anymore. I
find three people I know, and they set off for Houma that afternoon.
People are furious. They feel they've been abandoned. You have to
understand, there's no power anywhere. The rescue crews are going
through New Orleans proper but not all the neighborhoods where people
live. Most people don't even think there's a rescue effort underway
at all. It becomes clear to me the one thing people need is
communication; without it fear takes over. There's nothing more
important to restoring order than giving the leaders an ability to
get messages to everyone.
I know everyone has heard about people firing on helicopters. I'm
certainly not saying it is right, but after being there, I
understand. For five days, helicopters are flying overhead, but none
of them are dropping water or food down for anyone. They fly by using
load speakers saying that anyone found looting or stealing will be
arrested, and those are the helicopters that are followed by
gunshots, from what I see.
The only government group anyone has seen are the police with sawed-
off shotguns threatening to arrest everyone who is walking around on
the streets.
Everyone is fearful for his future, and fear leads people to do
amazing, extraordinary things. It's a state of war. People don't even
know who they're fighting, but they know they're at war. Twice, I
bike away at full speed from people that come at me. Before I leave
the city, my cash, backpack loaded with food and change of clothes
and my camera are stolen. The final time, two people robbed me of my
water. They didn't even ask for cash or my watch, just my water. It
is desperation, and the last thing I could ever feel is anger.
I'll never forget this weekend. I'll probably spend years wishing I
could. You just can't describe what it's like to see the hometown
that you love, that's a part of everything you are, littered with
floating dead bodies, and to see "your people" firing guns at
strangers and hating everyone and everything. It's one of the worst
things I've ever felt or seen. It's a war being fought against no one.
Nick Glassman is a senior manager of programming for MediaFLO at
Qualcomm, Inc.
© 2005 Independent Media Institute. All rights reserved.
View this story online at: http://www.alternet.org/story/25220/--
Albert Lukaszewski, Ph.D. "No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod
be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a
promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine
own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in
mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it
tolls for thee." John Donne Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, no. 17
(Meditation) 1624 (published)
-------------------------------------
You are subscribed as roessler@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To manage your subscription, go to
http://v2.listbox.com/member/?listname=ip
Archives at: http://www.interesting-people.org/archives/interesting-people/