'Get Off The Fucking Freeway'
Original article is at: http://neworleans.indymedia.org/news/2005/09/4683.php
'Get Off The Fucking Freeway': The Sinking State Loots its Own Survivors
Larry Bradshaw and Lorrie Beth SlonskyWednesday, Sep. 07, 2005 at 3:13 AM
Two paramedics stranded in New Orleans in the wake of hurricane Katrina give
their account of self-organisation and abandonment in the disaster zone
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 been 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.
Links
Jamie King 'The Real War of the Worlds'
[http://linkme2.net/5f] (URL: http://jamie.com/archives/20)
http://www.metamute.com/look/article.tpl?IdLanguage=1&IdPublication=1&NrIssue=24&NrSection=5&NrArticle=1523
'Get Off The Fucking Freeway': The Sinking State Loots its Own Survivors
Larry Bradshaw and Lorrie Beth SlonskyWednesday, Sep. 07, 2005 at 3:13 AM
Two paramedics stranded in New Orleans in the wake of hurricane Katrina give
their account of self-organisation and abandonment in the disaster zone
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 been 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.
Links
Jamie King 'The Real War of the Worlds'
[http://linkme2.net/5f] (URL: http://jamie.com/archives/20)
http://www.metamute.com/look/article.tpl?IdLanguage=1&IdPublication=1&NrIssue=24&NrSection=5&NrArticle=1523
posted by T. Scott Brineman | 9:03 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home