Hurricane humbles devastated cities

We are on a learning curve, we survivors of Katrina.

The education we are receiving is not a course we would have chosen, but when it has concluded we will hold doctorates in coping; for we have no other choice but to cope.

But first we had to live, and that was determined by personal choices.

The stories of how some lived and some died will be told in the days and years ahead. These stories will be told through the generations, and they will become the lore of how this awful storm and the Mississippi Coast forever became entwined, and how that after Katrina we were forever changed.

We can see that clearly in the moment, though it is difficult to see where we may be in a week or a month, and certainly we can’t see very far beyond that.

We huddled in our homes and clung to each other. We uttered prayers and begged for mercy as this storm visited its wrath on us. It seemed almost personal as we were pounded hour after unending hour.

And God, the sound. A howling sound, like some mythical creature, roared with the voice of a thousand banshees.

I hear it still. When we thought it could not become more intense, the intensity grew. When we thought it was spent, it came again with more of its deadly capital visited on us.

But aside from the respect, even fear, that Katrina taught us, there were positive lessons. Perhaps the chief of these was a new sense of perspective and gratefulness.

In the days since, we see these in great abundance. Thousands have lost everything, including many of my colleagues at the Biloxi Sun Herald. One by one they returned to the newspaper and told us of seeing their homes demolished. We hugged, cried with them, and then went about our jobs. Each of us has quickly learned the calculus of survival. My plight may be bad, but so many others have it worse – much worse. So even if some have lost all of their worldly possessions and they are living, then they have much for which to give thanks.

The statement that has become our mantra is “I’m still standing.” So for us survivors that is our common coda – we are still standing together.

In the hours after Katrina passed, I walked near the waters of the Mississippi Sound in Biloxi and Gulfport and looked at the devastation.

People walked everywhere, aimlessly, some alone, others with an arm wrapped around a friend or loved one. They all wore what I quickly observed to be the “stare.” It is a look that you see sometimes in combat when a unit has suffered greatly. People just look blankly ahead but without focus. They don’t appear to be looking at anything in particular.

As instructed before the storm, I wore my press pass issued by the Harrison County Emergency Management office. I suppose the badge gave me some official, visual empowerment. A great many people asked me for help.

“Can you give us food or water? We have lost everything and we don’t know where to go or what to do? We are thirsty and hungry.”

I thought of the scripture. I knew what the moment called for, but I had no food or drink – only words of compassion and sorrow over their loss. They thanked me and ambled away.

You wonder how thin the veneer that civilization has covered us in. Almost before the storm had passed the looters were at work. I saw it. Other reporters saw it as roving bands of mostly young men ransacked stores for whiskey, beer and cigarettes, furniture, TVs and the like in open view. The lawlessness has only increased since those first acts of looting. More stories tell of widespread vandalism and theft, and some of the thugs are brandishing guns, it is said.

There are not enough police organizations to prevent the sacking of our towns.

Immediately there was no gasoline or water to be had, and the need for these and food has grown by the hour. As soon as survivors could chain saw their way out of subdivisions or apartments, they loaded up the car and went out to see the damage and to “get stuff.” Unfortunately, there was really nothing to get. But that didn’t stop folks from queuing up for nothing.

There was a gas station on Highway 49 where dozens of cars lined up for gasoline. Separately there was a line at the front door. Like others I stopped for gas. After a while, I asked someone if there was gas. They told me, no, and furthermore that the next closest gas station with gasoline was in Jackson. The line at the front door was not moving and indeed I do not believe the station was actually open. When asked “why are we in line?” the man at the end of the line said, “I don’t know.”

Things are bad and only going to get worse here. We know that and are prepared to live with the uncomfortable state for a very long time.

Everyone wants gas and water. Neither can be found, and with each hour our personal caches are dwindling. But the needs of our people are so incredibly great as to cry out for attention.

Medical supplies, food, water, gasoline – are all needed, and now. Some say our plight, coupled with the unbelievable state of degradation in New Orleans, represents the greatest humanitarian crisis in American history.

This has led us to profoundly understand our dependence on others. In this moment of need, we wonder who will help us? We are even so bold as to send a message from the lost cities of the Mississippi Coast: Will you help us?