Standing in a Ghost Town

I have lived in Kathmandu and San Francisco, New York City and Paris. I have visited more than 25 countries and seen the remarkable architecture of the Taj Mahal and Gaudi’s buildings.

And I have visited New Orleans post-Hurricane Katrina.

My mother is a Holocaust survivor and I was raised to be mindful of political unrest, bias, and racism. I have lived a life preserving the lives of “food” animals, choosing vegetarianism for more than 30 years. I have listened to my elders, to historians, to politicians, as genocide has reached Europe, Africa, South America and other corners of the world. (Apparently, “corners” are areas that do not affect life in the United States.)

My uncle was a Holocaust survivor, too. But he died in another Holocaust, early in the AIDS epidemic. Now, I teach about AIDS, work in the field and conduct research presenting it domestically and internationally.

You see, I learned about suffering. I heard about things I could not change. I suffered of my helplessness to change history. So I became a social worker. I wanted to go to the next place of crisis and help. I hoped to create change, to help others.

On August 29th, 2005, Hurricane Katrina spent 12 hours battering and destroying much of The Gulf Coast. I wanted to go to help others. But, I had the great fortune to realize another dream. I was a new professor at Ramapo College, so grateful for this opportunity to help create change in a different way and this work would begin in a matter of days. So, I did not go to New Orleans, or Mississippi, or Texas. Instead, I stayed in Mahwah and talked about what I read and witnessed on television.

I have been to many places and I live in New York City, the epicenter of all things diverse. The New York Times and CNN taught many things about what was and was not happening to survivors of the hurricane. (You see, this is another issue I have. Those who have suffered but are living are “survivors” to me; those who died are “the victims”. I learned this because my mother is a Holocaust “survivor”. Her father, killed in Auschwitz, was a “victim”.)

In each class I taught, I found something relevant to discuss about the Hurricane and the people affected. In the Life Cycles class we discussed how such a gigantic, incomprehensible event, could impact people at every age and stage of life. In Child Welfare, we focused on the children and what would happen to them. . .the pedophiles now undocumented and untraceable. In Research Methods, we dissected simple survey polls to determine what they really meant, whose interests were served and what respondents might understand in choosing their responses. Later, in the AIDS class, I talked about clinics that have closed leaving limited treatment options unavailable to many who might otherwise return. I talked about Hurricane Katrina and its impact, a lot. I thought I knew some things.

Then Katie asked if I might want to go to The Gulf Coast. I met with John and was accepted as a co-leader of a trip of amazing Ramapo College students to witness the unimaginable.

The stories of the Holocaust I could only listen to and remember. I had nightmares without the memories. But this was a different experience entirely. I went somewhere other worldly. I saw things I never could have imagined in all of my international and domestic travels. I met people I can only admire and hope to emulate.

New Orleans’ Lower 9th Ward is hell, if one believes that hell exists. It is an empty place, barren of the living, still hiding its dead, seemingly as it was after the waters receded. Except. . . except the houses that blocked streets have been removed and others, that might have earlier been salvaged, now bear the dangers of mold and other contaminants that may never be removed. In New Orleans’ Lower 9th Ward there seemed to be an absence of life and hope, except for a few who are rebuilding their homes; other properties are marked “For Sale” or “Sold”. It is the unparalleled selflessness of many volunteers who are creating change.

Schools are closed. Streets have lost their signs. Is a neighborhood one still if no one lives there and its avenues are without names?

We worked hard in Mississippi gutting houses, painting, moving logs, shoveling muck, removing nails, walls, paneling, insulation, household appliances, and personal effects. . . the remnants of lives forever changed. We were volunteers. We were lucky. We can bear witness to what has not been done in this country. We were also able to leave. We had homes to which we could return.

Is it genocide? Is it a Holocaust? Would the response and rebuilding efforts be different if this had occurred in another part of this country? I do not know. I do know, however, the impressions made on me are indelible. I will not forget how this “corner” of my country has been forgotten. I will not forget the stories of families whose trailers have been taken. I will not forget trying to decide if a water damaged photo with a faded imagine of a child should be saved as all of the others have been washed clean of any image.

I am proud to be an American. I am not proud of America. The volunteers and survivors have not forgotten. And neither have I.