Frustration and Survival in the Astrodome

By Anita Johnson and Thenmozhi Soundararajan and Jeff Chang, AlterNet. Posted September 16, 2005.

Outside the Houston Astrodome earlier this week, dozens of tents for State Farm Insurance, Bank of America, Chase, Veteran's Aid, and many more seemed to promise a quick return to something like shopping-mall normalcy. It was easy to sign up for a credit card. An ATM city had sprung up, so you could slide your new card in and get cash right away, and pay the bill later.

At press briefings organized by local officials, the story was upbeat; a shining example of government, business and charity coming together to do good. Thousands of evacuees were being processed, more than 500 children were been reunited with their families, and life went on. But behind the doors of the Astrodome, survival and frustration were the order of the day. Jamel Bell, who fled his flooded Ninth Ward in New Orleans, found no salvation here. "Inside it feels like prison," he said. At curfew, he says, the evacuees were locked in.

News teams from independent sources, such as our own, were continuously harassed by local officials and police. Reporters from KPFT, the Pacifica station in Houston, tossed their press badges for Red Cross volunteer badges in order to do their work. In Baton Rouge, hip-hop journalist and WBAI reporter Rosa Clemente was arrested and briefly detained after National Guardsmen attempted to confiscate her recording equipment.

Despite news reports that evacuees were being moved through the system and out of the center efficiently and quickly, there were up to 35,000 evacuees daily in the building. Cots filled with weary people stretched across the floor. Celebrities, followed by television cameras, filed in and out. The food was terrible, the meat in the sandwiches sometimes served still frozen. Surveillance was heavy, and tensions on the floor remained thick.

Many evacuees tried to forget the brutal images of their evacuation: skin sores on a man wading through toxic waters, a chaotic stampede of evacuees on a bridge toward a line of buses, the traumatic separation of families at evacuation checkpoints. Amidst the apocalyptic scenes, Dionne Wright, a custodian in her mid-30s, tried to calm her daugher. "This is not the end," she said. "This is not the end."

Raver Price, 19, from the largely black and poor Ninth Ward, said she heard rumblings before the levee break, and wondered if they were the sounds of dynamite. When she and her hungry friends took food from a flooded store, she said she encountered a Guardsman who sneered at her and said, "I can't wait to kill you bitches."

Among the displaced New Orleans youths in the Astrodome, some neighborhood rivalries did not go out with the tide, and fights sometimes broke out between different crews. Many evacuees said that when they went to sleep, they kept one eye on their belongings.

Before dawn, often as early as 5:30am, lines for basic services -- including those to find housing or obtain the much-desired $2,000 relief check from FEMA and the $235 relief check from the Red Cross -- began forming. Processing continued until 8pm.

Many people were mystified by FEMA rules. Households are only allowed to report one address for the one-time check to be sent to. For families still in the midst of being reunited, or on the verge of being sent to another evacuation center or even another city, the logic seemed bizarre.

Thenmozhi Soundararajan and Anita Johnson are reporting from the Gulf Coast for Hard Knock Radio (Pacifica Radio) and Thirld World Majority. Jeff Chang is based in Berkeley, California and wrote this article from their reports.

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