Blessings amid the disbelief and destruction in my hometown: a local voice

Three decades ago, I learned that getting ready for a war is a lot like getting ready for a hurricane. First you board up the windows, then you gather food, flashlights and drinking water, hoping to survive. Last week I learned that the devastation of a hurricane can look a lot like the devastation of war — but I never imagined that my hometown of New Orleans would teach me that lesson.

In 1973, I was a college student in Jerusalem when a quiet Yom Kippur morning was shattered by the sound of air raid sirens. Last week, I was sleeping peacefully in Palo Alto when a ringing phone brought news that my elderly parents, brother and 17-year-old nephew were in a car fleeing New Orleans.

When the Yom Kippur war began, there was no CNN, no World Wide Web, no cell phones and no e-mail to provide my anxious family in New Orleans with any information about my safety. Last week, a cell phone made it possible for them to let me know they were heading to Houston. Another 12 hours would pass before I could confirm that they were safe, not in Houston but in the north Louisiana town of Alexandria. By Wednesday, Aug. 31, with floodwaters covering 80 percent of my hometown, it was my brother's laptop connected to the Internet through a hotel wireless network that enabled my family to get airline tickets from Alexandria to San Jose.

During the Yom Kippur War, I felt like an involuntary participant in an absurdist play. When Golda Meir broadcast the grim news that Israel was under attack, we simply could not believe that the Israeli army would not quickly defeat the aggressors as they had done so dramatically in 1967.

Disbelief was equally powerful during the hurricane. While my husband and I were stunned by predictions of catastrophe as Katrina moved relentlessly toward New Orleans, we clung to hope that the city would escape. Or, if the hurricane did hit New Orleans directly, surely the levees located just blocks from my parents' home near Lake Pontchartrain and my brother's home near the 17th Street canal would provide adequate protection.

Now that the reality of disaster has supplanted disbelief, every news story reminds us that we are among the most fortunate. My family is safely here with me and we have a roof, beds, clean water, electricity, clothing and many comforts that thousands from New Orleans and the Gulf Coast are without.

We also have a community that is supporting us in ways we would never have thought possible — or ever imagined necessary. From immediate enrollment of my nephew in a Palo Alto high school, to medical care for my parents, offers for housing and transportation, an invitation to Shabbat dinner, and fee waivers for Jewish activities from education to High Holy Day services, my e-mail reminds me of what true community means.

It also reminds me that the work I am fortunate to do on behalf of our community in helping to create the Campus for Jewish Life in Palo Alto is a reflection of the values so many here are expressing at this difficult time.

My hometown needs tikkun olam. Our nation needs tikkun olam to confront the contrasting reflection of ourselves the horrific scenes from New Orleans have shown us. Most assuredly, the thousands affected directly by the storm need a spirit of tikkun olam that transcends politics and restores not only parts of the South, but our entire country to the values of community.

I am so grateful to the many friends who have reached out to us. The sustaining power of community is essential to weather all of life's storms and I feel very blessed to have learned that vital lesson once again.




Shelley Hebert is executive director of the Campus for Jewish Life in Palo Alto.







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