It was after midnight, and I knew something was wrong as the airplane approached the runway last week. The pilot told us to “prepare for landing in New Orleans,” but from my window I could not see city lights. In fact, I had felt uneasy since boarding. The plane was filled almost entirely with men — only three other women, no children, no elderly and no families.
The stories began as soon as we landed. The taxi driver poured his heart out. Similar tales of “how I survived the disaster” continued all day, every day. Hotel clerks, strangers standing in line at the few open restaurants, waiters — all had the need to talk, as is true for most people who have experienced great trauma or loss.
Only a few hotels were open, mostly in the undamaged French Quarter, and they were packed with the types of men on my plane — construction workers, insurance adjusters, government employees, police. Much of New Orleans was dark at night, and many neighborhoods still had no electricity.
I had come to New Orleans to meet with the leadership of the Jewish community. Our work was to assess the damage, and to develop a plan for how to help. Representing the organized Jewish community under the umbrella of the National Association of Jewish Family and Children’s Agencies, our purpose was to support the rebuilding of a devastated sister Jewish community that had once numbered more than 10,000 and had possessed a rich network of agencies, synagogues, a day school, a federation and many other organizations that form the mosaic of American Jewish life.
We started with a “scenic tour.” You can drive for half an hour and see only block after block of destroyed homes, front doors torn off, filled with what had been precious possessions and are now just piles of junk, covered with the omnipresent and fast-growing black mold. My hosts had graciously prepared “hazmat” — hazardous materials — gear for me: gloves, boots and masks. About 80 percent of the city’s buildings were destroyed. There was an eerie lack of people.
Buildings, we know, can be rebuilt, but what about societies? Most neighborhoods, including many that were largely Jewish, have been obliterated. The uprooted and dispersed survivors who haven’t fled are shell-shocked and unsure of their future. Most have lost everything they own — their businesses, their homes. Insurance, if they had any, will only pay a small percentage of their loss. Will there be work for the lawyers, doctors, teachers, if they return? Will the children come back to the schools, including the Jewish day school? Will friends, family, and neighbors who are temporarily staying in other places return?
I toured what had been a center of Jewish life: Beth Israel Synagogue. The soiled Torah scrolls and books have been buried, while pews were crushed and the walls and ceilings were black with mold.
Most of the congregants were scattered and gone, with the exception of a heroic group of congregants who remained, working to secure whatever insurance is available, making sure the holy books and ritual objects are properly disposed of, and planning for what to do with the land. Under the circumstances, most people don’t know if their land has any real value anymore.
Our first meeting was with the staff of the Jewish Family Service. They were all there, answering the phones that ring nonstop, and meeting with the desperate clients that fill the waiting room. Despite the fact that all of them were homeless and many live in FEMA trailers, the staff came to work to do what they can. They have been ensuring that the isolated elderly are safe, counseling the traumatized, distributing precious financial aid, and aiding the confused in forming at least short-term plans for living.
After a day of meetings with the Jewish community leadership that remains, together we developed a plan for how to care for those who stayed and, we hope, to encourage evacuees to return. The American Jewish Community has contributed mightily to the nonsectarian, humanitarian relief effort, and members of the Jewish community are working tirelessly with others throughout New Orleans on the city’s recovery.
They hope that government leadership on the city, state and federal levels will emerge to rebuild the levees. That a rebuilt New Orleans must be a safer place to live is essential to the renaissance that everyone prays for. But no one seems to believe this leadership is yet in place.
The heart of the lay and professional leadership is the most moving of all. Many have deep roots in the South’s historic Jewish community. They are uniting to plan the rebirth of their beloved community. One of the reasons they feel they can do this is because they know they are not alone. The funds we are providing have made it possible for families to afford food and temporary shelter, and for the Jewish Family Service to hire social workers and trauma counselors. A team of Israeli trauma specialists, sponsored by the Jewish Family Service, is training the mental health workers of the entire New Orleans community.
We all cried a little when we parted last weekend. They, because they are grateful to feel less alone. We, because we wished we could do more. If you really want to understand the power of community, you can see it in action as New Orleans takes its first baby steps on the uncertain road to recovery.
Anita Friedman is the executive director of the S.F.-based Jewish Family and Children’s Services.