<html>
<body>
<font size=3><br><br>
People of New Orleans bring the streets to life on the<br>
anniversary of the Great Flood<br><br>
<a href="http://www.peopleshurricane.org/" eudora="autourl">
www.peopleshurricane.org</a> <br><br>
NEW ORLEANS: AUGUST 29, 2006<br>
It was almost 10AM and all three drawbridges—the only<br>
entry points into the Lower 9th Ward—were up. A line<br>
of cars piled up, waiting impatiently at the main<br>
bridge, anxious about being late to the start of the<br>
day’s events. A Memorial Ceremony was set to start at<br>
10, at the very place where a barge broke thru<br>
Industrial Canal Levee sending up to 20 feet of water<br>
crashing into the homes of thousands of people.<br><br>
Following a few angry calls to the New Orleans Police<br>
Department, the Mayor’s <br>
Office and the City Council, at a few minutes after<br>
10AM, cars were finally allowed onto the St Claude<br>
Bridge. For months while the Army Corps of Engineers<br>
patched the levee, a wall of barbed wire ran parallel<br>
to it, preventing visitors or any unwanted levee<br>
critics from approaching. But on the 29th, someone cut<br>
the barbed wire and hundreds of people gathered in<br>
front of the useless new wall that could not resist<br>
the force of even a Category 2 storm . <br><br>
At the levee, one of the community’s spiritual<br>
leaders, Mama Olayeela, offered libations in front of<br>
an altar with hundreds of candles. A solemn drumbeat<br>
accompanied her. “Open the way, Great Mother, for the<br>
healing spirits to enter,” she responded to the<br>
drumbeat. Zion Trinity offered songs for “the warrior<br>
spirit in us to rise.” And as the crowd filed away<br>
from the levee to join the commemoration march, a<br>
number of people lining the road read the names of<br>
each of those who passed in the Flood. Commemoration<br>
organizers had collected some 900 names. That day, in<br>
their memorial edition, The Times Picayune printed 850<br>
names. Close to 600 are still unidentified or<br>
missing. Many in the crowd carried photos of their<br>
loved ones who had passed. Others carried signs,<br>
“Remember the dead, fight for the living”.<br><br>
Death and Rebirth<br>
Many have reported that the Lower 9th Ward looks,<br>
feels and smells like a dead zone. Only a hand full<br>
brave pioneers have reclaimed their homes in the midst<br>
of block-after-block of devastated, abandoned<br>
homes—where the city still does not supply water,<br>
sewer or garbage service. But, as the crowd trudged in<br>
95 degree heat up the rutted dirt road, past fields<br>
overgrown with weeds where piles of rubble (formerly<br>
houses) had recently been bulldozed, life returned to<br>
the Lower 9th Ward. <br><br>
Veteran New Orleans activists were thrilled to be<br>
marching along side people they may see on their jobs,<br>
on buses, on street corners, but until then, never on<br>
political marches. A weathered man with a tambourine,<br>
Mr. Johnson, who had to be at least 80, walked<br>
stiffly, as if he had wooden legs with no knee joints.<br>
He refused an offer to ride in the air conditioned<br>
vans available at the end of the march for people not<br>
able to walk three miles in the tropical heat.<br>
Although the 29th was a work day, it was also the<br>
anniversary of the Storm that took so many people’s<br>
lives and flooded 80% of New Orleans. Nearly 2000<br>
people joined Mr. Johnson because they still ache for<br>
public recognition of their grief and they still<br>
seethe with fury for the injustice they’ve<br>
experienced. Young, old, people in wheelchairs,<br>
children in strollers, young men with t-shirts down to<br>
their knees and others wearing dashikis stared down<br>
the National Guard perched in their humvees at each<br>
corner—some of the 300 who occupy the Black<br>
communities of New Orleans.<br>
<br>
For a few blocks, this writer walked with Mrs.<br>
Anderson. Exactly a year ago, as the water rose to the<br>
second floor of her Lower 9th Ward home, she sought<br>
refuge on her roof. She began sobbing as she described<br>
how rescue helicopters, made eye contact, then passed<br>
her by as they headed for the white section of town.<br>
Finally, the raging waters pushed her home off its<br>
foundations and she clung to the roof until it crashed<br>
into a tree. She doesn’t remember how many hours she<br>
waited in the tree, not for help, but for death. “I<br>
urinated on myself for warmth”. Her sister interrupts,<br>
“you mean you were so scared, you pissed yourself.” <br><br>
Ms Anderson is one of the 250,000 low-income Black New<br>
Orleanians who were displaced by the storm and don’t<br>
have the means to come home. She’s been staying in La<br>
Place, some 25 miles west of New Orleans. “The doctor<br>
told me not to come back for the anniversary, that it<br>
would be bad for my blood pressure, but I had to come<br>
just for this day.” Most displaced New Orleanians are<br>
living a few hours away from New Orleans and want to<br>
come home. But the state is systematically denying<br>
their right to return by withholding housing<br>
assistance, favoring below-minimum-wage jobs,<br>
privatizing health care and education. One of the<br>
demands of the Commemoration is for the right to<br>
return to New Orleans—reconstructed with social<br>
justice.<br><br>
As the somber march reached a street that divides the<br>
9th Ward from the 8th Ward, the Hot 8 Brass Band<br>
interrupted Ms Anderson’s story with an upbeat version<br>
of “I’ll Fly Away.” She, her sister and daughter, as<br>
soon as they heard the music, broke into the<br>
traditional Second Line dance, along with the rest of<br>
the crowd. The energy of the music lifted the grief<br>
and anger off the shoulders of the crowd. Everyone<br>
—those holding “Right to Return” signs and those with<br>
gold caps on their teeth, who heard about the event on<br>
the local hip hop station, chanted together to the<br>
beat: “New Aw-lins” over and over. Sess 4-5, a local<br>
hip hop artist who worked hard to promote the<br>
Commemoration, was exultant. “Now it’s gonna happen,”<br>
he told this writer, before he yelled into his<br>
bullhorn, “No justice, no peace!”<br><br>
At Congo Square<br>
Energized by the music and hydrated by free water<br>
distributed along the route, few seemed to mind the<br>
three-mile march at the peak of tropical heat. They<br>
were more relieved by the disappearance of any threat<br>
from Hurricane Ernesto. <br><br>
Nine hundred names, imprinted on huge black banners<br>
greeted people as they entered Congo Square—since<br>
slavery, the historic center of people’s resistance to<br>
oppression in New Orleans. Drums welcomed the<br>
marchers. Some lingered at an altar with 1600 candles,<br>
writing the names of loved ones under a candle, some<br>
dancing in the flickering glow. Across the square, a<br>
Healing Tent offered massage, acupuncture and<br>
counseling. And bordering the square, people could<br>
visit a variety of tables with information about the<br>
new Women’s Clinic, the Workers’ Justice Coalition,<br>
the Lower Ninth Ward Neighborhood Association, Peoples<br>
Hurricane Relief Fund and others.<br><br>
Well-known New Orleans DJ, Wild Wayne from Q93,<br>
nationally recognized poet Sunni Patterson and poet<br>
producer Asali DeVan shared MC duties. The<br>
speech/performance of Mia X—a New Orleans native and<br>
first female rapper on the No Limit Record label-- <br>
was the highpoint of the afternoon. She told the<br>
crowd, “I have a baby father in the cemetery and a<br>
baby father in the penitentiary and no family left to<br>
come home to in New Orleans.” She lost five family<br>
members in the Flood. “That’s why we have to have a<br>
Cease Fire among our people. We need to figure out how<br>
to meet our mental needs… We have a culture and<br>
history here—we gotta support each other.” The crowd<br>
gave her much love.<br><br>
Other speakers -- including Nikkisha Napoleon whose<br>
Uncle passed in the Flood, more people who lost<br>
family members, local Black community leaders and<br>
Malcolm Suber who represented the United Front that<br>
organized the Commemoration -- all contributed to the<br>
message of the day. Members of the International<br>
Commission of Inquiry for the upcoming Tribunal on<br>
Katrina Crimes against the People—from Brazil,<br>
Venezuela and South Africa—spoke of their common<br>
experiences on the slave ships of yesteryear and<br>
today. They were committed to honoring those who<br>
passed and shared a consensus that the needless death<br>
and destruction that followed Katrina was a genocidal<br>
attack on Black people. The continued forced<br>
dispersion of Black people—the largest since the<br>
betrayal of Reconstruction-- must be resisted. They<br>
also demanded that the City rescind any threat to<br>
subject peoples’ homes to seizure under eminent domain<br>
and that public housing be opened. In short: displaced<br>
people have the right to return to affordable, safe<br>
homes, quality schools, jobs with dignity, quality<br>
health care and recreational facilities. All committed<br>
to working for reconstruction of New Orleans and the<br>
Gulf according to the right to social justice and self<br>
determination.<br><br>
By Arlene Eisen, an activist and long term volunteer<br>
with Peoples’ Hurricane Relief Fund in New Orleans. <br>
arlenesreport@yahoo.com<br>
</font><x-sigsep><p></x-sigsep>
<font size=3 color="#FF0000">The Freedom Archives<br>
522 Valencia Street<br>
San Francisco, CA 94110<br>
(415) 863-9977<br>
</font><font size=3>
<a href="http://www.freedomarchives.org/" eudora="autourl">
www.freedomarchives.org</a></font></body>
</html>