ESCAPE FROM SUPERDOME

I arrived Friday, Aug. 26, in New Orleans. On Sunday, I was awaiting word from the New Orleans mayor to see if the city was to be evacuated. The moment he gave the order I hopped in a cab bound for Amtrak and Greyhound. The cabbie said it looked like they were closed. I said, “No way,” and had him drop me off. Sure enough, both were. (I later learned that both had closed on Saturday, two days before the hurricane.) All rental cars were gone and no hotels or motels seemed to be open.

I knew the Superdome was available for “special needs” people. This meant medical needs, but I walked the block or two and spoke to a police officer, who directed me to the other side of the Dome, where about 400 people were waiting for the doors to open at noon. I finally got in the Dome around 3 p.m. and found two seats to myself under the overhang-in case the roof blew off. Two other guys joined me. I think we were all happy to have the mutual support. Best I could tell is they were 'Nawlins natives who were homeless, recovering addicts.

I would estimate that there were 10,000 people inside the Dome by the time the hurricane was supposed to hit Monday morning. Everything seemed orderly. Someone made an announcement Sunday evening about meals being served by section. In the crowd were many people who looked like they might have been homeless, and lots of families with children. Ethnically, the crowd was probably about 75 to 80 percent black, 15 to 20 percent Anglo and 5 percent “other.” People seemed to be getting along fine and integrating well.

We all sat in padded stadium chairs, except for some people who had brought mattresses and others who had tents. We lined up for food, which took about 45 minutes. It was prepackaged military rations with a pack inside that you add two ounces of water to and it heats up the chemicals to warm your entrée. It was all fine, and I was thankful to have that food and water.

It was around 6:20 a.m. when the brunt of the hurricane seemed to roar through and the electricity went off. There were backup generators, but we no longer had air conditioning and only about 50 percent of the lighting. Two panels of the roof of the dome blew off, each probably about 10 feet by 10 feet, allowing some water to get in. Since the wind blew the water horizontally, there was no downpour, but people in the wrong places had to move. Eventually, the water that did get in spread throughout much of the inner latticework of the Dome. With the exposed air, you could hear the storm, and there were now some fears that the whole roof might blow off. At this point, one's imagination could start to run wild. I would guess that the brunt of the storm lasted about six to eight hours, but it was difficult to keep track of time without a watch. To keep busy or amused, you could walk around the hallways of the stadium, but you were prohibited from going up to the third or fourth levels or outdoors. Still, there were plenty of interesting people to see, many of whom could easily have been on the Jerry Springer Show.

Prior to our entry, there were National Guardsmen present in the building, frisking people and checking our belongings before we entered, as well as passing out food and water (two or three times a day). I don't think it was till Monday afternoon that I saw any military with their AK-47s. Their appearance was a bit unsettling to many of us, but they would later prove helpful. I believe it was Monday afternoon when I first heard an officer say he expected riots to break out on Tuesday. I kind of shrugged off his comment as paranoia. Hours later, though, I was thinking along those same lines. What was developing was a mini-society that was starting to mimic William Golding's classic book, Lord of the Flies, about a group of shipwrecked kids who form their own government and means to survive.

Tensions seemed to be rising as rumors and misinformation spread. There was no longer any central communication from the organizers to the residents that could have put people at ease. Simple announcements such as, “There is no need to worry. We have tons of food and water” would have gone far toward easing some worries. I decided at this point that this was going to be one of those landmark times in my life, that I was going to be tested. I would have to learn from the pain and grow stronger from it all.

More and more people rescued from around town poured in to the Dome, bringing horrific stories of folks losing family members, of being up to their necks in the water before some volunteer on a small boat saved their life. Our only contact with the outside world was through one or two radio stations that people with boom boxes were playing, but the stations didn't have much information and were relying on people in the community to report in.

Meal lines began to grow, and instead of 45 minutes, the wait was becoming an hour to an hour and a half, and people began cutting in line and shoving. The military, clearly understaffed, was beginning to lose control. The soldiers didn't seem to have any more information than we did. Many of the Dome employees, and perhaps the military, too, had lost everything they owned and didn't know the status of their loved ones. They, too, were becoming prisoners in the Superdome.

We heard talk that buses would be coming to take us out on Tuesday-I can't remember how many times we heard various false promises. After the hurricane, very few cell phones worked, but I managed to find one working and offered a woman $10 to let me call my friend Keith in San Diego to let him know I had survived. After hanging up, I regretted not telling him at that time to please alert as many news organizations as possible, and my congressperson, that a storm was brewing inside the Superdome. By then, I, too, had realized that hell was going to break loose.

Food-line waits grew to two to three hours long. There was little control over them, and shoving matches broke out. There were some people who were the scum of the earth inside that Dome, sure-but the vast majority were good, law-abiding, caring individuals of all nationalities and races. Still, we all knew we had to get out of there soon-we were going stir crazy.

The toilets had all filled up with waste. I do not exaggerate when I say that all toilets on the first and second floors were overflowing with fecal matter. Urine permeated the floors and was tracked up and down the hallways by thousands of people. Elderly people and families with young children were forced to sleep for days on cardboard soaked with urine and feces on the tile floors. What began as a place of rescue was turning into a prison. We couldn't leave. We couldn't escape the horrific odor of human waste that spread throughout the building. People on respirators and with asthma had to endure others smoking in the bathrooms. More people poured in to the Dome, and still no good communication other than hearsay about-what else-“the buses were on the way.”

We then heard that the levee had been breached. We also heard that a man inside the Dome had either been shoved off a ledge or committed suicide. Rumors took on a life of their own. We heard that a little girl had been raped-word was that a black man raped a white girl. Was this merely a reflection of the general racism existing in America, or was it fact? Then we heard that he had raped two young girls. Then we heard he had either broken their necks or slit their throats. Then we heard it was a white man who committed these atrocities against a black girl. I still don't know the truth.

People usually left their belongings where they were sitting when they went the bathroom or got in the food line. Either you would trusted your neighbors or you stopped caring because, by this time, you just wanted to survive. I kept my wallet and camera, my most valuable possessions, in my front pockets at all times.

By Tuesday morning everyone was complaining about why people outside couldn't hear our pleas. Why in the world was no one rescuing us? Why wasn't there better planning? Why was the military so woefully understaffed? Why did we believe we would run out of food and water? Why couldn't someone pump or even dig out the fecal waste from the toilets? Why didn't FEMA have thousands of buses lined up in neighboring states waiting to come in and take us out? Why didn't the medical facilities have medicine after the first day? Why couldn't the military recreate the Vietnam airlift to save us? Why couldn't we even get some toilet paper?

We all grew more frustrated and angrier. A high school freshman sociology student would know that even if someone was not of criminal mind, the average person could only handle stress so long before falling prey to the temptation of either becoming a looter, a line-cutter, a backstabber, or simply freaking out. The lack of preparedness and slow response to this situation was creating a time bomb. I later learned that during a less-severe hurricane many years ago, there was rioting that broke out in the Dome. Hadn't government officials learned their lesson?

The monotony was too much. I tried my best to amuse myself, look at the positive and tell jokes to keep up the morale of others. I knew that the worst thing was to hang out with negative people or dwell on the worst-case scenario. I prepared myself mentally for what escape routes I would take if things went crazy, but I did my best not to dwell on these things. I was going to learn some important lessons about human nature and myself from this experience one way or another, damn it! I laughed to myself when I thought of others who might have joined me on my vacation in New Orleans but decided they couldn't make it. Would they have hated my guts had I talked them in to this adventure? Ah, the imagination is a wonderful and powerful tool.

On Tuesday I was approached by Lars, from Denmark. He asked if I wanted to join his group from the International Hostel. I thanked him but said probably not. I still felt comfortable with my two boys from the 'hood. Besides, I didn't want to contribute to the segregation. A couple hours later, I returned to my luggage and discovered that a few pieces of food were missing from inside a zippered pocket. I thought Tim, one of the homeless guys, must have taken it. Had he asked, I would have shared. I didn't make a scene, but I told Tim and Kurt that I ran into some friends from California and was moving from Section 149 to 113. They were cool with that; no hard feelings. Days later, I discovered that Tim had not stolen a thing from me-I had put that food in a different pocket. Nevertheless, my mistake may have saved my life. And Lars from Denmark may have saved my life. And so many different things that occurred may have saved my life. But, by this point, I had no hope of the government saving my life.

I joined the international group made up mainly of 20- to 30-year-old travelers from Britain, Australia, France, New Zealand, Thailand, China, Taiwan, Brazil, Canada and Haiti. Out of about 100, there were three Americans. From appearances I would say that about five among the group were black, five were Asian, two Hispanic and the rest white. If it the were better lit, we definitely would have stood out in the crowd. I still had mixed feelings about creating our own little island, so I sat near the group but integrated myself with a black family on the outside fringe area. After word of the rape, the international group decided that the men would surround the women. I thought this was a bit paranoid, but I agreed to slightly shift my position.

Late Tuesday, a few people started to break into vending machines for food and concession stands for ice. It wasn't total anarchy, but things were definitely getting sketchy. The saving grace was that we could go outside for fresh air.

The soldiers seemed to be just as upset as the rest of us about being abandoned and not knowing if we'd get out in two days or two weeks, or if we would starve to death. Our anger toward FEMA and the Bush administration grew. We truly believed that we might die. Spoken or unspoken, most of us knew that if our resources and soldiers were not in Iraq, we would have had more than enough troops and support.

Fortunately, a soldier, Staff Sgt. Ogden, saved our group of 100. I am thankful beyond words for the work he did in arranging to get us out. I don't know if he did this because he liked us, or he knew we were in danger, or if it was racism, or if he realized that if one of the international students was raped or murdered that would be a huge embarrassment for President Bush. I may never know the motivation, but I was happy to find out that we would be somewhat-secretly escorted out by armed guards to a different location.

My mind filled with so many different thoughts. What right did we have to leave when many of these people had families with them? What right did we have to leave when we weren't even New Orleanians? What right did we have to leave? I felt pain for the people left behind. I knew they were living in hell. But I was jubilant to be leaving. We were told not to talk to anyone, not to smile and to just walk in a single line. We were told that a riot could break out once others left behind caught wind of this favoritism. There were definitely some stressful moments on the way out.

We were escorted to the adjacent basketball arena, where we helped with a makeshift emergency room set up for patients brought there. Our work was incredibly sad, but we knew it was needed and it brought us some peace. The next day, we were smuggled out to the Hyatt Hotel, where we encountered more scary moments. A woman rushed into the hotel screaming, “They're here! They're here!” We ran in fear, practically creating a stampede. It was a false alarm, and we were admonished for freaking out.

It was there, at the Hyatt, where about 25 members of the international group, almost entirely white, stole beer from behind the bar with crazed abandon. I heard a black woman from another group say, in anger, “Your group is filled with looters!” The words struck a chord. The full circle of the Lord of the Flies, it seemed, had come to pass. Later, two others of our group surreptitiously returned a tray of brownies they had stolen from inside the hotel.

Finally, we made it out of the Hyatt under armed guard after more false hopes. We wrote our thoughts down on plywood inside the lobby, many of them about the federal government and how its inaction could have killed us, and how it led to the suffering and deaths of many others.

On the journey to Dallas, the bus in front of us overturned-one person died and 17 were injured. Our bus driver saved people from that bus, becoming one of the many heroes in all of this. Even on the way out, it seemed the nightmare would never end.

Please, treasure your loved ones. Be prepared for disaster. Know yourself. Know who you are capable of becoming.

Paul Harris, 49, is a resident of Clairemont and a supervisor at UCSD's Geisel Library. Harris agreed to have CityBeat donate his fee for this story to a fund that has been established on behalf of employees of the Gambit Weekly, an alternative newspaper in New Orleans similar to CityBeat. To learn more about the fund, please visit www.aan.org.