Silent Nights on the Gulf Coast - New York Times
The New York Times

December 25, 2005
Op-Ed Contributor

Silent Nights on the Gulf Coast
By JOHN GRISHAM

Charlottesville, Va.

IN the harrowing days after Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast, the
shellshocked and homeless survivors strung up tents and tarps wherever they
could
find standing shelter, anything to hide from the sun. Now, four months
later, many of the tents remain: in the front lawns of once fine houses now
gutted
and unlivable, in small clearings between mountains of rubble, beside
camping trailers too cramped for entire families, on concrete slabs wiped
clean by
the storm surge, even in the living rooms of houses with few walls but
intact roofs. The sun is no longer the problem: instead, the most desperate
of the
hurricane's victims have stuffed tents of every imaginable make and model
with Salvation Army blankets and mattresses to try to stay dry and warm.

There is the dismal feeling that some of these tents may not be so
temporary. One tent city built by the Army, dubbed "the Village," sits in
the center
of the small town of Pass Christian, some 30 miles west of Biloxi and at
ground zero for Hurricane Katrina and its assault on the Gulf Coast.

The Village is a gloomy grid of 70 tents, 10 numbered rows of seven each,
housing about 150 people - old, young, black, white, poor, middle-class,
some
so ill that their tents are marked "Oxygen in Use." After four months, some
of the shock of loss has worn off and the people go quietly about the daily
challenges of securing a warm, private shower, washing whatever clothing
they have left, and hoping that their children do not fall ill.

They are grateful for the dry bed and the free food. Everyone knows someone
who is worse off, or dead. With tens of thousands of Mississippians
displaced
and living with families or friends around the country, the residents of the
Village at least have their children with them and they are close to home.

A handful of tents are decorated for the holidays, but it seems almost cruel
to ask a young mother what she's planning for Christmas.

"We're leaving," she says without hesitation. "Getting out of here for a day
or two."

All who are able plan to leave and find a relative. Last year, they were
stringing lights and wrapping gifts and waiting for Santa. This year, the
great
Christmas wish in the Village is to finally get a trailer from the Federal
Emergency Management Agency.

Indeed, one reason the place exists is the backlog of homeless people who
need trailers. When FEMA closed the shelters and stopped paying for motel
rooms,
something had to be done. Thus, the tent cities.

Don't ask why it's taking so long to get a trailer because there is no
answer. More than 24,000 temporary housing units have been delivered, but
10,000
more are needed. The delays are maddening. A woman in the nearby town of
Necaise went to the FEMA office on Aug. 30, the day after the storm, and
requested
a trailer. She did the paperwork, answered all the questions. She is
epileptic; her daughter is diabetic; her husband needs back surgery; their
situation
is urgent, and she has explained all this to FEMA many times. Four months
later she's still waiting. Her story is not unusual.

A FEMA trailer is 8 feet wide, 30 feet long and 7 feet high. It has a
bedroom, a kitchen/living area and a bathroom. It is equipped with a
refrigerator,
stove, heater, toilet and shower. A set of bunk beds can also be used as a
storage area or pantry. The residents are required to furnish their own
television,
and the best place to put it is on the kitchen table.

There is no washer, dryer, bathtub or microwave. The trailer sleeps eight,
supposedly, but the eight need to be very small and very fond of one
another.
That's why it's not unusual to see a pup tent or two pitched beside the
trailer, probably occupied by the mom or the dad or both, regardless of how
chilly
the night might be.

The first one I examined was in Waveland, a small town hit so hard that
there's virtually nothing left. A woman was inspecting her new trailer,
thrilled
that it has finally arrived. She and her family had been waiting for weeks,
living with friends, counting the days. I confessed that I had never been
inside
a FEMA trailer, and she eagerly showed me around. It didn't take long. The
two of us created a crowd.

We talked about the holidays. She said she certainly planned to put up a
tree. "Not sure where," she said as she looked around the claustrophobic
living
room.

A FEMA trailer is too small for a Christmas tree, so those who can muster
enough spirit set them outside, either under an awning or tied to the
trailer
hitch. Driving around in the evening, I found it heartening to see a few
tiny trees and some colorful lights. They illuminated the trailers and threw
dim
shadows on the ubiquitous rubble. Otherwise, the nights are very dark and
quiet along the Coast.

Late one evening in Biloxi, on a desolate street two blocks from the beach,
I saw a trailer with a small Christmas tree beside it. I stopped and said
hello
to the man inside. He gave me a very brief tour of his new quarters - home
to him, his wife and their dog. Outside, he showed me the ruins of the house
they owned for 32 years. It was built on land 20 feet above sea level.
Pointing to his friend's badly damaged house across the street, he described
how
the flood's water mark could be seen on the second floor, 22 feet higher.

"What will you do for Christmas?" I asked.

"We won't stay here," he said. They planned to visit a relative a few miles
away and try their best to celebrate.

I asked him how long he expected to live in the trailer. His answer was
vaguely tied to an insurance dispute, and maybe litigation. I asked about
the quality
of the trailers. "Not bad," he said.

There are mixed reviews about the reliability of the trailers, with some
complaints about leaky roofs and cheap door hinges. Frankly, though, the
people
are so happy to have them that they're willing to overlook the flaws.

You see the trailers everywhere. They sit in the driveways of destroyed
suburban homes, jacked up on blocks with sewer pipes running out and water
hoses
running in, power cords dangling from makeshift poles. They dot the
countryside, sitting sadly where real houses once were. They're packed
together by
the hundreds in overnight settlements, newly flattened areas carved from
pastures that were quickly leased by farmers to the government. In these
FEMA
towns, with so many highly stressed people living on top of each other,
officials worry about tension and crime.

As with the tents in the Village, you look at the FEMA trailers and wonder
how temporary they really are. No houses are being built. Many of those
damaged
will remain untouched while the great debate with insurance companies over
wind damage versus water damage is played out in court. Many months will
pass
before there is significant new construction.

Unlike New Orleans, where the floods were heaviest in the poorer
neighborhoods, the Gulf Coast experienced damage that cut across social and
economic lines.
Hurricane Katrina did not discriminate here. Wealthy people now dwell in
FEMA trailers that are exactly the same size as the ones handed out to those
who
were living in subsidized apartments.

When it's warm enough, the trailer people spend as much as time as possible
outside. Porch sitting, a way of life, is still carried on, though radically
modified. Tarps and awnings are affixed to the trailers and provide cover.
The families and neighbors gather in folding lawn chairs and chat deep into
the night about their lives before the storm and about the struggle to get
through another day and find some measure of normality. There is guarded
talk
of the future.

The defiance that came so naturally in the aftershocks of Hurricane Katrina
has gradually yielded to weary determination. Four months have passed with
little
improvement, and the challenges ahead are forbidding.

Mississippi's governor, Haley Barbour, has said his state needs $34 billion
to rebuild. The state's annual budget is about a 10th of that, with
virtually
nothing set aside for such emergencies. The bold promises made in the heat
of the moment after the storm have so far been pathetically empty. Congress
has so far authorized nearly $100 billion for emergency relief and cleanup,
but only a third of that has hit the ground.

Not lost on the people here was the recent rush to pass more tax cuts for
the rich. And a question often heard is, "Why are we spending billions to
rebuild
Iraq and not a dime down here?"

There is a fear of being forgotten by the government. Washington is
preoccupied with a war and its glut of messy side issues, and attention will
soon turn
to the midterm elections. There is also the very real fear of being
forgotten by the press. The satellite trucks and cameras have long since
gone. If the
news media forget, then so will the people with the money in Washington.
Pollsters are already noting the rapid decline in the disaster's importance
on
the national radar screen.

THE fear of being forgotten is soothed somewhat by the seemingly
inexhaustible waves of church folks, students, retirees and private relief
workers who've
dug in and done the dirty work. Tons of food, clothing and supplies continue
to pour into the region. Countless hours have been spent hauling debris,
cutting
trees and patching roofs. The volunteer spirit of the American and Canadian
people lifted the Gulf Coast from its knees and continues to sustain it.

But volunteers cannot build bridges, ports and highways. New infrastructure
will require lots of federal aid, and Congress has been slow to respond.

Americans have short memories. Life moves so fast and one catastrophe shoves
away the last one. The horrible images from New Orleans and the Gulf Coast
are fading. A year ago we watched in disbelief when a tsunami hit Southeast
Asia and killed more than 150,000. We sent checks and food and two months
later
we'd practically forgotten about it.

The tragedy of Katrina will worsen if the Gulf Coast is forgotten. People
can't survive in tents. And FEMA trailers aren't meant to be longtime homes.

If there is a common Christmas wish from this torn land, it is simply this:
Please don't forget us.

John Grisham is the author, most recently, of "The Broker."

Posted by Miriam V.