The day after delivering one of the most memorable reports in the wake of hurricane Katrina, CNN correspondent Jeanne Meserve '74 ventured into the heart of New Orleans.
By Jeanne Meserve '74
The sewers were no longer functioning.
This much was obvious as we crept along the vast wasteland that New Orleans had become, gingerly making our way through knee-deep water. Every step we took was a step of faith. We could not see curbs or downed signs or any of the jumbled debris that could trip us and send us tumbling into the murky, noxious water. Carcasses of cars seeped gasoline. We shuffled along, feeling our way with our feet; we cringed as the water crept up our thighs . . . and eventually above our hips.
CNN correspondent Jeanne Meserve '74, left, tours sunken New Orleans with photographer Dominic Swann, right, and Edward Mendel, a volunteer from Palm Beach, Florida. A day earlier, Meserve had ventured into the center of New Orleans, on foot.
We joined a caravan of lost souls slogging towards the Louisiana Superdome in a search for shelter and help. Children were slung on hips and shoulders; other precious possessions were pushed or pulled in floating plastic bins or carried in trash bags balanced on heads. The young tried to keep the old upright and heading onward.
As we neared the Superdome, I noticed for the first time the constant clatter of helicopters overhead. Outside the arena, the National Guard—with rifles at the ready—kept evacuees penned on the dome's exterior decks, though the people seemed worried and restless, not angry or dangerous. Inside, 15- to 20,000 people were encamped in semidarkness, sprawled on seats and hallway floors. The authorities had not prepared for the failure of the city's sewage and water systems, and the stench made you gasp.
In that godforsaken place, an age-old symbol of God appeared: beams of light, shining through gaps in the damaged ceiling onto the field of the Saints, aptly enough. On the turf, young boys tossed around a football and hammed for cameras. They were living their dreams; everyone around them had lost theirs.
With reports that the floodwaters were still rising, we started to make our way back to our home base—and discovered that the city had taken another turn for the worse. The New Orleans police had no cars, no radios, no backup. But a few officers, heavily armed with automatic weapons, were patrolling parts of downtown in a backhoe. We videotaped them as they nabbed a man trying to loot a deli, literally scooping him off his feet and tossing him into the air. He landed in the water, struggled to his feet, and fled.
The police turned to us. When we wouldn't give up our tape, an officer told me the would-be looter had threatened to come back and find me, kill me, sexually abuse my corpse. "And you are NOT my responsibility," he shouted.
I knew the looter had made no such threat; he was too worried about his own life. But the police wanted us off the streets. And it worked. For a short time at least.
Now, safely removed from the horrors of Katrina, the gut-convulsing fear has relaxed. Some images have softened. Others, I am sure, have been forgotten. The incredulity has given way to acceptance.
And that is the most terrifying thing of all.