"I Am A Refugee"

by Diane Sustendal

(PNS) SOMEWHERE IN LOUISIANA -- I am a refugee. As someone who had to flee her city in the face of an oncoming, terrifying Hurricane Katrina, that humbling realization came after church last Sunday.

A nice man and his wife overheard me telling friends I didn't know what I was going to do next. He introduced himself, handed me a blue business card and said, "I'm a Vietnam vet. My wife and I have an extra bedroom. It's not fancy but you can stay, free."

I am a middle class, middle age, well-educated, well-traveled journalist. But he saw only my immediate past. If you are from New Orleans or the Gulf Coast, everyone around here knows you are one of this country's newest of refugees.

It's hard to seek shelter with strangers or even friends of friends. I know -- I've been in three cities in the last week. My family is scattered across four states. After days of uncertainly, I located all of them. Alive. Their homes, as mine, are and may be another matter. You can rebuild a house, not a family.

The Saturday before Katrina hit, our usually calm, always dignified mayor had said, "Pack your important papers, insurance information and photos of your loved ones and leave." I tried. The only flight out of the city was to New York for a whopping $1275, money I would need if Katrina had her way with the city of New Orleans.

That night, there was a typical "hurricane party" in our building. It was a crystal clear night but a pinkish purple sky said trouble was on the way. I told the group I had had a feeling in my stomach, one that said "get out." They scoffed and said I'd lived in New York too long. Then guys arrived and began to nail up plywood over the picture windows. One by one the view diminished.

At 3AM the phone rang. It was a lady in the building with a cane. "Please drive me to Baton Rouge, I am scared," she said. "You can stay there for a couple of days." At 6:30 another partygoer called, "Get dressed we're leaving."

Having been through hurricanes, 9/11, and a few foreign moments of trouble, I keep a getaway bag at the ready. It contains a change of underwear, T-shirt, passport, international cell phone, a battery-operated radio, an extra camera charger, a couple hundred dollars, a small flashlight, etc. For this trip, just after photographing my apartment for insurance claims, I went to the kitchen and put a nine-inch carving knife in my bag. Call it fear factor.

Baton Rouge is usually about an hour and a half drive. It took us eight and a half hours. That's how many people were evacuating.

I begged my mother to come. She has lived in the same house for 68 years. I convinced her to stay in my apartment, a concrete structure on the fifth floor, for safety's sake. She and her 80-year-old gentleman friend rode out the storm there, then threaded their way toward her house near the river's levees.

Once there, the water began to rise. A couple of hours later they heard gunshots. With no police or firefighters to call, they, too, began the flight from the city.

Two old folks in an Olds 88, mother with a loaded gun in her lap, headed for Baton Rouge; they were not stopping for anybody unless he had a badge or a military uniform. There were carjackers everywhere. They made it out, but the toll on their health, though nothing compared to those in the Dome, is pretty heavy.

They are now in Texas, staying with part of my family. They too are refugees. You can't know what being a refugee is like until it happens to you. Simple things, like being able to prepare meals for others -- as we helped do for 600 people in City Park in New Iberia -- give you a sense of dignity.

It hurts to stay away from New Orleans. I used to bitch about the noise of the old streetcars rumbling up the avenue. Now I'd love to hear it again.

My heart goes out to all the good people of New Orleans, and breaks for the victims of crimes of hate, violence and neglect. I'm one of the lucky ones.

When I get home, if someone has slept in my bed, eaten my food, used the shower or toilet, I'll have no problem. They needed shelter. I'm at someone else's place now, with my head on their pillow.

I'm like everyone on the move in that hellhole of a city once so beautiful, happy and full of fun -- I am a refugee.