Hundreds of thousands of people with no homes, no food, no jobs, no
money - the reality is staggering. A mass exodus of refugees from
Hurricane Katrina has left communities across the nation scrambling to
find ways to care for the newly dispossessed.
PAT SULLIVAN / AP
Volunteers sort through donated clothing for Hurricane Katrina
evacuees at Houston's Reliant Center on Friday.
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The hurricane that drowned New Orleans and other parts of the Gulf Coast
will pose an unprecedented test for communities, churches and schools
that will have to find the space and the dollars to cope with throngs
often arriving on their doorsteps with little but the clothes on their
backs.
Thousands of storm survivors have already found temporary homes: More
than 15,000 people bused from Louisiana have packed in the Houston
Astrodome. The city's convention center and an exhibition hall are
expected to house more.
More than 94,000 other hurricane refugees are living in 284 Red Cross
shelters in nine states: Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas, Tennessee,
Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas, Missouri and Florida.
College dormitories, churches, schools and community centers have all
been converted into shelters. Other hurricane refugees are holed up in
hotels or bunking with families or friends.
"You could call it a mini-diaspora," says Joanne Nigg, a sociology
professor at the Disaster Research Center at the University of Delaware.
"The people in New Orleans, the people in the Gulf really had a culture.
In many ways, they have been thrown out of the Garden of Eden, if you
will. It's a diaspora brought on for people with no resources."
Nigg says shelter is just one part of the problem in dealing with
Katrina's survivors. "The federal government must come in and provide
funding for food, clothing and medical care in each place they're going
to," she says.
The hurricane victims also will need money for day-to-day living.
"Most of these people don't have jobs to go back to because New Orleans
is gone," Nigg says. "They're going to have to come up with a system to
get money coming in so they can maintain themselves."
But financial pressures haven't stopped an outpouring of invitations -
everything from do-gooders posting offers of a spare room on Internet
billboards to states putting out the welcome mat.
In Missouri, some universities announced tuition waivers for students
from colleges closed because of the hurricane. Several towns began
preparing community centers - and even one former jail complex - to
welcome storm survivors if needed.
In Michigan, one state lawmaker plans to bring as many as 125 Louisiana
flood victims to the state, where they can live temporarily in schools
no longer in use.
In Iowa, the governor's office released a statement offering immediate
housing for thousands of families made homeless.
And in Texas, which is expected to welcome at least 75,000 hurricane
refugees, the governor declared an emergency disaster for the state,
freeing up money to provide services for the needy. The state will open
its schools and hospitals and offer low-income housing.
Even with a $10.5 billion disaster aid package passed by Congress,
states and cities will feel the financial pinch of having thousands of
new residents - especially those smaller communities.
"How long are they expected to accommodate people? Many of them (the
refugees) probably won't have any home to go back to," says Rutherford
H. Platt, a geography professor at the University of
Massachusetts-Amherst and author of "Disasters and Democracy."
"It's almost mind-boggling how these people locally will handle it," he
adds. "Many will try hard - the churches, the schools, the Rotary
groups. ... But if these people feel this is going to be an open-ended
commitment, they may be very leery of getting involved. There's got to
be some incentive beyond being good-spirited people."
Still, many groups have already stepped forward.
At the Easthaven Baptist Church in Brookhaven, Miss., for example, about
250 refugees - the youngest just 6 days old - are getting meals, showers
and a comfortable place to sleep, said Stephen White, the worship leader.
It's mainly a volunteer effort and church has been paying for it - up to
$6,000 so far - though the Red Cross is expected to cover the costs.
No one understands the financial and the psychological pressures
Katrina's refugees face better than those from Homestead, Fla.
The town of 25,000 was destroyed by Hurricane Andrew in 1992. The
homeless lived in tent cities for months and it took up to two years for
them to get back into their homes.
Curt Ivy, Homestead's city manager, has watched the horrifying images of
New Orleans and can't help but think of the long road ahead.
"God bless them," he says. "I think they've got a real job cut out for
them."
