Never in my life have I seen so many willing to help. And never in my life have I been so frustrated.
Monday—Labor Day—while many teens spent the day at leisure, some Boy Scouts, supplemented by youth groups from several churches, prepared a local church camp for the arrival of Katrina’s refugees. Nestled in the Arkansas Ozarks, the camp can house 140 and has a full-service dining facility, newly renovated playground, and a view to die for. Another area camp, atop Petit Jean Mountain—showcase of Arkansas’ natural beauty—made similar preparations.
By the end of the day, donated supplies filled the director’s cabin from top to bottom (enough to handle 100 people for over two months), all buildings and grounds sparkled, and volunteers organized schedules for weeks of cooks and cleanup crews. A hospital even furnished freshly bleached and starched bedding.
Yesterday, I spoke with the president of the camp’s board of directors. “When are they coming?” I was anxious for the children trapped in Fort Chaffee, built to house 4,000 but currently packed well beyond four times that number, to be able to stretch their little legs and breathe the fresh Arkansas air.
“Well, they might not,” he replied, frustration evident in his voice.
Apparently, the two camps, which are located in rural areas, are “too far from adequate medical facilities.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but a lot of folks in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama live in rural communities. And it’s not like these facilities are located in the Outback. The camp at Petit Jean Mountain lies 18 miles from the nearest hospital. The other camp, probably not much farther. And furthermore, I was told that government relief agencies required “new” bedding for qualified shelters. So one camp spent over $1,000 to bring the beds up to standards. I was angry.
Just as my blood pressure resumed to its normal rate, someone stopped by my office to rant. The Extension Homemakers clubs (i.e., the best cooks in the county) organized an effort to do what they do best to help those stuck in a shelter in a neighboring county: Cook. But their food was refused by relief workers because “homemade dishes might make someone sick.” Just days ago these refugees were wading through waters infested with goodness knows what and FEMA is concerned about casseroles? Oh, and they were also informed that all donated clothing should be new in the package. No hand-me-downs. Pu-leeze! These people have NOTHING! What is FEMA thinking?
I’ve limited my news watching lately. I just can’t take it, really. But I caught a glimpse last night of a 3-mile-long caravan of cars in Phoenix. Where were they headed? To give donations for hurricane victims. I’m hoping after spending hours in line, burning their $3/gallon gasoline, they won’t be turned away for offering good, but slightly used items.
(And what about the two Navy helicopter pilots who were “unofficially” reprimanded for taking the scenic route on their mission in order to pluck more than a hundred people from rooftops before reporting to their base? I won’t even go there! You don’t want to get me started.)
How can we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and house the homeless when the “relief” agencies won’t let us? When the citizens of New Orleans cried, “America, where are you?” We answered. But they couldn’t hear us through the bureaucratic barrier. We want to help. We’re trying to help. But so far, we’ve been bound and gagged by red tape. Meanwhile, more people are dying.
