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I
Want to But I Don't
Katrina
Communiqué #4
from
Kalamu ya Salaam
when there are 1000 emails in the inbox, aol
stops receiving any more incomings. over the last five days,
there have been hours and hours when my inbox was shut down. I
was shut down. momentarily.
sometimes sitting right in front of the computer. the television
droning in the background. my hands at my side. my eyes closed.
and then I snap out of it and push forward.
there is a syndrome—the survivor syndrome. those who survive a
disaster, survive mass oppression—and let us be clear, we were
looking at oppression just as much as we were looking at
disaster--those of us who survive are traumatized.
and the circumstances make it almost impossible for us to speak
out, to complain, to even moan about our condition without
sounding ungrateful. we are the ones who got out when mayor
nagin ordered a mandatory evacuation.
we sat wherever we sat and watched the horror unfold, except we
watched with knowing eyes, we watched with churning stomachs, we
watched with consciousnesses twisted by contradictory feelings:
bitterness battled with gratefulness, relief wrestled with
despair, memory overwhelmed vision. who could imagine a future
when we were watching the destruction of our past.
and yet, what right did we have to even moan one complaint when
the ultimate reality tv show was the death of new orleans.
bodies floating in the water. people literally dying before our
eyes.
but not the way Hollywood always presented it. not in a ball of
fire. not heroically at the barricades. not as valiant Americans
overcome on some island overrun by enemies, by aliens. not like
that. no.
but slowly. painfully. we woke up wednesday and they were there
dying. we watched all day wednesday. dying. we stayed up all
night wednesday. dying. and thursday. still dying. no water. no
food. no sanitation. no nothing. reporters reporting. we saw it.
but we saw more than most saw. we all looked and pointed,
that’s—and we would name a place, a building, an
intersection, a friend’’s house, a sub-division, a
neighborhood, a community—drowned. dead. dying. and ignored.
we couldn’t ignore. the reporters didn’t ignore. but where
was the government? thursday night we closed our eyes but we
were not sleeping. not resting. not rejuvenating our bodies,
wherever it was we were.
wherever was not convention center boulevard, was not the
superdome ramp, and yes we were much better off, but we felt
terrible. obviously not as terrible as our people baking in the
sun and terrorized at night, but better, and at that critical
moment, being better off made us feel worse.
and come friday morning and we were still watching. that’s
when it was just too much. bush walking around, I just wanted
one of the survivors to spit on him. but that was me. I had been
getting enough fluids--water, juice, or whatever else--I had had
enough fluid to be able to spare the spit to hark up and hurl
into bush’s face. those there on the ground could not even
spare the spit.
people all over the world want to help us. friends and people we
have never before met. most of America--I can’t say all of
America because they are some folk in a position to help who
have not, in my opinion, done what they are supposed to do.
I’m tired of writing about it. I’m tired of complaining. of
opining. of talking. and I feel depressed about feeling tired.
what right do I have to be tired when people are dying. people
have nothing. I have something.
just yesterday I sat surrounded by envelopes, friends and
supporters were sending funds. what right do I have?
people are looking to me for leadership.
what right do I have?
my guts are twisted up. I am a survivor but sometimes, sometimes
a pernicious thought sneaks up and mugs me: I wish I was dead.
my bloated body floating in the ninth ward waters.
it’s a hard deal going down. It’s hard for people to
understand. when you send me an email. when you try to call my
cell—oh yeah, the phone died on labor day (September 5th),
just flat out gave up the ghost and fortunately, the next day, I
was able to get another phone at radio shack. my old phone was
also my pda, and the back up data is on the computer in new
Orleans, and—
it’s a hard deal going down. please understand, I, and I’m
sure many others like me, we! (that’s one of the worse things
about this survivor syndrome, even though there are bunches of
people in the same boat, you end up feeling utterly alone. alone
even as you are in the midst of a throng suffering just like
you’re suffering.)
we really, really appreciate all the help, but if, or should I
say, when--when we don’t respond, when we don’t answer your
calls, don’t respond to your emails, fail to deliver after we
say we’ll get back to you, we’ll call tonight, we definitely
will email you in the morning, when we don’t, please
understand, we want to but—
a luta continua,
kalamu
posted 7 September 2005
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Hopes and Prospects
By Noam Chomsky
In this urgent new book, Noam Chomsky
surveys the dangers and prospects of our
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In dissecting the rhetoric and logic of
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Blacks in Hispanic Literature: Critical Essays
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The White Masters
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W. E. B. Du Bois’
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