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Katrina’s AftermathA N ESSAY IN WOR DS A ND PHOTOGRAPHSA Tragedy Illuminates the Ethical Dimensionsof Picture TakingBy Ted JacksonReliving August 29, 2005, orthe days afterward, is not easyfor me or many other peoplewho were in New Orleans during thatdark time. To stay behind while morethan 80 percent of the city evacuatedbefore Hurricane Katrina, whether asa resident, a police officer or, like me,a photojournalist, was to be foreverchanged, even scarred, by the horrorof what was experienced and by thestories you keep buried inside.I’m not a neophyte when it comes tocovering disaster and horror. I’ve lostcount of the hurricanes I’ve covered.I’ve experienced earthquake carnageand the senselessness of war. Despitemy experience, Katrina crept past theemotional protection my camera lenseshave faithfully provided.I’ve struggled to explain the differenceto fellow journalists. It’s similar,I’d think, to responding to an autofatality across town only to discovermy son slumped behind the wheel.Katrina altered my perspective, makingit impossible to remain a distantobserver. I had a strongly felt need toconnect with and somehow help thoseI was photographing.As a photojournalist I’m accustomedto being a first responder. Butas people clung to life amid the swirlingfloodwaters, I found myself a soleresponder.Going Into the FloodWhen Katrina blew through NewOrleans that Monday morning, Iwas huddled with the storm team atThe Times-Picayune office, watchingthrough the windows as the windwreaked havoc with the trees outside.Family members cling to posts on their front porch as rising floodwaters force them toevacuate their home on St. Claude Avenue in the Lower Ninth Ward. They had triedto get into their attic space but said the floor wouldn’t hold them. Floodwaters ragingdown St. Claude had prevented rescuers from reaching them. August 29, 2005. Photo byTed Jackson/The Times-Picayune.The weather was nasty, but I was gettingantsy. I needed to get out and starttaking pictures. I knew from experiencethat to photograph a hurricaneproperly, you have to “see the wind”in the photos, and you can’t do thatonce the wind has stopped.Driving my trusty old Toyota Tacomafour-wheel-drive truck, I carefullypicked my way through high water,downed power lines, and trees to theFrench Quarter. It was more of a reconnaissancemission to check on the city’sbeloved landmarks. I photographedSt. Louis Cathedral as a man aimlesslywalked past, praying in the blindingrain. Portions of the Superdome roofhad peeled away. Since cell phonesweren’t working, I returned to theoffice to report my findings and dropoff my photos.My editors heard that the LowerNinth Ward, the low ground surroundedby the Industrial Canal, the MississippiRiver, and the Mississippi River-Gulf Outlet, was flooding and asked ifI could get there. I wasn’t sure, but Iwas more than willing to try. Pickingmy way through the four-mile stretch,I rolled over all manner of debris, even10 <strong>Nieman</strong> Reports / Fall 2007
Long-Term Coveragethe bricks of a collapsed building inthe Faubourg Marigny neighborhood.Surprisingly, I was able to drive withina couple of blocks of the St. ClaudeBridge over the Industrial Canal, thenwaded through thigh-deep water andcrossed over the canal into the LowerNinth Ward.I expected to see high water, butthe scene stretching out beyond thebridge where I was standing caughtme by surprise. Floodwater was up tohouses’ eaves as far as I could see. Immediatelyto my right was a family ofwomen clinging to the columns of theirporch, chest deep in swirling floodwater.They were desperately waiting forhelp, and an elderly man on the bridgewith me was frantically looking for away to help. We considered wadingacross the street that separated us, oreven swimming to them, but whenwe gauged the water depth, we knewit was way too deep and moving toofast to cross.Above the howling winds I askedthe family how long they had beentrapped there. They said, “Since 8a.m.” It was now 1 p.m. That’s whenI realized they were not standing ontheir porch but were precariously balancedon the porch’s railing. I askedif they could get into their attic. Theysaid they had tried unsuccessfully andnow it was too late. I noticed the topof the front door was just inches abovethe water. I encouraged them to hangon. Surely help would arrive fairlyquickly. I needed a boat, a rope, or alife ring. We had nothing but a camerabetween us.As the man and I helplessly pacedand watched, the women decidedthey would use a floating log to ferrya youngster across the current. Theirplan was to push her across, and Iwould catch. With the swirling currentbetween us, I knew she would nevermake it. So again I begged them to staywhere they were, as hard as that wouldbe. I knew it was a lot to ask, but I sawno better options.Documenting This MomentI also knew that my editors—and theworld—needed to see what was happeninghere. I knew this would be atough picture to shoot. I didn’t want tomake the situation worse or add to thefamily’s trauma. Neither did I want itto seem that I was trying to profit fromthe situation. I tried to become invisible,moving to the side and divertingtheir attention away from me. I thenquickly raised my camera. The elderlyman furiously yelled for me to stop,upset that I would do such a thing.He angrily chastised and threatenedme. I tried to reason with him, but thiswasn’t an atmosphere for logic. I triedto tell him why this was important,I knew this would be atough picture to shoot. Ididn’t want to make thesituation worse or addto the family’s trauma.Neither did I want it toseem that I was trying toprofit from the situation.that others needed to know what washappening here. My God, I thought,this is history. I told him we wouldsit down one day over coffee, and I’djustify the pictures.“I’ll never have coffee with the likesof you,” he said as I clicked off a fewpictures. His words cut me even deeperthan he intended.Meanwhile, the little girl was clingingto the log with a woman readyto push. I felt that being there wasencouraging the attempt. Knowingthat she would be swept away by thecurrent, I wasn’t about to stand thereand watch her drown, especially if onlyfor a photo. I left.And so my Katrina saga began. Littledid I know that this ethical dilemmaand ensuing debate with my consciencewould become the theme of my stormcoverage.I raced back to the paper anddropped off my digital cards. Fromthere, reporter Brian Thevenot and Iheaded back to the bridge, this timewith an inflatable boat and a rope. Aswe raced down the levee road, I said toBrian, “If we have to choose betweengetting a story or saving a life, I’msaving lives. Are you OK with that?”He said he was, and we headed backto the family.This time I pushed through deeperwater than before, and we were ableto drive over the bridge. I stopped andlooked over the railing but the porchwas empty. My heart sank.By now there were several policeSWAT boats working search and rescue.I yelled to them, confident that theyhad rescued the family. They said theyhad seen no one at that house.I remembered the women’s desperationand the weariness in their eyes.In my mind I could see the little girlslip beneath the water and the otherslosing their composure and followingher. It felt as if my chest was caving inas I assumed the worst. Could I havedone more? Did I do the right thing?The rest of our day was spent ridingalong in a private citizen’s rescue boat,plucking people from second-floorwindows, off rooftops, and ferryingthem to safety. We spent the better partof an hour snagging food and bottledwater floating from a nearby grocerystore to take to others.Later that night I processed myphotos at the newspaper office andfell asleep on the floor.Rowboat and a BroomThe next morning I awoke to the newsof the 17th Street Canal levee break,sending water into most of the city. Asthe paper’s staff evacuated in deliverytrucks, I escaped in a rowboat that Ifound on the newspaper’s dock, usinga broken broom for a paddle. AsI sat in the boat pondering my nextmove, I watched as the newspapertrucks—with most of my colleagues inthem—slowly drove away through therising water. I thought to myself thatleaving alone in a rowboat was not thesmartest thing I’ve ever done.I had thoughts of the Titanic, withoverloaded lifeboats rowing away fromdrowning passengers. I feared that I<strong>Nieman</strong> Reports / Fall 2007 11
Page 1 and 2: NIEMAN REPORTSTHE NIEMAN FOUNDATION
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Page 5 and 6: Plowing New Ground in Journalism Ed
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