USA TODAY International Edition
Coronavirus: a different disaster
But shocking how much is the same
efore a speech on disaster preparedness last year, I was asked in an interview for a local cable program what threat worried me most.
“Pandemics and biological types of disasters where an organism could cause disease that could spread across an area,” I replied. “Because we’re so unprepared for something like that.”
I knew that my nonprofit, focused on bringing together leaders who had experienced disasters with those who have yet to, had no mentors who could share their firsthand pandemic lessons learned with another mayor or county leader. No “to do” list of preparedness steps or warnings about what to avoid. It would be uncharted territory. What I didn’t know was how much would be the same.
When a tropical depression begins drifting west across the Atlantic, coastal communities keep a watchful eye. As its potential path becomes clearer, wise governments, businesses and residents know to check that their stockpiles of food, water, gasoline, plywood, flashlights and generators are ready. No one wants to be caught in the crush at the hardware store, facing long lines and near empty shelves.
Lack of pandemic experience
As news emerged in early January about a new contagious virus sweeping through one of China’s largest cities, leaders at the local, state and federal level all had the same opportunity to watch and plan. Instead, the lack of experience with pandemics and repeated assurances that the United States had things under control meant states and hospitals were caught flatfooted.
Low- income and minority Americans tend to live in neighborhoods or buildings that are more at risk during disasters. They also generally have fewer resources to survive the economic shock that follows. It’s no surprise that during disasters, lower- income communities are usually the hardest hit and take the longest to recover.
Seniors are the most likely to die during disasters. In Louisiana, 71% of those who lost their lives during Hurricane Katrina were older than 60. About 50% of those killed in Superstorm Sandy were 65 and older. The average age of those who died in California’s Camp Fire was 71.
COVID- 19 has taken equal aim at those vulnerable populations, with black and Hispanic Americans dying at a rate double that of white patients in New York City. When tallying all who’ve lost their lives to the disease in America, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says 80% were 65 or older.
Yet, just as a fickle tornado can shred one neighborhood and leave the next one untouched, the pandemic has hit some areas harder than others. And that is fortunate; less- impacted states have been able to come to the aid of those suffering most, sharing health care workers, personal protective equipment and even ventilators.
No guarantees
Unlike other disasters, in a pandemic, no region is guaranteed to stay safe, and no one knows whether or when donors may themselves need help.
When Katrina destroyed my Mississippi hometown in 2005, it left the region’s telecommunications network in shreds. Residents quickly discovered the few spots where a cellphone call could go through — including the foot of the crumbled 2- mile bridge that once connected Bay St. Louis to the rest of the Gulf Coast. The town’s transportation artery morphed into its communication hub until service was restored.
There, those impacted found ways to cope as they started over.
In March, when much of America first faced stay- at- home orders, it was a jarring transition. Millions of Americans would lose their jobs. Children were out of school. But quickly, those who could began to find ways to work and learn from home. Residents and businesses got creative and figured out how to make their own hand sanitizer and face masks. People adjusted and discovered they were more resourceful than they had imagined.
It may sound like a cliché to describe brave passersby pulling strangers out from under rubble, churches opening their doors as shelters, survivors sharing what little food they have left with whoever is close by. But I’ve seen it happen time and time again.
Disaster opportunism
I’ve also seen disaster entrepreneurs buy up all the chain saws before a storm only to rent them out afterward at premium prices. Substance abuse goes up after disasters, as does domestic violence and child abuse.
The same dichotomy is evident during the pandemic. I have been moved by the selfless dedication of mobile food bank volunteers braving the elements day after day to hand out groceries to the hungry, and mask makers huddled for hours over sewing machines stitching face coverings for the elderly and the vulnerable.
And I know I’m not the only one disgusted by the profiteers buying up cases of PPEs and hand sanitizers to sell at an outrageous markup. Just as looters are a sad fact of disasters, there will always be those who profit from the misfortune of others.
After disasters, residents learn to prize things they long took for granted — water, electricity, a functioning vehicle, a roof over their heads.
The pandemic, too, has given us all a new appreciation — this time, for the essential workers we used to pass without a second look, from grocery and pharmacy clerks to bus and delivery drivers. We appreciated our medical workers. But as we watch the frightening risk they expose themselves to daily, we now regard them with the awe once reserved for military heroes.
As destructive as disasters are, humans have an extraordinary ability to bounce back. I’ve seen city after city seize the opportunity to reimagine their community not as it was, but as it could be and make it better. Having a blank slate made that easier.
The pandemic disaster didn’t demolish our homes, buildings or our belongings. Instead, it has taken away the very thing that sustains communities when all that “stuff ” is gone — one another. And that has hurt.
Building a new normal
If cities and counties can rebuild higher, stronger, smarter and in safer places after disasters to prevent future loss and suffering, how will we reconstruct our future to make sure a toll this painful and deadly never reoccurs?
Prevention is a tough sell in the best of times. It won’t be any easier in the long slog ahead with state and local governments facing enormous fiscal strains.
With so much uncertainty about how the pandemic will evolve, planning the way ahead is difficult. Unlike other disasters, there is no finite end in sight, no clear transition point from response to recovery.
After major disasters, communities learn to embrace the new normal often because they have no choice. We have to decide whether this is a temporary abnormal after which we will race frantically back to our pre- COVID lives, or a new normal where we use the hard lessons we’ve learned to create a safer, more just and inclusive future.