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Political Floodwaters and the Military City

At one point in Dave Eggers’ account of Abdulraham Zeitoun’s horrifying experience in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina, Zeitoun, encountering a hostile, possibly violent, cadre of police and National Guardsmen, thinks to himself, “what were they doing in the city, if not helping evacuate people” (134). From this moment forward, this question haunts Eggers’ text, compelling readers to reflect on the relationship between civilian life and martial law,⁴ and how the events following Katrina serve as a microcosm for the enduring tensions between civilians and the state. Egger’s text recounts Zeitoun’s experience in the days following the hurricane and the emotional turmoil endured by his wife, Kathy, and their four children, who seek refuge first in Baton Rouge and then Phoenix.

⁴ Although New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin declared a state of martial law on Thursday, September 1, the federal government—barred by Louisiana Governor Kathleen Blanco’s refusal to cede full control of the city to the DHS—would never formally declare martial law in New Orleans. Nonetheless, as Douglas Brinkley writes, “New Orleans was inching toward a state of martial law. It didn’t need to be declared” (209).

Choosing to remain in the city during the storm, Zeitoun—marked by his ethnicity—finds himself powerless against institutional forces that project onto him a litany of racial prejudices stemming from deeply rooted discourses on 9/11, terrorism, and the Middle East. Along with three friends, all occupying a house under his ownership, Zeitoun is arrested by a group of armed soldiers, taken to a makeshift prison, and finally transported to the Elayn Hunt Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison outside of New Orleans. Assumed to be al Qaeda, Zeitoun and his friends spend the next several weeks in captivity, deprived of communication to the outside world, enduring physical and psychological torture at the hands of their government. Assuming her husband to be dead, Kathy eventually learns of his whereabouts and, breaking through layers of institutional red tape, secures his release.

Eggers’ narrative is predominantly concerned with, first, describing the Zeitouns’ traumatic encounter with institutional power, and, second, addressing the ways in which the city of New Orleans was transformed as a result of the hurricane. The storm and subsequent flooding destabilized the power dynamics embedded in the city’s urban space, power dynamics present in all urban environments and responsible for facilitating cultural and economic exchange. Eggers describes how state power, most directly represented by the military presence in the city, radically imposed itself on an urban space temporarily freed from institutional discipline. Deleuze and Guattari’s writings on “smooth” and “striated” space provide a useful starting point for exploring this process and its

implications on the city of New Orleans. The former concept refers to deterritorializing, democratic, heterogeneous space totally free of discourses of control, while the latter describes planned, regimented, homogeneous space often implemented and disciplined by the state (A Thousand Plateaus 371). According to Deleuze and Guattari, these concepts give way to one another as a result of the dynamic relationship between the individual and the state. They write, “we must remind ourselves that the two spaces in fact exist only in mixture: smooth space is constantly being translated, transversed into a striated space; striated space is constantly being reversed, returned to a smooth space” (474). This process is particularly evident in the aftermath of Katrina, where the destabilized city space of New Orleans quickly became a highly-contested, highly-regimented political zone.

In his first canoe-bound peregrinations into the flooded streets of New Orleans, Zeitoun is confronted by the radically-altered space of the city, a space once responsible for disciplining bodies and facilitating the flow of capitalism, but now completely free of all discourses of control. Eggers writes, “He paddled down Dart Street, the water flat and clear. And strangely, almost immediately, Zeitoun felt at peace. The damage to the neighborhood was extraordinary, but there was an odd calm in his heart. So much had been lost, but there was a stillness to the city that was almost hypnotic” (95). Later, attempting to rescue a man stranded in his own home, Zeitoun thinks to himself, “It was a strange sensation, paddling over a man’s yard; the usual barrier that would prevent one

from guiding a vehicle up to the house was gone. He could glide directly from the street, diagonally across the lawn, and appear just a few feet below a second-story window. Zeitoun was just getting accustomed to the new physics of this world” (97). These descriptions of the city immediately following the storm reveal the ways in which the flooding of New Orleans temporarily transformed the landscape of the city, allowing Zeitoun and other survivors to traverse urban space in ways not usually permitted in the regimented space of the city. In his canoe, Zeitoun moves beyond the discourses of control that normally embed themselves in striated space. He enters the homes of his neighbors and moves freely between the public and the private boundaries that traditionally organize and discipline space.

The sense of harmony Zeitoun finds as he negotiates smooth space owes itself to the absence of regimented, institutional power in New Orleans following the storm. It is worth noting the ways that post-Katrina New Orleans perhaps provides a rare outlet from Foucault’s theory of panopticism as a ubiquitous presence in contemporary life. Foucault explains that our society functions on the principle of surveillance. He writes, “Under the surface of images, one invests bodies in depth; behind the great abstraction of exchange, there continues the meticulous, concrete training of useful forces…[We are] in the panoptic machine, invested by its effects of power, which we bring to ourselves since we are part of its mechanism” (Discipline and Punish 217). Absent of any modes of institutional control and surveillance, the city streets for a brief moment instill in Zeitoun the

sensation of existence beyond the gaze of the law and the state. This, perhaps, explains his sense of freedom and his self-described elation as he paddles through the city streets, in what he calls the “in-between time—after the storm but before anyone had returned to the city” (Eggers 132). It should be noted, however, that the “smoothing out” of space, even as it offers Zeitoun an outlet from the disciplining forces of city space, conversely enabled the widespread violence and looting that took place after the hurricane, suggesting that a society must necessarily strike a balance between the smooth and the striated.

Ostensibly as a means of bringing order back to the city, the federal government and the Louisiana state government authorized the militarization of New Orleans. Stretched thin by wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, however, the U.S. military could hardly spare the kind of troop presence necessary to regain order in the city. In fact, many of the Army and National Guardsmen who would eventually find their way to New Orleans had recently served in the Middle East and were ill-prepared for dealing with civilian conflict (Lee). The American military, then, seasoned by brutal warfare in the Middle East, was stuck with the job of instilling order in a major American city populated entirely by civilians. To complicate matters, media representations of violence and looting in the city all but authorized the military to utilize force wherever necessary. Clearly influenced by this rhetoric, Governor Blanco at one point stated to the press, “I have one message for these hoodlums… These troops are fresh back from Iraq, well- trained, experienced, battle tested and under my orders to restore order in the

streets. They have M-16s and they are locked and loaded. These troops know how to shoot and kill, and they are more than willing to do so if necessary, and I expect they will” (Dyson 114). Thus, the military had turned into a blunt instrument of force whose prime imperative, rather than saving the lives of those stranded in the city, was to neutralize threats, both real and perceived.

Zeitoun’s wrongful imprisonment results directly from the institutional reaction to New Orleans’ transformed city space. Lacking its conventional modes of control and discipline,⁵ the smooth space of New Orleans opened itself to radical institutional redefinition. Upon his arrest and imprisonment in Camp Greyhound, a makeshift jail constructed on the site of the Greyhound bus- terminal, Zeitoun is alarmed by the state’s impulse to imprison, rather than protect, the residents of New Orleans. Eggers writes, “Zeitoun had been brought into the station on September 6, seven and a half days after the hurricane passed through the city. Even under the best of circumstances, building a prison like this would have taken four or five days. That meant that within a day of the storm’s eye passing over the region, officials were making plans for the building of a makeshift outdoor prison” (226). Rather than facilitating an evacuation plan and proffering aid to the ailing inhabitants of New Orleans, the federal government set as its primary focus the capture and detention of anyone engaged in suspicious behavior. This, as many studies on Hurricane Katrina have already noted, opened




⁵ The New Orleans Police Department was particularly inept in its response to the ensuing chaos in the city. Some police officers even joined the ranks of looters, while others—emotionally and physically exhausted after several days without relief—simply left the city in their squad cars, permanently abandoning their posts (Brinkley 203).

the door for widespread racial profiling. What has received less attention, though, is the state’s immediate effort to discipline urban space as a means of bringing order to the city. Eggers writes, “The parking lot, where a dozen buses might normally be parked, had been transformed into a vast outdoor prison” (218).

Urban spaces were now being appropriated as material sites of institutional discipline. Whereas prior spatial analysis might have addressed the parking lot as a site for facilitating commerce and bolstering capitalism, here we see the institution imposing itself on city space in more radical ways; disciplining bodies no longer refers to the abstract socio-economic relationship between the individual and the institution, but rather to the very material imprisonment that many innocent New Orleanians experienced following the storm. In the streets of New Orleans, institutional power, as a disciplining force that had theretofore remained transparent in the city’s infrastructure, became temporarily visible.

Foucault’s famous study on the machinery of the modern penitentiary system and its political dimensions proves fruitful for this discussion. Indeed, the state’s immediate construction of “Camp Greyhound” indicates the reversal or dissolution of the panopticon as the disciplining force in modern life. Foucault describes the evolution of the panoptic prison apparatus, beginning in the 18^th century, noting how this model for the modern prison would influence the modes of discipline present in factories, barracks, and other sites of institutional power. In contemporary America, institutional discipline has become naturalized to the extent that—with the exception of rare cases like the one described above—it is

impossible to function beyond the perception of the panoptic gaze. With the erasure of the modes of control embedded in New Orleans’ city space, the state naturally reverted to more primitive means of establishing order, which we see in Blanco’s virtual declaration of martial law and, more specifically, in the construction of Camp Greyhound. One of the critical features of incarceration that Foucault describes is the concept of delinquency. As a means of ensuring their survival and extending their influence on civilian life, prisons must produce and encourage delinquency (Foucault, Discipline 267).⁶ By making visible and incarcerating those subjects existing outside of the law, the prison effectively controls and disciplines—through the constant threat of incarceration—those subjects existing within the law. In Zeitoun’s case, this process manifests itself in a particularly sinister form, as his delinquency is connected to his ethnicity.

The narratives of institutional racism in the immediate wake of Katrina are by now well known to many Americans, but these narratives mainly focus on racism perpetrated against African Americans. Zeitoun’s Syrian identity complicates this discussion, as his ethnic identity engages post-9/11 xenophobic anxieties and, more specifically, the fear of Muslim men as terrorists. Whereas African Americans were subject to racist stereotypes amplified by media-

⁶ This practice is immediately evident in the recent debates on illegal immigration and the privatization of the prison system. Privately owned and operated prisons—which have become increasingly prevalent in the past decade—are putting pressure on lawmakers to uphold legislation that criminalizes immigration, both as a means of justifying their existence and, on a broader institutional level, to define American identity as a legal concept. This process, of course, operates on racial and ethnic terrain and projects non-white identity as inherently delinquent.

generated narratives that focused on looting, violence, and a morally-bankrupt lower-class culture,⁷ Zeitoun’s identity defines him as an ideological enemy of the state. Associated with ideological delinquency, his ethnic identity justifies not only incarceration, but also gross violations of constitutional and, more generally, human rights. During his month-long captivity, Zeitoun endures strip-searches, verbal and physical abuse, solitary confinement, deprivation of medical attention, starvation, and many other subtle forms of torture. Eggers writes, “Zeitoun was in disbelief. It had been a dizzying series of events—arrested at gunpoint in a home he owned, brought to an impromptu military base built inside a bus station, accused of terrorism, and locked in an outdoor cage. It surpassed the most surreal accounts he’d heard of third-world law enforcement” (218). Of course not the only ethnic “other” to endure this kind of treatment, Zeitoun’s imprisonment occurs as a result of the state’s policies on the defense of the homeland detailed in the previous chapter. As a Middle-Eastern man, Zeitoun’s presence in an American city perceived to be under imminent threat represents, in the eyes of institutional power, an intrusion of political violence on the fortified space of the homeland. In order to neutralize this threat, the state enacts violence from within, regimenting the city’s streets as a means of ideologically cleansing the perceived

⁷ Michael Eric Dyson describes two Associated Press photographs, and their accompanying captions, that were circulated on the Internet in the first days of the storm’s aftermath. The first photo shows a black man wading through the streets, clutching items from a grocery store. The caption describes him “looting a grocery store.” Another photo depicts a white couple in the same circumstances, but, here, the caption describes them “finding bread and soda from a local grocery store” (164). These subtle framings helped to code black survivors as morally delinquent, and perhaps played into the institution’s sluggish recovery effort.

contagion. Here, again, we see how violence is embedded in and intrinsic to the symbolic locus of the “home.”

Paradoxically, Zeitoun’s imprisonment justifies itself. Placed in sub- human conditions and forced to “urinate and defecate wherever they could” (251), prisoners were perceived to be guilty by virtue of their incarceration and, more specifically, by the abject conditions produced by it. Suggesting the possibility of Zeitoun proving his innocence to a prison nurse, Eggers writes, “Professing his innocence to her was futile, as professions of innocence were likely all she heard all day. In fact, he knew that his very presence in a maximum-security prison likely proved his guilt in the minds of all who worked at the facility” (254).

Applying Foucault’s writings, Zeitoun’s predicament here can be extended to race as a marker of delinquency; particularly in a post-9/11 environment where the enemy of the state is identified as an outside threat (not only an internal ideological “other,” as was the case in the Cold War, but an ethno-religious “other” with identifiable physical characteristics), one’s ethnic coding inherently implies guilt. Camp Greyhound, therefore, a physical production of the state situated in the physical place of the city, facilitates the material production of institutional discourse; whereas the discourses of marginalization attached to Arab-American identity had obviously existed prior to 2005, the prison demonstrates the enduring ability of the state to discipline bodies in space and thereby bring these discourses to bear on New Orleanians in real, material ways.

The prison furthermore falls in line with Georgio Agamben’s writings on the modern state as an increasingly invasive presence in American life. In much the same way that discourses on homeland security served to erode the boundaries that traditionally separated the public from the private and the state from the home, the modern state has engrained itself in fundamental aspects of human life through biopolitics and what Agamben calls “the state of exception.” Agamben, who uses biopolitics as his starting point, sums up Foucault’s concept: “at the threshold of the modern era, natural life begins to be included in the mechanisms and calculations of State power, and politics turns to biopolitics” (3). As the modern state increasingly exerts itself over fundamental issues of life and human existence, it likewise politicizes these concepts, rendering them susceptible to the manipulations of the state. From this position, Agamben describes the state of exception, a modern apparatus that creates a condition of “bare life” in which civilians are perpetually in a position of political vulnerability and are therefore susceptible to the most violent and egregious offenses perpetrated by the state.

Agamben goes on to say, “The paradox of sovereignty consists in the fact the sovereign is, at the same time, outside and inside the juridical order.” This paradox, he explains, is at the heart of “the structure of the exception” (15), in which the state, by virtue of its absolute sovereignty, is authorized to transcend the very laws that it creates. The intersection of biopolitics and the state of exception, of course, generates a very precarious political position for civilian subjects. Agamben writes, “There is no clearer way to say that the first foundation

of political life is a life that may be killed, which is politicized through its very capacity to be killed” (89). Exposed to “bare life,” civilians (Agamben uses the term homo sacer) are deprived of basic human rights, which exist only as an illusion for the preservation of social and political stability.

The radical politicization of urban space in New Orleans illustrates the precarious, traumatic relationship between the civilian and the state here in the twenty-first century and the ways that this discourse has embedded itself in city space, transforming the urban—traditionally figured as a post-Marxist site of production—into an extension of a highly-politicized, highly-policed, state apparatus. Zeitoun frequently compares Camp Greyhound to Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib, two military prisons operating both “outside and inside the juridical order” of the United States. To be sure, his imprisonment by the state demonstrates gross violations of constitutional rights here in America and, more broadly, violations of human rights endorsed by the international community.

Describing the state of exception in terms more specific to our post-9/11 environment, Eggers writes, “Usually the story was similar: a Muslim man came to be suspected by the U.S. government, and, under the president’s current powers, U.S. agents were allowed to seize the man from anywhere in the world, and bring him anywhere in the world, without ever having to charge him with a crime” (255). What Eggers describes here is the foundation of a modern political apparatus that can justify all manner of human rights violations in the name of national security; in fact, justification—however it is rhetorically-figured—might

be understood more appropriately as a red-herring created to divert attention from the fact that the state of exception needs no justification for its transgressions.

Examining this phenomenon through the lens of urban space helps to explain the traumatic dimensions of Katrina for the people directly affected by the storm and by the subsequent militarization of the city. Zeitoun’s imprisonment, though atypical to the average New Orleanian’s experience, helps to demonstrate the complex political relationship between the “bare life” of the modern political subject and the state of exception. His traumatic relationship to the state furthermore illustrates Jenny Edkins’ concept of “radical relationality” discussed in the previous chapter, in which individuals, during moments of state violence, are made aware of their precarious position in relation to state power (“Radical Relationality” 99). In much the same way that the state utilizes Camp Greyhound in an attempt to define Zeitoun as politically delinquent, the state policed the urban space of New Orleans and, in doing so, interpellated residents of the city— most of whom were lower-class and black—as intruders in their own home, displaced refugees who lacked a country and therefore did not deserve the protections afforded to Americans. In utilizing a military apparatus to restore order to New Orleans, the state produced rhetorically-powerful images that, relayed by the news media, generated a public perception, first, that New Orleans had slipped into a state of lawlessness that required state intervention and, second, that black people—savages in the absence of government—were to blame.

Furthermore, these political narratives framed the military, and by extension the

state, as necessary for the restoration of law and order, thereby stitching military force and institutional power into the fabric of everyday life.

In Zeitoun, Eggers notes how the media represented the stranded survivors of the flooding as refugees in their own country (109), but that, in fact, political “othering” of marginalized groups, particularly in terms of the definition of an American identity, has been part of American discourse throughout the country’s history. Kathy, Zeitoun’s wife, distraught by anti-Muslim sentiment circulating in the wake of 9/11, at one point recalls seeing a fellow Muslim woman in a Walgreen’s in the weeks following the attacks. Eggers writes, “The woman, a doctor studying at Tulane, had been feeling the same way, like an exile in her own country, and they laughed at how delirious they were to see each other” (46). By cordoning residents of the city into particular city spaces—the Superdome, the Convention Center, the Crescent City Connection—and in many instances denying the evacuation of survivors,⁸ the state effectively defined the city as a war zone requiring institutional intervention.⁹ By rhetorically constructing the city in

⁸ The Gretna Bridge Incident provides a particularly pertinent example here. On Thursday, September 1, a group of evacuees, desperate to leave the squalid conditions in the city and in search of food and water, attempted to walk across

U.S. Route 90 to the neighboring Gretna, a predominantly white suburb mostly unaffected by the flooding. Met by a group of armed police officers from Gretna, the evacuees were prevented from leaving the city, and were assumed to be criminals and looters in search of more fertile territory. Douglas Brinkley writes, “The refugees inside the city could see lights and dry land across the river, but the guards were keeping them from attempting to leave. As the days passed and the week wore on, many believed that they were being held prisoner and that the government was trying to kill them” (473).

⁹ The state’s single-minded interest in militarizing the city before tending to the safety of those New Orleanians still trapped in their homes or the thousands of

this way, and by controlling the pathways to freedom, the state—whether intentionally or not—interpellated the stranded survivors of Hurricane Katrina as enemies of the state. These enemies of the state were black men and women on the lower rungs of society, people who, because of Mayor Nagin’s inability to procure enough buses for evacuation, were left to fend for themselves during and after the storm. Likewise, and in line with not-so-thinly-veiled pre-existing prejudices linked to race and class, these victims of the hurricane were enemies of an American way of life.

To sum up this process, by imposing itself on urban space—traditionally a space defined by lower class residents who do not own automobiles¹⁰ and, in their material use of the city, produce urban space—the state, by way of the military,

survivors in the Super Dome and the Convention Center reveals the more subtle anxieties of the modern state. Primarily concerned with disciplining space through military occupation, the state all but disregarded the more pressing humanitarian issues at hand. Michael Eric Dyson observes that FEMA and the DHS both blocked the Red Cross, an organization specifically designed to deal with such emergencies, from providing aid to the survivors trapped in the city. The official reason for this rejection of aid was “that it was too dangerous and that it might encourage people to believe it was safe to remain” (122). While there might be some truth to this, it is worth noting the efforts made by the state to keep the city space of New Orleans regimented and entirely under its control.

¹⁰ 27 percent of New Orleans residents did not own an automobile when the storm hit in late August of 2005 (Ignatieff). The city’s much-celebrated cultural scene in part, at least, owes itself to the ways that New Orleans—for better or for worse— has failed to adapt, alongside so-called postmodern metropolises such as Los Angeles and Phoenix, to the culture of the automobile. “Walkers of the street” (Wandersmänner), in Michel de Certeau’s writings, are responsible for producing culture and thereby challenging the structures of power embedded in the city (93). See also Charles R.P. Pouncy’s essay on race and economics in New Orleans, “Hurricane Katrina and the ‘Market’ for Survival,” which gives lengthy discussion to automobile culture and its economic implications on the black population of the city.

interpellated the survivors of the hurricane as ideological enemies of America. By reversing the paradigm of a user-defined urban space (in the spirit of Lefebvre’s theories on “the urban”), the state reconfigured urban space in such a way as to cast out the very social groups most responsible for producing the discourses of city life. The trauma of Katrina emerges as survivors begin to understand that the very government created to protect them had not only failed to fulfill its promises, but furthermore had excluded them from sharing an American identity. In a New York Times article appearing weeks after Katrina, Michael Ignatieff explains:

So it is not—as some commentators claimed—that the catastrophe laid bare the deep inequalities of American society. These inequalities may have been news to some, but they were not news to the displaced people in the convention center and elsewhere.

What was bitter news to them was that their claims of citizenship mattered so little to the institutions charged with their protection…it was no longer possible to believe in the contract that binds Americans together.

In an even more intimate betrayal, perhaps, the state had redefined New Orleanians’ relationship to their city, a hub of American culture renowned for its diversity and vibrant, democratic street-life.

The psychological effects of this literal and figurative occupation of the city are complex and profound. D’ann R. Penner’s excellent study on the traumatic experiences of Katrina survivors reveals the deep psychological impact

of the Katrina experience, on notions of both local and national identity. Penner writes, “For many African Americans trapped in the city after the storm, the trauma of Katrina was experienced as the product of human beings, mainly armed law enforcement personnel and soldiers, brandishing assault rifles, acting disdainfully, and separating families” (583). Penner’s article is structured around testimony given by a number of Katrina survivors. In each account, survivors describe the physical and psychological violence perpetrated on them by the military, consistently noting the ways that this violence affected their sense of identity as African Americans, New Orleanians, and, of course, Americans. What seems to be most shocking to these survivors is the brazen manner by which the military assumed control over urban space, regimenting and colonizing it with brutal force instead of providing aid to those in need. One survivor recounts:

Them people didn’t come down there to help nobody. Them people came to straighten the streets out…Running up the streets like it’s Afghanistan, that’s how it looked to me. Soldiers getting off helicopters, backing up behind each other, and covering each other. I’m looking at this like, man, they wasting their time doing that dumb ass shit…They looked how a nigger look on the street, like I am ready to do you something. If you get out of line any kind of way with me or if I feel like you’re a threat, I’m going to take you out. That’s all. You ain’t got to say no words. I’ve been on the street. They got the same eyes. (Penner 589-590; my emphasis)

This account, like many others, situates trauma in the physical place of the city, and, specifically, in the streets, the site of the military’s reconfiguration of power. Whatever sense of empowerment this African American youth had located in the streets prior to the storm had been stripped of him by the military, whose bold display of force turned the heterogeneous, culturally-defined space of the streets to a space of institutional discipline.

Reading this process through Zeitoun demonstrates how the disciplining of New Orleans’ urban space in fact transcends the conventional narratives of racism and classism commonly attached to Katrina. For Zeitoun, the political violence he endures supersedes both the trauma of the hurricane’s impact on the city and the racial violence experienced by black New Orleanians. His experience, unlike most that of other residents of the city, is intimately linked to large-scale political projects that, in the interest of national security, place Americans in positions of political vagrancy, thereby exposing their precarious relationship to institutional power. Zeitoun’s imprisonment reveals the more penetrating anxieties linked to terrorism and homeland security and the ways that these anxieties inscribed themselves on the streets of New Orleans, inspiring racial violence against Arab- Americans who were perceived as the more threatening ideological enemy of the state. Therefore, what should have been a unified relief effort by the federal and state governments turned into an anti-terrorism sweep based on a policy of blatant racial profiling. The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), formerly committed to disaster prevention and relief, fell under the jurisdiction of the

Department of Homeland Security in November of 2002. In the following months, the DHS would take drastic measures to strip FEMA of its role in relation to emergency management, at times doling out those responsibilities to privately- run business. For instance, in February of 2003, Tom Ridge, the Secretary of Homeland Security, assigned the RAND Corporation, a think tank historically contracted to deal with military affairs and anti-terrorism, to the task of developing a National Response Plan for emergency management. Christopher Cooper and Robert Block note how “In the wake of the frustrating NRP process, local disaster managers complained that the Department of Homeland Security was becoming too obsessed with terrorism, to the exclusion of natural disasters” (83). Over the next two years, FEMA was increasingly silenced in the conversation on emergency management, as the myopic DHS seemed unable to conceive of natural disasters and terrorism as different animals requiring different strategic approaches.

The events that transpired in the wake of the hurricane therefore return us to the concept of the American homeland as a rhetorical invention shaped, in part, by the state’s fear of terrorism. As the streets of New Orleans were laid bare by the hurricane, the state inscribed itself on the space of the city, justifying its military presence and its transgressions of basic human rights on the basis of national security. As described above, residents of the city felt traumatized by the military’s presence, but this psychological response is complicated, specifically in Zeitoun’s case, by the discourses of homeland security and, as addressed in the

previous chapter, the concept of the home as a symbolic locus of security. Thousands of New Orleanians lost their homes in the flooding. Even years after the hurricane, residents—both those living in FEMA trailers and those who had evacuated the city—could not return to their homes and were left homeless.¹¹ The occupation of the city, therefore, as a mission of homeland security first, and only secondarily one of humanitarian aid, was in fact another traumatic invasion of private space; the psychological impact of losing one’s home to natural disaster and then experiencing institutional violence connected to this loss is profound.

Because of his politically-deviant ethnicity, Zeitoun’s experience of homelessness—both literal and symbolic—is particularly disturbing. It is significant that the arrest of Zeitoun and his three friends occurs within the domestic space of one of the rental properties he owns, and Eggers’ description of the event is unnerving, partly due to the manner in which the six armed guards infiltrate the interior of the house. He writes, “The men met Zeitoun in the foyer. They were wearing mismatched police and military uniforms. Fatigues.

Bulletproof vests. Most were wearing sunglasses. All had M-16s and pistols. They quickly filled the hallway. There were at least ten guns visible” (206). Eggers’ terse sentences here underscore the violent, unwelcome presence of the military in



¹¹ Spike Lee explores the psychological impact of homelessness on the people of New Orleans in his film When the Levees Broke. Residents who had lost their homes display outrage, grief, and exasperation at the federal government’s apparent lack of concern for rebuilding the areas of the city most affected by the storm, areas predominantly inhabited by African Americans and the poor. To make matters worse, insurance companies consistently refused to honor their obligations by defining much of the destruction as a result of the flooding and not the hurricane.

domestic space, and, following an almost idyllic description of Zeitoun’s first shower in weeks and a conversation with Kathy, the scene emphasizes the traumatic implications of the state’s command over domestic space. Later, Zeitoun reflects, “He recounted their arrest, and the hours and days before it, countless times, trying to figure out what had brought such attention to them. Was it simply that four men were occupying one house?” (252). Their arrest, of course, is a result of converging anxieties over homeland security and fear of Muslims, and that the soldiers invade the house should not be surprising, as the occupation of the homeland by ideological enemies—from the state’s perspective—poses the greatest threat to the nation.

After removing Zeitoun from the house, the state takes more radical measures to sever any connections he might have to America as a homeland. Here it might be useful to turn once again to Agamben’s writings on the state of exception and, specifically, how the logic of the prison camp depends upon the “ordering of space” (19). Exploring the distinctions between prisons and camps (the latter facilitates the state of exception), Agamben writes, “As the absolute space of exception, the camp is topologically different from a simple space of confinement. And it is this space of exception, in which the link between localization and ordering is broken, that has determined the crisis of the old [law of the earth]” (20). Deprived of his rights as an American, Zeitoun, who is more or less homeless, himself, after the flooding (his own house was badly damaged, but not irreparably so), is removed from the space of American juridical law and

held in a liminal space produced by the state of exception.¹² As mentioned above, Eggers repeatedly compares Camp Greyhound and the Hunt Correctional Facility to Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib, two prisons physically removed from the American homeland and therefore existing in a liminal juridical zone in which constitutional guarantees do not apply. In detaining Americans within these slippery inter-legal spaces, the state effectively deprives them not only of the rights guaranteed by the Constitution, but more generally precludes their identification with America as a home.

The point, here, is that Zeitoun (as well as, in less pronounced ways, the thousands of New Orleanians confined in the Convention Center, the Superdome, and on the highway overpasses) was a prisoner of a state apparatus that, in disciplining the city and interpellating survivors as refugees and political prisoners, created a psychology of homelessness.¹³ Particularly in Zeitoun’s case, his relation to the state became traumatic. It might be useful here to reiterate



¹² In Foucault’s language, Camp Greyhound could be seen as a heterotopia, or an “other space” outside of the social order, constituted by discourses that exist apart from, here, the juridical law of the United States. Heterotopias usually challenge the concept of a homogenous, institutional space, but, in this case, Camp Greyhound is itself an extension of the institution, so its existence only serves to expand the scope of state power.
¹³ As I will address in my discussion on Treme, the federal government has been heavily involved in the plans to rebuild housing projects in New Orleans in the years since Hurricane Katrina. The political dimensions of this process are complex, and, in many cases, critics of the government’s plans contend that the Bush Administration was deliberately preventing poor, democratic-voting African Americans from returning home in order to preserve a more conservative New Orleans population. For those affected by these plans, the “psychology of homelessness” barely begins to describe the material effects of institutional politics on their lives.

Jenny Edkins’ commentary on political trauma. She explains, “What we call trauma takes place when the very powers that we are convinced will protect us and give us security become our tormentors: when the community of which we considered ourselves members turns against us or when our family is no longer a source of refuge but a site of danger” (4), and later, “[trauma] is experienced as a betrayal” (11). Zeitoun and his family very much find themselves victims of this kind of political trauma. Kathy, in particular, suffers mental lapses that would eventually be diagnosed as post-traumatic stress syndrome (301). For Kathy, the most traumatic event occurs when, informed of her husband’s whereabouts, she is denied the right to “see him or even know where a court hearing might be held.” She felt “cracked open…it broke [her]” (319). What is most difficult for Kathy to comprehend is how the woman on the other end of the phone during this exchange could—even as an extension of the institution—display such a disturbing lack of empathy. Eggers writes, “That this woman, a stranger, could know her despair and desperation and simply deny her. That there could be trials without witnesses, that her government could make people disappear” (319).

Eggers’ phrasing in this passage is revealing. By setting the individual and the institution side by side, and by emphasizing the traumatic impact this event had on Kathy, he suggests that what is most disturbing about institutional trauma is the fact that it is ultimately enacted by people operating within systems of power: soldiers, desk clerks, prison guards, and more broadly all Americans exercising technologies of the self.

By narrativizing the traumatic experience endured by the Zeitouns, and by designating the state as the perpetrator of political trauma, Eggers clearly aims to challenge both state-endorsed narratives that attempt to clear the government of blame and popular narratives—such as Spike Lee’s documentary—that position the event as primarily affecting African Americans and the poor. By addressing the discourses of homeland security at the heart of Katrina, he uncovers the political machinery underlying Zeitoun’s imprisonment, providing the groundwork for a more involved critique of the government’s political agenda in the war on terror. Eggers’ utilitarian tone, attention to historical accounts and survivor testimony, and frequent use of photographs reveal his interest in “setting the record straight” and, more specifically, giving voice to a traumatic experience that, by definition, defies representation. For those readers familiar with Eggers’ writing, encountering these formal strategies can be jarring. In the absence of visible rhetorical flourish, and simulating the structure of testimony, the text invites readers into close psychological and emotional proximity to Zeitoun’s experience. Regardless, we must admit to ourselves that no matter how horrified we feel at the state’s violations of its own laws, we, as outsiders to a traumatic event, cannot fully understand Zeitoun’s plight as a Syrian-American and as a prisoner of war.

Eggers complements his pared-down prose with photographic images, which he incorporates into the book’s textual apparatus. Rather than representing the graphic horrors of post-Katrina New Orleans through images that depict

suffering and destruction, Eggers uses photography to depict the quotidian, everyday lives of Zeitoun and his family. For instance, in one photograph we see Zeitoun posing for the camera with his children, and others depict his family home in Jableh, Syria. More than just humanizing Eggers’ characters and confirming the factual details of the narrative, these photographs frame Zeitoun’s experience in ways that resist popular narratives about Katrina, which, caught up in processes of production and consumption, tended to commodify the visual image. These processes even play out in Spike Lee’s documentary, an otherwise emotionally powerful film that exposes the political dimensions of Katrina; through the use of photographs and testimony, certainly unintentionally, the film positions viewers as spectators to natural disaster and institutional violence and, therefore, consumers of the visual image. Its cathartic moments leave us fulfilled, as the film, in both educating and entertaining, has come through on its promises. Zeitoun’s use of photographic image, however, resists the processes of production and consumption of visual images, requiring us to reflect on our desires and motivations for reading a work of nonfiction dealing with natural disaster.

More than just problematizing our relationship to narrative production and moments of national trauma, Zeitoun asks readers to consider how the discourses of homeland security have come to bear on our lives in the twenty-first century and how, in the state of exception, anyone is potentially vulnerable to political violence perpetrated by the state. So far, this chapter has shown how these discourses embedded themselves in the city space of New Orleans following the

hurricane. The state transformed what was temporarily a smooth space free of discursive control into a highly-regimented prison camp operating outside of American juridical law. The following section on David Simon and Eric Overmyer’s HBO series, Treme, picks up where Zeitoun leaves off, addressing how the people of New Orleans would employ spatial tactics to reclaim their city streets from the grips of institutional power. Here, I am interested in what opportunities remain for individuals who wish to utilize urban space as a site that facilitates political action and the performance of cultural memory. Understanding how these processes function is critical to how we understand trauma and the politics of space in contemporary America.