Twenty years after Hurricane Katrina forever altered the landscape of New Orleans, the city stands as both a symbol of resilience and a stark reminder of the vulnerabilities that persist in the face of natural disasters. As the anniversary of the storm approaches, survivors, educators, and community leaders reflect on the profound impact of the country’s costliest hurricane—a calamity that claimed nearly 1,400 lives, submerged 80% of New Orleans, and left scars that have yet to fully heal.
On a quiet street in the Gentilly neighborhood, a modest brick house serves as a living memorial to the tragedy. Preserved by Levees.org, an advocacy group founded by Sandy Rosenthal, the Flooded House Museum is a painstaking recreation of the devastation that greeted survivors when they returned home after the waters receded. "This is actually all carefully placed, even though it looks like chaos," Rosenthal told NPR, guiding visitors past overturned furniture and a mud-caked teddy bear. The house is marked with one of the trademark X’s left by first responders, each symbol denoting when a home was searched and whether any bodies were found inside. For Rosenthal, the museum is a place of commemoration—a quiet reminder of the lives lost and the neighborhoods wiped out by the storm surge.
That surge, driven by Hurricane Katrina’s 175 mile-per-hour winds, overwhelmed the city’s levees and floodwalls on August 29, 2005. According to NPR, a 20-foot section of the London Avenue Canal floodwall failed, unleashing torrents that swept homes from their foundations and left entire blocks devastated. In the Lower Ninth Ward, Robert Green still visits the concrete steps that are all that remain of his mother’s house. "We had five minutes to get from the inside of the house into the attic," Green recalled. As the water rose, his brother kicked a hole in the roof, and the family clambered onto the shingles—only for the house to float away. In the chaos, Green’s granddaughter was lost to the floodwaters. "At the end of that, my mother lay dead, she had so much water in her lungs that she didn't make it." Green’s story is just one among thousands, but it encapsulates the heartbreak and the tenacity of those who survived.
Experts had long warned that New Orleans was a disaster waiting to happen. As early as 2002, reporters at The Times-Picayune published a series detailing how the city’s low elevation, eroding wetlands, and aging levees made it especially vulnerable. In 2004, FEMA funded a disaster simulation called "Hurricane Pam," which predicted thousands of deaths and citywide flooding if a major storm struck. Yet, as Ivor Van Heerden, then co-director of LSU’s Hurricane Center, told NPR, federal officials failed to grasp the seriousness of these warnings. "We did point out on many, many occasions that those levees are made in some places of soft soil, and there's a good chance they could erode and there could be failures. Their response to us was these are federal levees built to federal standards. They're not going to fail."
When Katrina barreled into the Gulf Coast as a Category 3 hurricane, the worst fears became reality. Streets clogged with traffic as an estimated 80% of the city’s residents fled. Yet at least 100,000 people remained, many lacking the means to evacuate. The Superdome became the "shelter of last resort," housing 12,000 people with supplies meant for only 48 hours. When the levees broke, rescue operations struggled to keep pace with the unfolding catastrophe. National Guard trucks ferried people through chest-deep water, while helicopters plucked hundreds from rooftops. According to NPR, the response was chaotic and, for many, came far too late.
In the days that followed, the scale of the disaster became painfully clear. Bodies were found in homes, hospitals, and nursing facilities—some left behind due to failed evacuation plans. Former Senator Mary Landrieu of Louisiana described the tragedy in stark terms: "People drowned trying to swim away from their homes or drowned in their attics or drowned in nursing homes where they were left because no one came to evacuate them. (They) died in hospitals because the electricity went off and there were no backup generators." A White House study later found that FEMA, recently placed under the Department of Homeland Security, was woefully unprepared, with top positions filled by acting directors unfamiliar with emergency response.
The aftermath of Katrina brought not only physical destruction but also emotional upheaval, especially for the city’s students and educators. Chris Dier, now a history teacher at Benjamin Franklin High School, was a high school senior in Chalmette when the storm hit. Forced to evacuate to Texas, he remembers the kindness of teachers who offered not just lessons but compassion. "They made me feel welcome. They made me feel like I belong," Dier reflected, crediting those educators with inspiring his own career. Years later, as the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted lives, Dier reached out to his students, empathizing with their lost milestones and drawing on his own experience as a teenager displaced by disaster.
Jahquille Ross, who was an eighth grader during Katrina, also found himself uprooted—first to Alexandria, Texas, and eventually back to New Orleans. He struggled academically and socially in the unfamiliar environment, but upon returning home, he found comfort in his community. Now the chief of talent at New Schools for New Orleans, Ross is dedicated to ensuring that local children receive the support he once needed. "It was hard to make friends wherever I went," he said, underscoring the importance of stability and belonging for displaced students.
Veteran educator Michelle Garnett, who lost her beloved Parkview Elementary to the storm, drew strength from her family during the recovery. Her passion for teaching, born out of necessity to support her own daughter, became a lifelong calling. She believes that nurturing and inspiring young minds is both a privilege and a responsibility—especially in times of crisis.
In the two decades since Katrina, New Orleans has rebuilt much of its infrastructure, including a $15 billion overhaul of its levee system. Yet the city’s recovery remains uneven. As NPR reports, some neighborhoods have rebounded, while others are still marked by vacant lots and shuttered businesses. The population stands at about three-quarters of what it was before the storm, with many who left never returning.
Perhaps the most enduring legacy of Katrina is the transformation of New Orleans’ education system. The city now boasts the nation’s only all-charter school district—a testament to both the devastation wrought by the hurricane and the determination to rebuild better. The stories of Dier, Ross, and Garnett, alongside those of countless other survivors, highlight the enduring power of resilience, compassion, and community in the face of unimaginable loss.
As New Orleans continues to grapple with the lessons of Katrina, the voices of those who lived through the storm serve as a powerful reminder: true recovery is measured not just in rebuilt levees or new schools, but in the strength of the people who call this city home.
