11/18/24
Part 1: The Destruction
I saw her sad pout lost in the middle of so many adults. She was so tiny, so defenseless, yet so brave. In between all those supplies at the Lansing Fire Department, there she was—the face of this tragedy.
It was the end of a long reporting day for my crew and me. I had spent the previous 10 hours talking to many survivors, going from town to town to gather testimonies from whoever was willing to talk with me. When I told my mom that I was going to Appalachia to cover the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, I can assure you she wasn’t thrilled.
I had arrived in America two months prior to the hurricane as part of a study abroad program at High Point University. My parents and friends were back home in Belgium, 4100 miles away from me, which made my reporting trip even more stressful to them. Thanks to modern-day technology, I could share my location with them on my phone, but we knew we couldn’t count on it as cell service was bad in that area. However, I didn’t care. I wanted to go and explore the world. I know I’m just a 23-year-old reporter from a small country almost no one can put on a map, but I felt the urge to gather those testimonies and contribute, however modestly, to something larger.
When you’re a young journalist, your first on-the-field assignment is supposed to be easy so you have time to cut your teeth—something like, “This new coffee shop opened in High Point!” or “The construction on the High Point University campus is taking longer than expected.” But I had spent days watching this catastrophe unfold on social media, feeling helpless sitting in my dorm room. So I called in Belgium and said, “Mom, someone has to go tell their stories.” I went to buy a first aid kit and a good pair of men’s workwear pants, and then I hit the road with my small camera crew.
“They’re looking at us as if we’re a disaster museum”
Our first stop was at The Bavarian Village in Boone. That was the first time I walked into a disaster zone, and nothing can prepare you for that. The pictures you see on social media don’t convey the smell, the noises—or their absence. My cameramen went on their own to shoot some videos as I tried to find people to talk to.
As I walked through the debris, the silence struck me. Everyone was gone. There was just this indescribable smell, a mix of food going bad, mold, wet soil, dead animals and other things I couldn’t even comprehend. After speaking with some construction workers, one of them pointed to a house where a family had decided to stay and suggested that I talk to them.
That was the first time in my life I had to walk up to someone’s door after they had been through the most traumatic event of their life and ask, “Would you agree to share your story with me?” I stood still in the middle of the street for a solid minute, gripping the straps of my backpack like a life jacket, gathering all my courage. Was it okay for me to knock on their door? Would they think I was being nosy? In that moment, I wished I had a professor beside me to ask what I should do, but I’d have to learn on my own. I took a deep breath and walked up to the small front porch.
After three short knocks, a young woman opened the door, her face timidly hidden behind it. I think that for a split second, we were both scared to talk to each other. Once I introduced myself, I realized she was more than willing to share her story. Her voice trembled, and the profound sorrow on her face was deeply moving. Her name was Suto. She was the first survivor I had ever spoken with, and her testimony was unsettling. Her apartment complex had been completely destroyed by the flooding, with only a few houses still standing. “Nobody was ready for it, not even the rescue teams. It was a bit terrifying to see my neighbor’s car being washed away at 20 miles per hour,” Suto said.
What scared her the most was seeing people swimming into death waters to save their neighbors and their pets. “The first responders were our neighbors,” added Suto. She was fidgeting with wristbands and her uncomfortable smile made her pale cheeks seem even bigger than they actually were. She took a pause to breathe. She explained she didn’t feel comfortable enough to speak in front of a camera because she has anxiety issues. “But I want to tell you that I appreciate what you journalists do so much. It’s so important,” she added. She opened up to me, without a camera, just talking freely, and I felt grateful she trusted me enough to have this conversation. Her forearms were full of bracelets of different colors and textures, and playing with them seemed to ground her when she was feeling anxious.
What was striking in her testimony is the strong sense of community that helped these people survive. They could only count on each other. After Helene hit, the Bavarian Village was cut from the outside world for 56 hours. 56 hours of pure nightmare for Suto and her family. “When the wifi got back, it felt pretty isolating because no one seemed to know.” She found out people were making fun of the survivors on social media, demeaning them for not evacuating. “It’s one thing people don’t seem to realize: people’s lives changed. It’s hurtful.” Suto noticed people driving up to the mountains to come see what happened. They weren’t there to volunteer or help the survivors. “They’re looking at us as if we’re a disaster museum.”
The whole time she spoke, she was on the verge of tears. As a reporter, it's one of those moments when you feel truly helpless. Her voice was quiet but heavy with grief and her eyes were deeply tender.
“But it’s heartwarming to see the communities come together,” Suto said.
Part 2: The Reconstruction
My crew and I got back into the car. It was silent. The three of us weren’t sure of how to talk about this, so we didn’t say anything. No commentary was needed. We knew. “Where to now?” asked Caleb, one of my cameramen and the designated driver. We weren’t sure of where to go so we decided to follow the destruction on the road and see if it would lead us somewhere. That’s when Caleb saw a blue inscription on a freshly cut wooden board: “Free Supplies, Follow the Sign” so we followed it.
We drove on the tortuous Appalachian roads. It was my first time here in North Carolina and I couldn’t get over how gorgeous this place was despite the destruction. Mother Nature tried to demolish the mountains, yet they still stood proud and tall. I felt small in this green and panoramic landscape. Being in the car felt like a protective bubble against the aftermath.
The wood panel led us to a little church packed up with supplies in its parking lot. The atmosphere was different here. People were cheerful. I felt the sun for the first time of the day, and a woman caught my attention with her warm laugh. She was like a ray of sunshine in the middle of this disaster with her yellow tee-shirt and her welcoming smile. Her name was Juanita and she was one of the active founders of Ashe County Worship Center. She wasn’t very tall, but she radiated a calm authority, her grounded stance and full figure exuding strength and presence.
Juanita saw what was happening in her county and wanted to help. “All I wanna do is to hand out a bottle of water,” she said. She was home when the Hurricane hit: “I prayed to God. I said, ‘Lord, just feed your people. You said we wouldn’t go hungry or begging bread and you would give us water.’” Her voice was shaking.
She then proceeded to write a post on her local Ashe County Hurricane Helene Facebook page. “And somehow it blew up. Because we were getting forgotten. Ashe County was getting forgotten,” she said. The next day, that one water bottle she wanted to hand out turned into 10, then a hundred, then a thousand. “I had people calling me from the army, the Navy, wanting to do airdrops. I’m just little housewife me,” said Juanita. “We had so much food that there was no way to put any more food. It’s just grown bigger from a bottle of water.”
She was the voice of the reconstruction. Her energy was unlike any other. Her strong character and optimistic attitude helped the survivors. When they were coming to the church to pick up supplies, their faces were painted with despair, and they had nothing on their back besides the clothes they were wearing when they fled their homes. But when they left the church, their cars were packed with food, water and other necessities, and their hearts were full. Abundance is the word to describe this place: an abundance of people, clothes and supplies, but mostly an abundance of love and solidarity.
“Appalachian people, we got grit”
The County’s High School turned into a rescue center to give shelter to those who lost their home. Juanita’s niece was one of those. “She was cooking food for her son and heard a rumbling. She looked out the window and the mudslide was coming down. She barely grabbed her 1-year-old toddler and ran out the door and lost her home.” At that moment, Juanita showed her first signs of sorrow. “You look around and you see people and it looks fine here. But you go up the road and they’re rescuing bodies.” After a moment to gather her thoughts, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “But Appalachian people, we know where we’re at, and we know how to help each other. We got grit.”
Part 3: The Children of the Storm
But what about the children? Since Helene began, we’ve seen survivors of all ages, first responders, firefighters, medics, and many others on TV. “Our kids are getting forgotten in this. I’m not seeing the toys. A stuffed animal would be great,” said Juanita.
I hadn’t noticed the children, and I realized why after observing them throughout the day: they were quiet. They weren’t complaining, crying, or appearing on TV. They were calm, brave, and composed, doing what their parents asked of them. Once I realized that, their courage hit me like a slap in the face. The children of Helene were probably stronger than their parents. I spoke with some of them, and it felt as though the storm had swept away their childhood, turning them into adults in just a few days.
When we hear about the people volunteering to help, we often forget that children do it too. While I was talking with the church members, I noticed a little boy sitting at a table, preparing essential packages. He wore a baseball cap that hid his eyes most of the time, as if he were hiding from the outside world. When he noticed I was taking his picture, he smiled shyly.
He was also a part of that community everyone talks about, and a pillar at that. It’s as if the children understood the amount of distress their parents were going through and decided to carry their sorrow quietly so as not to disturb the adults. That little boy was discreet in the midst of a ton of supplies, doing what he was told to do: picking up a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and tissues, and putting everything into a plastic bag, over and over again. His gestures became automatic, but he seemed almost happy to do it.
I don’t know their names. I just know their faces and their trauma, like most of us. Those kids are the anonymous victims of this storm.
Part 4: Through Waters and Willpower
Our last stop was the Lansing Fire Station. We parked the car, and my cameramen let me go get a lay of the land to see if people were willing to be filmed and interviewed. The town was so full of dirt that you could practically inhale it.
As the sun began to set at the end of the day, I walked into the station and asked the man who seemed to be in charge if some survivors would speak to me. He was the chief of the station. “Survivors? Here’s your survivor. She’s our hero.” He pointed to a petite yet strong woman. She approached me and shook my hand with a firm grip. Christy Matkins was one of the firefighters who stayed at the station during the flooding, trying to hold down the fort and save what could be saved. She was truly a force of nature.
Matkins had a raspy, smoker's voice and a strong stance despite being only 5 feet 2, along with a delightful Appalachian accent that was sometimes difficult for my European ear to understand. Matkins was afraid of deep water when she found herself trapped in the station’s kitchen.
In only an hour, the water came in through the windows and rose from her waist to her chest. “I went on the stove. I thought, ‘Surely it won’t get no higher’. But it started rising more. It went to my chin, then in my ears. I called 911 to tell them I was stuck. They tried to come and get me but they couldn’t.” At that moment, her emotions overwhelmed her, and her gravelly voice cracked into a high-pitched tone. She was on the verge of tears. “I was there for four hours. My head was against the ceiling. I couldn’t go any higher,” Matkins said, pausing to try not to cry. “I started praying.”
After 30 minutes, the water started to recede. “I thought ‘I’m going to smoke a cigarette after this!’” she said with a sarcastic laugh, trying to cover her trembling voice. “So I got out the front door and I went to smoke.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “It made me stronger though. I’m not afraid of deep water anymore.”
Matkins was a modest person despite what she survived. “A lot of people would think that there was something they could do differently. They wouldn’t have done anything differently. I’ve done the right thing. And God saved me.”
Part 5: The Weight of Witnessing
How do you deal with everything you witnessed when you come back home?
I let my backpack fall onto the carpet and let myself slide against the cold door of my dorm, sitting directly on the floor. I felt empty for a moment. I knew my friends and family were waiting for news to make sure I had made it out alive and safe. They had already waited 12 hours; they could wait 10 minutes more. I needed to gather myself.
They always tell you that you must learn to compartmentalize, that you can’t let the job encroach on your personal life. But would you really be a journalist if, the moment you close the door of your house, you leave everything you saw behind that door? Is it really possible to seclude yourself behind the walls of your dorm?
I sat down at my computer to peek at my pictures before I went to sleep, and that was the moment I broke down. Up until that point, I had managed to stay professional in front of the survivors. But when I saw the picture I took of that little girl, whom I now dearly describe as “my little cowgirl,” it baffled me, and I started crying. I stared at my screen for a long time, looking at her sorrowful pout. Then I went to bed, her face engraved in my mind.
One of the very first things you learn when you study journalism is that a picture is worth a thousand words. Then one day, you’re the one taking the picture. That is a day you never forget.