A good two years after Hurricane Katrina I remember feeling so

The words of AnnaLynne McCord ring through the ages like a lamentation of the prophets—a cry not only of sorrow, but of remembrance. She speaks of Hurricane Katrina, that great storm which in the year 2005 laid waste to the proud city of New Orleans, leaving behind desolation, ruin, and the silence of forgotten souls. Yet her anguish is not born from the winds or the waters alone, but from the greater tempest—the one that rages within the human heart when compassion fades and the memory of suffering grows dim. Her lament, “Everyone forgot and the city was lying in waste,” is not only about a city, but about the spirit of humanity itself, which too often turns its face away once the thunder passes.

In the manner of the ancients, let us understand this quote not as mere remembrance, but as a teaching about the duty of remembrance. For what is civilization if it does not care for its wounded? What is freedom if it turns to indifference when its brothers and sisters lie in despair? McCord’s words echo the truth that to be human is to be responsible for one another—not for a day or a season, but for as long as there remains breath and need. She reminds us that time erodes not only ruins, but also empathy; that the sands of forgetfulness can bury both bodies and consciences.

Consider, my child, the city of Pompeii, once filled with laughter and the fragrance of olives and wine, swallowed by fire and ash. Centuries passed before men sought it again, to unearth its streets and remember its people. So too, in the story of New Orleans, there is a Pompeii of the spirit—a place buried not by lava, but by neglect. The disaster revealed not merely nature’s fury, but humanity’s delay. It was a mirror to the soul of a nation that had grown distant from its own heart. McCord, standing years later amid the ruins, felt not only grief but shame—a righteous shame that awakens conscience, the kind that urges a person to say: Never again shall we forget our own.

And yet, amid such devastation, the light of heroism shone. Think of the musicians of the Ninth Ward, who returned to their broken homes carrying their battered instruments, saying, “We will make the city sing again.” Think of the neighbors who rebuilt with their own hands when the state did not come. These are the quiet warriors of compassion, those who prove that while governments may falter, the human heart—when kindled by remembrance—can raise cities from the dust. McCord’s cry is not one of despair, but of awakening: a call to reclaim the sacred bond of shared responsibility.

There is in her lament a timeless lesson: that forgetfulness is the final death. A people who forget their wounded lose the strength of their spirit. The ancients taught that the gods punished not only those who sinned, but those who stood idle while injustice reigned. To remember, therefore, is not a passive act—it is a sacred duty. Each act of remembrance is a stone laid upon the altar of human dignity. To forget is to tear down that altar and let the wind scatter the dust.

So let us remember, not only with words, but with deeds. Visit the forgotten corners of your own world—the poor, the lonely, the wounded, the neglected. Rebuild, not only with money, but with presence, with time, with love. For no government can restore a soul that society has abandoned; only compassion can. Let every man and woman be a restorer of what has been broken, a guardian of what must not be forgotten.

And when you feel the weight of hopelessness—as McCord once did—remember this: the city that lies in waste can yet rise again. For no ruin is final when the heart still beats with remembrance. Let the winds of indifference pass over you, but do not let them carry away your care. Hold fast to the memory of the fallen and the faith that renewal is possible. In this way, you will not only honor the lost city of New Orleans—you will honor the undying spirit of humanity itself.