More than Water By Lisabel

Floods were a constant in my childhood, growing up in the Northern Rivers of New South Wales. Back then, they were always welcomed as a day off school – too much water on the roads to drive into town safely, but never life-threatening. Back then, floods were just water. Never fourteen metres high, prompting landslides or toxic waste. Never a debt sentence or a death sentence. Never like this.

On the eve of February 28th, I woke to doors slamming. Rain slapped at the windows of our little rainforest cabin and big gusts of wind shook the foundations. The hammering rain was too loud to go back to sleep, and the pulsating red mass on my weather app continued to hover over us. Mullumbimby, Bangalow, Woodburn, Lismore—declared ‘Rain bombed’. Then on Instagram and I saw Casey canoeing through his living room.

By the time I got into town, half of ‘Mullum’ was still underwater, with people wading and canoeing to help their neighbours. The other half, where the water had subsided, was covered in a stinking wet filth. The sight and smell were overpowering. When floods engulf petrol stations, burst sewerage pipes and destroy homes, industrial and household waste forms a toxic river of sludge. But that didn’t stop the community from trudging deep into it to save our little hometown.

In those first few days, there was no electricity or mobile reception, which meant there was no way to get in contact besides knocking on each other’s doors. The Pacific Highway was blocked and all local roads into town were either flooded or unsafe to cross. The rain had washed away many of the causeways or eroded the bitumen into sharp, jagged cliffs.

No roads meant no fresh food, petrol or medicine could get into town by land. The shelves in the supermarkets were empty (again), but no one was hoarding toilet paper or pasta this time. How can you hoard when you have no home? A flood does a pretty good job of washing away any materialistic tendency.

Even when the supermarket shelves and petrol stations were restocked, most of us couldn’t pay for anything anyway. No internet or mobile reception meant no ATMs or EFTPOS machines. But despite all this, we got by.

The houses were rotting but the neighbourhoods were alive with people offering help in whatever way they could. Cash had never been so rare, yet suddenly it was being handed out by strangers in the street. Cash, along with plastic water bottles, cigarettes, sandwiches, bandaids, beers, gumboots and gloves. I’d never seen my community come together and act so quickly.

Volunteer hubs sprang up in communal spaces all over the Northern Rivers. They had everything to help flood survivors—food, a safe place to sleep, nappies (so many nappies), a warm drink, counsellors, social workers and volunteers organising other volunteers. Cars loaded with donations would line up, dropping off whatever supplies they saw on social media were most needed that day. Once the phone signal was restored, the Instagram, Facebook and Twitter accounts of locals on the ground became a crucial lifeline for those in need.

There was no official body in charge, in fact, the government was nowhere to be seen, as individuals in the community organised to send aid to where it was needed.

It would be a week later when the Morrison Government decided to send the Australian Defence Force (ADF). Who were then ordered to stand by and watch the community clean up. The feeling amongst locals was a mixture of disbelief and anger. After days of reconnaissance, circling the streets where the local ‘Mud Army’ were shelling houses—pulling out asbestos or getting covered in toxic waste—the first thing the Armed Forces were required to do was a series of photo ops, in houses that had already been cleaned. Some members of the Northern Rivers directed their hatred towards the squaddies, but we knew who was really giving the orders.

The Mud Army consisted of young and old, anyone able-bodied enough to physically help. There was no formal training or protocol, you just put your hand up and got handed a squeegee, gurney, gloves and some boots and were sent to the next house that needed support. Mops, brooms and bleach came later.

We roamed the streets, filthy but unstoppable. Days were spent drenched in toxic mud as we went into people’s homes to help them remove all their ruined possessions and pile them outside on the street. I pulled out wedding dresses, boxes of waterlogged photo albums, trophies, sex toys, handmade quilts, artworks and all kinds of family heirlooms.

Everything the flood survivors owned, and everything they called home, pulled apart by strangers and hauled onto the streets in stinking brown mountains of waste. Most of these items were unsalvageable, the toxic bacteria from the mud rendering them unsafe. Once everything was out and the house was empty enough, we moved onto the next.

The news told stories of heroism and powerful community spirit. But we didn’t feel heroic, just heartbroken for the people who wouldn’t have the luxury of recovering from this disaster.

When exhaustion hit, a car loaded with sandwiches and water would inevitably show up to keep the volunteers going, everyone doing their small part in the mammoth clean-up. There was always someone capable of cracking a joke. The appreciation from strangers who’d lost everything made the situation seem less hopeless. At least we were in it together.

I never knew that so much loss and tragedy could come from water. Yet the community spirit and human strength it uncovered was life-affirming.

By Lisabel. This piece was written on and about Bundjalung Country. I can’t write or share these works without acknowledging the incredible First Nations activists, community organisers and organisations like Koori Mail that worked so hard during the floods. First Nations knowledge systems and practices are imperative to ensuring a habitable and flourishing country. Sovereignty was never ceded and this always was and always will be Aboriginal land.