Reflection from the North Carolina Disaster Relief and Resilience Network
When Tropical Depression Chantal swept through central North Carolina in early July, it left behind indescribable devastation. The storm unleashed record-breaking rains across the Piedmont, flooding roads, submerging cars, and swallowing neighborhoods from Alamance to Durham County. In North Durham, the Eno River surged over its banks, covering entire blocks with sewage-contaminated water. Families returned to homes that were unrecognizable—floors buckled, walls soaked through, and most possessions unsalvageable. Across Orange, Chatham, and Person counties, farms were destroyed, barns and fencing collapsed, and whole fields of soybeans and tobacco were drowned (Carolina Public Press). Thousands of people were displaced, some permanently, as their homes and cars were rendered unlivable.
But amid all that destruction, what struck us most wasn’t the storm—it was the response.
Mutual Aid on the Ground
Throughout Durham, Chapel Hill, and Carrboro, relief efforts weren’t led by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) or the state. They were led by us—neighbors, faith groups, grassroots organizers, volunteers.
In North Durham, we spent most of the time with families whose homes had been filled with sewage water from the flooding Eno. Alongside volunteers, we helped clear out entire houses—carrying waterlogged furniture and belongings to the curb, sorting what little could be saved, and moving boxes to storage for families awaiting new places to live. We tore out carpets, pried up floorboards, stripped drywall, and in some cases, even cut into collapsing ceilings. It was heavy, exhausting, devastating work—but it was also collective care in action.
Meanwhile, a community-run resource warehouse opened in Carrboro, organized by locals. Donations poured in. Volunteers built shifts to stock, inventory, and distribute supplies. We worked shifts there too—helping families find diapers, food, and cleaning kits, making supply runs, and keeping shelves organized. Church groups ran demolition crews. Communities raised funds directly for survivors. Carpools and rideshares appeared overnight to make sure people could get where they needed. Relief came not from the top down, but from the bottom up.
Why We Had to Step Up
North Carolina does not provide state-managed flood insurance. Unless families can afford private flood coverage, which is often far out of reach for working households, they are left with nothing after a disaster. For many who lost their homes and cars in Chantal, there was no safety net, no structural support to lean on (Carolina Public Press).
This isn’t new. The state has faced disaster after disaster in recent years, yet recovery programs are consistently delayed, underfunded, or inaccessible. The reality is that communities remain largely on their own once the water recedes.
Learning from Asheville After Helene
As we organized in Durham, we kept thinking back to what we had seen across Western North Carolina after Hurricane Helene in September 2024. Entire communities were underwater—from Asheville to the surrounding mountain towns. Homes, businesses, and farmland were devastated. And yet—before federal relief ever arrived—neighbors had already mobilized.
People showed up with tractors, trucks, and trailers to dig out the wreckage. Volunteers formed cleanup crews, cooked meals, organized donation hubs, and checked in on neighbors. These weren’t isolated acts of generosity—they were part of a broader culture of people refusing to wait for help that might never come.
That spirit shaped how we approached Durham. Asheville taught us that community hubs like warehouses, volunteer-powered demolition crews, and direct material support aren’t just temporary solutions—they’re the foundation of survival. The lesson was clear: mutual aid is not a backup plan. It is the plan.
The Bigger Picture
Meanwhile, on the national stage, the current U.S. prioritization of military aid over domestic recovery starkly contrasts the urgent needs at home. Since the siege on Gaza began in October 2023, the United States has poured at least $17.9 billion into military aid for Israel—more than any single year in history—plus an estimated $4.86 billion into regional military operations, including counteractions in Yemen, Qatar, and Iran (Watson InstituteThe Associated Press).
In addition, the Biden administration proposed a fresh $8 billion arms sale, pending congressional approval, just earlier this year (Reuters). Compare that to the fate of Western North Carolina’s recovery: communities in the region are still starving for support nearly a year after Helene. FEMA has disbursed $1.36 billion, but critical infrastructure and debris removal projects are stuck while over $100 million in pre-approved funds remain held up due to bureaucratic delays (The Washington Post).
The contrast couldn’t be clearer: taxpayer dollars are funding destruction abroad, while flood-stricken communities at home wait—wait for infrastructure, wait for recovery, wait for recognition. This isn’t just a policy failure—it’s a moral crisis. From Gaza to Appalachia to The Triangle, our government invests in war and extraction instead of care and recovery.
What We Learned
If this disaster has taught us anything, it’s that survival isn’t about going it alone—it’s about showing up for each other. Scarcity is manufactured; abundance emerges when we share what we have. What felt impossible for one person to shoulder became bearable when dozens of hands carried it together.
These weeks of recovery work have shown us that community care is not just a response to crisis—it can be the groundwork for a different kind of future. If we organized like this every day, outside of emergencies, we wouldn’t just survive—we could thrive.
Even in the midst of so much loss, we’ve found a renewed faith that we can overcome the structures of white supremacist capitalism and build a world rooted in connection, care, and solidarity.