TWO decades ago, Hurricane Katrina ripped through the Gulf Coast of the United States, a Category 5 monster that exposed the raw nerves of inequality, racism, and governmental neglect in the United States.

While the storm itself was a force of nature, the true disaster was the response — or lack thereof — from the world’s wealthiest nation. Yet, amid the chaos and despair, a beacon of international solidarity shone brightly, emanating from an unexpected place: Cuba.

The images are seared into collective memory: rooftops submerged, desperate cries for help echoing through flooded streets, and the Superdome stadium transformed into a squalid shelter.

New Orleans, a city with a majority black population and a vibrant hub of black culture, bore the brunt. As the levees broke, so too did the illusion of American exceptionalism. Over 1,800 people died, and millions were displaced. The federal government’s response was not only slow but also virtually non-existent in the crucial initial days. President George W Bush, holidaying at the time, seemed detached, famously remarking to his Federal Emergency Management Agency director, “Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job,” even as the crisis deepened.

Cuba’s hand of friendship

In New Orleans, as desperately overworked healthcare providers struggled with a critical lack of medicine, equipment, and personnel, the Cuban government made its formal offer on September 2.

The Senate Majority Leader at the time, Bill Frist, a physician himself who was visiting the flooded city, acknowledged the crisis, stating: “The distribution of medical assistance continues to be a serious problem,” and confirmed reports that scores of people were dying as a result.

As the US government faltered, a small island nation, blockaded and vilified by Washington for decades, extended an immediate and comprehensive offer of aid. Fidel Castro announced that Cuba was ready to send a medical brigade of 1,586 doctors, equipped with 36 tons of medical supplies, to assist the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

This wasn’t a conditional offer, nor was it for profit. It was a gesture of unconditional solidarity, rooted in the values of the Cuban people, in offering help to those in need, whether suffering from natural disasters or colonialism.

“We would be honored to send our doctors,” Fidel declared. “We could move them by air in groups of 100, and they could arrive within 12 hours of permission being granted.” The doctors were prepared to work in the most challenging conditions, bringing not just medical expertise but field hospitals of their own and decades of experience in providing free and socialised healthcare to millions of people in Africa, Asia and Latin America.

They were even willing to brave the dangerous waters to reach those stranded. This was the nascent stage of what would soon become the Henry Reeve International Medical Brigade, a testament to Cuba’s unwavering commitment to global health.

The Henry Reeve Brigade

The Henry Reeve Brigade, named after a young US volunteer from Brooklyn, New York, who fought for Cuban independence in the 19th century, was officially formed shortly after Katrina. Its mission: to provide medical assistance in disaster situations and serious epidemics anywhere in the world.

While the Bush administration ultimately rejected Cuba’s offer of aid for Katrina, citing “logistical challenges,” the reason given was a lack of full diplomatic relations with Cuba, a claim that rang hollow given the Bush administration had just accepted aid from Taiwan, with which the US also lacks full diplomatic relations. It was a thinly veiled excuse rooted in geopolitical animosity.

Still, the brigade went on to become a global force for good. From the devastating earthquake in Pakistan in 2005 to the cholera epidemic in Haiti, and most recently, the global Covid-19 pandemic, the Henry Reeve Brigade has been deployed to over 40 countries, treating millions and saving countless lives.

These doctors often work in remote, dangerous, and impoverished areas, where most Western charities and aid organisations usually fear to stay. They embody the Cuban principle of prioritising human well-being over profit or political gain. They are a living, breathing condemnation of the often generalised idea in the United States that healthcare is something to profit from.

The contrast between the US government’s response to Katrina and Cuba’s offer of aid couldn’t be starker. For decades, US foreign policy has been predicated on the idea that Cuba is a threat to US democracy, even landing on the US State Sponsors of Terrorism list. Yet, when its own citizens were drowning, Washington chose to maintain its cold war attitude over the necessity of saving the lives of its own citizens.

A Katrina survivor, recounting the harrowing days after the storm, once lamented: “Where was our government? We were left to die.” This sentiment encapsulates the raw betrayal felt by many of the city’s black residents.

The rejection of Cuba’s aid wasn’t just a missed opportunity; it was a damning indictment of the US’s priorities. While ordinary Americans were suffering, the Bush administration was more concerned with maintaining its anti-Cuba stance than with saving lives. This is the inherent flaw of a system that prioritises capital over human lives, that sees solidarity as a weakness rather than a strength.

From Katrina to today: the enduring relevance

Twenty years later, the lessons of Katrina and Cuba’s offer of aid remain profoundly relevant. In today’s political climate, the US continues its aggressive stance against Cuba, even attempting to discourage other countries in the global South from accepting Cuban medical brigades.

The Trump administration, for example, actively campaigned against countries receiving aid from Cuban doctors, labeling them as “human trafficking” — a cynical and baseless accusation designed to undermine Cuba’s international standing and maintain the brutal economic blockade.

Yet, despite these efforts, Cuba’s medical internationalism continues to inspire. In the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic, as wealthy nations hoarded vaccines and medical supplies, Cuba developed its own vaccines and continued to send its doctors to the most remote corners of the globe.

As people across the Gulf Coast commemorate the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, may the example of the Henry Reeve Brigade be a powerful reminder of Cuba’s solidarity with the people of the United States.

Manolo De Los Santos is executive director of The People’s Forum and a researcher at Tricontinental: Institute for Social Research. This article is republished from peoplesdispatch.org.