On Aug. 29, packing the punch of an invincible army, Hurricane Katrina slammed into New Orleans. Gale-force winds overturned trees and telephone poles, shook houses off their foundations and peeled the roof off of the Superdome, where thousands of desperate citizens cowered in astonishing helplessness. The destruction was as spectacular as that first blitzkrieg on Baghdad: the kind of stuff 24-hour-news networks dream about.

By now, that voyeuristic excitement has faded. Reality has set in. Katrina knocked out a quarter of the nation's petroleum network. Commerce has been halted at the country's most important port. Farmers along the Mississippi River are scrambling to find costlier means to bring grain to market. Yet, as bad as the economic repercussions are, the biggest lesson we can learn from this catastrophe starts with the social fallout. For in the space of five days, one of the beacons of community in the United States — the city that gave us jazz, fusion cuisine and multiculturalism — sank into a hell of anarchy and terror.

Media coverage has focused, with good reason, on the glaring fact that most of those trapped in Katrina's aftermath were African-American and visibly impoverished. For many of these families, evacuation orders were no match for the lack of resources. A mother of several small children interviewed on NPR put it simply: Her choice was between bus tickets and food. So, like countless others, she loaded up on groceries and went to the Superdome. A whole swath of the populace was literally priced out of the market for escape.

Those who stayed didn't have to wait long to regret it. Food ran out and soon the municipal water system stopped working. Corpses multiplied. One woman, wading in water up to her chest, towed a raft containing her dead husband. A policeman couldn't help her. Authorities were running out of places to quarter the living, much less the deceased.

Twilight brought gunfire and roving bands of hungry and dangerous men. There were rapes reported in the Superdome. A chemical plant explosion filled the night with an orange glow eerily reminiscent of the bombardment of Baghdad.

Yet the destitution of people left behind is only one part of New Orleans' destruction. Most people with the means to get out did so. Doctors fled to higher ground, leaving behind clinics that were submerged and potentially irrecoverable. Some put out calls seeking temporary work elsewhere. Some considered building new practices in other cities. The same thing went for lawyers, businesspeople and others. Many who escaped expressed doubts about ever moving back — particularly if it meant subjecting their children to the risk of a repeat. In the long run, the flight of educated and wealthy citizens may well be the hardest blow New Orleans receives.

It's rare that Americans are on the receiving end of such devastation, but it would do us good to take note: This is what happens when a city is laid waste. Law-abiding people become looters. Desperate men form gangs. Chaos plays into the hands of criminals and thugs. Whether the damage is wrought by a carpet bombing or a Category 4 hurricane, the first thing to break is the social contract, and nothing is harder to put together again.

That's why Katrina can teach us something about our choices in Iraq. We have not suffered a war in our own territory since the 1860s. That's one of the reasons Americans are quicker to wage them than Europeans, for whom the physical destruction of World War II remains vivid. Yet there is something about victimhood that sharpens the memory. I come from the South, where a look of venom rises to people's faces when the name Sherman is uttered.

It's frustrating that Southerners don't consider their own long-festering anger when contemporary leaders request their support for new wars. But it doesn't take a great leap of imagination to suppose that in Katrina's aftermath, the good people of New Orleans may be feeling a measure of solidarity with the civilians of Baghdad. Perhaps they'll even feel a twinge of regret.

Trey Popp is City Paper's copy editor. If you would like to respond to this Slant or submit one of your own (750 words), e-mail Duane Swierczynski.