Homeless families with school-aged kids on the rise in Sarasota-Manatee and Florida
Earlier this year, Mendjana 'MJ' Oge sat down with her 7-year-old son.
What would he think, she asked Djaneli, who went by DJ, if he had to change schools one more time?
Since starting first grade in the fall, DJ was now in his third school in six months while his family – uprooted by hurricanes and the housing crisis – bounced between the homes of family and friends.
'Aww, man, but why, Mom?' DJ asked.
North Port's Atwater Elementary was his favorite. He loved his teacher and classmates. What's more, Oge knew, the school was a rock of stability for her studious son during months of turmoil.
Like hundreds of parents locally and tens of thousands across the state, Oge, 28, had joined the ranks of Florida's biggest homeless population: families with school-age kids.
It is a problem with devastating consequences for children's long-term educational outcomes, studies show. And it is a problem – due to the housing crisis – that is on the rise.
In addition, as Oge raced to find an affordable rental, she juggled an equally frustrating hunt for childcare, all without a car – falling into what caseworkers call a 'trifecta' of crises in housing, childcare, and transportation.
A former certified nursing assistant and flight attendant, Oge was determined to restore stability for her kids. She promised to keep looking – more resolved than ever to secure something near his school.
'I am going to break my neck to try to keep him there,' she thought.
Every year, hundreds of school-aged kids and their families have to leave the area because working parents can no longer afford to live here, according to Schoolhouse Link, a program that offers support to homeless students and their parents through Sarasota Schools.
Even though researchers have identified the shortage of affordable housing as the root cause of student homelessness, most homeless schoolchildren and their families cannot qualify for rapid re-housing help through the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, or HUD.
That's because the majority of them statewide, or three-quarters, report being 'doubled up' or 'couch surfing' in the homes of relatives or friends. Unlike with stays in emergency shelters, the outdoors, cars, or motels paid by an agency, HUD does not define couch surfing as homeless (though state education officials do). Therefore, couch surfers also are not captured in communities' annual HUD-backed Point in Time homeless counts.
Still, some aid does exist for couch-surfing families through state funds as well as local private and public dollars and case management to prevent them from winding up on the street, said Taylor Neighbors, CEO of the Suncoast Partnership to End Homelessness.
Yet even HUD's more narrow definition shows that an increasing number of homeless families with small kids are indeed winding up on the street. Their statewide numbers from Point in Time counts rose from 2,061 to 2,308 between 2022 and 2024, according to the Florida Council on Homelessness.
And that doesn't begin to scratch the surface of the problem, Neighbors said, noting the limitations of Point in Time counts that rely on volunteers and can easily miss many unsheltered families living in cars.
Instead, another telling figure comes from Suncoast's specialist working with families with minor kids. Just since October, he has fielded 1,100 unduplicated calls for help, mostly from Sarasota County.
'He is on the phone all day long solving problems with families,' Neighbors said.
But the most indicative number of all when it comes to homeless schoolchildren and families is from the Department of Education, advocates say. That number does include couch surfers. And it has been soaring.
After a drop during the pandemic – due to school closures, eviction moratoriums, federal rent assistance and child tax credits – the number of homeless families with school-age kids has rebounded amid drastically increased housing costs. And now that COVID-era relief programs have ended, the numbers are surpassing pre-pandemic levels locally, in Florida and across the nation.
For instance, statewide, from a high of 91,700 homeless K-12 students in 2018-19 before the pandemic, the number fell to about 64,000 during the heart of the pandemic before rising to almost 95,000 in 2022-23.
Sarasota and Manatee counties have mirrored this trend.
In Manatee County – whose numbers are twice as high as Sarasota's – the amount of homeless students dropped from 1,406 in 2018-19 to 1,203 children last year, according to Project Heart, the program helping homeless students and families in that district. But so far this school year, Manatee's numbers are at 1,524 – and counting.
In Sarasota County, numbers also fell immediately after the pandemic, from 833 homeless students to as low as 611 – before spiking again to 1,055 in 2022-23, said Ellen McLaughlin, program director with Schoolhouse Link. This year, they are on track to surpass pre-pandemic levels, she said.
The size of Florida's population of homeless families with school-aged children is tens of thousands greater than that of HUD-counted groups, such as seniors, veterans and people with mental illnesses.
But even the schools' numbers don't tell the whole story, McLaughlin stressed.
The reason is that some parents are too afraid to come forward, she said, worried that child welfare authorities will take away their children because of the family's homelessness – a phenomenon happening nationwide.
Some with no relatives nearby or anywhere else to turn resort to sleeping in their cars or staying in motels, setting them further behind, McLaughlin added.
One such desperate family in search of shelter recently arrived on the doorstep of Harvest House, pulling up to the nonprofit in a rented U-Haul truck – the two parents and four children living out of the back.
'The kids looked completely shell-shocked,' said Dan Minor, Harvest House's president and CEO.
However, while caseworkers offered referrals and other resources, the family could not stay there.
The reason: Last year, the Sarasota County Commission slashed funding to the nonprofit's family emergency homeless shelter – the only one of its kind and scope in the county – forcing it to close and exacerbating the housing crisis for families.
Priced-out parents and kids are still showing up, looking for help, many needing to do so for the first time in their lives.
'I think that all of our ideas around unhoused families are being shattered,' Minor said.
While local school guidance counselors and social workers are seeing more and more two-parent households among homeless families, the largest share by far are single moms, McLaughlin said. Compared to households headed by single dads, it is a population almost twice as likely to be living in poverty or unable to make ends meet in spite of holding down one or more jobs, studies show.
This past year, the number of homeless households headed by single moms that were helped by the Women's Resource Center skyrocketed from 562 to 896, said chief executive officer Ashley Brown. (The total number of people represented, including moms and kids, went from 1,066 to 1,706.)
Importantly, Brown said, in many cases single moms are escaping the trauma of an abusive relationship, only to be retraumatized by homelessness. In the process, their housing crisis is compounded by a parallel one in childcare as well as a lack of reliable transportation – both of which can force them to miss work, which in turn threatens their housing.
'It's a catch-22," Brown said.
That was precisely what happened to Oge.
Having lost her car to Hurricane Ian and getting displaced from the area due to the housing crisis, Oge and the kids were uprooted yet again when Hurricane Milton roared ashore last fall – a spin-off tornado damaging DJ's school and the nail salon in Fort Myers where Oge worked and where the family slept in the back.
When her stepdad in North Port agreed to temporarily take in Oge and the three kids – DJ and his little sister and brother, ages 4 and 2 – Oge returned to her roots here and right away enrolled DJ at nearby Atwater Elementary. That's where she learned of Schoolhouse Link.
McLaughlin helped with household items and clothes for the kids – plus an application for a Section 8 housing voucher, which came through weeks later.
'I was so shocked that day I cried,' Oge said. 'That is the kind of assistance I needed all this time.'
And yet – even with a housing voucher and childcare assistance through the Early Learning Coalition of Sarasota County – Oge could not find openings in either.
Many rents were too high for the voucher. Other places asked for enormous deposits and proof of income three times the rent. Childcare centers were full, waiting lists were long. But without childcare, how could she work? And without employment, landlords wouldn't seriously consider her.
'At certain times, I felt like all the odds are against me and like how did I wind up in this situation?' she said. 'I was a flight attendant. I'm not someone who woke up someday and wanted to be homeless or didn't want anything for my life.'
With the clock ticking on the use of the voucher, her stepdad told her early this year they needed to be out soon. Relying on Uber and rides from friends, Oge kept up her frantic search, squeezing in trips to the park so that the kids had some sense of normalcy. She tried to keep a smile on her face but could see the ordeal was taking a toll on them, as well.
Some nights, they needed to split up – Oge and the youngest two crashing with family friends while DJ stayed on the couch at her stepdad's place to remain close to his school, a common type of separation for homeless families, experts say. Each time, the younger siblings would cry for their big brother.
'Mommy is not leaving you," Oge would tell DJ. "I'm coming back to see you every day."
While DJ seemed to take the brief separation in stride, Oge knew he was troubled by the prospect of transferring once more.
She understood. During her own troubled childhood in foster care – attending 13 schools before graduation – her studies had anchored her through disruptive times.
'I didn't want the same track record for my kids.'
Studies reveal the severe impacts of homelessness on students' development – putting them at greater risk of truancy, behavior problems, falling behind and dropping out.
'That pushed me even harder,' she said.
Finally, she had a breakthrough, first with childcare: a former contact in Charlotte County agreed to fill out documents to qualify for Sarasota's ELC tuition assistance to accommodate Oge's youngest two children in her home center.
Then, Oge found a rental home in North Port that would take her voucher. The three-bedroom, two-bathroom house was within walking distance of DJ's school. And it had a back yard.
But there was a catch: this place also required proof of income equal to three times the rent. Oge shared her situation.
'I just need a chance,' she begged the rental management. "I am this close. I just need a chance.'
The leasing company agreed to waive the income requirement thanks to the voucher. But they definitely needed a letter from an employer. They promised to give her time.
With the other pieces of the puzzle falling into place, Oge zeroed in on finding a job – landing one with a mortuary company.
'I was willing to do anything,' she said.
For move-in costs and the deposit, McLaughlin at Schoolhouse Link tapped Season of Sharing, administered by the Community Foundation of Sarasota County.
In February, after the leasing company gave Oge the green light, she showed the place to the kids.
'This is going to be our new house,' she told DJ and his siblings as they ran overjoyed through the empty rooms.
'Mom, I want to stay in here forever!" DJ called before racing to check out the back yard. "My apple tree is going to go right here!'
DJ, his teacher and his classmates were thrilled to learn he could stay.
Since moving into the house in March, Oge has planted three trees, one for each of her children. She is saving to buy a used car. And planning to go back to school – maybe for psychology or cyber security. Once she's on her feet, she wants to return the housing voucher as soon as she can so it can help another parent.
She is grateful for the kindness she has encountered along her arduous journey. Given the severity of the crises that working families face, she believes her own outcome would not have been possible without it.
'Somehow, even though there have been a lot of hurdles and difficulties, I have met people who have it in their heart to help.'
This story comes from a partnership between the Sarasota Herald-Tribune and the Community Foundation of Sarasota County. Saundra Amrhein covers the Season of Sharing campaign, along with issues surrounding housing, utilities, child care and transportation in the area. She can be reached at samrhein@gannett.com.
This article originally appeared on Sarasota Herald-Tribune: Sarasota-Manatee sees more homeless families with school-aged kids
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CNN
6 hours ago
- CNN
Once home to the CIA, this tiny Southeast Asia runway was considered ‘the most secret place on Earth'
Deep in the sweltering jungles of central Laos, a 4,500-foot stretch of cracked concrete cuts through the trees — an airstrip without an airport, in a village where many have never been on a plane. But behind its crumbling control tower and bomb-cratered runway lies a hidden chapter of America's Cold War history — a site once known as 'the most secret place on Earth.' The village of Long Tieng sits in central Laos, about 80 miles northeast of the capital, Vientiane. Today, it's a sleepy settlement of a few thousand people who mostly rely on the land to carve out a living. There are a couple of restaurants, two guesthouses and a handful of multipurpose shops selling everything from rice to farming tools made from repurposed bombshell metal — a nod to the village's agricultural roots and wartime past. At the village center lies the airstrip. It no longer serves aircraft, instead now functioning as a kind of outdoor community center: children ride scooters, farmers herd cattle and elderly villagers take early morning strolls before the intense heat engulfs the valley. But 50 years ago, the scene was vastly different. From the 1960s to the early 1970s, Laos played a central role in the United States' fight to stop the spread of communism in Southeast Asia. Long Tieng was the secret headquarters of a US-backed Hmong anti-communist army fighting against the communist Pathet Lao forces, which were supported by the North Vietnamese Army. At its height, tens of thousands of inhabitants — Hmong soldiers, their families, refugees from other parts of Laos, Thai soldiers and a small contingent of American CIA operatives and secret US Air Force pilots, dubbed 'Ravens' — called this place home. It was the heart of the largest paramilitary operation ever conducted by the CIA. At one point in time, the tiny airstrip handled 900 daily take-offs and landings, making it one of the busiest airports in the world. Cargo planes would offload crucial supplies including ammunition and food, which would then be loaded onto smaller planes that flew to even smaller airstrips around the country. Despite the scale of the base, it was so secret even some of those participating in the war in other locations did not know of its existence, says Paul Carter, a Laos Secret War specialist who lives in Southeast Asia. 'The war in Laos was so compartmentalized … I knew guys who participated in that war, they did not even know Long Tieng existed until the late 1960s when they started letting the reporters in there,' he tells CNN. From this remote mountain village, the CIA-backed Hmong army, led by the charismatic General Vang Pao, fought not only the communist Pathet Lao forces but also conducted guerrilla operations — destroying North Vietnamese supply depots, blowing up critical supply routes and generally harassing communist forces — all with full support from the US. As part of this secret war, the US launched a brutal bombing campaign that paralleled its broader military operations in Vietnam. And because international agreements barred direct military involvement in Laos, the effort fell almost entirely on the CIA. American pilots flew thousands of missions from Long Tieng's airstrip, which was known by the codenames Lima Site 98 and Lima Site 20A. Fifty years after the fall of Long Tieng in 1975, I set out to explore the remnants of the US presence in the area. I was drawn here after reading the book, 'A Great Place to Have a War' by Joshua Kurlantzick. It pulled me into a world I'd never known — a hidden Cold War battleground on the sidelines of the Vietnam War. Watching old, grainy newsreels of reporters wandering around the base only deepened my fascination. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to see Long Tieng with my own eyes. Before long, I find myself in Vientiane with an old college friend who I've convinced to come along for an adventure and Mr. Pao — the only driver I could find with a car suitable for the journey. Pao says he used to work at the mines near Long Tieng and is familiar with the area, though he admits he's only visited the village once before. Several tour companies organize trips, but the number of tourists that visit Long Tieng still pales in comparison to Laos' major tourist destinations like Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng. Chris Corbett, owner of Laos Adv Tours and Rentals, tells CNN that his company operates around 10 motorbike tours a year to the site, taking a total of around 40 people to the village. He said his guests mainly come from the United States, Australia and Europe. Today, the village remains largely cut off from the rest of the country. Though just 80 miles from Vientiane, the drive takes over eight hours. Beyond the capital's outskirts, roads quickly degrade — first into unsealed dirt tracks, then into rugged mining roads scarred by landslides and potholes. Visibility is often poor — dust kicked up by mining trucks combines with smoke from slash-and-burn agriculture. At times, we crawl forward, barely reaching 5 mph. Part of the road winds over a rugged mountain pass with no guardrails, just a sheer drop into the valley below. Sitting in the back of the car, I grip the seat in front of me as our driver edges closer to the cliffside, the tires skimming loose gravel. At one point, our driver glances back and warns us that if we get a flat tire out here, we'll likely be stuck for a long time — maybe hours. There's no phone signal. We nod silently and keep going. As we approach Long Tieng, the rough dirt road suddenly gives way to smooth pavement. Cresting the final mountain pass, we expect to glimpse the airstrip — but thick smoke shrouds the valley, limiting visibility to a few hundred meters. Descending into the village as the sun sets, there's little sign that 30,000 people once lived here. Family farms now occupy land once filled with barracks and command centers. Military convoys have long been replaced by scooters and cattle. We stay in a guesthouse next to the airstrip. It's barebones — a wooden bed and a single creaky fan that spins with little effect. There's no air conditioning, and the humid air hangs heavy and unmoving. It's hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can't stop thinking about what this place had once been. The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past. As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip's historical importance, there's nothing to mark it. Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers. 'They were just kind of taken off the books,' Carter says. 'They operated under a different cover.' The Ravens wore civilian clothing and were issued US Embassy ID cards. In some cases, Carter notes, pilots were also issued US Agency for International Development (USAID) identity cards. The Ravens often flew in pairs — an American pilot in front and a local Hmong 'backseater' who communicated with ground forces. But they weren't alone over the skies of Laos. Pilots from Air America, a secret CIA-owned airline, also operated in Long Tieng; they flew in crucial supplies to the base and conducted daring search and rescue missions to recover downed pilots deep behind enemy lines. 'I landed there pretty much every other day,' Neil Hansen, a pilot stationed in Laos during part of the war, tells CNN. Hansen worked for Air America between 1964 and 1973 and detailed his experience in the book, 'FLIGHT: An Air America Pilot's Story of Adventure, Descent and Redemption.' 'I was flying a C-123, bringing in munitions, supplies and fuel for 'the little birds,' which would then distribute it to other sites,' Hansen recalls. As part of his mission, he also transported 'CIA customers.' During one flight in 1972, Hansen was shot down over the Plateau de Bolevan in southern Laos. 'After getting my crew out and bailing out, I watched the C-123 fall out of the sky and explode,' he says, noting he was rescued by Air America helicopters shortly after. About 100 meters west of the airstrip stands a two-story house that once served as the headquarters of General Vang Pao, the leader of the CIA-backed Hmong army. From this remote compound, Pao worked closely with American operatives to coordinate a covert war, marshaling thousands of Hmong fighters while receiving US air support, weapons and humanitarian aid in return. Set behind a tall fence and overgrown garden, the house still feels separated from the rest of the village — distant, guarded. A sign on the front door, written in English, reads: 'No entry without permission.' It's the only English sign we've seen in the entire village, and it stops us in our tracks. With no one around, we circle the property, peering through dusty windows, unsure whether we can get inside. An older man in weathered military fatigues appears nearby. Without saying a word, he approaches, slowly dangling a key in front of our faces. He doesn't speak English, but types out a number on his phone. We nod and hand over the cash. A moment later, we're inside. The house is not what I expected. I'd imagined a preserved time capsule, cluttered with mementos or forgotten artifacts — but the rooms are eerily empty. No furniture, no decorations, no posters or portraits of the general. In the foyer, dozens of artillery shells are stacked neatly in one corner, with several mortar rounds resting nearby. It's surreal to see these instruments of war arranged with such quiet precision. Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live. Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting. We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It's hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here. Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG. Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions. Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration's widespread suspension of foreign aid. 'I fell in love with Laos,' says Hansen. 'I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.' Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky. I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it's one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance. A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago. The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
CNN
6 hours ago
- CNN
Once home to the CIA, this tiny Southeast Asia runway was considered ‘the most secret place on Earth'
Deep in the sweltering jungles of central Laos, a 4,500-foot stretch of cracked concrete cuts through the trees — an airstrip without an airport, in a village where many have never been on a plane. But behind its crumbling control tower and bomb-cratered runway lies a hidden chapter of America's Cold War history — a site once known as 'the most secret place on Earth.' The village of Long Tieng sits in central Laos, about 80 miles northeast of the capital, Vientiane. Today, it's a sleepy settlement of a few thousand people who mostly rely on the land to carve out a living. There are a couple of restaurants, two guesthouses and a handful of multipurpose shops selling everything from rice to farming tools made from repurposed bombshell metal — a nod to the village's agricultural roots and wartime past. At the village center lies the airstrip. It no longer serves aircraft, instead now functioning as a kind of outdoor community center: children ride scooters, farmers herd cattle and elderly villagers take early morning strolls before the intense heat engulfs the valley. But 50 years ago, the scene was vastly different. From the 1960s to the early 1970s, Laos played a central role in the United States' fight to stop the spread of communism in Southeast Asia. Long Tieng was the secret headquarters of a US-backed Hmong anti-communist army fighting against the communist Pathet Lao forces, which were supported by the North Vietnamese Army. At its height, tens of thousands of inhabitants — Hmong soldiers, their families, refugees from other parts of Laos, Thai soldiers and a small contingent of American CIA operatives and secret US Air Force pilots, dubbed 'Ravens' — called this place home. It was the heart of the largest paramilitary operation ever conducted by the CIA. At one point in time, the tiny airstrip handled 900 daily take-offs and landings, making it one of the busiest airports in the world. Cargo planes would offload crucial supplies including ammunition and food, which would then be loaded onto smaller planes that flew to even smaller airstrips around the country. Despite the scale of the base, it was so secret even some of those participating in the war in other locations did not know of its existence, says Paul Carter, a Laos Secret War specialist who lives in Southeast Asia. 'The war in Laos was so compartmentalized … I knew guys who participated in that war, they did not even know Long Tieng existed until the late 1960s when they started letting the reporters in there,' he tells CNN. From this remote mountain village, the CIA-backed Hmong army, led by the charismatic General Vang Pao, fought not only the communist Pathet Lao forces but also conducted guerrilla operations — destroying North Vietnamese supply depots, blowing up critical supply routes and generally harassing communist forces — all with full support from the US. As part of this secret war, the US launched a brutal bombing campaign that paralleled its broader military operations in Vietnam. And because international agreements barred direct military involvement in Laos, the effort fell almost entirely on the CIA. American pilots flew thousands of missions from Long Tieng's airstrip, which was known by the codenames Lima Site 98 and Lima Site 20A. Fifty years after the fall of Long Tieng in 1975, I set out to explore the remnants of the US presence in the area. I was drawn here after reading the book, 'A Great Place to Have a War' by Joshua Kurlantzick. It pulled me into a world I'd never known — a hidden Cold War battleground on the sidelines of the Vietnam War. Watching old, grainy newsreels of reporters wandering around the base only deepened my fascination. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to see Long Tieng with my own eyes. Before long, I find myself in Vientiane with an old college friend who I've convinced to come along for an adventure and Mr. Pao — the only driver I could find with a car suitable for the journey. Pao says he used to work at the mines near Long Tieng and is familiar with the area, though he admits he's only visited the village once before. Several tour companies organize trips, but the number of tourists that visit Long Tieng still pales in comparison to Laos' major tourist destinations like Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng. Chris Corbett, owner of Laos Adv Tours and Rentals, tells CNN that his company operates around 10 motorbike tours a year to the site, taking a total of around 40 people to the village. He said his guests mainly come from the United States, Australia and Europe. Today, the village remains largely cut off from the rest of the country. Though just 80 miles from Vientiane, the drive takes over eight hours. Beyond the capital's outskirts, roads quickly degrade — first into unsealed dirt tracks, then into rugged mining roads scarred by landslides and potholes. Visibility is often poor — dust kicked up by mining trucks combines with smoke from slash-and-burn agriculture. At times, we crawl forward, barely reaching 5 mph. Part of the road winds over a rugged mountain pass with no guardrails, just a sheer drop into the valley below. Sitting in the back of the car, I grip the seat in front of me as our driver edges closer to the cliffside, the tires skimming loose gravel. At one point, our driver glances back and warns us that if we get a flat tire out here, we'll likely be stuck for a long time — maybe hours. There's no phone signal. We nod silently and keep going. As we approach Long Tieng, the rough dirt road suddenly gives way to smooth pavement. Cresting the final mountain pass, we expect to glimpse the airstrip — but thick smoke shrouds the valley, limiting visibility to a few hundred meters. Descending into the village as the sun sets, there's little sign that 30,000 people once lived here. Family farms now occupy land once filled with barracks and command centers. Military convoys have long been replaced by scooters and cattle. We stay in a guesthouse next to the airstrip. It's barebones — a wooden bed and a single creaky fan that spins with little effect. There's no air conditioning, and the humid air hangs heavy and unmoving. It's hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can't stop thinking about what this place had once been. The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past. As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip's historical importance, there's nothing to mark it. Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers. 'They were just kind of taken off the books,' Carter says. 'They operated under a different cover.' The Ravens wore civilian clothing and were issued US Embassy ID cards. In some cases, Carter notes, pilots were also issued US Agency for International Development (USAID) identity cards. The Ravens often flew in pairs — an American pilot in front and a local Hmong 'backseater' who communicated with ground forces. But they weren't alone over the skies of Laos. Pilots from Air America, a secret CIA-owned airline, also operated in Long Tieng; they flew in crucial supplies to the base and conducted daring search and rescue missions to recover downed pilots deep behind enemy lines. 'I landed there pretty much every other day,' Neil Hansen, a pilot stationed in Laos during part of the war, tells CNN. Hansen worked for Air America between 1964 and 1973 and detailed his experience in the book, 'FLIGHT: An Air America Pilot's Story of Adventure, Descent and Redemption.' 'I was flying a C-123, bringing in munitions, supplies and fuel for 'the little birds,' which would then distribute it to other sites,' Hansen recalls. As part of his mission, he also transported 'CIA customers.' During one flight in 1972, Hansen was shot down over the Plateau de Bolevan in southern Laos. 'After getting my crew out and bailing out, I watched the C-123 fall out of the sky and explode,' he says, noting he was rescued by Air America helicopters shortly after. About 100 meters west of the airstrip stands a two-story house that once served as the headquarters of General Vang Pao, the leader of the CIA-backed Hmong army. From this remote compound, Pao worked closely with American operatives to coordinate a covert war, marshaling thousands of Hmong fighters while receiving US air support, weapons and humanitarian aid in return. Set behind a tall fence and overgrown garden, the house still feels separated from the rest of the village — distant, guarded. A sign on the front door, written in English, reads: 'No entry without permission.' It's the only English sign we've seen in the entire village, and it stops us in our tracks. With no one around, we circle the property, peering through dusty windows, unsure whether we can get inside. An older man in weathered military fatigues appears nearby. Without saying a word, he approaches, slowly dangling a key in front of our faces. He doesn't speak English, but types out a number on his phone. We nod and hand over the cash. A moment later, we're inside. The house is not what I expected. I'd imagined a preserved time capsule, cluttered with mementos or forgotten artifacts — but the rooms are eerily empty. No furniture, no decorations, no posters or portraits of the general. In the foyer, dozens of artillery shells are stacked neatly in one corner, with several mortar rounds resting nearby. It's surreal to see these instruments of war arranged with such quiet precision. Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live. Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting. We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It's hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here. Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG. Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions. Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration's widespread suspension of foreign aid. 'I fell in love with Laos,' says Hansen. 'I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.' Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky. I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it's one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance. A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago. The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
Yahoo
15 hours ago
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Area county reports decrease in homelessness over the past year
In the past year, Montgomery County's homeless population has decreased by seven percent, according to the 2025 Point-In-Time Count. [DOWNLOAD: Free WHIO-TV News app for alerts as news breaks] The count reveals the progress that the county has made, and the persistent challenges associated with trying to end homelessness. 'One person sleeping unsheltered is one too many,' said Commission President Judy Dodge. 'Everyone deserves the dignity of a safe, affordable place to live. We remain committed to addressing homelessness with urgency, compassion and strategic action.' TRENDING STORIES: Local nature preserve announces emergency partial closure due to storm damage Runaway pet zebra captured days after 'wreaking havoc' on busy interstate New restaurant to open at former bar and grill location The number of people experiencing homelessness decreased, but the number of people sleeping unsheltered increased from 92 to 111, according to the 2025 Point-In-Time Count. The US Department of Housing and Urban Development has communities take a count of unsheltered people during the last 10 days of January, annually. The national total is used to determine housing and shelter funding. National trends show an increase in homelessness in the past year, a trend that has continued since the Covid-19 pandemic. The unsheltered count includes people located in vacant properties, underpasses, woods and parks. The sheltered count includes people staying in area emergency shelters. [SIGN UP: WHIO-TV Daily Headlines Newsletter]
