In New Orleans’ 9th Ward, a neighborhood still scarred by Hurricane Katrina, a dilapidated former Family Dollar stands as a stark reminder of persistent hardship. Graffiti covers the building, and the parking lot is littered with debris – symbols of a community grappling with deep-seated poverty and loss.
Yet, step inside, and you enter a surprising sanctuary. Strings of lights illuminate shelves stocked with donated clothing. Books, allergy medication, and hygiene products line the walls. Beyond a curtain, a small stage awaits musicians, and a neon sign depicting roller skates hints at the weekly, free skate nights held within.
This is more than just a repurposed storefront; it’s a free store, a makeshift pharmacy, a punk concert venue, and, as its administrator Dan Bingler describes it, “a radical community center.”
Bingler, a local waiter and bartender, founded the Greater New Orleans Caring Collective, the organization behind this unique space. He secured permission from the building’s owners to use the space, covering only the costs of utilities and trash removal.
Every Monday afternoon, volunteers from other community organizations gather, offering free STI testing, basic medical care, hot meals, sterile syringes, and vital supplies for those struggling with substance use. The core mission, Bingler explains, is simple: “We’re going to make sure the community is supported.”
In recent months, the center’s importance has grown, fueled by federal funding cuts to social services and a more aggressive stance towards homelessness and drug use. Across the country, encampments of unhoused individuals are being dismantled, and forced treatment is being advocated for those battling addiction.
Named the Fred Hampton Free Store, in honor of the Black Panther activist who championed unity and social reform, this New Orleans haven aims to be a refuge from these shifting tides. Bingler emphasizes they receive no federal, state, or foundation funding – it’s simply neighbors helping neighbors, a beautiful act of mutual aid.
Donations flow in from across the community. A local hotel undergoing renovations, for example, recently donated fifty flat-screen televisions. On a typical night, over one hundred people pass through the doors, seeking assistance and connection.
One autumn evening, people browsed for free clothes and over-the-counter medications. Others sat on the lawn, chatting while keeping watch over bicycles and shopping carts filled with their belongings. The atmosphere was one of quiet resilience.
James Beshears visited the harm reduction group in the parking lot, collecting sterile supplies for heroin and fentanyl use. He’d been in treatment for years, but relapsed when his doctor moved, and a replacement clinic charged $250 a day. Street drugs, he admitted, were cheaper than recovery.
He desperately wants to change his life, but without affordable medical care, places like the free store are a lifeline. Without it, he says, he’d be “one foot in the grave.”
Another man waited for Aquil Bey, a paramedic and former special forces member known for navigating the complex healthcare system on behalf of those in need. As Bey’s black van pulled up, the man rushed forward.
“I have stage 4 kidney disease,” he explained, adding that he had hospital appointments but struggled with transportation. Bey, unloading folding tables and medical equipment, responded, “Do me a favor. When our team arrives, come see us. Maybe we can get you a ride.”
Bey founded Freestanding Communities, a volunteer organization providing free basic medical care and referrals to vulnerable populations. Their presence at the free store is consistent and invaluable.
That day, Bey’s team connected the man with low-cost transportation programs, provided blood pressure and blood sugar checks, treated infected wounds, and even made phone calls to clinics to schedule appointments for patients without access to a phone.
A man with a leg injury mentioned sleeping on the concrete floor of an abandoned naval base. Bey discovered a mattress in the store’s furniture section. With the help of another volunteer, they secured it to a car roof and delivered it to the man’s makeshift home.
“We’re trying to identify all these barriers,” Bey explained, “and find ways to overcome them.”
The clinic within the store helped Stephen Wiltz connect with addiction treatment. A lifelong resident of the Lower 9th Ward, he’d been using drugs since the age of ten. Weary of the judgment he faced from doctors who blamed him for his addiction, he’d avoided seeking help.
After years of building trust with the store’s volunteers, he finally allowed them to guide him. At 56, he’s now in sustained recovery for the first time in his life. He credits the volunteers for “caring for people who had no one to care for them.”
As dusk settled, a punk band began setting up on the stage, opposite the medical clinic. The lights dimmed, and the music erupted, a reminder that this is no ordinary clinic or community center. Bey continued to attend to a patient suffering from gout, unfazed by the energetic sounds.
“I’m used to the noise,” he said with a smile, acknowledging the rapid drumbeats and powerful chords. “Sometimes, I even like it.”
