Texas Underwater – How a Summer Camp Became a Death Trap How the Trump Regime Failed

On the night of July 4 to 5, the sky over the Texas Hill Country turned into a black abyss. Within just a few hours, as much rain fell as usually does in several months. The Guadalupe River, normally a clear and tranquil stream, swelled into a raging wall of mud, debris, and death. By morning, 24 people were dead, and at least 23 girls from the Christian summer camp "Camp Mystic" were missing – lost in a landscape that had become, within minutes, a nightmarish maze of shattered bridges, smashed trees, and torn-up memories. What unfolded in Kerrville and Hunt was not just a natural disaster. It was also a human and political failure – the result of dismantling public infrastructure under the Trump administration. Warning systems that once triggered sirens, sent push notifications, or automatically initiated evacuations have been shut down or privatized in many parts of the country. In Kerr County, as an official admitted when asked, there is no functioning flood warning system. “We have none,” said County Judge Rob Kelly bluntly. Instead of sirens: silence. Yet meteorologists had warned hours before the storm. The National Weather Service forecasted 3 to 6 inches of rain – it turned out to be over 10. Within just 45 minutes, the Guadalupe River rose to more than 26 feet – the measuring gauge itself was submerged. In the darkness, the water came suddenly – and took everything with it.

Camp Mystic in Hunt was hit especially hard – a girls’ camp founded in 1926, located directly on the river. Girls as young as eight sleep there in wooden and stone cabins, some right on the riverbank. That night, it was no longer a summer camp, but a place of panic. Thirteen-year-old Elinor Lester recalled being jolted awake at 1:30 a.m. by thunder and water pounding against the cabin windows. She and her friends, housed on the higher ground known as Senior Hill, were evacuated by helicopter at dawn. Their voices were still trembling as they recounted being led across a weakened bridge, holding onto ropes while the water rose to their knees. “The camp is completely destroyed,” she said. “It was so terrifying. I know many people who are still missing.” The younger children were less fortunate. Their cabins lay directly at the water’s edge – the first to be hit. Throughout the day, parents wandered through the reunification center in Ingram, searching lists, scanning the buses arriving with exhausted, mud-covered faces. Some found their daughters. Others did not. Elizabeth Lester, Elinor’s mother, broke down in tears when she finally saw her daughter – drenched, shivering, clutching a small stuffed bear. “My kids are safe,” she said. “But knowing that others aren’t is tearing me apart.” Republican Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick pleaded during a press conference: “I ask the people of Texas – pray. On-your-knees praying. Pray that we find these girls.” But prayers don’t replace sirens. Not buoys, not evacuation plans, not early warning systems. All of it was cut – in a state that in recent years has chosen to invest in private security firms instead of public emergency response. Under the second Trump administration, millions were slashed from disaster preparedness programs through the “Efficiency First Act,” local warning infrastructure was subjected to market competition, and federal grants were tied to requirements that many rural counties could never meet. The victims of these austerity policies are not statistics – they are children.

More than 750 girls were registered at Camp Mystic. Twenty-three are still considered missing. Some may have drowned in the floodwaters, others may be clinging to branches, on small islands, or trapped in collapsed buildings. So far, 237 people have been rescued – 167 of them by helicopter. Survivors repeatedly speak of voices in the water, of screams, of names vanishing into the darkness. Erin Burgess survived with her 19-year-old son by clinging to a tree. “My boyfriend and my dog were swept away. It was pitch black. A wall of water,” she said. Barry Adelman, 54, saved his family by moving them to the attic – but even there, water began to seep through the floorboards. “I looked my grandson in the eyes and said: It’s going to be okay. But I was terrified.” Camp Mystic, once a place of carefree joy, community, and confidence, has now become a symbol of a country that abandons its children when they need it most. Chloe Crane, a teacher and former counselor at the camp, said: “I cried when I saw the news. That camp is a safe haven for so many girls. And now – this.” The region between Hunt and Ingram is called “Flash Flood Alley.” The ground is rocky, water can barely seep in – instead it rushes down the hills into the valleys, often within minutes. The tourism industry thrives on the clear waters of the Guadalupe, on canoe races, summer camps, weekend river homes. Now everything lies in ruins. One man stood by the water, looking at what used to be his terrace, and said simply: “No one ever told us how bad it could get.” But it did get that bad. And it could have been prevented. A country that spends billions on wars, border walls, and tax breaks, but can’t maintain a functioning warning system for a children’s camp, has lost its moral compass. The girls of Camp Mystic are not political symbols. They are daughters, friends, small human beings who deserved protection – not only from nature, but from political indifference. What remains is hope. And the question of how many more children must die before a country of prayer becomes a country of responsibility again.