Right now, Los Angeles seethes with the collective trauma of a metro area of millions buffeted about by hurricane-force winds that began last week. People whose lives and livelihoods were swallowed by an unrelenting blaze have been forced into the sort of stasis that accompanies the first few days after a crisis erupts.
You can feel this tension everywhere: in the furtive questions asked softly over the coffee counter; in the far-off gazes of bar patrons who lost everything and don’t know how to resurface from the grief long enough to connect with concerned friends; in the familiar notification tones of the Watch Duty app ringing out on phones. With gusting winds returning, the smoke and ash that Angelenos have inhaled for a week is now mixing in their chest with another wave of dread. Which neighborhood will be next?
It seems as if everyone knows someone who lost it all, whose friends lost it all, whose family lost it all. We personally know more than a dozen people who have lost their homes.
Social media is awash with GoFundMes, spreadsheets of evacuation shelter needs, calls for cleanup volunteers, desperate requests for pet fosters, Red Cross form explanations and FEMA aid applications. Image after image of the monstrous inferno whipping through quiet Altadena streets, of the blackened silhouettes of Pasadena businesses, or rows and rows of homes reduced to ash in the Palisades roars past our timelines, assaulting the mind with what seems like unending devastation in communities all across Los Angeles.
Amidst the destruction, there are glimmers of hope, too. Angelenos everywhere have heard the call for aid and stepped up in remarkable, even miraculous ways.
Charred neighborhoods
Just before dusk, two days after the fire started, we made our way slowly through the police barricades in the Altadena evacuation zone, trying to get a sense of the scale of the unfolding crisis. Officers blocked the entrances to neighborhood streets and turned away residents hoping to check on their homes, citing concerns that live gas lines and unpredictable fire conditions made any attempts to retrieve items too dangerous. As we parked, the winds changed direction and brought a plume of dust and smoke into the neighborhood. Ash rained down on us in the twilight and the sheer magnitude of the destruction around us felt oppressive — even apocalyptic.
The area of Altadena most affected by the fires has historically been an enclave of generations of working-class people of color. In the 1960s, freeway extensions and lawsuits over Pasadena Unified School District’s desegregation led to white flight. Over the ensuing decades, Altadena’s west side became a vibrant, multiracial community with generations of families living and working together.
Immediately after we parked, we were met by two children on the sidewalk who offered us a small care package full of snacks and a water bottle. The children’s mother, Suzy, told us that she was a resident of nearby Alhambra and felt compelled to help those most affected by the fires. Her voice broke when we asked her how long she’d lived in LA; tears streamed beneath her sunglasses as she told us that she’d spent her entire life here — 45 years, two children and many memories shared between them.
“The community comes together the way it does when we really need each other,” she said.
Past the police barricades, we saw Altadena’s neighborhoods reduced to rubble by the blazing inferno. Downed power lines littered the sidewalks. Burnt vehicles, their tires melted into the concrete, still sat in the driveways where they were left a few nights prior.
As we walked further into the neighborhood, we discovered residents standing in front of one of the only houses that hadn’t been charred by the Eaton Fire. Three beautifully maintained classic cars sat in the front yard of a house unscathed by the fire. The home’s owner told us how he’d battled for hours with a garden hose to save his home and everything he owned.
Miraculously, he survived.
David Robledo wasn’t so lucky. His family has lived in Altadena since the 1920s. He told us that he raced to his 89-year-old mother’s house and dragged her and his brother out the front door with only minutes to spare.
“I was able to get them out at 2 a.m.,” he said. “When I pulled up, fire was already coming down the mountain.”
There’s nothing left for his mother to come back to, and they haven’t even begun to think about next steps.
As we emerged from the neighborhood and shook the soot from our clothes, we walked toward the intersection of Woodbury and Fair Oaks Avenue, one of several sites where World Central Kitchen distributed food last week. They partnered with a local restaurant to serve arepas and water to residents and firefighters in the area. The warm light shining from the windows of the food truck was a beacon in the dark, de-energized neighborhood, welcoming anyone looking to commiserate over a hot meal and talk through the devastation surrounding them. Within the next hour, another van — driven by the owner of Mas Cabron in East LA — opened its doors and served tortas and hot coffee.
‘The need to mobilize’
The next day we traveled to northeast LA to Bike Oven, a community-run bike repair shop that’s converted into a distribution hub for emergency supplies. The space was overflowing with volunteers moving hundreds of pounds of water, PPE, canned goods, bedding, clothing and other items in and out of waiting cars.
Hundreds of shipments were passing through, eventually reaching shelters, unhoused encampments and evacuation zones around the city. The mood in the shop felt focused, though the horror of the last few days weighed heavily on everyone. One woman sat on the floor with tears in her eyes, clearly overwhelmed. Three other women surrounded her with a group hug before returning to work.
Three volunteers unload donated water bottles at Bike Oven as a Mutual Aid effort to get supplies to residents affected by the Eaton Fire on Jan. 10. (Photo by JW Hendricks)
According to “Roadkill,” a Bike Oven volunteer, people “felt the need to mobilize. And if you build it, they will come. (There) is a center for people to meet up, get supplies together and be in community. It’s a critical time for that.”
Bike Oven has since ceased their operations, but for those critical first days, their work was integral to getting assistance to those who need it. Volunteers felt a sense of frustration that the city initially seemed to lag in its response to the crisis, so they moved to fill in the gaps. Not only had they organized relief efforts for those directly affected by the fires, but also continued to provide supplies to members of the unhoused community in Skid Row and other encampments across Los Angeles County.
“These are not leaders who (are) given this role,” Roadkill said of the volunteers. “These are people who are doing something and people who are emulating them.”
Elsewhere across the city, artists and creatives with no organizing experience transformed their galleries and studio spaces into distribution hubs for the staggering amount of goods flowing from around the city toward the affected areas. At Superchief Gallery, artists converted their winter art show into a dropoff point for supplies. Art supplies from their exhibit,” Foos Gone Wild: Law Abiding Citizens,” was still adorned on the walls as every inch of available floor space was covered with large boxes of new shoes, clothing and hygiene supplies.
Local artist Polo Cutty walked into the gallery with a child’s BMX bicycle and received assurances that it would go to someone who needed it.
“I’m gonna try and give that BMX bike to a kid that lost their bike,” said Bill Dunleavy, the owner of Superchief. “It’s amazing if I can figure that out.”
In the darkest moments of this crisis, Angelenos everywhere are still seeking to bring joy to their neighbors.
At nearby Snail Farm studio, artists worked at a frenetic pace to sort through and organize the mountain of donations they received over the last five days. Jeff Kubasak, an artist and member of Snail Farm, learned about the fires while he was in Colorado and immediately called friends to gauge interest in opening up the space as a mutual aid hub. The response was immediate and enthusiastic, and the group managed to set up a successful hub in a matter of hours.
The collective plans to partner with local branded clothing shops in the neighborhood to set up free clothing stores that they hope will remain open for the foreseeable future.
“People just need to not feel like they have to have experience in something like this,” Kubasak said. “It’s okay to just jump in and do stuff. The community that you build around you will show up when you need them the most.”
Fire victims volunteering
Back in Altadena on Friday night, the once-empty parking lot of an Arco gas station was transformed once more by neighborhood residents wanting to help. As we walked through the crowded lot, neighbors shared food and helped each other sort the piles of clothing sitting on tables next to idle gas pumps. Residents lit the lot with car headlights and a fog of wildfire smoke settled thickly on the intersection.
Off in the distance, members of the National Guards staffed barricades to the entrances of the neighborhoods we had walked through the day before.
One of the residents helping at the aid station, a man named George, told us how his friend lost his home in the Eaton Fire.
“(There’s) nothing that we can do but come together as a unit, as a community,” George said. “Just pull back together, pray and get through it.”
His friend’s eyes welled up as he stared off in the distance of the barricade, and the charred remains of his home beyond it.
“I want to let certain people know you just got to come together, man,” George said. “Put your pride to the side and come get (something) that you need. It ain’t about you. It’s about your family and the people that you brought in to support.”
As the Red Cross, FEMA and other government agencies have worked to manage the ever-shifting evacuations and displacement, mutual aid at the community level continues apace. Community members — some who are dealing with the sudden loss of their own homes — are the ones who will be here long after the state and federal aid has been dispersed and the pop-up shelters have closed.
Angelenos everywhere have shown remarkable strength in the face of this disaster, opening their homes, wallets and pantries to strangers.
Open arms
By Saturday, the mutual aid hub and surrounding street corners within the Altadena evac zone were transformed once more. Inspired by the example of their neighbors, dozens of people were sorting donations of diapers, feminine hygiene products, dog food and clothes in various corners of the Arco parking lot. The smell of coffee and conchas at one food cart — and food cooked on a plancha at another — mingled with the lingering acrid smoke of the smoldering remains of the surrounding neighborhood.
A man in a ranchero hat offered food with a smile. His smile showed kindness but his eyes betrayed the profound level of tragedy he’d absorbed.
Down the road, a young man whose churro business burned down in his backyard sorted through piles of bagged clothing and supplies that he had neatly arranged near the wreckage.
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“He’s humble,” his friend told us. “Even though his business burnt down, he wanted to help.”
After curfew, we drove out of the evacuation zone and back into the part of Pasadena that remained untouched by the fires. As we pulled into a laundromat to take a break, we came upon a group of neighbors having a small party in the parking lot. Through the windows, we could see people washing and drying their clothes for the first time in days.
The revelers out front beckoned us over and welcomed us in with open arms. Food and drinks were passed around while music floated through the speakers of a nearby sedan. Across the street, volunteers sorted through dozens of boxes of clothing, supplies and other donated items in the lengthening post-curfew darkness.
As we approached, they checked in with us, asked if we needed anything and offered food and drinks. After learning that we were former Angelenos who felt compelled to come back and help tell this story as best we could, they nodded knowingly.
“We’re all neighbors today,” one resident said. “Lemme give you a hug.”
Sean Beckner-Carmitchel is a multimedia journalist who lived in Los Angeles for 12 years. Mel Buer is a multimedia journalist who covers movements, labor and community for The Real News Network. They wrote this column for CalMatters.
