Lamenting L.A.
The world is burning; we are both the match and water.
The fires tearing through Southern California are a tragedy beyond words. Thousands of structures reduced to ash. Thousands of people displaced. Schools, homes, places of worship—gone. Memories, entire lives, swallowed by unrelenting flames. Sixty-two square miles have already been consumed by the Palisades, Eaton, Kenneth, and Hurst fires. Over 130,000 residents are under evacuation orders, and at least 23 people are still missing. The Palisades Fire alone has claimed eight lives, while the Eaton Fire has taken 16 more. Power outages have left nearly half a million people in the dark.
And the headlines? They fixate on the dollar amounts. A preliminary estimate by AccuWeather put the damage and economic losses so far between $250 billion to $275 billion. “This will be the costliest wildfire in California modern history and also very likely the costliest wildfire in U.S. modern history, because of the fires occurring in the densely populated areas around Los Angeles with some of the highest-valued real estate in the country,” said Jonathan Porter, the private firm’s chief meteorologist.
But no number can truly capture the weight of the destruction—the homes lost, the memories burned away, the futures wrenched out from under one’s feet, the fear hanging thick in the air.
I think about all the lives upended, and I can’t help but see the pattern: an economy that values profit over people, a system that prioritizes growth over safety. Every fire season feels like déjà vu, a grim reminder that we’re living in a cycle of destruction. The winds grow fiercer, the air dries faster, the forests burn hotter—and still, we hesitate to change course.
Living on the East Coast, I’m far from the flames, but I feel their weight. This crisis doesn’t belong to California alone. The ash doesn’t stop at state lines. The smoke doesn’t stay contained. The pain of watching the earth burn is something we all share.
And when the earth burns, it’s telling us something. These fires aren’t random. They’re not some act of nature we can’t control. They’re the result of choices we’ve made, systems we’ve built, values we’ve refused to let go of. Poison the soil, and we poison our future. Pollute the air, and we choke on the consequences. These flames are not just the earth’s suffering—they’re ours too. The grow-or-die mindset of the market, the endless pursuit of profit, the delusion that progress means more concrete, more consumption, more, more, more—this is the world we’ve created. And it’s wounds are festering.
As I sit with the grief of these fires, I can’t help but reflect on the systems that brought us here. Earlier this month I was reading What is Social Ecology? by Murray Bookchin, an American social theorist. Even though the essay was published in 1993, it’s scarily harrowing how relevant it reads today. Especially now, as we watch the effects of climate change stemming from our ignoring all rules pertaining to ecological preservation in the race for profit, scarring the Earth to the point of rampant retribution.
Our environmental problems are inherently social. Bookchin sums it up much more eloquently than I could:
"Indeed, to separate ecological problems from social problems—or even to play down or give token recognition to this crucial relationship—would be to grossly misconstrue the sources of the growing environmental crisis. The way human beings deal with each other as social beings is crucial to addressing the ecological crisis. Unless we clearly recognize this, we will surely fail to see that the hierarchical mentality and class relationships that so thoroughly permeate society give rise to the very idea of dominating the natural world
[And] unless we realize that the present market society, structured around the brutally competitive imperative of 'grow or die,' is a thoroughly impersonal, self-operating mechanism, we will falsely tend to blame technology as such or population growth as such for environmental problems. We will ignore their root causes, such as trade for profit, industrial expansion, and the identification of 'progress' with corporate self-interest.
These words are hard to read because they can tip far enough to evoke a sense of personal powerlessness. How does one effectively push against centuries of class inequities, old-money corporations, and systemic stratification? But I remind myself that the systems that brought us here are human-made. That means they can be unmade. Real change will take collective action, big movements, and systemic shifts. It means digging deeper than surface-level solutions falsely promising "green capitalism" and demanding a world that prioritizes people and the planet over profit.
I know there is so much grief right now. I know there’s fatigue. I know there’s anger. I know there’s bitterness. And it’s all valid. It’s all heard. I’m sorry. But this is what community is built for. No one person can carry a burden alone. When one needs to stop and rest, community steps in to hold and carry on. This is where our strength lies. And as I see the outpouring of community in response to these fires, I am reminded that we have the power to build something better—together.
In that inspiration, I feel a spark. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s determination. Maybe it’s just love—for this planet, for the people who share it, for the possibility of something better. The fires are raging and the oceans are rising and the forests are being stripped. But we are not powerless. We can still fight for a world worth living in. That, to me, is worth holding on to.
I’m sending my prayers and support to everyone experiencing the world in a less-than-ideal circumstance right now. From California to Palestine and everywhere in between. You are seen and heard, and you have community.