Scorched Earth

As wildfires ravaged some of the most scenic parts of Los Angeles, the city wrestled with its fraught relationship with the land and its leaders.

The fires that consumed some of the most idyllic parts of Los Angeles killing at least five persons were biblical in scope as they swallowed dry hills and manicured streets alike. They devoured 42 square miles, an area nearly the size of San Francisco, leaving behind a landscape of charred homes, blackened canyons and despair. This is not Los Angeles’ first dance with destruction, but it is undoubtedly its most devastating. The Palisades Fire, with over 1,000 structures reduced to rubble, now holds the grim title of the city’s “most destructive blaze.” For Californians, wildfires are no longer seasonal crises but existential ones.

Wildfires in Southern California are as old as the land itself. For centuries, indigenous communities understood fire as a force of renewal. They conducted controlled burns, clearing underbrush and revitalizing the soil, maintaining a delicate balance between destruction and rebirth. But as settlers arrived in the 19th century, so too did a different ethos—one of conquest and control.

The nascent city of Los Angeles, built precariously on a patchwork of chaparral and coastal sage scrub, expanded rapidly. The very landscape that promised fertile opportunities also bore the seeds of destruction. The brush, dense and resinous, ignites easily, especially during the Santa Ana winds that rush down from the deserts each autumn.

By the early 20th century, fires had become a recurring feature of life in Los Angeles. One of the earliest documented infernos, the 1933 Griffith Park Fire, claimed 29 lives, making it the deadliest in California’s history at the time. As the city grew, so did the risks. Suburbs sprawled into canyons, encroaching on wildlands, while authorities doubled down on fire suppression. Yet, by snuffing out smaller fires, they allowed fuel to accumulate, setting the stage for larger, more catastrophic blazes.

Today, Los Angeles finds itself in an era of ‘megafires’ — infernos that dwarf their predecessors in scale and intensity. Climate change has lengthened fire seasons and intensified droughts, creating a near-perfect storm of conditions. The city’s sprawling geography—450 square miles of densely packed neighbourhoods, open canyons and industrial zones—makes it uniquely vulnerable.

The statistics tell a story of escalating destruction. Of the 20 most destructive wildfires in California’s history, 15 have occurred in the past decade. The 2018 Camp Fire, which obliterated the town of Paradise, set a terrifying precedent, with over 18,000 structures destroyed and 85 lives lost.

Amid the chaos, political leaders have resorted to blame games. President-elect Donald Trump has seized upon the crisis to attack his arch-foe, California Governor Gavin Newsom, accusing him of mismanaging the state’s water resources and hindering firefighting efforts.

The political bickering is a microcosm of a larger failure. Decades of underinvestment in fire prevention, coupled with regulatory inertia, have left California ill-prepared for its new reality. Fire-resistant infrastructure remains an afterthought, and urban planning has not kept pace with the risks of building in fire-prone areas.

The scale of the current fires is staggering not just in terms of destruction but in what they symbolize. They are consuming more than just homes and forests—they are erasing histories and reshaping identities.

Yet, the destruction is not evenly distributed. Wildfires disproportionately affect lower-income communities, where residents have fewer resources to evacuate, rebuild or retrofit their homes.

Los Angeles is not the only place confronting a fiery future. Australia, with its own history of catastrophic wildfires, has pioneered methods like prescribed burns and community-based fire management. But such practices remain underutilized in California, where regulatory hurdles and public opposition often stymie proactive measures.

Looking forward, Los Angeles must rethink its relationship with fire. This means embracing fire as a natural part of the ecosystem rather than an enemy to be vanquished. Forest management must shift from suppression to prevention, prioritizing the clearing of dry underbrush and use of controlled burns.