When California’s Eaton Fire began its rampage into Los Angeles on 7 January, Mrs B and I were at a Bill Burr stand-up gig downtown. We had no idea. Our phones were bagged up as the gig organisers required.
It was an awkward night for comedy. Outside, the Santa Ana winds were roughing up the city, stripping the trees and kicking bins down the street. But we didn’t think the fires would come for us in the north-east of LA. Wildfires are a west-side of the city thing, Malibu especially. When the “devil wind” strikes, we worry about the power going out, not the house burning down. After the gig, it became clear that this time was different. Our phones lit up with texts: “Are you safe?” “Can you see the fires from your house?” And when we got home, we could.
We live in Eagle Rock – present tense as of writing; cross your fingers. It’s up in LA’s top-right corner, a small-town vibe in the big city, crested by mountains to the north, the mighty Angeles Forest. I feel lucky I was able to see those mountains each morning from my back deck, a glorious Tuscan vista on a sunny day. But that night the power was out, angry winds whipping and snarling. And glaring at us, in the near distance, an orange flare swelling and spreading.
We watched it for a while, Mrs B and I. Should we leave? We didn’t want to. So we tried to convince ourselves. Maybe they’d control it, maybe the wind would subside. Maybe. For a few restless hours in bed, we listened to the wind rattle the gate like a warning. Then at 3am, our puppy needed to pee. Anxiety probably. This time, the smoke out back was thick and choking. It burned the eyes. There was more than one orange flare. I didn’t want to wait for the evacuation order, especially if it came at rush hour – if I’ve learned one thing in 25 years in LA, it’s to avoid rush-hour traffic. It was time to go.
We packed a suitcase and then another. What mattered? What could burn? How could we be thinking this way all of a sudden? Computer, medication, dog food, chargers… birth certificate? I guess. Were we preparing to start over? It’s an impossible balance to strike – to keep the hope that we’ll be home soon while also preparing to lose everything. I was packing deeds and passports on the one hand, but then only a few days’ worth of clothes. But why not more clothes? What were we planning for here? Mrs B packed so much make-up and toiletries, I laughed. So LA.
As for the stuff – so much stuff – nothing demanded to be saved. I had no family album or keepsake from Grandma, which is sad I suppose, but maybe helpful at a time like this. I remember scanning my office by the light of my phone wishing I’d Marie Kondo’ed my life like I was supposed to. Her system was “throw it out if it doesn’t bring you joy”. Marie Kondo would know what to pack.
What brings me joy is our home, our yard especially, with that view of the hills. We have put everything into it over the last five years; we call it Shangri-La. It’s a sanctuary, but not just ours. It also belongs to the hummingbirds and owls and hawks who drop by, the shrieking green parrots who settle in our magnolia, and the possums who live by the fruit trees. This is nothing compared to our friends in the foothills of Pasadena and Altadena who share their yards with bears and even mountain lions. That’s the magic of Los Angeles, where city life and wildlife meld together. It hurts to think about those animals now.
We have a dear friend close by and we couldn’t leave without her. She was our first stop. It turned out her mother’s house in San Diego was vacant, so we drove down there in convoy, setting off into the night, into the bullying wind, leaving our homes to face the fires alone. It was a dramatic drive, about two hours, the wind shoving us about, and the high-sided lorries too – by morning many would be toppled. Local radio kept us up-to-date about evacuation zones (thank God for local news). By dawn, we were in San Diego, where the skies were blue and the air clean, everyone just going about their day like normal. We walked down the beach, relieved to be safe, but it felt wrong to have evacuated like this when our neighbourhood was in peril.
The calls began a day later. One friend after another whose homes had burned. Sixteen so far, and counting, mostly in Altadena. Families with kids, regular working people like us, some of whom had already been through so much. Our community are writers – my wife is a screenwriter and we run a screenwriting school together. Things have been tough in our world ever since the writers’ strike in 2023. To struggle to pay your mortgage for two years, only to lose your home to fire is a cruel turn. But for some it gets crueller. One friend is battling brain cancer.
Right now, Mrs B is on her phone crying as the GoFundMes stack up, where people who’ve lost everything try to crowdfund a safety net. Emotions are raw for our friends, our beloved Los Angeles. It’s the easiest city to mock and everyone does – it’s fine, we do it too – but it’s also iconic, a gift to the world, with a magnetism we all understand. It’s a sanctuary for the untethered. A city of dreams and dreamers. Yes, I’m being mushy, but if not now when? My city is burning.
One thing that LA has always shown us is that dreams come at a price. The ideal LA home, the fabled “house in the hills”, was always the most likely to burn. Beauty and danger are two sides of a coin here, and still we are drawn to this siren city, no matter how often it reminds us that life on a fault line is precarious. We think of noir through a Hollywood lens, but it begins with the land, its “ecology of fear” according to the Californian writer Mike Davis. With its quakes and wildfires and mudslides, LA has always threatened apocalypse. First she lulls and seduces – “you can’t beat the weather,” says everyone here – and then she unleashes catastrophe.
As of now, we’re feeling all the feelings: shock, grief, sadness. Anger at the politicisation of this tragedy, but also our leadership in California. Hope that our sanctuary may be spared, despite the capricious winds. But the heart also swells. For the victims, for the heroes. The most ordinary truths are landing with uncommon force. That we must be grateful for our lives. That we are here for each other. That your friends are your family and your neighbours are your friends. And that if we come together, we can support those of us who have been truly devastated. It sounds corny, I know. It is corny. But what did you expect? In Hollywood, we write our own endings.
Sanjiv Bhattacharya is a British writer and teacher. He writes the Minority Report newsletter on Substack.
[See also: Sunil Amrith’s “Burning Planet” takes an alien’s-eye view of of humanity]
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This article appears in the 15 Jan 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Disruptors