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A year after the LA fires, the lesson is clear: Our greatest disasters are often self-inflicted
LOS ANGELES — “The Palisades was this idyllic community,” Jeremy Padawer said. “People actually knew each other. They talked to one another. You knew your neighbors. It was exactly what I needed to provide for my children.”
Padawer, an entrepreneur, lost his home in the fire that tore through the Pacific Palisades, an affluent Los Angeles neighborhood, a year ago. That fire was not a natural disaster; instead, an arsonist lit the original fire in a brushy area beyond Palisades Drive. Then, after firefighters extinguished it, we know from a tireless Los Angeles Times investigation, their senior officials failed to order further monitoring of the burn area, which reignited.
Nature provided 80-mph winds on Jan. 8, 2025. But human incompetence and hubris fed the flames.
The result? 12 people died. More than 6,500 local homes were destroyed, 25,000 people were displaced, and 37 square miles were burned or covered in toxic ash. The economic loss is estimated at $250 billion.
A year after the fire, I visited one of the most iconic buildings affected by the fire: Villa Aurora, once owned by the German Jewish novelist Lion Feuchtwanger, who fled Nazi Germany after the Nazis declared him “enemy of the state number one.”
There, the lessons of this unnatural disaster became clear.
‘Everything you see now was burned’
It’s not an especially brilliant insight to point out that most of the tragedies that beset us, with the exception of the body’s natural decay and demise, are of our own making.
But that insight rang true to me as I stood on the balcony of Villa Aurora two weeks ago and looked out over the Palisades.
The sprawling, Spanish Revival hillside mansion was built in 1928 as a model home by a consortium of investors that included the Los Angeles Times, and came into Feuchtwanger’s hands after he fled southern France — where he had been in exile — in disguise as an old woman. Eventually, he reached Los Angeles as a refugee.
In his novel The Oppermans, published in 1933. Feuchtwanger detailed the persecution of a highly assimilated German Jewish family like his own. “The Oppermanns were clever people, they understood the world,” he wrote. “The world at large was indifferent.”
But in Villa Aurora, he and his wife Marta founded a refuge from indifference: a center of intellectual and cultural life for his fellow refugees, including the German Nobel laureate Thomas Mann, who found refuge in his own home, six miles east.
The 2025 fire came within a few feet of the villa, and while the flames didn’t claim the structure, they did infiltrate and pollute the precious books and furnishings with smoke and ash.
The fire torched the landscaping right up to the house. “Everything you see now was burned,” said Claudia Gordon, the director of Villa Aurora, which was bought by the German government in 1989 and eventually converted, along with the Thomas Mann House, into a retreat center for German artists.
Gordon let a group of us into the home last month. Industrial air purifiers were still churning, the last signs of an extensive year-long smoke remediation process.
The fire came so fast that Gordon was able to flee with only a few rare books and a Renaissance-era Purim scroll.
“It stopped there,” she pointed to a spot just a few feet from the balcony. “We were very lucky. This was all burned.” Houses on either side of the villa went up in smoke.
I stood on the balcony and looked down at the yard that a year earlier had been blackened. Now, I watched butterflies and hummingbirds flit over clusters of bright yellow and orange flowers, amid the deep green bushes that covered the hillside.
“The place is a monument to endurance in the face of exile and disaster,” wrote Los Angeles Times columnist Gustavo Arellano after his recent visit.
True, but it is also a reminder of the stubborn permanence of human folly.
Feuchtwanger’s refuge at Villa Aurora was marred by more inhumanity after the end of World War II. Because he had flirted with communism, he became a target of a new wave of American intolerance: that of McCarthyism. After the war, he couldn’t go abroad to take advantage of his best seller status, for fear of not being allowed to return.
Mann’s refuge was even more impermanent. Targeted by the House Un-American Activities Committee for his left-leaning associations, he left Los Angeles and moved to Switzerland, where he died.
“Spiritual intolerance, political inquisitions, and declining legal security, and all this in the name of an alleged ‘state of emergency.’ That is how it started in Germany,” Mann said in 1947.
None of these tragedies had to be, I reflected. Whether fleeing fascism, weathering McCarthyism, or watching a preventable fire consume a neighborhood, the human capacity for self-inflicted tragedy is as enduring as Villa Aurora itself.
The missing deputy mayor
Several hundred homeowners have filed a lawsuit against the state and city for negligence leading up to the fire. In a phone interview, Padawer, the entrepreneur who lost his home, outlined some of their claims.
A Palisades water reservoir was empty, he said; fire hydrants lacked pressure; state environmental regulations prevented adequate fire abatement measures in the initial burn area; and the city failed to field enough fire engines despite the imminent threat.
It didn’t help that a key city post was unfilled after a bizarre fake antisemitic bomb threat. On Oct. 3, 2024, Brian K. Williams, then Los Angeles deputy mayor of public safety, reported receiving a bomb threat against City Hall. It was the first day of Rosh Hashanah, and the caller said he was tired of the city’s support for Israel, according to Williams.
“In light of the Jewish holidays,” Williams’ memo to Mayor Karen Bass at the time read, “we are taking this a little more seriously. I will keep you posted.”
An investigation found that Williams himself made the threat. He was arrested by the FBI and removed from his position in December 2024. Williams, who said he acted out of “anxiety,” pleaded guilty to making a bomb threat and was sentenced to one year probation and a $5,000 fine. Bass left his position empty.
The Deputy Mayor for Public Safety specifically oversees crisis and disaster response, including wildfires, according to the city. Which meant that when the fires came in January, Los Angeles had no official overseeing the LAPD, LAFD, emergency management or disaster response. Bass didn’t appoint a replacement for Williams until April 2025, months after the city burned.
“These deputy mayors have real jobs,” said Padawer. “The mayor didn’t replace him.”
‘They Let Us Burn’
One year later, I drove down Radcliffe Ave., in the heart of the Palisades, where two dear friends once lived. I couldn’t figure where their houses had stood. It was all just empty land..
On many of the burned out buildings, someone had affixed posters with the words, “THEY LET US BURN,” in stark red and black.
The posters were part of a neighborhood movement, launched by Padawer, to hold officials accountable for the fire and the rebuilding.
“The damage is done. The city is gone,” reads an entry on the movement’s website. “Let’s keep politicians, builders, banks, insurance companies and all key stakeholders honest as we rebuild together. So that this NEVER happens in Los Angeles again.”
The motto for Padawer’s website? “News for Our Unnatural Disaster.”
“The first day after the fire, you have the mayor and the governor, saying, natural disaster, climate change,” said Padawer. “And why would they do that? They don’t want the liability associated with all of the failure. But everything about it was unnatural.”
Driving out of the Palisades, I thought back to Villa Aurora and the streets where my friends’ homes once stood. The exiles understood that while nature can be cruel, humans pose the greater threat. The empty lots prove them right.
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Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
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How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
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Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
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