Let the Rich Burn: The Forgotten Truths Amidst the Palisades Fires

11:35 PM. January 7.

"Shit. Crazy wildfire in the Palisades/LA."

My family and I huddled around my father's phone. The video attached to the tweet showed a horizon of flames raging across the mountains of our home.

3:45 PM. January 7.

"Alert."

A robotic voice sounded from my Airpod wedged between my helmet. I pulled out my phone on the chairlift to see an evacuation notice. By then, a couple hours later, the fires had grown to over 300 acres.

January 7 marked the beginning of the most destructive wildfires in California history (Stelloh 2025). By the end of the day, the blaze had consumed over 1,200 acres of terrain, encroaching upon the affluent Pacific Palisades neighborhood. Emergency response teams, battling both the scale of the fire and the challenging wind conditions, issued evacuation orders to thousands of residents as they worked tirelessly to contain the spread. Yet, the fires continued to tear through the Palisades homes for the following week.

Unable to return home, the following days were spent chronically online. I was glued to every tweet, news article, and livestream.

12:30 AM. January 8.

As I scrolled through the comments beneath a YouTube livestream, a couple caught my eye:

"F the rich." "Deserved." "They can just buy new houses."

I found myself at a crossroads. The resentment toward Pacific Palisades residents isn't baseless— the world we live in today is one of staggering economic disparity. The "eat the rich" rhetoric circulating among millennials and Gen Z only reflects genuine frustration with a system that feels increasingly rigged. When America's top 1% controls approximately one-third of the nation's wealth—surpassing the entire middle class combined (Kent 2024)—such statistics inevitably breed bitterness. Recent data from the Federal Reserve shows this wealth gap has widened by nearly 50% in the past decade alone, with the richest 1% now owning more wealth than the bottom 90% of Americans combined (Federal Reserve 2024). For many struggling with astronomical living costs, hearing about a celebrity's multi-million dollar mansion burning doesn't automatically evoke compassion.

Yet something about these dismissive comments felt hollow. In the rush to vilify the wealthy, something essential was forgotten. While the flames of the Palisades wildfires consumed many affluent areas of the Pacific Palisades, the devastation was not confined to luxury properties alone. According to the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection, 43% of the structures destroyed in this wildfire belonged to middle and lower-income households, despite the area's reputation for wealth (Cal Fire 2025). Reports indicate that several small businesses, often the lifeblood of local communities and primarily owned by middle to lower-income individuals, were destroyed. 

12:30 AM. January 10.

"Just checking in. Hope the restaurant is okay," my dad texted Fabio, the owner of our favorite mom-and-pop pizza place down the street.

We first met Fabio when we moved into the neighborhood, and over the years—through countless garlic knots and slices of pepperoni—he became like family. He is the embodiment of hard work, having built his restaurant from the ground up after immigrating from Italy 35 years ago.

"Not looking good. We will keep praying."

The restaurant didn’t make it.

The destruction of these establishments disrupts the livelihoods of working-class families, of people like Fabio. Studies from the National Bureau of Economic Research show that small business owners affected by natural disasters experience, on average, a 40% reduction in income during the first year, with many never fully recovering (NBER, 2024). The displacement and financial instability caused by such widespread destruction highlights that the tragedy of wildfires transcends economic boundaries, affecting a diverse range of people within the community. Stories like Fabio’s are forgotten, overshadowed by political rhetoric and erased from the public consciousness. 

Witnessing my community engulfed in flames evoked a different response than the understanding I had for the social media comment sections. The sense loss transcended my political views.

2:14 AM. January 9.

Restless and unable to sleep, my thoughts drifted to my home. The fear of potentially losing it brought to mind all the forgotten belongings tucked away in its corners. My stuffed bunny—given to me by my previous caretaker, Ochi, who practically raised me. It was her food that tasted like familiarity, her who put me to sleep after nightmares, her who taught me the language of my blood. After retiring and returning home, Ochi was diagnosed with Leukemia and passed away three years later. I never got to thank her for everything, but through my bunny, I always carried a piece of her. A painting—my grandmother's. The colors are bold, the brushstrokes intentional, and in them, I could almost hear her voice. Our relationship was never easy. Arguments stretched across years, across generations. But art was our common ground. No matter what, her painting still hung above my bed. My soccer ball—my first one ever. Gifted to me by my cousins, who planted my love for the sport at the age of four. The object that started it all.  

Yes, these items are merely physical objects, but their significance extends far beyond that. Each one has linked me to a person or a moment in my life, holding connections and memories that are irreplaceable. For me, it was my bunny, a painting, and a soccer ball; for others, it might be something entirely different. Either way, the fragment of life each object in someone’s home holds is priceless, whether you’re wealthy or not. 

Navigating my personal experiences and emotions alongside my political beliefs is complex. The focus on criticizing the wealthy in times of crisis obscures reality. It's crucial to critique inequality and frustration with systemic injustice is undoubtedly valid. But, this anger should be channeled towards solutions – addressing climate change, housing and economic policies — rather than condemnation. In the rush to judgment, we've forgotten the Fabios, service workers, the teachers, the nurses, and countless others who lived in the shadows of mansions but whose lives were equally devastated. We've forgotten that behind every statistic is a human story, behind every address is a collection of irreplaceable memories. 

10:30 AM. January 12th. 

After an anxious week of watching the fires progress from a distance, we were allowed to return to California. While our home was damaged but intact, many of our neighbors weren't as fortunate. As I sat on the tar-covered porch, I looked across the street at a house now unrecognizable as a home. I didn't know who lived there, but the thought of their irreplaceable losses—stuffed bunnies, family photographs, cherished paintings—brought me to tears. This was the reality for so many families across every economic class. They couldn’t return to the comfort of their homes, to the memories that are now lost forever. Every victim has a narrative, one that is forgotten in the rush to generalize, to hate, to reduce human suffering to a political talking point.  Anger without direction is wasted. Empathy without action is hollow. The world doesn’t need more outrage—it needs more understanding, more nuance, more people willing to see beyond headlines and statistics. It needs frustration that fuels change, not just resentment.