Nine days of exile, and I return to a world transformed. The acrid smell of smoke that fills my lungs is nothing compared to the heaviness in my heart. I am one of the lucky ones — my home still stands, my family is safe. But as I drive through our once-paradise community, the weight of what others have lost threatens to overwhelm me. I know their pain, though different, the heaviness, the loss, the lack of comprehension; why must we endure this again and again? The Palisades Fire has rewritten our story, just as Woolsey did before it, leaving behind ash and rubble, shattered dreams, and broken hearts.
In the eerie quiet of our transformed streets, I think of a friend who showed me her grandmother’s handwritten recipes just last month — now gone. Of an artist whose studio held 40 years of artwork — reduced to cinders. Of the children who left for evacuation with just their backpacks, not knowing they would never see their rooms again. When we speak of “fire prevention,” we’re talking about preserving these precious threads of lives woven together, the invisible fabric that makes a community whole.
Our beloved PCH tells a story of loss — from 12,000 neighbors to 10,000 after Woolsey, and now another exodus looms. Each number isn’t just a statistic; it’s the empty chair at a local café, the silenced wind chimes from a neighbor’s porch, the missing familiar face at our community gatherings. We’re not just losing houses — we’re losing the heartbeat of Malibu, the soul that makes us more than just a dot on a tourist’s map.
Communities worldwide have faced similar challenges and found innovative solutions. In Australia’s fire-prone regions, they’ve pioneered building designs that incorporate ember-proof vents, fire-resistant materials, and strategic landscaping. Japan’s disaster-resistant architecture has shown us that human ingenuity can prevail despite nature’s most potent forces. Here in California, the Getty Museum and Pepperdine University stand as testaments to what’s possible — their fire-resistant designs incorporate everything from sophisticated ventilation systems to on-site water reserves.
The devastation we see now — the rubble that was once homes and businesses along PCH and throughout Malibu — presents an opportunity we never wanted but must embrace. Consider the fire-resistant communities being built in Northern California after the Paradise Fire. They’re implementing comprehensive approaches: underground power lines to prevent ignitions, community-wide sprinkler systems, and fire-resistant building materials as standard, not luxury, features. These aren’t futuristic concepts — they’re proven solutions waiting to be implemented.
The human cost of inaction is too high. Looking at our community now, I see more than destruction — possibilities. Every cleared lot represents an opportunity to rebuild more vigorously, and every damaged infrastructure section is a chance to implement better systems. While devastating, the extensive damage along PCH offers an unprecedented opportunity to rethink not just the road but how it serves and protects our community during crises.
This isn’t about politics — it’s about survival. When flames are bearing down on your home, they don’t care about your political affiliation. Party lines disappear when you’re helping a neighbor salvage what they can from their destroyed home. We must approach our community’s reconstruction with this same unity of purpose.
In the darkest hours of this disaster, the light of the human spirit burned brighter than any flame. I watched our firefighters, whose faces were streaked with soot and exhaustion. They pressed on hour after hour, day after day, fighting to save structures and the dreams held within them. Our sheriff’s deputies and first responders stayed behind even as the inferno approached, demonstrating courage that humbled us all.
And then there’s the quiet army of compassion that emerges in these moments — local charities working tirelessly, neighbors opening their homes without hesitation, and communities pooling resources to help those who lost everything. These aren’t just acts of kindness; they’re proof of what makes Malibu truly precious. When disaster strikes, we don’t see strangers; we see family. The fires may burn our homes, but they only strengthen our bonds.
The technology exists, and the knowledge is available. In Spain, entire towns have been retrofitted with fire-resistant materials and comprehensive sprinkler systems. In Portugal, communities have created buffer zones that protect residential areas while preserving natural beauty. These aren’t just success stories — they’re blueprints we can follow.
To those who say it’s too expensive: what’s the cost of doing nothing? How do we measure the price of lost lives, destroyed homes, and shattered communities? The actual expense lies in rebuilding the same way over and over, expecting different results. Repeating the same thing and expecting a different result indicates a serious problem.
The same innovative thinking that can make our homes fire-resistant can transform PCH from a vulnerable artery into a lifeline worthy of the 21st century. With significant portions requiring rebuilding, we can redesign the road and its entire ecosystem. Imagine emergency lanes that work during evacuations, modernized drainage systems that prevent flooding and erosion, and strategic safety zones that could serve as fire breaks while improving daily traffic flow.
To my neighbors sifting through ashes for remnants of their lives: your pain is our pain. To those making decisions about our future: the eyes of history are upon us. Every tragedy carries within it the seeds of transformation — and today, we stand at the crossroads of devastation and possibility.
The Getty is a fortress against nature’s fury, protecting priceless art. But our community, our homes, our PCH — theseare worth far more than any masterpiece. They are the canvas upon which generations of Malibu families have painted their lives. As we rebuild, we have the opportunity — no, the obligation — to create something extraordinary: a community as resilient as its people, infrastructure as strong as our spirit, and a future where our children’s children can plant roots without fear of them burning.
PCH isn’t just a road — it’s our lifeline. If your lifeline fails, your community cannot thrive. The choice before us is clear: remain trapped in a cycle of loss and rebuilding or seize this moment to transform our tragedy into triumph. The technology exists, and the solutions are proven. All that’s required now is the courage to act.
We can rise from these ashes stronger than ever before. After all, that’s not just what Malibu does — it’s who we are. Reach me at 21milesinmalibu.com.