Wednesday, 19 December 2018

Reckoning With Georgia’s Increasing Suppression of Asian American Voters

Anjali Enjeti | Longreads | December 2018 | 18 minutes (4620 words)

 

Early on November 6, Election Day, Kavi Vu noticed that some voters appeared distressed as they exited Lucky Shoals Park Recreation Center, one of five polling places in Gwinnett County, Georgia. A volunteer with the nonprofit, nonpartisan civil rights organization Asian Americans Advancing Justice — Atlanta (“Advancing Justice”), Vu had been standing outside to answer questions about voting and offer her services as a Vietnamese translator.

When she began asking the mostly African American, Asian American and Latinx voters about their voting experiences, she learned that after 2.5 hour wait times, many of them had voted via provisional ballots.

Why? As it turned out, Lucky Shoals was not their correct voting location. “A lot of people had lived in Gwinnett County their entire lives and voted at the same location and all of the sudden they were switched up to new location,” Vu said.

So when poll workers offered voters the option of voting at Lucky Shoals with provisional ballots, rather than driving elsewhere to wait in another line, the voters took them up on it. They left with I’m a Georgia Voter stickers, and printed instructions for how to cure their ballots. But poll workers didn’t verbally explain to the voters that they’d need to appear at the county registrar’s office within three days to cure their ballots, nor did the poll workers make it clear that the votes would not count at all if the voters failed to do so. What’s more, as the day wore on, poll workers ran out of the provisional ballot instructions altogether.

Vu was alarmed. In an attempt to reduce the number of voters using provisional ballots, she began offering to help voters locate their correct polling place using the Secretary of State website. That’s when poll workers repeatedly began confronting her about her presence outside of the polling place. “They told me to stop speaking with voters in line, even after I explained what I was doing.”

By mid-afternoon, Vu counted some 100 voters who had wrongly reported to Lucky Shoals. When she finally left eight hours after arriving, she was “heartbroken,” over the dreadful conditions at the polling place and the number of votes by minority voters that would likely never be counted.

***

Elsewhere in Gwinnett County, Mohammed Shahid appeared at his usual polling place at noon only to be told that his name did not appear in the voter registration system. Shahid, who speaks fluent Bengali but only limited English, explained as best as he could that he had been casting ballots successfully at the same location for years, that he voted in-person for Clinton in 2016 and absentee in the primary election just a few months earlier. The poll worker told him there was nothing she could do. She turned him away, and failed to offer him a provisional ballot, as is required.

A lot of people had lived in Gwinnett County their entire lives and voted at the same location and all of the sudden they were switched up to new location.

Shahid felt that hands were tied. “I left the voting place without voting,” he told me over the phone. “I have a language issue. What else could I do?”

***

Peggy Xu and Arah Kang were both volunteers for Jon Ossoff’s campaign for the 6th district congressional seat last year and Stacey Abrams’ campaign for Georgia governor this year. Xu began to panic when she didn’t receive an absentee ballot by late October. On the 24th, she contacted the Fulton County Election Board and was emailed an affidavit cancelling the first absentee ballot. She then filled out and returned an application for a second absentee ballot. She was assured her second ballot would be mailed to her Washington, DC, residence, where she is temporarily living, by October 29, one week prior to the November 6 election. It never came.

Kang, a college senior in New England, finally received her absentee ballot a few days before the election. She immediately filled it out and expedited it back to the Fulton County Elections office. According to the Secretary of State website, it was never received.

Both Xu and Kang had successfully voted via absentee ballot for the 2016 presidential election, and in-person for the 2017 sixth district special election. When they posted about their frustrations on Facebook, they received a flood of messages from friends and friends of friends, mostly millennial minority voters in Fulton and Gwinnett Counties, all of whom supported Abrams — who never received their absentee ballots. Within 48 hours, they created a database of 40 disenfranchised voters. Most of the voters had taken great pains to follow up with their election board offices multiple times in an attempt to track down their absentee ballots. None were able to vote.

“We compiled this data in only two days,” said Xu. “If a list like this was compiled for the whole state, imagine how many people would be on it.”

“Forty people is not a hiccup,” said Kang. “It’s a wake-up call.”

***

On October 15, the first day of early voting, my phone started buzzing almost nonstop with messages from AAPI friends. The line is too long I have to go back to work. The voting place shut down because the computers aren’t working. A friend told me the machine switched her vote from Kemp to Abrams — what if this happens to me? They’re telling me I’m at the wrong voting place. I spent hours trying to help them sort out various issues online at the Secretary of State website and through the voter protection hotline.

For the past 11 years, I’ve lived and voted in Johns Creek, Georgia, a northern suburb of Atlanta with a 25% Asian American population. These voters reached out to me because I had spent most of 2018 volunteering for Democratic campaigns. I had knocked on their doors, texted them to remind them about the election, invited them to my home to meet candidates or discuss strategies for turnout.

But the number of issues they were having when trying to vote? I had never before seen anything like it.

***

Asian American and Pacific Islanders (AAPI) were the fasted growing racial group in the South between 2000 and 2010, and in Georgia the AAPI population has exploded. Since 2000, it has grown by 131% to over 480,000. Historically, though, AAPI voters have had one of the lowest voter turnouts among racial minorities. For the 2016 presidential election, it was around 49% nationwide, below white and Black voters and slightly ahead of Latinx voters. But in Georgia, voter turnout was 52% for that election. Foreign born Asian Americans tend to have a higher voter turnout than U.S. born.

Of far greater importance are the reasons for lower turnout. They may include a general failure to mobilize AAPI voters, the minimal contact political candidates make with AAPI voters, or language barriers. In Georgia, over 40% of limited English proficiency individuals speak an AAPI language. And because they speak dozens of languages, including Tagalog, Korean, Mandarin and Vietnamese — advocacy groups must find translators for several languages to assist them.

Over the years, especially recently, Atlanta-area Asian American organizations have launched vigorous voter drive programs to increase turnout for elections. The result? Some 6,400 AAPI statewide registered in 2014, and another 6,500 registered in 2016.

Despite these impressive gains in electoral power, the voting rights of all minority voters have been drastically impeded since the Supreme Court’s 2013 decision in Shelby County v. Holder gutted the Voting Rights Act of 1965. States, like Georgia, with a history of voter suppression no longer require “preclearance” from federal courts or the Department of Justice to alter voting procedures. Shelby County v. Holder allowed Brian Kemp — who will be sworn in as Georgia’s governor in January 2019, and who became Secretary of State in 2010 — to ramp up his suppression of minority voters.

He first strengthened the “exact match” policy, which required that signatures on voter registrations mirror the signatures on identification from the Georgia Department of Driver Services or the Social Security Administration. Many times, the discrepancies between signatures are minor — missing hyphens, transposed letters, the day’s date instead of birth dates, or nicknames signed for legal names. But because Asian Americans’ and Latinx’s names don’t always neatly conform to romanization (one first, one middle, one last name), the requirement of exact match disparately impacted them.


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Kemp’s more egregious version of exact match resulted in the purge some 35,000 voters between 2013 and 2015, over 76% of whom were African American, Latinx, and Asian American voters. African Americans were eight times more likely and Latinx and Asian American voters were six times more likely to be kicked off the rolls than white voters. Civil rights groups sued the state; in a settlement, Kemp froze the program,restoring all 35,000 to the voting rolls.

But Kemp didn’t slow down. To the contrary, he accelerated his suppressive tactics, purging half a million voters from the rolls on a single day in July 2017, 107,000 purportedly because of Georgia’s “use it or lose it policy,” which disenfranchises voters for allegedly not voting in the past three years. (Though voters have come forward to state that Kemp attempted to purge them, even though they voted regularly). Another analysis found that Kemp purged some 300,000 voters for purportedly no longer living at the same address — even though these voters never moved. The vast majority of voters affected were minority voters.

A month before November 6, Kemp froze 53,000 “pending” applications due to discrepancies under a new version of the “exact match” law. Though most of the pending registrations could be cured easily with photo identification at polling places, 3,000 were held up due to potential “citizenship issues.”

One of them was an 80-year-old Vietnamese woman, who Cam Ashling, founder of Georgia Advancing Progress PAC, attempted to take to vote during early voting. When she tried to pull up the voter’s information on the Secretary of State website, Ashling learned she had been flagged because of exact match, and that they had to drive to the other side of Gwinnett County to appear in person at the Voter Registration and Elections Office with her naturalization papers — before she could cast a ballot. “This is a major burden on Asian American voters, especially when it’s the state’s fault,” said Ashling. Local civil rights organizations sued the State of Georgia again — now one of multiple times over exact match over the past several years — and won, including an injunction that allowed those voters to vote with proof of citizenship.

At about the same time, Gwinnett County, a majority minority county with 12% AAPI voters, began rejecting absentee ballots at a rate of 8.5%. (By comparison, Fulton County, the largest in Georgia, had rejected only 1.7% of its absentee ballots.) African Americans’ ballots were rejected four times more often than whites’ ballots. Asian Americans’ ballots were rejected six times more than whites’ ballots. According to Victoria Huynh of Center for Pan Asian Community Services, Inc. (CPACS), a nonprofit, nonpartisan organization, many AAPI voters were not notified that their ballots were rejected. “They were stunned,” she said. “They had no idea there was an issue with their votes until our organization contacted them.”

Kemp, the Republican gubernatorial candidate who oversaw his own race, finally resigned as Secretary of State two days after Election Day. Neither Stacey Abrams, down less than two percentage points, nor Carolyn Bordeaux, the Democratic candidate for the heavily Asian American seventh congressional district, overcame their opponents’ leads. Kemp’s merciless purging and blocking of minority voters, coupled with Georgia’s outdated, hackable voting machines, means Georgia voters will never know who veritably won the gubernatorial and seventh congressional district races. And voters like Xu, Kang, and Shahid are left wondering whether votes like theirs, had they been counted, would have changed the outcome of the election.

Despite these impressive gains in electoral power, the voting rights of all minority voters have been drastically impeded since the Supreme Court’s 2013 decision in Shelby County v. Holder gutted the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

It may be easy to forget the victories with these tough losses, but the victories, especially against exact match, have been substantial. A few days before the December 4th runoff election, Advancing Justice challenged a Georgia law that required that translators assisting voters be close family members, caretakers or voters registered in the same precinct. (Some half-a-million voters in Georgia have limited English proficiency, most of whom are Asian American or Latinx.) Acting Secretary of State Robyn Crittenden, appointed after Kemp’s post-election day resignation, settled outside of court. Voters will now be able to select any translator of their choosing to assist them at the polls.

Still, the road to the 2020 election is guaranteed to be a brutal one. “We remain concerned of continuing efforts by our state to suppress the voices of immigrant communities — especially as they become more empowered to politically engage,” said Phi Nguyen of Advancing Justice. “Our elected officials must step up and do more to protect the rights of all voters.”

***

Georgia’s AAPI voters are steadily turning bluer. According to exit polling conducted by the Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund (AALDEF), 61% of Asian Americans in Georgia voted for Barack Obama’ second term in 2012. And though a smaller number, 55%, supported Democratic Jason Carter for governor over Republican Nathan Deal in 2014, out of 560 respondents, a whopping 71% percent of AAPIs in Georgia voted for Hillary Clinton in 2016.

If we break this down by ethnicity, Bangladeshi-Americans and Pakistani-Americans are the most reliable progressive voters in Georgia, with 97% and 96% casting their vote for Hillary Clinton. (Given that Bangladesh and Pakistan are Muslim majority countries, and that Trump made xenophobia and Islamophobia central to his campaign, it’s easy to guess why.) At the other end of the spectrum, Chinese and Vietnamese voters supported Clinton at 61% and 59% respectively.

The trend toward progressivism seems to have continued for this year’s midterms, where 79% of Georgia’s AAPIs (revised slightly down from an initial report) voted for Abrams for governor. For comparison, the Democratic AAPI constituency in Georgia is more left than the constituency in Texas, where 64% voted for Democrat Beto O’Rourke for U.S. Senate; Florida, where 71% voted for Democrat Andrew Gillum for governor; and in Nevada, where 68% voted for Democrat Jacky Rosen for U.S Senate. The progressive AAPIs of Michigan were the only group that came out ahead, with 91% voting for Democratic Gretchen Whitmer for governor.

Prior to the 2016 election, I had no idea that so many AAPIs in red Georgia were Democrats. Members of my community in Johns Creek rarely discussed elections. We don’t do politics, was a popular refrain. In the years before Trump, progressives largely kept their views to themselves. I was one of the only ones openly horrified by Sarah Palin and birthers.

This apathy began to dissipate during the 2017 sixth district special election when the AAPI community became more organized. During his first term in the State House, Representative Sam Park, the first Democratic Asian American and the first openly gay person elected to the Georgia legislature, headed the Asian American outreach effort for the Ossoff campaign. This was one of the first times, if not the first time, that a Democratic campaign in Georgia poured significant resources into engaging the AAPI constituency.

I worked with Representative Park as a community volunteer to help get Democratic AAPI voters to the polls. This is how I came to understand the untapped power of Georgia’s progressive AAPIs electorate. A meet and greet at my house with Jon Ossoff brought 75 people, mostly Asian Americans. An outdoor event for AAPIs on Mothers’ Day at a local club house brought over 250. Gatherings at mosques, temples, and at Asian restaurants garnered hundreds of AAPI Ossoff supporters.

Over four months, I knocked on the doors of several hundred houses in Johns Creek, most of them belonging to Asian Americans. (This is otherwise known as canvassing.) At first, voters quickly closed the door after accepting Ossoff campaign literature. As the election approached, they lingered on their porches and asked me questions about voting, the election, the candidate. By the time early voting for the runoff election rolled around, three weeks before Election Day, they couldn’t wait to get to the polls. Neighbors who told me they didn’t see the point of voting voted. Friends who used to skip every election except presidential elections voted. Many of them voted for the first time. And getting them on board resulted in a chain reaction — they rounded up their own reluctant voter friends and got them to the polls.

This evolution in commitment and engagement in the AAPI community was astounding.

One the day of the election, I was stationed outside of my polling place as a volunteer poll watcher in a folding chair under the shade of a tree sipping water. I had been up at 6 AM placing signs along the street leading up to the polling place. I hadn’t slept much over the past few weeks.

A car pulled up to the curb in front of me. An elderly Pakistani American woman, an Ossoff supporter I’d met once before, jumped out of the driver’s seat, ran to the other side, and guided a much older Pakistani woman out of the car. They moved slowly up the stairs, arm in arm, and entered the building.

Maybe I was just exhausted. But as soon as the door shut behind them I started crying.

***

After a deep dive into the data, I learned something unfortunate. Though progressive Asian Americans built a sturdy infrastructure for engagement leading up to Election Day, the number of Asian Americans who voted for Ossoff versus Republican Karen Handel is unknown.

Still, when 2018 rolled around, the Democratic AAPI model for the sixth district special election could be dusted off and implemented at a statewide level. Grace Choi led this effort for the Democratic Party Coordinated Campaign, as the AAPI constituency director. Those of us who volunteered our hearts out for the Ossoff campaign began mobilizing again. We organized meet and greets with candidates, canvassing events, and rallies that centered the AAPI constituency.

For those of us working on the ground, the fact that 79% of Georgia’s Asian Americans ended up voting for Abrams (eight points more than the percentage that voted for Clinton two years earlier), coupled with the fact that Democrat Lucy McBath ousted Handel from the sixth district congressional seat only 18 months after Ossoff’s loss — wasn’t entirely out of left field.

But it was immensely rewarding all the same.

***

Unlike progressive AAPI voters, conservative AAPIs seem far more secure and outspoken in their political beliefs. Not long ago two Chinese American voters told me that because Trump supporters “are very vocal” in the Chinese American community, they oftentimes felt as if they were the only Democrats in the room. A conversation I had with an Indian-American neighbor a week later followed suit. “What can you do?” he told me. “Indians are Republicans and you can’t change their minds. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Despite recent Democratic victories in Georgia, the perception of Asian Americans as conservatives appears to be a deeply entrenched one. Perhaps because not too long ago, many Asian Americans were Republican. The shift of AAPI voters from Republican to Democrat didn’t begin until after 1992, and didn’t gain significant momentum until 2008, when the majority of every Asian ethnic group in the state voted for Obama.

What’s more, for a while, prominent AAPI elected officials dominating the media — like former Louisiana governor Bobby Jindal and former South Carolina governor and outgoing U.S. ambassador to the United Nations Nikki Haley — were Republican. And though several Democratic AAPI members of congress are currently leading the resistance — including Representative Ted Lieu, Senator Tammy Duckworth, Senator Mazie Hirono, Senator Kamala Harris, and Representative Pramila Jayapal — the assumption that Asian Americans are Republicans persists in the AAPI community.

How do we counter this narrative, especially at the state level? We elect more AAPIs to office.

The political history of Asian Americans in Georgia (whether Democrats or Republicans) is a relatively short one. Judge Alvin Wong of the Dekalb County State Court, holds the distinction of being the first Asian American elected to judge in the entire southeast. Republican Charlice Byrd served in the Georgia state house for eight years beginning in 2005. In 2008, Democrat Tony Patel, the current chair of the state Democratic Party’s AAPI caucus, ran (and lost) for a state house seat. In 2010, Rashid Malik ran for state senate and lost. (Malik ran again unsuccessfully in 2012 for the state house and in 2016 for the 7th district congressional seat.) Republican BJ Pak won his house seat in 2011, making him the first Korean American elected to the state legislature in either party, and served until 2017. In 2013, five Asian Americans ran for local offices and two won. In 2015, six ran for local offices and another two won.

Democratic Representative Sam Park’s historic November 2016 win was fueled, in part, by the two other Asian American women who helped to steer his campaign, his field director Pallavi Purkayastha and campaign manager Bee Nguyen. Park’s campaign left a vibrant legacy. Last year, Nguyen won the house district seat Abrams vacated to run for governor, becoming the first Vietnamese person elected to the Georgia legislature. Purkayastha, currently chief of staff to Representative David Dreyer, served as campaign manager for Nguyen’s race, and would head Democratic Angelika Kausche’s race for house district 50, flipping it blue for the first time.

Despite the dozen or so pending lawsuits against the state, Raffensperger has pledged to enforce Kemp’s policies, which will likely lead to the further erosion of the voting rights of all minority voters.

Three Asian Americans will be serving in the state legislature in 2019 — the most in Georgia’s history. All three are Democrats. Park will begin his second term, alongside Nguyen, who recently won her first full term, and Sheikh Rahman, who will begin his first term in the State Senate. Rahman is the first Muslim, and Bangladeshi American elected to state legislature; like Kausche, he is an immigrant.

Seeing is believing. To have more impact as a voting bloc in 2020, progressive Asian Americans will not only need to participate more in politics and civic engagement, they’ll need to recruit others in the community to do the same. “When we do not see ourselves reflected in the body elected to serve us, becoming politically engaged becomes more challenging,” said Nguyen. Rahman hopes to begin an AAPI caucus in the legislature, though his focus will remain on voter turnout. “Our main challenge is still how we can increase our folks at the polls.”

***

If Georgia’s progressive Asian Americans want to increase their political capital, they’ll need to continue to evolve as a forward-thinking, radically inclusive constituency. Because Republican AAPIs are getting bolder, even downright aggressive, in their tactics. One local Republican East Asian man I know routinely harasses Asian American women at Democratic events. Democrats don’t care about Asians! Why would you vote for them? Only Republicans care about Asians! He’s confrontational and belligerent, and when the women try to dodge him he tends to follow them around while spouting xenophobic rhetoric about immigrants entering the U.S. “the wrong way.” (He’s an immigrant himself.) I expect he’ll reappear at Democratic events in the months leading to the 2020 presidential election.

Staunch GOP AAPI voters are not uncommon. While the shift to more progressivism among Asian Americans in Georgia has been impressive, 18 percent of AAPI voters still supported Kemp with his shotgun, chainsaw and explosive political ads, despite the fact that many of their origin countries have among the lowest violent gun deaths in the world. We have miles to go before we have the same kind of Democratic turnout success as Black women, 97% of whom voted for Abrams.

In the Hindu Indian-American community, those who support Hinduvta or Hindu nationalism align themselves with the GOP primarily because of its Islamophobia. (Thirty-eight percent of Hindus in Georgia supported Trump in 2016, just one percentage point less than Catholics.) This, despite the fact that they may disagree with the GOP’s positions on guns and healthcare. “Resident Indian-Americans typically come from the dominant community in India,” said Suresh Kolichala, a Hindu-Indian who has been an active volunteer with Democratic campaigns. “When they come to America, they still feel they are part of the dominant community. They can easily identify with the problems of whites because back home in India, they face criticism from the liberal voices about oppressed sections of people.”

Regardless of national origin or ethnicity, Republican AAPIs in Georgia hit the ground running for elections. They throw money at GOP candidates, host lavish fundraisers, and frequently post photos of themselves posing with Republican candidates on social media. Nonpartisan organizations ensure that GOP candidates attend (and oftentimes speak at) their cultural functions, even at risk of jeopardizing their nonprofit status. In other words, conservative AAPIs are winning the publicity game and don’t shy away from promoting their candidates or proclaiming their loyalty. And their loyalty is being rewarded. As of this writing, two Republican Asian Americans are serving on Kemp’s transition team.

Progressive AAPIs are going to need to step up their game to stay ahead. What’s more, they’re going to need to align and uplift Indigenous, Black, and other people of color and reclaim and re-imagine the model minority myth as an unapologetic progressivism that condemns all forms of bigotry. They’re going to need to come out for Black Lives Matter and asylum seekers, the poor, the LGBTQIA+ community, and the disabled.

And above all else, progressive AAPIs must examine their own internalized prejudice. Too many are anti-Black, homophobic, transphobic, and xenophobic. They spout false Republican talking points about the “migrant caravan” and the need to come to the U.S. “the right way.” They ignore police violence against unarmed Black Americans, and too few have voiced their objections to the anti-gay Religious Freedom Restoration Act, a bill vetoed by former governor Nathan Deal, but which Kemp has said he will sign into law as long as it reflects the 1993 federal law.

This is no time to rest on our laurels.

***

The Indian festival of lights, Diwali, fell this year during the same week as the midterm election. In between texting hundreds of voters who might need to cure their provisional ballots, I picked up three boxes of cashew burfi and 80 pieces of naan at our local Indian restaurant for our neighborhood’s celebration in Johns Creek. In the intervening days, though we grew less optimistic about Abrams’ likelihood of becoming the next Georgia governor, we beamed about our historic wins. “We did it,” people exclaimed to one another.

After Ossoff’s loss last year, the same progressives at the Diwali party spooning paneer and biryani onto their plates grew even more determined. They donated to campaigns, canvassed and mobilized their networks to vote for Democrats straight down the ticket. We were now reaping the fruits of our labor — a blue wave, the first ever, for Johns Creek. Democrats here flipped the state house and senate seats, and McBath, whose 17-year-old son Jordan Davis was gunned down in Florida in 2012, bested Handel for the sixth district congressional seat. The trifecta of wins felt miraculous.

But the progressive AAPI community must be vigilant. In the December 4th runoff election for Secretary of State, the office responsible for Georgia’s myriad election issues, Republican Brad Raffensperger surpassed Democratic candidate John Barrow. Despite the dozen or so pending lawsuits against the state, Raffensperger has pledged to enforce Kemp’s policies, which will likely lead to the further erosion of the voting rights of all minority voters.

Still, one more city in Georgia is blue, and Asian Americans in Johns Creek played a significant role in making it happen. It’s not necessarily a revolution, but it’s a much needed spark.

* * *

Anjali Enjeti is an Atlanta-based journalist and critic whose work has appeared in The Nation, Newsday, The Washington Post, Al Jazeera, and elsewhere.

Editor: Sari Botton
Factchecker: Sam Schuyler

They Wanted Her Body

Rafia Zakaria | Longreads | December 2018 | 13 minutes (3,450 words)

It happened in July, amid the sweltering summer heat of the plains of Punjab, Pakistan’s largest province. It was one of those days when sweat flows in streams, the beads of depleted moisture dripping down backs and armpits and foreheads as people walk and talk and complain about the heat as if it were a newcomer among them.

The murdered woman was Qandeel Baloch, a 26-year-old Pakistani YouTube sensation, whose risqué videos, laden with erotic subtext, had so angered her brother that he strangled her to death. The deed was done late on the night of July 15th. It was late in the morning of the 16th when the first reporter from Pakistan’s rapacious 24-hour news media arrived in the neighborhood.

That journalist was Arif Nizami. After receiving an anonymous tip, he raced to the area and demanded of passersby that he be taken to the “Karachi Hotel.” “This is Karachi-Hotel,” some sympathetic soul finally told him, “the whole neighborhood is Karachi-Hotel.” The comic absurdity of this moment, while an apt metaphor for a country bewildered by looking at itself — especially in the new ways made possible by the internet, ways at which Qandeel Baloch excelled — is a contrast to the tragic scenes that were to follow, all painstakingly recreated in Pakistani journalist Sanam Maher’s book The Sensational Life and Death of Qandeel Baloch. The book tells an extraordinary story: Qandeel Baloch’s internet fame was built almost entirely from suggestive innuendo-laden videos, shot and shared late at night when millions of Pakistani men go online in search of sexual satisfaction. Qandeel knew that this audience was out there, and in speaking directly to them she captured their erotic imagination.

Tragically for Qandeel Baloch, what Pakistani men love to love in private, they love to excoriate in public. Sexual fantasies, or the women who are part of them, must be shamed with the same ferocity with which their bodies are lusted after. It was this truth which led to Qandeel’s death that summer day, a grisly mix of rage and misogyny ending with her brother’s hands around her neck. In the hours after Arif Nizami arrived at the scene, a sweaty mob of media men crowded before the door of the house where Qandeel lay dead, her body already swollen from heat and decay as the temperature rose. The male gaze, lust-laden in life, had turned voyeuristic in death, the journalists, most of them men, clamoring and pushing and shoving to get a shot of her corpse.

The honor killing tag, once attached, tends to produce a sort of investigatory tunnel vision, the exotic filial element of the crime overshadowing other essential facts with its inherent moral decrepitude.

They would get to see her. When, after many hours, the policemen who had come to investigate carried her body out, they “forgot” to cover it with the standard white shroud afforded the dead. This small courtesy was denied a dishonorable woman of the web. Qandeel Baloch’s body was hidden only by the flowered sheet in which she had once slept. En route, it slipped away from her face, and everyone gathered was able to gawk at the dead woman, grab pictures and videos of her sordid end. Many of these crude recordings live on online, accessible with a simple Google search.

The other videos, those of the living Qandeel offering a striptease to a Pakistani cricketer, sitting in the lap of a religious cleric, and other provocations, are also still online. She had recorded many of them on hot nights just like the one of July 15, 2016. She had trouble sleeping, she would confess to her viewers, as she lay titillatingly sprawled on her bed or sofa. Her heavily made-up face and her outfit would accord with whomever or whatever she was playing that night: the little girl, the sultry siren, the robe-wrapped tease and many more. In a country where women never talk about sex in a public medium, Qandeel reveled and delighted in doing so, using erotic subtext and inventive innuendo to own her sexuality in a way that was quite unprecedented. This she had the savvy to attach to what she knew Pakistani men loved most after sex — sports. In a video made before the Pakistan national team played a crucial match against New Zealand, she promised Shahid Afridi, the team’s star player, a striptease dedicated to him if he wins.

 

There wasn’t actually a striptease, not on YouTube anyway, but the suggestion of one openly promised by a Pakistani woman was enough to make the video go viral. While millions of Pakistani girls, minded by ever watchful fathers and brothers and uncles and cousins, remain absorbed in maintaining their respectability, Qandeel Baloch insisted on crossing the line without apology. She was a young woman uninterested in pretending to be a good girl, hoping to nab a suitable marriage prospect; she was a woman who loved being a bad girl, and Pakistan did not seem to know what to do with her.

Here, then, is the story of a culture that avows to love only good girls but finds itself irrepressibly fascinated by a bad girl, a poor girl, an unapologetic girl. It doesn’t end well for the girl, but it reveals much about a culture in flux, where the mores of a shame society obsessed with keeping an eye on everyone else are being challenged by the anonymity and ubiquity of internet technology, 3G connections in far-flung areas, and mobile phones cheaper than a couple days’ worth of meals. The internet has changed Pakistani society in all sorts of unusual and unexpected ways. Camel owners in the sprawling Thar desert, for instance, used to put bells around their camels’ necks, the sound of which could be easily heard no matter how far a camel had wandered in the quiet desert nights; now, the camels bear their owner’s mobile phone number instead. Where matchmakers once toted around worn photographs of young girls and boys, they now arrange video chats on WhatsApp. Food delivery services, even abortion services, are now accessible via Smartphones, as was the world of lust and sexual fantasy offered up by Qandeel Baloch.

Maher’s book points to Qandeel’s murder at the hands of her enraged brother Waseem as a possible honor killing. This classification was doggedly adhered to and pushed by Pakistani and foreign media in the days after Qandeel’s death, when the case was grabbing headlines around the world. It is true that Qandeel Baloch was killed by her brother Waseem; he owned up to the fact in a televised confession, justifying his crime by venting about his disapproval of the things she had done online and the dishonor she had brought on their family.

The honor killing tag, once attached, tends to produce a sort of investigatory tunnel vision, the exotic filial element of the crime overshadowing other essential facts with its inherent moral decrepitude. So too, perhaps, in the case of the murder of Qandeel Baloch. While honor killing in some ways might be an accurate description of what was done to her, the burgeoning culture of what we could call “incels” within Pakistan — millions of men with smartphones and raging libidos caught in a perceived feedback loop of unemployment and wifelessness — may have also played a role. In Pakistan, as elsewhere, a virulent mix of misogyny and lust and entitlement is coming to a head online; the internet is turning out to be a perfect storm of hate in a patriarchal society obsessed with shame over appearances but, concurrently, little or no guilt over wrongdoing when it is carried out in secret.

A woman’s economic empowerment can be anything from an existential threat to an inconvenience, but in any case men believe they are entitled to stop it by stopping her life.

This obsessive shame was, Qandeel’s brother attested, instrumental in catalyzing his murderous rage. So, too, could have been the shame of his own emasculation in the face of his sister’s growing fame and financial success, independent of how it was begotten. “Qandeel was not my daughter but she was my son. She provided us financial and emotional support,” her father Azeem lamented after her death, condemning his sons, Waseem and another brother-accomplice, whom he believed had murdered her. Qandeel had made it and Waseem had not, and this did not look good. In a family whose members had migrated to nearby Multan and even farther away to Islamabad, the (mostly) rural bugbear of family honor was unlikely to have held the same sort of sway on their lives as the shame of taking money from a woman. Indeed, honor killing itself is often just a cover story for male family members’ desire to stop a woman from inheriting property. After the killing, Qandeel’s father alleged that her brothers had murdered Qandeel for her money; and according to police reports, when the assailants fled the scene of the crime, they took Qandeel’s money and jewelry with them. A woman’s economic empowerment can be anything from an existential threat to an inconvenience, but in any case men believe they are entitled to stop it by stopping her life.

*

Before she became a rebel, Qandeel Baloch was just an ordinary little girl growing up in a poor family made up of mainly men. As Sanam Maher reports in her book, Qandeel, whose real name was Fouzia Azeem, regretted not being born a boy. For a time, she put on her brother’s clothes and played in the streets with the other boys, getting rowdy and dirty. All this was brought to a stop with apparent alacrity after she hit puberty. In her late teens, Qandeel was married off to a maternal cousin. Not knowing any men other than her father and brother, she thought he was “the one,” writing the man long letters during the duo’s engagement. A wedding was soon held and she was handed off to her new guardian, a man entitled to control her every move.

He did just that. After a short and fitful honeymoon period, Baloch’s husband grew tempestuous and abusive, and her body was soon covered in bruises and burn marks where he puts out cigarettes on her body. When she complained to her mother, she was not believed. The man was, after all, her husband. In due course, Qandeel became pregnant and gave birth, even as the abusive tenor of her situation rose to a crescendo.

The marriage did not end with any sort of empathic parental intervention, but with the intrepid Qandeel running off with her baby son to a government-run domestic violence shelter in Multan. The Darul Aman shelters (the name of several women’s shelters throughout Pakistan) are full of women who have nowhere to go and no money to go anywhere. The shelters’ dismal, Dickensian reality includes rapist guards who are rumored to pimp their charges to rich men in the city, and the constant grim chaos of women and children clamoring for meager provisions in the windowless darkness, which is deemed necessary to keep their presence secret. Not long after arriving, Qandeel left, handing over her baby son to her husband and his relatives. “I want to make my own life,” she confessed to the shelter administrator. “Whatever I want to do, I cannot do it with a child hanging on to me. I will become helpless.” She disappeared from the shelter the next day.

*

That was not, of course, to be the end of either her trials or her troubles. Not much was heard of Qandeel Baloch in the interim years, between when she ran off from the shelter early in the second decade of the new millennium and when she began to make her YouTube videos. Maher’s book tries to piece together this gray portion of Qandeel’s life. Somewhere in there is a thankless low paying gig working as a hostess on a bus-service whose mostly male customers expect to paw at the hostesses who serve them sandwiches. Then there are the modeling gigs, which promise much yet deliver little to the hundreds of earnest girls, most newly arrived from villages all over Pakistan, eager to shed their rustic edges and become glamorous.

But Qandeel Baloch does become glamorous; she also snags the coveted position of being the favorite of an event promoter. The man, named Mec, adores her. She too seems to like him; whether it is for the career leg up that he provides her or something more is anyone’s guess. Her first taste of real fame happens in 2013, when, clad in pink tights and a dress, she auditions for a show called Pakistan Idol (a remake of the American version) in Multan. She makes it, not in the sense of winning a spot on the show, but in garnering notoriety. The clip featuring her, in her bright and crazy get-up, goes viral. The judges reject her, saying that they find her voice too thin and high. She is devastated for the camera, but it doesn’t matter, because, while she may not have become a contestant, she has become famous. Between 2013’s Pakistan Idol audition and 2016, when she was killed, she would make appearances in music videos, in fashion shows, on television programs and of course in her many YouTube videos.

Qandeel had gone too far this time; not in exposing herself, but in exposing everyone else.

The YouTube video that was the beginning of the end wasn’t made until June of 2016; when Qandeel decided to share it, as well as several accompanying selfies on Twitter, it was as if she had set a clock counting down to her death the following month. The video’s genesis was seemingly innocuous. Qandeel, who had by now amassed enough fame to become a near regular on one or another of Pakistan’s many talk shows, was invited to be a guest on one of them. Another guest was a cleric named Mufti Qavi, whose selection completed a crude moral juxtaposition between the man of faith and the naughty girl of YouTube. A provocative discussion, friendly to the ratings, was the goal, and it was delivered.

The two, goaded by the loaded inquiries and allegations of the interviewer, soon began yelling at each other and talking over each other. The cleric who had gleaned his own fame by positioning himself as the gentle chider of models and actresses, refused to pass a religious edict (fatwa) on Qandeel Baloch to mend her naughty ways. Then he went even further than that, telling Qandeel on-air that he was headed to Karachi soon and that he would love to meet her.

The meeting, which, in Maher’s telling, Qandeel tried to avoid, took place at a Karachi hotel during the month of Ramadan, with all its attendant injunctions against debauchery and fervent exhibitions of public piety. The two shared cigarettes and food, the Mufti urging Qandeel on with the prescription that sharing increases the love between two people. Then Qandeel did what she always did; she began to take selfies of herself and Mufti Qazi, selfies that grow progressively more risqué. In one, they are seated on a couch; in another, she is on his lap, his clerical hat perched atop her head. A short video also showed the same thing.

The pictures and video went viral. Here was an exposure of a different sort, a direct jab at a culture in which men can pretend to be pious in public while keeping secret their lewd behavior with the same “loose” women whom they are happy to chide in public. The video made Qandeel an even bigger star, although now she was reviled as much as admired. Her shenanigans had seemed amusing earlier, but now they challenged the cherished and coddled double standard that permits private debauchery so long as the illusion of piety is publicly adhered to. If this woman’s wild sexuality could tempt a man of faith in this way, she was truly a threat to the pure lives everyone imagined themselves leading. Qandeel had gone too far this time; not in exposing herself, but in exposing everyone else.

*

Mufti Qavi was suspended from his position as a member of Pakistan’s official moon-sighting committee following the fiasco with Qandeel. It was a huge demotion from him; the committee, which declares when a new moon has been sighted and thus when the major Eid celebrations are to begin, has national importance and credibility, opening up opportunities for the committee’s members to appear on television shows and reap the rewards of national fame. In an interview Qandeel Baloch gave after the incident, she pointed out just this tendency: “He’s publicity-hungry. He took my number from the media organisation and contacted me, saying ‘I promised I would meet you’. He said ‘I’m coming on this date’ and then sent me his flight…number.”

In the hours after Qandeel Baloch’s death, her father, Azeem, filed a First Information Report with the police. In the report, he blamed not only his two sons and her cousin Haq Nawaz, who he said colluded to asphyxiate Qandeel after adding tranquilizer to the family’s food, but also Mufti Qavi. Investigations into the murder case would back him up. They revealed that the taxicab used as a getaway car in the crime was driven by a relative of Mufti Qavi.

In the hours after the murder, Qandeel’s brother Waseem and his accomplice Haq Nawaz were both arrested. A questionnaire was sent to Mufti Qavi, in which he denied knowing anything at all about the murder or having anything to do with it. In the meantime, Qandeel Baloch’s other brothers all descended upon the little house in Multan that Qandeel had rented for her parents and tried to force them into “forgiving” their youngest brother. Laws related to blood money in Pakistan permit family members of the accused to forgive the perpetrator of crimes against them. In this case, it was all the case of one family.

It was more than a case of an angry brother punishing an errant sister; it was a conspiracy, a crime committed by a group of colluding men who found a powerful and unapologetic woman a danger and a threat to their masculinity.

Two and a half years have passed since Qandeel’s death, and her parents, who are living in abject poverty and have sometimes had to resort to begging for food in their ancestral village of Shah Sadar Din, continue to refuse to “forgive” her killers. (Although, when her parents retracted their accusation against one of the brothers, Aslam Shaheen, whom her father had initially claimed was the one who had incited Waseem to violence, the police claimed Aslam had bribed them.)  Her father drapes her grave in the Pakistani flag and her mother still shows reporters, like Maher herself, the glitzy and glamorous clothes their daughter left behind.

In late November, the court hearing Qandeel Baloch’s murder case refused bail to her younger brother Waseem, who confessed to the killing prior to trial. However Haq Nawaz, also one of the main accused in the case, who had allegedly helped execute the murder, was released pending trial. It is often the way of things in Pakistan that as public interest in a crime dies down, the accused are first freed on bail and then the case is dismissed entirely, with cryptic reasons given as to why. They range widely from a lack of evidence, to the forgiveness of the killer, to alleged false confessions and so on. With Waseem free, the pressure will once again be on the aged parents of the murdered Qandeel Baloch to forgive the son who killed her. Mufti Qavi’s role in the case seems to be fading away. That, too, is unsurprising. In the Pakistani logic of things, why should a bad woman’s death be permitted to ruin a good man’s life?

*

Qandeel Baloch knew that to sustain interest in herself, or in anything, in the age of likes and clicks and shares, she must constantly produce new content, up herself and reinvent herself. This is the reality for any internet star, including those who thrive on controversy. But Qandeel was self-made not just in the sense of having charted her own destiny; she was self-invented in her unique ability to satiate that very specific desire for fabricated authenticity that we thirst for in the virtual world — a place where all of us live out part of our lives, but one she chose to live in more fully and more honestly than most. Qandeel knew that the very truth of a woman alone, possessing an inner life and her own desires, was the most riveting spectacle of all. Her death should not be reduced to the sad but simple story of an honor killing in a small city in backward and barbaric Pakistan. This would neatly pin the blame on family and tradition, obscuring the fact that her murder was directly linked to the virtual world of virulent online misogyny, which is, everywhere it takes root, an outgrowth of men’s abhorrence of their own lust and their rage toward the women who are objects of it.

This, then, is the true story of the death of Qandeel Baloch. It was more than a case of an angry brother punishing an errant sister; it was a conspiracy, a crime committed by a group of colluding men who found a powerful and unapologetic woman a danger and a threat to their masculinity. In a society bound by moralizing constraints, where sexual lives and preferences must be kept covert, deviance and decrepitude flourish; a murder evolving from it should not come as a surprise. In the end, they wanted what they had always wanted: They wanted her body.

I fear that no one will ultimately be held responsible for the murder of Qandeel Baloch. Meanwhile, Qandeel herself can still be found, in hundreds of videos, smiling at the camera, thumbing her nose at her haters, making up a new life for herself as she goes.

* * *

Rafia Zakaria is the author of The Upstairs Wife: An Intimate History of Pakistan (2015) and Veil (2017). She is a columnist at Dawn, Pakistan’s largest English newspaper and writes the “Alienated” column for The Baffler.

Editor: Dana Snitzky

Friday, 7 December 2018

Remembering Pete Shelley of the Buzzcocks

Buzzcocks lead singer Pete Shelley has died of a heart attack. He was 63.

To my ears, Buzzcocks were always a pop band with punk sensibilities, rather than the other way around. The craftsmanship behind songs like “Why Can’t I Touch It” or “What Do I Get” demonstrate an ambition beyond provocation. Pete Shelley was Ray Davies’ legitimate heir: smart, sincere, and acerbic with an unerring ear for musical hooks. The early Buzzcocks albums Another Music In A Different Kitchen, Love Bites, and A Different Kind Of Tension are each their own kind of greatest hits compilation.

Still, Buzzcocks had an impeccable punk pedigree. Peter McNeish, as he was originally known, organized the June 1976 Sex Pistols gig in his hometown in Manchester. That appearance, though sparsely attended (“I think there were about 42, 43 people there,” Shelley remembered), was the catalyst for almost the entire post-punk Manchester scene, as some of the attendees went on to found Joy Division, The Fall, the Smiths, and Factory Records. The next time the Pistols came through town, McNeish’s new band opened. His stage name was now Pete Shelley, which his parents would have called him had he been born a girl.

The first Buzzcocks EP, Spiral Scratch, was released in January 1977 on their own independent label, New Hormones. “We made quite a bit of money from Spiral Scratch,” Shelley said. “It ended up selling about 16,000 copies and we were able to buy some new equipment.”

Once Shelley took over as principal songwriter and vocalist later that year, the band released a series of extraordinary singles, characterized by breakneck tempos, breathless tempos, canny lyrics about unrequited love,and ingenious chord changes pumped out by buzzsaw guitars. There’s not a rock star guitar solo in sight. Shelley sings with a petulant Manchester yelp. He turned this material out with seeming effortlessness.

It’s an impressive collection, from the delirium of “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” to the confessional testimony of “I Believe,” to the ceaselessly catchy “You Say You Don’t Love Me all created by a man who was 26 when his band broke up in 1981.

Shelley did not come out as bisexual until years later, although anyone listening to his romantic complaints and genderless lyrics would have already understood. “Ever Fallen In Love With Someone (You Shouldn’t’ve),” the band’s masterpiece, was inspired by a line from Guys and Dolls. “You spurn my natural emotions,” Shelley sings. “You make me feel like dirt and I’m hurt.”

And if I start a commotion

I run the risk of losing you and that’s worse

Ever fallen in love with someone

You shouldn’t have fallen in love with?

“I wrote it about Francis, who was the social sec at Warrington Tech,” Shelley remembered. “I was going through self-discovery, shall we say, a fertile ground for writing songs. In the initial courtship he was resistant to my charms.”

Punk decluttered popular music, and Shelley, already a fan of pared down acts like the Velvet Underground and Can, was prepared to fill the void. “There are plenty of musicians that I enjoy watching that are entertainers,” he told The Guardian in 2006. “But I wouldn’t want to be that, because the thing with an entertainer is that there is always that dishonesty, which is what punk tried to get rid of.”

“It was like, you’re not pretending to be something you are not,” he continued. “You are just what you are.”

He applied this approach to his lyrics as well, always smart but never contrived. “See, with me, I’m never really happy unless everything sounds like it’s conversational,” Shelley told The Quietus a few years ago. “That’s why I find it hard to write lyrics, to simplify it to the point where it sounds like there’s no writing there. So a lot of time and effort goes into me rejecting things.”

Shelley went solo after the Buzzcocks broke up. An early single, “Homosapien banned by the BBC because of its “explicit reference to gay sex was actually written in 1974, before Buzzcocks formed. But the influence of Shelley’s former band was still rippling out through mainstream culture.

The Fine Young Cannibals’ 1988 cover of “Ever Fallen In Love” reached the top-10  in the UK, which “financed our comeback,” according to Shelley. The band’s reunion lasted almost 30 years. In the meantime, college radio, indie rock, and Nirvana all advanced and receded. Buzzcocks music informed them all.

Punk fizzled, like any musical trend. Its most durable aspects of emotionally direct, vulnerable, aggressive, and unornamented communication have remained. Buzzcocks embodied this approach. Long live Pete Shelley.

***

Tom Maxwell is a writer and musician. He likes how one informs the other.

Editor: Aaron Gilbreath; Fact-checker: Matt Giles

Wednesday, 5 December 2018

Shoot First, Ask Questions Later (Or Don’t)

Officer Stephen Mader was fired from the Weirton, West Virginia police force after R.J. William was shot and killed. Mader’s not the one who shot him — Mader was trying not to shoot.

The Weirton Police Department, like almost every other, has a policy on the use of lethal force: If someone is a threat to life — a civilian’s or an officer’s — an officer can shoot to kill.

Mader said it was scary in the dimly lit street. His adrenaline was pumping. It felt, he said, like it could be one of those “oh, shit” moments.

But Mader did not regard Williams as a threat. Williams seemed distraught. He avoided eye contact. He was looking around to see if anyone was watching. He wasn’t being belligerent. He was only repeating a single sentence:

“Shoot me.”

The requests felt to Mader like pleadings.

“It’s a red flag,” Mader later said. “Suicide by cop.”

Williams was waving a gun around; it turned out not to have been loaded. He was ultimately shot by another officer who showed up on the scene a few minutes later. Mater’s firing, subsequent smearing by the force, and ultimate exoneration are documented in fascinating, maddening detail at ProPublica by Joe Sexton in a thought-provoking piece on police culture.

Alexander, it turns out, had not fired the officer who shot Williams. He had fired Stephen Mader, who had chosen not to shoot the young man.

Alexander had concluded that the young officer had frozen in a life-and-death moment. He had determined that Mader, in not eliminating what he said was the threat posed by Williams, had put the lives of fellow officers at risk. Kuzma, the officer who had killed Williams, thought Mader should have shot him first.

Mader’s actions at 119 Marie Ave. in May 2016 had instantly become the subject of analysis and gossip among the ranks of the tiny department. The word “coward” was being tossed around. Kuzma and Baker had taken the remarkable step of asking Alexander in writing never to assign them to work again with Mader. Two other members of the force signed on as well, and the memo was quietly slid under the chief’s door.

Read the story

Tuesday, 4 December 2018

No Justice For Old Men

Julie K. Brown’s Miami Herald story on serial sex offender’s Jeffrey Epstein sweetheart plea deal is a masterwork of investigative reporting. After abusing and trafficking dozens of underage girls, Epstein went to prison for 13 months (months!!) and his co-conspirators got immunity from prosecution. His victims weren’t told about the deal until it was too late to change. The prosecutor who okayed the deal? Trump’s Secretary of Labor, who is now charged with enforcing U.S. labor laws, including laws around human trafficking.

Most of the girls came from disadvantaged families, single-parent homes or foster care. Some had experienced troubles that belied their ages: They had parents and friends who committed suicide; mothers abused by husbands and boyfriends; fathers who molested and beat them. One girl had watched her stepfather strangle her 8-year-old stepbrother, according to court records obtained by the Herald.

Many of the girls were one step away from homelessness.

“We were stupid, poor children,’’ said one woman, who did not want to be named because she never told anyone about Epstein. At the time, she said, she was 14 and a high school freshman.

“We just wanted money for school clothes, for shoes. I remember wearing shoes too tight for three years in a row. We had no family and no guidance, and we were told that we were going to just have to sit in a room topless and he was going to just look at us. It sounded so simple, and was going to be easy money for just sitting there.”

Epstein’s plea is vile not just for the way it allowed him to skirt any real punishment — he spent his 13 months on a work-release program, even though sex offenders aren’t eligible for work-release — but for the way it bent over backward to minimize his actual crimes and smear the victims.

Despite substantial physical evidence and multiple witnesses backing up the girls’ stories, the secret deal allowed Epstein to enter guilty pleas to two felony prostitution charges. Epstein admitted to committing only one offense against one underage girl, who was labeled a prostitute, even though she was 14, which is well under the age of consent — 18 in Florida.

“She was taken advantage of twice — first by Epstein, and then by the criminal justice system that labeled a 14-year-old girl as a prostitute,’’ said Spencer Kuvin, the lawyer who represented the girl.

“It’s just outrageous how they minimized his crimes and devalued his victims by calling them prostitutes,’’ said Yasmin Vafa, a human rights attorney and executive director of Rights4Girls, which is working to end the sexual exploitation of girls and young women.

“There is no such thing as a child prostitute. Under federal law, it’s called child sex trafficking — whether Epstein pimped them out to others or not. It’s still a commercial sex act — and he could have been jailed for the rest of his life under federal law,” she said.

Read the story

The Case for Letting Malibu Burn

Mike Davis | Ecology of Fear | Metropolitan Books | September 1998 | 20 minutes (5,921 words)

 

“Homes, of course, will arise here in the thousands. Many a peak will have its castle.”

—John Russell McCarthy, These Waiting Hills (1925)

 

Late August to early October is the infernal season in Los Angeles. Downtown is usually shrouded in acrid yellow smog while heat waves billow down Wilshire Boulevard. Outside air-conditioned skyscrapers, homeless people huddle miserably in every available shadow.

Across the Harbor Freeway, the overcrowded tenements of the Westlake district—Los Angeles’s Spanish Harlem—are intolerable ovens. Suffocating in their tiny rooms, immigrant families flee to the fire escapes, stoops, and sidewalks. Anxious mothers swab their babies’ foreheads with water while older children, eyes stinging from the smog, cry for paletas: the flavored cones of shaved ice sold by pushcart vendors. Shirtless young men—some with formidable jail-made biceps and mural-size tattoos of the Virgin of Guadalupe across their backs—monopolize the shade of tienda awnings. Amid hundreds of acres of molten asphalt and concrete there is scarcely a weed, much less a lawn or tree.

Thirty miles away, the Malibu coast—where hyperbole meets the surf—basks in altogether different weather. The temperature is 85°F (20 degrees cooler than Downtown), and the cobalt blue sky is clear enough to discern the wispish form of Santa Barbara Island, nearly 50 miles offshore. At Zuma surfers ride the curl under the insouciant gazes of their personal sun goddesses, while at Topanga Beach, horse trainers canter Appaloosas across the wet sand. Indifferent to the misery on the “mainland,” the residents of Malibu suffer through another boringly perfect day.

Needless to say, the existential differences between the tenement district and the gilded coast are enormous at any time. But late summer is the beginning of the wildfire season in Southern California, and that’s when Westlake and Malibu suffer a common lot: catastrophic fire.

According to previous estimates, Westlake (including adjacent parts of Downtown) has the highest urban fire incidence in the nation: one of its two fire stations was inundated by an incredible 20,000 emergency calls in 1993. Some tenements and apartment-hotels have continuous fire histories dating back to their construction in the early twentieth century. The notorious Hotel St. George, for instance, experienced fatal blazes in 1912, 1952, and 1983. Moreover, almost all of the deadly tenement fires in Los Angeles since 1945 have occurred within a one-mile radius of the corner of Wilshire and Figueroa, Downtown.

Malibu, meanwhile, is the wildfire capital of North America and, possibly, the world. Fire here has a relentless staccato rhythm, syncopated by landslides and floods. The rugged 22-mile-long coastline is scourged, on the average, by a large fire (one thousand acres plus) every two and a half years, and the entire surface area of the western Santa Monica Mountains has been burnt three times over the twentieth century. At least once a decade a blaze in the chaparral grows into a terrifying firestorm consuming hundreds of homes in an inexorable advance across the mountains to the sea. Since 1970 five such holocausts have destroyed more than one thousand luxury residences and inflicted more than $1 billion in property damage. Some unhappy homeowners have been burnt out twice in a generation, and there are individual patches of coastline or mountain, especially between Point Dume and Tuna Canyon, that have been incinerated as many as eight times since 1930.

At least once a decade a blaze in the chaparral grows into a terrifying firestorm consuming hundreds of homes in an inexorable advance across the mountains to the sea.

In other words, stand at the mouth of Malibu Canyon or sleep in the Hotel St. George for any length of time and you eventually will face the flames. It is a statistical certainty. Ironically, the richest and poorest landscapes in Southern California are comparable in the frequency with which they experience incendiary disaster. This was emphasized tragically in 1993 when a May conflagration at a Westlake tenement that killed three mothers and seven children was followed in late October by 21 wildfires culminating on November 2nd in the great firestorm that forced the evacuation of most of Malibu.

But the two species of conflagration are inverse images of each other. Defended in 1993 by the largest army of firefighters in American history, wealthy Malibu homeowners benefited as well from an extraordinary range of insurance, land use, and disaster relief subsidies. Yet, as most experts will readily concede, periodic firestorms of this magnitude are inevitable as long as residential development is tolerated in the fire ecology of the Santa Monicas.

On the other hand, most of the 119 fatalities from tenement fires in the Westlake and Downtown areas might have been prevented had slumlords been held to even minimal standards of building safety. If enormous resources have been allocated, quixotically, to fight irresistible forces of nature on the Malibu coast, then scandalously little attention has been paid to the man-made and remediable fire crisis of the inner city.

* * *

From the beginning fire has defined Malibu in the American imagination. In Two Years Before the Mast, Richard Henry Dana described sailing northward from San Pedro to Santa Barbara in 1826 and seeing a vast blaze along the coast of José Tapia’s Rancho Topanga Malibu Sequit. Despite—or, as we shall see, more likely because of—the Spanish prohibition of the Chumash and Tong-va Indian practice of annually burning the brush, mountain infernos repeatedly menaced Malibu through the nineteenth century. During the great land boom of the late 1880s, the entire latifundio was sold at $10 per acre to the Boston Brahmin millionaire Frederick Rindge. In his memoirs, Rindge described his unceasing battles against squatters, rustlers, and, above all, recurrent wildfire. The great fire of 1903, which raced from Calabasas to the sea in a few hours, incinerated Rindge’s dream ranch in Malibu Canyon and forced him to move to Los Angeles, where he died in 1905.

From the time of the Tapias, the owners of Rancho Malibu had recognized that the region’s extraordinary fire hazard was shaped, in large part, by the uncanny alignment of its coastal canyons with the annual “fire winds” from the north: the notorious Santa Anas, which blow primarily between Labor Day and Thanksgiving, just before the first rains. Born from high-pressure areas over the Great Basin and Colorado Plateau, the Santa Anas become hot and dry as they descend avalanche-like into Southern California. The San Fernando Valley acts as a giant bellows, sometimes fanning the Santa Anas to hurricane velocity as they roar seaward through the narrow canyons and rugged defiles of the Santa Monica Mountains. Add a spark to the dense, dry vegetation on such an occasion and the hillsides will explode in uncontrollable wildfire: “The speed and heat of the fire is so intense that firefighters can only attempt to prevent lateral spread of the fire while waiting for the winds to abate or the fuel to diminish.”


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Less well understood in the old days was the essential dependence of the dominant vegetation of the Santa Monicas—chamise chaparral, coastal sage scrub, and live oak woodland—upon this cycle of wildfire. Decades of research (especially at the San Dimas Experimental Forest in the San Gabriel Mountains) have given late-twentieth-century science vivid insights into the complex and ultimately beneficial role of fire in recycling nutrients and ensuring seed germination in Southern California’s various pyrophytic flora. Research has also established the overwhelming importance of biomass accumulation rather than ignition frequency in regulating fire destructiveness. As Richard Minnich, the world authority on chaparral brushfire, emphasizes: “Fuel, not ignitions, causes fire. You can send an arsonist to Death Valley and he’ll never be arrested.”

A key revelation was the nonlinear relationship between the age structure of vegetation and the intensity of fire. Botanists and fire geographers discovered that “the probability for an intense fast running fire increases dramatically as the fuels exceed twenty years of age.” Indeed, half-century-old chaparral—heavily laden with dead mass—is calculated to burn with 50 times more intensity than 20-year-old chaparral. Put another way, an acre of old chaparral is the fuel equivalent of about 75 barrels of crude oil. Expanding these calculations even further, a great Malibu firestorm could generate the heat of three million barrels of burning oil at a temperature of 2,000 degrees.

“Total fire suppression,” the official policy in the Southern California mountains since 1919, has been a tragic error because it creates enormous stockpiles of fuel. The extreme fires that eventually occur can transform the chemical structure of the soil itself. The volatilization of certain plant chemicals creates a water-repellent layer in the upper soil, and this layer, by preventing percolation, dramatically accelerates subsequent sheet flooding and erosion. A monomaniacal obsession with managing ignition rather than chaparral accumulation simply makes doomsday-like firestorms and the great floods that follow them virtually inevitable.

For a generation after Rindge’s death, his widow, May, struggled to keep the family Shangri-la isolated and intact in the face of state attempts to push a highway through the rancho. Like one of the iron-fisted heroines played by Barbara Stanwyck, the so-called Queen of the Malibu closed the ranch roads in 1917, strung barbed wire along the perimeter, and posted armed fence-riders with orders to “shoot to kill.” In one episode during the 1920s, Rindge cowboys provoked a tense confrontation with deputy sheriffs after driving away a road survey crew at gunpoint. Hysterical newspaper headlines warned of “Civil War in Peaceful Southern California!”

But the pressure during the 1920s boom to open the coastal range to speculative subdivision was unrelenting. In the hyperbole of the era, occupation of the mountains became Los Angeles’s manifest destiny. “The day for the white invasion of the Santa Monicas has come,” declared real estate clairvoyant John Russell McCarthy in a booklet published by the Los Angeles Times in 1925. In anticipation of this land rush, the county sheriff had been arresting every vagrant in sight and putting them to work on chain gangs building roads through the rugged canyons just south of Rancho Malibu. (Radical critics at the time denounced this system as “deliberate real-estate graft” meant only to enhance land values in mountain districts “which the population of this city does not even know exists.”)

Widow Rindge, in any event, would not be allowed to stand in the way of “the march of adventuring Caucasians,” as McCarthy put it. After one of the most protracted legal battles in California history, the court granted the state right-of-way through Rancho Malibu. Opened to traffic in 1928, the Pacific Coast Highway gave delighted Angelenos their first view of the magnificent Malibu coast and introduced a potent new source of ignition—the automobile—into the inflammable landscape.

The indefatigable May Rindge continued to fight the road builders and developers in the courts, but in the end the costs of litigation forced her to lease choice parts of Malibu beachfront to a movie colony that included Jack Warner, Clara Bow, Dolores Del Rio, and Barbara Stanwyck herself. The colony’s unexpected housewarming was a lightning-swift wildfire that destroyed 13 new homes in late October 1929. Exactly a year later, walnut pickers in the Thousand Oaks area accidently ignited another blaze, which quickly grew into one of the greatest conflagrations in Malibu history.

*The 1930 Decker Canyon fire was a worst-case scenario involving 50-year-old chaparral and a fierce Santa Ana. Faced with a five-mile front of towering flames, 1,100 firefighters could do little except save their own lives. As the firestorm unexpectedly wheeled toward the Pacific Palisades, there was official panic. County Supervisor Wright, his nerves shaken by a visit to the collapsing fire lines, posted a hundred patrolmen at the Los Angeles city limits to alert residents for evacuation. Should the “fire raging in the Malibu District get closer,” he gasped, “our whole city might go.” Ultimately, this apocalypse (which may have given Nathanael West the idea for the burning of Los Angeles in his novel Day of the Locust) was avoided—no thanks to human initiative—when the fickle Santa Ana abruptly subsided.

In hindsight, the 1930 fire should have provoked a historic debate on the wisdom of opening Malibu to further development. Only a few months before the disaster, Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr.—the nation’s foremost landscape architect and designer of the California state park system—had come out in favor of public ownership of at least 10,000 acres of the most scenic beach and mountain areas between Topanga and Point Dume. Despite a further series of fires in 1935, 1936, and 1938 which destroyed almost four hundred homes in Malibu and Topanga Canyon, public officials stubbornly disregarded the wisdom of Olmsted’s proposal for a great public domain in the Santa Monicas. The county of Los Angeles, for example, squandered an extraordinary opportunity in 1938 to acquire 17,000 acres of the bankrupt Rindge estate in exchange for $1.1 million in delinquent taxes. At a mere $64 per acre, it would have been the deal of the century.

A monomaniacal obsession with managing ignition rather than chaparral accumulation simply makes doomsday-like firestorms and the great floods that follow them virtually inevitable.

Instead, in December 1940, an impecunious and heartbroken May Rindge was forced to put her entire empire on the auction block. Potential buyers were advised to make “an early selection” of “ocean-front lots, sites for villas, hotels, golf clubs, estates, beach and yacht clubs, income and business lots, small summer home places, ranchitos, 100–640-acre ranchos, and acreage for further subdivision.” The disconsolate Queen of the Malibu died two months later.

During the Second World War—severe drought years on the West Coast—hundreds of firewatchers were sent into the Southern California mountains to guard against rumored Axis saboteurs. A few months after the watchers were withdrawn, 150 Malibu homes were incinerated in another November fire. Yet this new disaster failed to discourage a postwar migration of artists, printers, book-dealers, poets, screenwriters, and architects (including Olmsted himself)—many of very modest means, some seeking to escape the scrutiny of McCarthyism—who envisaged Malibu as Carmel south. In an engaging memoir of this period, UCLA librarian Lawrence Clark Powell described a genial way of life devoted to Mozart and beachcombing.

He also provided a classic account of the onslaught of the terrible firestorm of Christmas week 1956, which, burning its way to the sea, retraced the path of the 1930 blaze.

The wind was still savage when we went to bed at ten, the sky swept clear, aglitter with stars, Anacapa flashed its warning light. The cypresses, pines and eucalyptuses were noisier than the surf. Cats’ fur threw sparks when stroked. We slept in spite of the sinister atmosphere.

I woke abruptly at four to see “a fierce glow in the sky.… God, the whole face of the mountain was burning, in a long line just below the summit, and moving toward us on the wind. Fear dried my mouth. I knew doom when I saw it.”

A Forest Service analysis of this disaster, which killed one person and destroyed one hundred homes, stressed the impossible challenge of combating such erratic and untamable natural forces.

Malibu fires combine most known elements of violent, erratic and extreme fire behavior: fire whirls, extreme rates of spread, sudden changes in speed and direction of fire spread, flashovers of unburned gases complicated by intense heat and impenetrable smoke held close to the ground.

Indeed the conflagration, which coincided with a waxing of Cold War anxieties, had unexpected political repercussions. “If the government could not defeat wildfires in the Santa Monicas,” critics asked, “how would it deal with possible nuclear holocausts?” Accordingly the Eisenhower administration acknowledged the Malibu blaze as “the first major fire disaster of national scope,” and Congress—more concerned with the credibility of a vast civil defense establishment than with the tragedy of local homeowners—debated how to provide “complete fire prevention and protection in Southern California.” (Large Malibu fires, moreover, would later be used by researchers to model the behavior of nuclear firestorms.)

According to fire historian Stephen Pyne, the Malibu blaze also marked the transition from the traditional forest fire problem to a “new fire regime” characterized by the “lethal mixture of homeowners and brush.” This artificial borderland of chaparral and suburb magnified the natural fire danger while creating new perils for firefighters who now had to defend thousands of individual structures as well as battle the fire front itself. “Whereas it was often remarked that chaparral, particularly that composed largely of chamise, is a fire-climax community, it is now joked that the same is true of the Southern California mountain suburb.”

Ultimately the 1956 fire—followed by two blazes, one month apart, in 1958–59 that severely burned eight firefighters and destroyed another hundred homes—proved the beginning of the end for bohemian Malibu. A perverse law of the new fire regime was that fire now stimulated both development and upward social succession. By declaring Malibu a federal disaster area and offering blaze victims tax relief as well as preferential low-interest loans, the Eisenhower administration established a precedent for the public subsidization of firebelt suburbs. Each new conflagration would be punctually followed by reconstruction on a larger and even more exclusive scale as land use regulations and sometimes even the fire code were relaxed to accommodate fire “victims.” As a result, renters and modest homeowners were displaced from areas like Broad Beach, Paradise Cove, and Point Dume by wealthy pyrophiles encouraged by artificially cheap fire insurance, socialized disaster relief, and an expansive public commitment to “defend Malibu.”

By declaring Malibu a federal disaster area and offering blaze victims tax relief as well as preferential low-interest loans, the Eisenhower administration established a precedent for the public subsidization of firebelt suburbs.

In the absence of fire-risk zoning of the sort that Olmsted had earlier advocated, the only constraint on development was the limited supply of water for firefighting and domestic consumption. The completion of a trunk water line, connecting Malibu to Metropolitan Water District reservoirs, was the signal for a new land rush. The county’s Regional Planning Commission promptly endorsed developers’ wildest fantasies by authorizing a staggering 1,400 percent expansion of the Malibu population over the next generation: from 7,983 residents in 1960 to a projected 117,000 in 1980. Although the California coastal acts of 1972 and 1976, under the populist slogan “Don’t Lock Up the Beach!” eventually slowed this real estate juggernaut (as well as squelching such nightmarish proposals as a Corral Canyon nuclear power plant and an eight-lane freeway through Malibu Canyon), the urbanization of the Malibu coast—Los Angeles’s “backyard Big Sur”—was a fait accompli.

Yet, even as they were opening the floodgates to destructive overdevelopment, county and state officials were also turning down every opportunity to expand public beach frontage (a miserable 22 percent of the total in 1969). Nor did they show any interest in creating a public land trust in the mountains, which were now entirely under private ownership, right down to the streambeds. Consequently, most of Malibu remained as inaccessible to the general public as it had been in the Rindge era. (For people of color, moreover, it was absolutely off-limits.) As historians of the coastal access battle put it: “The seven million people within an hour’s drive of Malibu got Beach Boys music and surfer movies, but the twenty thousand residents kept the beach.”

Returning for a final look, UCLA librarian Powell bitterly decried the aristocratization of his beloved coast:

In a feverish buying and selling of land, the coast has become utterly transformed and unrecognizable. Each succeeding house, bigger and grander, takes the view of its neighbors in a kind of unbridled competition.… Once lost, paradise can never be regained.… Developers have bulldozed the Santa Monicas beyond recovery.

The Malibu nouveaux riches built higher and higher in the mountain chamise with scant regard for the inevitable fiery consequences. The next firestorm, in late September 1970, coupled perfect fire weather (drought conditions, 100-degree heat, 3 percent humidity, and an 85-mile-per-hour Santa Ana wind) with a bumper crop of combustible wood-frame houses. According to firefighters, the popular cedar shake roofs “popped like popcorn” as a 20-mile wall of flames roared across the ridgeline of the Santa Monicas toward the sea. With the asphalt on the Pacific Coast Highway ablaze and all escape routes cut off, terrified residents of the famed Malibu Colony took refuge in the nearby lagoon. Firebrands fell like hellish rain on the beach, and day became night under the gigantic smoke pall. Coalescing with another blaze in the San Fernando Valley, this greatest of twentieth-century Malibu firestorms ultimately took 10 lives and charred 403 homes, including a ranch owned by then-governor Ronald Reagan.

Furious property owners—ignorant of the true balance of power between fire suppression and chaparral ecology—denounced local government for failing to save their homes and demanded new, expensive technological “fixes” for Malibu’s wildfire problems. “Elected officials, acutely sensitive to Malibu’s national prominence in political fund-raising, were quick to oblige. A celebrated example occurred in the late 1970s when the Malibu Colony was being pounded by the heaviest surf in a quarter-century. Larry Hagman, Dallas’s J. R. Ewing, is reported to have told Jerry Brown, the governor of California: “Jerry, do something. Goddammit, we’re in real trouble. Get your ass down here!” In short order, Malibu was declared a disaster area and National Guardsmen were helping sandbag Hagman’s—and sometimes Brown date Linda Ronstadt’s—homes.

Meanwhile, developers—racing to stay ahead of proposed “slow growth” coastal legislation—redoubled their subdivision efforts. The subsequent boom only provided more fuel for the three successive “Halloween” fires that consumed homes in October 1978, 1982, and 1985. The first two blazes both began in Agoura and roughly followed the route of the 1956 fire through Trancas Canyon, while the third repeated the itinerary of the 1930 Decker Canyon conflagration.

The 1978 fire, which consumed million-dollar homes in the Broad Beach area (where Powell had lived in the more humble 1950s), also set a new speed record: the fire crossed 13 miles of very rugged terrain in less than two hours (the 1970 fire had taken twice the time). One eyewitness described how the rampaging fire front “turned thousands of wild rabbits into balls of flaming fur that darted insanely about, only to start new fires at the spots where they fell.” The surviving beasts—domestic pets and wild animals alike—“mingled in chaos with human evacuees along the beach at Point Dume while oblivious surfers rode the waves.” Traumatized Malibu residents, also battered by disastrous floods and landslides in 1978 and 1980, could be forgiven for imagining that nature was getting angrier at them.”

* * *

A Brief Postscript:

When most of us build or buy a home, we carefully appraise the neighborhood. In Malibu the neighborhood is fire. Fire that revisits the coastal mountains several times a decade. In the past sixty years, ten of these frequent events have turned into all-consuming firestorms. The latest conflagration, the Woolsey Fire, has incinerated 1,500 homes and killed at least three people. It started in dry grasslands just south of Simi Valley, the site of the notorious trial of Rodney King’s assailants, then crossed a freeway to ignite dense coastal sage vegetation on the northern flank of the Santa Monica Mountains. The range’s deep canyons, perfectly aligned with the seasonal Santa Ana Winds, once again as bellows, accelerating the fire’s rush to the coast where it burned beach homes. The large number of residences lost attests not only to the ferocity of the conflagration but also to the amount of new construction since the 1993 firestorm.

Why more mansions in the fire-loving hills? Because of a perverse fact: after every major California blaze, homeowners and their representatives take shelter in the belief that if wildfire can’t be prevented, nonetheless, its destructiveness can be tamed. Thus the recently incorporated City of Malibu and the County of Los Angeles responded to the 1993 disaster with aggressive regulations about brush clearance and fire-resistant roof materials. Creating ‘defensible space’ became the new mantra, and it was soon echoed across California in the aftermath of other great fires, such as those that swept San Diego County in 2003 and 2007, burning 4,500 homes and killing 30 people. So instead of a long-overdue debate about the wisdom of rebuilding and the need to prevent further construction in areas of extreme natural fire danger, public attention was diverted into a discussion of the best methods for clearing vegetation (rototillers or goats?) and making homes fire-resistant. And if edge suburbs and backcountry subdivisions, in fact, could be fire-proofed, then why not add more? Since 1993. almost half of California’s new homes have been built in fire hazard areas. Yet, as a contemporary Galileo might say of defensible space, ‘still it burns.’ In the last eighteen months 20,000 homes and perhaps a 1,000 lives have been lost in one super-fire after another.

When most of us build or buy a home, we carefully appraise the neighborhood. In Malibu the neighborhood is fire.

Such fires are both old and new. Two different causalities are involved. First vegetation and topography, annually orchestrated by our dry hurricanes, define persistent fire patterns and frequencies. Without human intervention, however, lots of small fires ignited by late summer lightning create an intricate patchwork of vegetation of different ages and combustibility. The one-hundred-thousand-acre firestorms that we now experience annually did occur occasionally in the aftermath of epic droughts, but in a ‘natural’ fire regime they were rare. Fire prevention in the twentieth century, however, nurtured large areas of chaparral and forest into old age, creating perfect conditions for great fires. But as long as so many California towns were surrounded by citrus groves and agricultural land, fire even in its new, larger incarnation was usually stopped before it encountered housing. Today our horticultural firebreaks are gone, strawberry fields are now aging suburbs, and the quest for beach fronts, mountain view lots and big trees has created fire hazards that were once unimaginable.

Climate change, meanwhile, is coming to California in the form of drought and extreme summer heat, along with episodes of record torrential rain. Although scientists debate whether or not median annual precipitation averaged over decades will actually decline, more of it will fall as rain not as snow, a serious concern given that our water system depends on the Sierra snowpack to store and modulate the release of the water that irrigates cities and agribusiness. Moreover, rainfall is no longer an accurate predictor of fire risk. The winter of 2016-17 was the wettest in the history of Northern California, and spring brought the most glorious wildflower display in generations. But July was torrid and coastal temperatures, usually in the 70s, broke 100°F for a week. The greenery of spring was punctually baked into a bumper crop of brown fire-starter. When the winds began to blow in October, first Santa Rosa, north of San Francisco, and then Montecito, just south of Santa Barbara, caught fire. Three thousand homes were lost and several dozen people, mostly elderly and unaware of the approaching menace, died. But nature in California saves one last act and when the heavens opened up on Montecito’s bare burnt hills in January another 25 people disappeared in the fast-moving debris flows. This same encore awaits Malibu and the Sierra foothills over the next few months.

Finally, a word or two about Malibu and Paradise. The two cities share three common characteristics: both are very white (the Black population of Malibu is 1.5%; Paradise, 0.1%), relatively geriatric (double the state’s median percentage of over-65s), and inhabit notorious fire corridors.

Indeed the Paradise area plays in the same elite fire league as Malibu with six massive blazes since 1950, including back-to-back fires in the summer of 2008 that necessitated evacuations that gridlocked Paradise’s roads ─ the shape of chaos to come. But otherwise the cities are avatars of two completely different Californias. Home values in Paradise are half of the state’s median and a tenth of Malibu’s ─ making it one of the last affordable places in the state. Household income in Paradise is $13,000 below the state median; Malibu’s $60,000 above. Paradise also has a unique distinction: nearly 20 percent of its under-65 population is enumerated by the last Census as disabled. This extraordinary proportion of elderly, sick and disabled people undoubtedly contributed to the huge, inconsolable death toll. Two kinds of Californians will continue to live with fire: those who can afford (with indirect public subsidies) to rebuild and those who can’t afford to live anywhere else.

***

Excerpted from Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster by Mike Davis. ©1998 Mike Davis Published by Metropolitan Books, an imprint of Henry Holt and Company. Excerpted with permission.