community

When Liz Wilson saw the Eaton fire advancing, from her home in Pasadena last year, she knew that life would never be the same in her corner of Southern California. On Wednesday, the one-year anniversary of the disaster, A Concert for Altadena felt like the most optimistic place to be.

“People didn’t just lose their homes, they lost their community,” Wilson said, in the lobby of the Pasadena Civic Auditorium where scores of local acts had gathered for the benefit show. Organizers booked it to raise funds for the Altadena Builds Back Foundation, and to give locals something hopeful to attend on the painful day of Jan. 7.

“This is not just a fundraiser, but a way to reconnect and show support for community that’s surviving,” she said. “Altadena was and is an arts community, that’s a big part of it. We have so many friends and neighbors continuing to figure out if they’re coming back, if they’re able to rebuild. The more distant you get from it, you may forget. But we haven’t.”

The anniversary of the Eaton and Palisades fires, beginning one of the city’s most difficult years in recent history, was largely marked by quieter reflections on the loss and how much work still laid ahead. But Altadena in particular was a historic community for musicians and artists. For them, getting together for a show felt like a natural way to honor the occasion and look ahead.

Kevin Lyman, the Vans Warped Tour founder and USC music industry professor, is a two-decade Altadena resident who was displaced from his home for four months after the Eaton fire. He organized the concert for the community to use the day to reconnect, and keep focus on the work left to do.

“In this business, I’ve got to be an optimist, and every day I see more trucks coming into Altadena with lumber and workers. You go away for a few days and see a frame of a new home. But then you go to the next block, and there are five empty lots,” he said.

“One of the hardest parts is that if you’re living up there, you can go two miles away and life just goes on,” he added. “You’ve got to remind people that we’re still here, people still can still use help. Artists that survived and reestablished themselves are here supporting artists that haven’t been.”

Altadena resident and actor John C. Reilly hosted the night, noting the resilience of rebuilding efforts and tossing barbs at the utility company Southern California Edison, whose equipment ignited the fire: “A company that prioritized profits for shareholders over improving infrastructure,” as he put it. He pilloried President Trump’s reactions to the blaze: “He told us to go rake leaves? Go f— yourself, dude.”

The night highlighted ground-level activism from organizers like Heavenly Hughes of My Tribe Rise, who led the crowd in a raucous chant of “Altadena’s not for sale.” But the live performances found poignancy in the city’s spirit as a music town. L.A. Latin rock group Ozomatli started the night with a jubilant jam down the aisles, while Everclear’s Art Alexakis noted between riffs that after the Eaton fire displaced him, “I had to live in a hotel for five months, but I’m lucky.”

Travis Cooper drove down from Northern California for the show, moved by the ways Altadena held to its cultural identity after the Eaton fire. His parents lost a home in a fire in Redding a few years back, so “I can relate to how devastating that feels,” he said. “Even the threat of it growing up was horrific, so to have that actually happen was another level. But my parents had people donate clothes, places to stay, and that meant a lot to them, so we wanted to come support this community too.”

The headline act of the night was the Altadena folk-rock group Dawes, whose founders lost homes and gear in the Eaton fire. They’ve become emissaries for the neighborhood within the music industry, performing at last year’s Grammys just weeks after the fire.

At the Pasadena Civic Auditorium, they led a round robin of acts including Brad Paisley, the Killers’ Brandon Flowers, Aloe Blacc, Jenny Lewis and Rufus Wainwright. They were accompanied by vocal virtuosos Lucius and blues-rock rippers Judith Hill and Eric Krasno, each fixtures in the local music community trying to rebuild itself in the wake of the Eaton fire.

Altadena is a deeply intergenerational community, and the crowd felt the decades of L.A. music history in Stephen Stills coming out for Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth” next to a younger act like Lord Huron covering the Kinks’ “Strangers.”

Dawes is a veteran L.A. act, and songs like “All Your Favorite Bands” had new texture in the light of how the fire upended the lives of so many artists. “I hope the world sees the same person that you always were to me,” Taylor Goldsmith sang. “May all your favorite bands stay together.”

For those bands still trying to stay together, the night was redemptive. Jeffrey Paradise, the Poolside frontman who lost his home in the Palisades fire, DJed the concert’s official after-party. He’s since relocated to Glassell Park, and acknowledged that the fires are still a challenging topic, for him and for friends trying to support those displaced.

“It’s hard to talk about because so many things are mixed up in it,” he said. “It was the worst year of my life, but also great and heartwarming to see support from people. It’s so hard to answer how you’re doing because I don’t have an easy answer,” he said.

A concert like this was one way to acknowledge the gravity of last year’s loss, but also to raise money to help everyone get back to the land, people and music they love.

“It’s a disaster, and we’re getting through a disaster. I want to be resilient and help others, and do what I can to move forward,” he said. “It forces you to reinvent who you are and redefine what matters. I don’t have an option not to.”

Just like for much of the world, 2025 was a rough year for Casita Bookstore in Long Beach.

The Latina-owned business celebrated its third birthday on Dec. 3, but the milestone was marked by the sad realization that the store wasn’t going to make it through another year in its current location.

Shop owner Antonette Franceschi-Chavez posted a video on social media over the weekend discussing the store’s hardship.

“These last six months — especially in the summer — have been really hard, not only as a small business owner, but as a community, as a society,” she said. “We’ve depleted our savings, taken on some debt just to make sure we can make ends meet, but we’ve gotten to a point where we’re just not going to make it anymore.”

She explained that her business experienced a nearly 20% drop in sales year over year from 2024 to 2025. This situation has left her with two options: shut down the operation permanently or scale down the store to save some money and give the business a fighting chance.

In order to save jobs and build back up, Franceschi-Chavez announced that the store would be moving into a smaller place attached to her husband’s Long Beach barbershop — which is located within a couple of miles from Casita’s current location.

The video also included a plea for people to donate to a GoFundMe campaign.

“If our casita has ever touched you, helped you make a new friend, open your eyes to a new story, we’re asking for your help,” she said. “We need your help to be able to move, to be able to pay our employees, to be able to bounce back.”

(James Carbone / For De Los)

Franceschi-Chavez told The Times in a Wednesday phone interview that she began noting a marked drop in business beginning in September. In an effort to cut back on costs, she decided to stop some of the programming at the bookstore, including a cafecito club because getting coffee for people was becoming too expensive.

“We tried everything that we could to try and get more people in our doors,” she said. “We had to reach into our savings to cover those summer months. Then I started going into my credit cards. I had to start pulling small business loans. I was just digging myself into deeper holes because our sales were dropping and people were not walking in the door.”

The 38-year-old business owner hoped that her store and her two employees will be fully transitioned to their new location by around mid-February. She noted that the GoFundMe has helped ensure that her employees will be paid, even if the store has to shut down operations for a few weeks during the transition.

“The internet is a beautiful place sometimes — all these people that don’t know me, but they believe in our mission. They want to see women-owned small businesses and businesses of color continue in a world where Amazon can deliver something in five minutes and everything’s always on sale,” Franceschi-Chavez said.

“It’s really beautiful to see that people out there still really care about their community and about having a space for marginalized groups to grow, gather and connect to each other.”

Illustrating the levels of generosity from the public and financial struggle of the shop, Franceschi-Chavez said that in the four days since posting about the store’s troubles it reached the amount of sales that it did in all of December.

She explained that store hours will remain the same as usual as things get settled and cautiously expressed plans to have a couple of community events at the current location in the coming weeks.

The homey bookstore was featured in the De Los 101 guide as one of the 10 best Latino-owned bookstores and comic shops in L.A.

Amid the COVID-19 shutdowns, Franceschi-Chavez wanted to spend time with her daughter and decided to open a bookstore.

The former dual-language teacher often found that there were not enough Spanish-language books available for children to read, which is why the shop carries selections like “Papá’s Magical Water-Jug Clock” by comedian Jesús Trejo and “Tejedora del Arcoiris” by Linda Elovitz Marshall. The bookstore also prides itself on its selection of LGBTQ+ literature for children, including “The Hips on the Drag Queen Go Swish, Swish, Swish” by drag queen Lil Miss Hot Mess.

“It’s a little craftsman house that we turned into a bookstore, so it lent itself to the name,” Franceschi-Chavez said. “It makes you feel like you’re visiting your tia’s house. It’s so warm and that’s one of the biggest pieces that makes it really hard to let go. Our vision of that little dream is going away.”

The NFL regular season has ended.

For some teams, the search for a new head coach has begun.

The Las Vegas Raiders fired Pete Carroll on Monday morning after a 3-14 season. The Atlanta Falcons fired coach Raheem Morris, as well as general manager Terry Fontenot, on Sunday night after a second straight 8-9 finish. The Cleveland Browns fired coach Kevin Stefanski after six seasons, the team announced Monday morning following a 5-11 finish this season.

Two other teams parted ways with their head coaches during the season. The Tennessee Titans fired Brian Callahan in October after a 1-5 start to the season. The New York Giants fired Brian Daboll in November after a 2-8 start.

With NFL’s Black Monday already in full swing, other teams are likely to make similar moves. Here’s a look at everything that has happened so far. This list will continue to be updated as more changes occur.

Las Vegas Raiders

Former USC coach Pete Carroll, 74, ended his short tenure with the Raiders with a victory against the Kansas City Chiefs on Sunday. But it didn’t make up for what had been a rough season that contained at least two goose eggs on the scoreboard.

So, Monday’s announcement was not completely unexpected.

“The Las Vegas Raiders have relieved Pete Carroll of his duties as head coach,” team owner Mark Davis said in a statement released by the team. “We appreciate and wish him and his family all the best.

“Moving forward, General Manager John Spytek will lead all football operations in close collaboration with Tom Brady, including the search for the club’s next head coach. Together, they will guide football decisions with a shared focus on leadership, culture, and alignment with the organization’s long-term vision and goals.”

Atlanta Falcons

The Falcons were eliminated from playoff contention after a 37-9 loss to the Seattle Seahawks on Dec. 9. Atlanta went on to win its final four games to finish in a three-way tie with the Carolina Panthers and Tampa Bay Buccaneers for first place in the NFC South (the Panthers won the division based on head-to-head win percentage).

It wasn’t enough to save Morris, who went 16-18 in two seasons with the Falcons. Fontenot had served as the team’s general manager since January 2021. Atlanta hasn’t had a winning season since 2017.

“I have great personal affinity for both Raheem and Terry and appreciate their hard work and dedication to the Falcons, but I believe we need new leadership in these roles moving forward,” Falcons owner Arthur Blank said in a statement.

“The decision to move away from people who represent the organization so well and have a shared commitment to the values that are important to the organization is not an easy one, but the results on the field have not met our expectations or those of our fans and leadership. I wish Raheem and Terry the absolute best in their future pursuits.”

Cleveland Browns

Stefanski was named the Associated Press coach of the year in 2020 and 2023, led the Browns into the playoffs in both of those seasons and coached them to a wildcard-round win in 2020. He also had four losing seasons with the team, including this year’s 5-11 campaign, and leaves with a 46-58 overall record.

“We have tremendous gratitude for Kevin’s leadership of the Cleveland Browns over the last six seasons,” Browns owners Jimmy and Dee Haslam said Monday in a statement. “He is a good football coach and an even better person. We appreciate all his hard work and dedication to our organization but our results over the last two seasons have not been satisfactory, and we believe a change at the head coaching position is necessary.”

Stefanski said in a statement released by the Browns: “After six seasons as the head coach of the Cleveland Browns, I leave with an immense sense of gratitude. When I arrived in January of 2020, this organization, this community and Browns fans embraced me and my family with open arms. I cannot express properly in words how good we have been treated. A sincere ‘Thank You’ to everyone who I have been so blessed to work for and with over these six seasons. … I wish all of you nothing but success.”

The Browns said they will retain general manager Andrew Berry.

New York Giants

Daboll had a 20-40-1 record during his three-plus seasons with the Giants. The team went 2-5 under interim coach Mike Kafka, who was promoted from offensive coordinator. The new coach will inherit quarterback Jaxson Dart, whom the Giants selected with the No. 25 overall pick in the 2025 draft.

“The past few seasons have been nothing short of disappointing, and we have not met our expectations for this franchise,” Giants president John Mara and chairman Steve Tisch said in a joint statement Nov. 10. “We understand the frustrations of our fans, and we will work to deliver a significantly improved product.

“We appreciate Coach Daboll for his contributions to our organization. We wish the Daboll family all the best in the future.”

Tennessee Titans

Callahan was 4-19 overall when he was fired six games into his second season with the Titans. The team went 2-9 under interim coach Mike McCoy. Cam Ward, the No. 1 overall pick in the 2025 draft, started all 17 games at quarterback.

“We are grateful for Brian’s investment in the Titans and Tennessee community during his tenure as head coach. We thank him and his family for being exemplary ambassadors of the Tennessee Titans,” president of football operations Chad Brinker said in an Oct. 13 statement.

“While we are committed to a patient and strategic plan to build a sustainable, winning football program, we have not demonstrated sufficient growth. Our players, fans, and community deserve a football team that achieves a standard we are not currently meeting, and we are committed to making the hard decisions necessary to reach and maintain that standard.”

The Associated Press contributed to this report.

Have you heard of Orange County? It’s where the good Republicans go before they die.

It should come as no surprise that Orange County, a beloved county for the grandfather of modern American conservatism, Ronald Reagan, would be the fertile landscape for far-right ideology and white supremacy. Reaganomics aside, the O.C. has long since held a special if not slightly off-putting place, of oceanfront leisure, modern luxury and all-American family entertainment — famed by hit shows (“The Real Housewives of Orange County,” “The O.C.” and “Laguna Beach,” among others). Even crime in Orange County has been sensationalized and glamorized, with themes veneered by opulence, secrecy and illusions of suburban perfection. To Eric Lichtblau, the Pulitzer Prize winner and former Los Angeles Times reporter, the real story is far-right terrorism — and its unspoken grip on the county’s story.

“One of the reasons I decided to focus on Orange County is that it’s not the norm — not what you think of as the Deep South. It’s Disneyland. It’s California,” Lichtblau says. “These are people who are trying to take back America from the shores of Orange County because it’s gotten too brown in their view.”

His newest investigative book, “American Reich,” focuses on the 2018 murder of gay Jewish teenager Blaze Bernstein as a lens to examine Orange County and how the hate-driven murder at the hands of a former classmate connects to a national web of white supremacy and terrorism.

I grew up a few miles away from Bernstein, attending a performing arts school similar to his — and Sam Woodward’s. I remember the early discovery of the murder where Woodward became a suspect, followed by the news that the case was being investigated as a hate crime. The murder followed the news cycle for years to come, but in its coverage, there was a lack of continuity in seeing how this event fit into a broader pattern and history ingrained in Orange County. There was a bar down the street from me where an Iranian American man was stabbed just for not being white. The seaside park of Marblehead, where friends and I visited for homecoming photos during sunset, was reported as a morning meet-up spot for neo-Nazis in skeleton masks training for “white unity” combat. These were just some of the myriad events Lichtblau explores as symptoms of something more unsettling than one-offs.

Samuel Lincoln Woodward, of Newport Beach, speaks with his attorney during his 2018 arraignment on murder charges in the death of Blaze Bernstein.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Lichtblau began the book in 2020, in the midst of COVID. He wanted to find a place emblematic of the national epidemic that he, like many others, was witnessing — some of the highest record of anti-Asian attacks, assaults on Black, Latino and LGBTQ+ communities, and rising extremist rhetoric and actions.

“Orange County kind of fit a lot of those boxes,” Lichtblau says. “The horrible tragedy with Blaze Bernstein being killed by one of his high school classmates — who had been radicalized — reflected a growing brazenness of the white supremacy movement we’ve seen as a whole in America in recent years.”

Bernstein’s death had been only two years prior. The Ivy League student had agreed to meet former classmate Woodward one evening during winter break. The two had never been close; Woodward had been a lone wolf during his brief time at the Orange County School of the Arts, before transferring due to the school’s liberalness. On two separate occasions over the years, Woodward had reached out to Bernstein under the pretense of grappling with his own sexuality. Bernstein had no idea he was being baited, or that his former classmate was part of a sprawling underground network of far-right extremists — connected to mass shooters, longtime Charles Manson followers, neo-Nazi camps, and online chains where members bonded over a shared fantasy of harming minorities and starting a white revolution.

“But how is this happening in 2025?”

These networks didn’t appear out of nowhere. They had long been planted in Orange County’s soil, leading back to the early 1900s when the county was home to sprawling orange groves.

Mexican laborers, who formed the backbone of the orange-grove economy (second to oil and generating wealth that even rivaled the Gold Rush), were met with violence when the unionized laborers wanted to strike for better conditions. The Orange County sheriff, also an orange grower, issued an order. “SHOOT TO KILL, SAYS SHERIFF,” the banner headline in the Santa Ana Register read. Chinese immigrants also faced violence. They had played a large role in building the county’s state of governance, but were blamed for a case of leprosy, and at the suggestion of a councilman, had their community of Chinatown torched while the white residents watched.

Gideon Bernstein and Jeanne Pepper Bernstein, center, parents of Blaze Bernstein, speak during a news conference after a 2018 sentencing for Samuel Woodward at Orange County Superior Court.

(Jeff Gritchen/Pool / Orange County Register)

Leading up to the new millennium brought an onslaught of white power rock coming out of the county’s music scene. Members with shaved heads and Nazi memorabilia would dance to rage-fueled declarations of white supremacy, clashing, if not worse, with non-white members of the community while listening to lyrics like, “When the last white moves out of O.C., the American flag will leave with me… We’ll die for a land that’s yours and mine” (from the band Youngland).

A veteran and member of one of Orange County’s white power bands, Wade Michael Page, later murdered six congregants at at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin in 2012.

“It’s come and gone,” says Lichtblau, who noticed these currents shifting in the early 2000s — and over the years, when Reagandland broke in certain parts to become purple. Even with sights of blue amid red, Trump on the landscape brought a new wave — one that Lichtblau explains was fueled by “claiming their country back” and “capturing the moment that Trump released.”

It can be hard to fathom the reality: that the Orange County of white supremacy exists alongside an Orange County shaped both economically and culturally by its immigrant communities, where since 2004, the majority of its residents are people of color. Then again, to anyone who has spent considerable time there, you’ll notice the strange cognitive dissonance among its cultural landscape.

It’s a peculiar sight to see a MAGA stand selling nativist slogans on a Spanish-named street, or Confederate flags in the back of pickup trucks pulling into the parking lots of neighborhood taquerias or Vietnamese pho shops for a meal. Or some of the families who have lived in the county for generations still employing Latino workers, yet inside their living rooms Fox News will be playing alarmist rhetoric about “Latinos,” alongside Reagan-era memorabilia proudly displayed alongside framed Bible verses. This split reality — a multicultural community and one of the far-right — oddly fills the framework of a county born from a split with its neighbor, L.A., only to develop an aggressive identity against said neighbor’s perceived liberalness.

It’s this cultural rejection that led to “the orange curtain” or the “Orange County bubble,” which suggest these racially-charged ideologies stay contained or, exhaustingly, echo within the county’s sphere. On the contrary, Lichtblau has seen how these white suburban views spill outward. Look no further than the U.S. Capitol insurrection on Jan. 6, also the book’s release date.

While popular belief might assume these insurrectionists came from deeply conservative areas, it was actually the contrary, as Lichtblau explains. “It was from places like Orange County,” he says, “where the voting patterns were seeing the most shift.” Some might argue — adamantly or reluctantly — that Jan. 6 was merely a stop-the-steal protest gone wrong, a momentary lapse or mob mentality. But Lichtblau sees something much larger. “This was white pride on display. There was a lot of neo-Nazi stuff, including a lot of Orange County people stuff.”

As a society, it’s been collectively decided to expect the profile of the lone wolf killer, the outcast, wearing an identity strung from the illusions of a white man’s oppression — the type to rail against unemployment benefits but still cash the check. Someone like Sam Woodward, cut from the vestiges of the once venerable conservative Americana family, the type of God-fearing Christians who, as “American Reich” studies in the Woodward household, teach and bond over ideological hate, and even while entrenched in a murder case, continuously reach out to the victim’s family to the point where the judge has to intervene. The existence of these suburban families is known, as is the slippery hope one will never cross paths with them in this ever-spinning round of American roulette. But neither these individuals nor their hate crimes are random, as Lichtblau discusses, and the lone wolves aren’t as alone as assumed. These underground channels have long been ingrained in the American groundscape like landmines, now reactivated by a far-right digital landscape that connects these members and multiplies their ideologies on a national level. Lichtblau’s new investigation goes beyond the paradigm of Orange County to show a deeper cultural epidemic that’s been taking shape.

Beavin Pappas is an arts and culture writer. Raised in Orange County, he now splits his time between New York and Cairo, where he is at work on his debut book.

For faith leaders supporting and ministering to anxious immigrants across the United States, 2025 was fraught with challenges and setbacks. For many in these religious circles, the coming year could be worse.

The essence of their fears: President Trump has become harsher with his contemptuous rhetoric and policy proposals, blaming immigrants for problems from crime to housing shortages and, in a social media post, demanding “REVERSE MIGRATION.”

Haitians who fled gang violence in their homeland, as well as Afghans allowed entry after assisting the U.S. in Afghanistan before the Taliban takeover, now fear that their refuge in America may end due to get-tough policy changes. Somali Americans, notably in Minnesota’s Twin Cities, worry about their future after Trump referred to them as “garbage.”

After Trump’s slurs, the chair of the Catholic bishops conference’s subcommittee on racial justice urged public officials to refrain from dehumanizing language.

“Each child of God has value and dignity,” said the bishop of Austin, Texas, Daniel Garcia. “Language that denigrates a person or community based on his or her ethnicity or country of origin is incompatible with this truth.”

Here’s a look at what lies ahead for these targeted immigrant communities, and the faith leaders supporting them.

Haitians in limbo

In 2024, Trump falsely accused Haitians in Springfield, Ohio, of eating their neighbors’ cats and dogs. It worsened fears about anti-immigrant sentiment in the mostly white, blue-collar city of about 59,000, where more than 15,000 Haitians live and work.

Thousands of them settled in Springfield in recent years under the Temporary Protected Status program.

Their prospects now seem dire. The TPS program, allowing many Haitians to remain legally in Springfield and elsewhere, expires in early February.

“It’s going to be an economic and humanitarian disaster,” said the Rev. Carl Ruby, pastor of Central Christian Church — one of several Springfield churches supporting the Haitians.

Ruby and Viles Dorsainvil, a leader of Springfield’s Haitian community, traveled recently to Washington to seek help from members of Congress.

“Every single legislator we’ve talked to has said nothing is going to happen legislatively. Trump’s rhetoric keeps getting harsher,” Ruby said. “It just doesn’t feel like anything is going our way.”

Many Haitians fear for their lives if they return to their gang-plagued homeland.

Faith communities have come together to support immigrants in the face of Trump’s crackdown, Ruby said.

“It’s increasing our resolve to oppose this,” he said. “There are more and more churches in Springfield saying we will provide sanctuary. … We will do whatever it takes to protect our members.”

Afghan refugees

Trump suspended the U.S. refugee program on the first day of his second term. Halting the program and its federal funding affected hundreds of faith-based organizations assisting refugees.

Among them was Lutheran Social Services of the National Capital Area, which serves the region around Washington, D.C., and lost 68% of its budget this year. The organization laid off two-thirds of its staff, shrinking from nearly 300 employees to 100.

Many of its employees and nearly two-thirds of its clients are Afghans. Many worked with the U.S. in Afghanistan and fled after the Taliban’s takeover from a U.S.-backed government in 2021.

The Trump administration announced new immigration restrictions after an Afghan national became the suspect in the Nov. 26 shooting of two National Guard members in Washington.

“It shook up our team. It was awful,” said Kristyn Peck, CEO of LSSNCA.

Peck said there is increased fear among Afghans on her staff and a false public narrative that Afghan immigrants are a threat.

“A whole group of people have now been targeted and blamed for this senseless act of violence,” she said.

She still finds reasons for hope.

“We continue to do the good work,” Peck said. “Even in challenging moments, we just continue to see people putting their faith into action.”

Volunteers have stepped up to provide services that employees no longer have funding to provide, including a program that helps Afghan women with English-language and job-skills training.

U.S.-based World Relief, a global Christian humanitarian organization overseen by the National Association of Evangelicals, has joined left-of-center religious groups decrying the new crackdown on Afghan refugees.

“When President Trump announces his intention to ‘permanently halt’ all migration from ‘Third World countries,’ he’s insulting the majority of the global Church,” declared World Relief CEO Myal Greene. “When his administration halts processing for all Afghans on account of the evil actions of one person, he risks abandoning tens of thousands of others who risked their lives alongside the U.S. military.”

Somalis targeted by Trump

In mid-December, imams and other leaders of Minnesota’s Somali community established a task force to tackle the fallout from major fraud scandals, a surge in immigration enforcement, and Trump’s contemptuous words toward the largest group of Somali refugees in the U.S.

“We’re not minimizing the crime, but we’re amplifying the successes,” said imam Yusuf Abdulle.

He directs the Islamic Association of North America, a network of more than three dozen mostly East African mosques. About half are in Minnesota, which, since the late 1990s, has been home to growing numbers of Somali refugees who are increasingly visible in local and U.S. politics.

“For unfortunate things like fraud or youth violence, every immigrant community has been through tough times,” Abdulle said. “For the number of years here, Somali is a very resilient, very successful community.”

Even though most Somalis in Minnesota are U.S. citizens or lawfully present, Abdulle said, many deserted local businesses and mosques when immigration enforcement surged.

The new task force includes more than two dozen faith and business leaders, as well as community organizers. Addressing their community’s fears is the first challenge, followed by increased advocacy ahead of the 2026 midterm elections.

“Every election year the rhetoric goes up. And so we want to push back against these hateful rhetorics, but also bring our community together,” said community leader Abdullahi Farah.

Faith leaders respond

In mid-November, U.S. Catholic bishops voted overwhelmingly to issue a “special message” decrying developments causing fear and anxiety among immigrants. It marked the first time in 12 years that the bishops invoked this urgent way of speaking collectively.

“We are concerned about the conditions in detention centers and the lack of access to pastoral care,” said the message. “We oppose the indiscriminate mass deportation of people. We pray for an end to dehumanizing rhetoric and violence, whether directed at immigrants or at law enforcement.”

The bishops thanked priests, nuns and lay Catholics accompanying and assisting immigrants.

“We urge all people of goodwill to continue and expand such efforts,” the message said.

The presiding bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, Yehiel Curry, issued a similar pastoral message last month thanking ELCA congregations for supporting immigrants amid “aggressive and indiscriminate immigration enforcement.”

“The racial profiling and harm to our immigrant neighbors show no signs of diminishing, so we will heed God’s call to show up alongside these neighbors,” Curry wrote.

HIAS, an international Jewish nonprofit serving refugees and asylum-seekers, has condemned recent Trump administration moves.

“As a Jewish organization, we also know all too well what it means for an entire community to be targeted because of the actions of one person,” HIAS said.

“We will always stand in solidarity with people seeking the opportunity to rebuild their lives in safety, including those being targeted now by harmful policies and hateful rhetoric in the Afghan American and Somali American communities.”

Crary, Dell’Orto, Henao and Stanley write for the Associated Press.

John Slusher shouldn’t admit this. When the former Nike executive signed on to oversee LA28’s commercial operations last year, he looked at the private organizing committee’s lofty financial goals with some concern. Sales were “incredibly slow.” There was momentum around the first Olympics in L.A. in more than 40 years, but not many results.

Yet.

Weeks after celebrating his one-year anniversary with the group responsible for organizing and delivering the 2028 Games, Slusher and his team delivered a $2-billion present.

After announcing 15 partnerships in 2025, LA28 met its goal of reaching $2 billion in corporate sponsorship by this year, which Slusher said puts the group well on track to meet or exceed its $2.52-billion goal for domestic partnerships that serves as the largest line item funding the 2028 Games.

“Each avenue of commercial, whether it’s sponsorship, licensing, ticketing, hospitality, they’re all just kind of smoking hot, if you will, right now,” Slusher said in a recent interview with The Times. “I think there’s a lot of momentum and a lot of excitement around driving the business. And I think we’re all super focused on delivering an amazing, financially responsible Games.”

Since its bid for the Games began in 2016, LA28 has promised to deliver and operate the event with private funds. The estimated budget is $7.15 billion for L.A.’s first Olympics since 1984. After last year’s Paris Olympics, focus has shifted to the United States as the country begins a major decade of major sports events, including the 2026 FIFA World Cup, the 2028 Olympics and the 2034 Winter Olympics held in Salt Lake City.

“There is still much work to do and I can assure you the team is not resting,” U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Committee Chief Executive Officer Sarah Hirshland said during a media conference call. “But the reality is that this success puts the LA28 Games on track to be very successful while building significant commercial value for Team USA for many years to come. We couldn’t be more pleased with where we sit.”

Slusher, the chief executive officer responsible for revenue for LA28 and U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Properties, said the group is still selling for major sponsorship categories, including quick service restaurant, retail, tech and finance. Ticket registration begins on Jan. 14 with 14 million tickets available for the Olympics and Paralympics, which would break the record for Games tickets sold. Volunteering opportunities connected to LA28 in the community have already begun and volunteer applications for the Games open in the summer of 2026.

From record commercial growth to launching volunteer and community ticketing programs earlier than ever, our north star continues to be delivering a fiscally responsible Games with meaningful impact for L.A. and beyond,” LA28 CEO Reynold Hoover said in a statement. “We’re working day in and day out to make the Games more accessible than ever to the millions of people who want to get involved in a meaningful way.”

LA28 announced a ticket donation program with hopes of making tickets accessible to local fans through community groups. The Rams were the first participants, donating $5 million. Tickets will begin at $28 and LA28 plans to have one-third of tickets under $100.

Ticketing and hospitality is supposed to cover $2.5 billion of LA28’s total budget, the second-largest source of revenue for the Games.

A study done by the Southern California Assn. of Governments estimated the Games will generate between $13.6 billion and $17.6 billion in additional gross domestic product across a six-county region between 2024-2029. The study considered LA28’s $7.15-billion budget, estimated visitor spending and a portion of Games-related transportation infrastructure investments.

While only four of the Olympic venues are outside of L.A. County, the study estimates that five other Southern California counties — Orange, Riverside, San Bernardino, Ventura and Imperial — could still enjoy roughly 33% of the economic benefit because of visitor spending and work provided elsewhere in the region. Orange County, which will host the volleyball competition at Honda Center and surfing at nearby Trestles, could draw between $2.88 billion and $2.44 billion in gross domestic product from the Games, the second-most behind L.A.’s range of $8.96 billion and $11.97 billion.

The study was limited to only short-term gains up to five years after the Games, which does not take into account any “legacy effects.” The 2028 Games will have no permanent venue construction, but the planning agency notes that transportation infrastructure built to support the Games could benefit the region for decades in the future.

Transportation updates are largely the responsibility of the city, which is relying on federal grants to expand the Metro rail system and add more buses for the Games. Improvements to Los Angeles International Airport have been plodding: The People Mover train’s opening date has been delayed again to June 2026.

Outside of money used for infrastructure improvements, L.A. is also at risk to foot the first $270 million in potential overruns from LA28. If the private organizing committee’s debt goes further, the next $270 million would go to the state and anything remaining would return back to the city.

OXNARD — A father who has become the sole caretaker for his two young children after his wife was deported. A school district seeing absenteeism similar to what it experienced during the pandemic. Businesses struggling because customers are scared to go outside.

These are just a sampling of how this part of Ventura County is reckoning with the aftermath of federal immigration raids on Glass House cannabis farms six months ago, when hundreds of workers were detained and families split apart. In some instances, there is still uncertainty about what happened to minors left behind after one or both parents were deported. Now, while Latino households gather for the holidays, businesses and restaurants are largely quiet as anxiety about more Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids lingers.

“There’s a lot of fear that the community is living,” said Alicia Flores, executive director of La Hermandad Hank Lacayo Youth and Family Center. This time of year, clients usually ask her about her holiday plans, but now no one asks. Families are divided by the U.S. border or have loved ones in immigration detainment. “They were ready for Christmas, to make tamales, to make pozole, to make something and celebrate with the family. And now, nothing.”

At the time, the immigration raids on Glass House Farms in Camarillo and Carpinteria were some of the largest of their kind nationwide, resulting in chaotic scenes, confusion and violence. At least 361 undocumented immigrants were detained, many of them third-party contractors for Glass House. One of those contractors, Jaime Alanis Garcia, died after he fell from a greenhouse rooftop in the July 10 raid.

Jacqueline Rodriguez, in mirror, works on a customer’s hair as Silvia Lopez, left, owner of Divine Hair Design, waits for customers in downtown Oxnard on Dec. 19, 2025.

(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)

The raids catalyzed mass protests along the Central Coast and sent a chill through Oxnard, a tight-knit community where many families work in the surrounding fields and live in multigenerational homes far more modest than many on the Ventura coast. It also reignited fears about how farmworker communities — often among the most low-paid and vulnerable parts of the labor pool — would be targeted during the Trump administration’s intense deportation campaign.

In California, undocumented workers represent nearly 60% of the agricultural workforce, and many of them live in mixed-immigration-status households or households where none are citizens, said Ana Padilla, executive director of the UC Merced Community and Labor Center. After the Glass House raid, Padilla and UC Merced associate professor Edward Flores identified economic trends similar to the Great Recession, when private-sector jobs fell. Although undocumented workers contribute to state and federal taxes, they don’t qualify for unemployment benefits that could lessen the blow of job loss after a family member gets detained.

“These are households that have been more affected by the economic consequences than any other group,” Padilla said. She added that California should consider distributing “replacement funds” for workers and families that have lost income because of immigration enforcement activity.

An Oxnard store owner who sells quinceañera and baptism dresses — and who asked that her name not be used — says she has lost 60% of her business since the immigrant raids this year at Glass House farms.

(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)

Local businesses are feeling the effects as well. Silvia Lopez, who has run Divine Hair Design in downtown Oxnard for 16 years, said she’s lost as much as 75% of business after the July raid. The salon usually saw 40 clients a day, she said, but on the day after the raid, it had only two clients — and four stylists who were stunned. Already, she said, other salon owners have had to close, and she cut back her own hours to help her remaining stylists make enough each month.

“Everything changed for everyone,” she said.

In another part of town, a store owner who sells quinceañera and baptism dresses said her sales have dropped by 60% every month since August, and clients have postponed shopping. A car shop owner, who declined to be identified because he fears government retribution, said he supported President Trump because of his campaign pledge to help small-business owners like himself. But federal loans have been difficult to access, he said, and he feels betrayed by the president’s deportation campaign that has targeted communities such as Oxnard.

“There’s a lot of fear that the community is living,” said Alicia Flores, executive director of La Hermandad Hank Lacayo Youth and Family Center in downtown Oxnard, on Dec. 19, 2025.

(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)

“Glass House had a big impact,” he said. “It made people realize, ‘Oh s—, they’re hitting us hard.’ ”

The raid’s domino effect has raised concerns about the welfare of children in affected households. Immigration enforcement actions can have detrimental effects on young children, according to the American Immigration Council, and they can be at risk of experiencing severe psychological distress.

Olivia Lopez, a community organizer at Central Coast Alliance United for a Sustainable Economy, highlighted the predicament of one father. He became the sole caretaker of his infant and 4-year-old son after his wife was deported, and can’t afford child care. He is considering sending the children across the border to his wife in Mexico, who misses her kids.

In a separate situation, Lopez said, an 18-year-old has been suddenly thrust into caring for two siblings after her mother, a single parent, was deported.

Additionally, she said she has heard stories of children left behind, including a 16-year-old who does not want to leave the U.S. and reunite with her mother who was deported after the Glass House raid. She said she suspects that at least 50 families — and as many as 100 children — lost both or their only parent in the raid.

“I have questions after hearing all the stories: Where are the children, in cases where two parents, those responsible for the children, were deported? Where are those children?” she said. “How did we get to this point?”

Robin Godfrey, public information officer for the Ventura County Human Services Agency, which is responsible for overseeing child welfare in the county, said she could not answer specific questions about whether the agency has become aware of minors left behind after parents were detained.

“Federal and state laws prevent us from confirming or denying if children from Glass House Farms families came into the child welfare system,” she said in a statement.

The raid has been jarring in the Oxnard School District, which was closed for summer vacation but reopened on July 10 to contact families and ensure their well-being, Supt. Ana DeGenna said. Her staff called all 13,000 families in the district to ask whether they needed resources and whether they wanted access to virtual classes for the upcoming school year.

Even before the July 10 raid, DeGenna and her staff were preparing. In January, after Trump was inaugurated, the district sped up installing doorbells at every school site in case immigration agents attempted to enter. They referred families to organizations that would help them draft affidavits so their U.S.-born children could have legal guardians, in case the parents were deported. They asked parents to submit not just one or two, but as many as 10 emergency contacts in case they don’t show up to pick up their children.

Rodrigo is considering moving back to Mexico after living in the U.S. for 42 years.

(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)

With a district that is 92% Latino, she said, nearly everyone is fearful, whether they are directly or indirectly affected, regardless if they have citizenship. Some families have self-deported, leaving the country, while children have changed households to continue their schooling. Nearly every morning, as raids continue in the region, she fields calls about sightings of ICE vehicles near schools. When that happens, she said, she knows attendance will be depressed to near COVID-19 levels for those surrounding schools, with parents afraid to send their children back to the classroom.

But unlike the pandemic, there is no relief in knowing they’ve experienced the worst, such as the Glass House raid, which saw hundreds of families affected in just a day, she said. The need for mental health counselors and support has only grown.

“We have to be there to protect them and take care of them, but we have to acknowledge it’s a reality they’re living through,” she said. “We can’t stop the learning, we can’t stop the education, because we also know that is the most important thing that’s going to help them in the future to potentially avoid being victimized in any way.”

Jasmine Cruz, 21, launched a GoFundMe page after her father was taken during the Glass House raid. He remains in detention in Arizona, and the family hired an immigration attorney in hopes of getting him released.

Each month, she said, it gets harder to pay off their rent and utility bills. She managed to raise about $2,700 through GoFundMe, which didn’t fully cover a month of rent. Her mother is considering moving the family back to Mexico if her father is deported, Cruz said.

“I tried telling my mom we should stay here,” she said. “But she said it’s too much for us without our dad.”

Many of the families torn apart by the Glass House raid did not have plans in place, said Lopez, the community organizer, and some families were resistant because they believed they wouldn’t be affected. But after the raid, she received calls from several families who wanted to know whether they could get family affidavit forms notarized. One notary, she said, spent 10 hours working with families for free, including some former Glass House workers who evaded the raid.

“The way I always explain it is, look, everything that is being done by this government agency, you can’t control,” she said. “But what you can control is having peace of mind knowing you did something to protect your children and you didn’t leave them unprotected.”

For many undocumented immigrants, the choices are few.

Rodrigo, who is undocumented and worries about ICE reprisals, has made his living with his guitar, which he has been playing since he was 17.

While taking a break outside a downtown Oxnard restaurant, he looked tired, wiping his forehead after serenading a pair, a couple and a group at a Mexican restaurant. He has been in the U.S. for 42 years, but since the summer raid, business has been slow. Now, people no longer want to hire for house parties.

The 77-year-old said he wants to retire but has to continue working. But he fears getting picked up at random, based on how abusive agents have been. He’s thinking about the new year, and returning to Mexico on his own accord.

“Before they take away my guitar,” he said, “I better go.”

It’s opening night at Scotland’s newest community pub, Oakbank Inn, which sits on the Holy Loch in the village of Sandbank, Argyll. It’s a clear, cold night, and the inn couldn’t look more welcoming: a cosy glow from within the historic building, the Cowal hills beyond. The Christmas lights are twinkling, the glasses are charged and there’s a palpable sense of goodwill, cheer, and plenty of pride in the air. By 6pm, it’s buzzing. Locals are already propping up the bar as a stylish woman sweeps in and bags the last table. She is Debbie Rycroft, a local haberdasher. “A pint in my own local,” she smiles happily, relishing a toast with her husband and equally dapper 19-year-old son.

First-night hiccups are limited to a wonky nozzle and a brief worry about a small radiator leak. “How many people to fix a heater?” quips someone as a line of concerned faces survey the scene. Almost immediately, a punter walks in with a radiator key. All sorted. Someone orders a Guinness; the bartender pulls it off. A two-part pour, pitchblack perfection with a balanced, creamy top. Good things come to those who wait? Well, this one’s been three years in the making.

The Oakbank, a landmark building at the heart of Sandbank for the last 160 years, closed at the end of 2022, like so many businesses that struggled in the wake of the Covid pandemic. Next came the closure of the nearby Holy Loch inn. The village was left without a pub – a huge loss for a rural community.

A group of locals got together in early 2023, formed a committee, chaired by Sue McKillop, and began the long slog to buy the Oakbank. “It’s been an uphill struggle,” says Ian MacNaughton, another founding committee member. “I just didn’t think the hill would be so steep!” Now retired, MacNaughton remembers sneaking into the Oakbank for a pint, aged 16. These days he’s learning about compliance laws. “We must do everything right.”

After an initial rejection, their persistence finally paid off last December with the award of a Scottish Land grant just shy of £150,000, covering most of the purchase price. In January, McKillop advertised shares, raising more than £23,000 and an “inspiring amount of enthusiasm” from locals. By April this year, they had the keys. It’s been nonstop ever since up until opening night last Saturday, she says.

While the shares didn’t reach the £90,000 target, people have contributed “thousands of volunteer hours” to get the place ready, Dawn Petherick tells me. They shifted and updated the bar, now an airy sky blue, while the old wood burner’s still there but “needing work”. Another one for the list. And Petherick’s list is long. She is Oakbank’s development officer, a fixed-term post funded by the initial grant, and, like everyone else involved, she’s been busy all year.

The Oakbank has been running pop-ups, workshops and charity mornings during the refurbishment. More events are being added all the time. “Whatever the community wants – knitting groups, book clubs, exhibitions, ‘sober nights’ – it should be a hub more than a pub,” says Petherick. “Somewhere to alleviate social isolation.”

And that is needed more than ever. Yet another local pub, the Strone Inn across the bay, is set to close at the end of the year. Like many local business owners, Stephen Mitchell is supportive of the Oakbank project. “Fair play to them,” he says. “It’s taken them three years, so it’s a real result.” But, he warns, “the hard work starts now as things are really tough”.

McKillop agrees. “It’s exciting but a wee bit scary,” she says. “We are under no illusions as to the challenges that lie ahead. Like any pub venue, we will need to keep innovating in order to survive.” But she can take comfort from recent figures; community pubs are doing well. According to the charity Plunkett UK, community-owned businesses are “highly resilient”, with a five-year survival rate of 98%.

“We’re delighted that the Oakbank Community Inn is opening under community ownership,” says James Alcock, Plunkett UK’s chief executive. “We see time and again how saving local assets like village pubs protects vital services and social spaces, helping to reduce isolation and strengthen communities.”

Future plans include refurbishing accommodation upstairs, a studio/gallery space in the adjoining cottage and renovating the commercial kitchen. In a nice piece of alchemy, the pub sits opposite Sandbank’s community-owned garden, so its polytunnels and raised beds will be nurturing hyper-local vegetables destined for that kitchen.

But the best thing about the Oakbank is the bit you see last. At the back of the bar, big glass doors offer views across the Holy Loch. It’s inaccessible now, but outside the doors, a grassy verge leads to the Holy Loch marina below. It has its own regulars hauling out on the slipway – giant Atlantic grey seals. With neighbours like that, you can see why McKillop has ambitious plans. “We’re going to rebuild the rotten deck and make a bridge to connect to the marina,” she says.

That should please boat-owners Tony, Rob and Alan, enjoying a pint beside the bar. “Sailors don’t like going places where you can’t go to a pub,” says Rob. “And Sandbank’s had absolutely nothing to offer.”

“Hang on,” offers Tony. “It’s got a lot of history.”

But Rob’s having none of it. “You can’t drink a pint of history.”

On the Friday night after Thanksgiving, a hotel room on the 17th floor of the Hotel Indigo in Downtown Los Angeles was transformed into a leather dressing room. About a dozen friends crowded around a king-size bed, cracking open Tecates, vibing to techno house music from a portable speaker, and adjusting each other’s harnesses.

The flash of a digital camera went off like a strobe as Yair Lopez documented his friends before their night at an afterparty. They were all there as part of the L.A. iteration of CLAW: a national leather and kink convention that offers workshops, parties and community spaces for people interested in BDSM culture. Founded in 2002, the convention started out in Cleveland, but has also held events in in L.A. since 2021.

As others spent their Thanksgiving holiday with blood relatives at the dinner table, this particular gathering was dubbed “Leather Thanksgiving” — a celebration of chosen family, cobbled together from various corners of L.A.’s queer nightlife. For Lopez and his friends, that sense of belonging is only growing.

“This chain was gifted to me from a friend,” Lopez said as he adjusted the silver around his neck. “Chains with a lock represent that you have a dom and the other person has the key. I’m still waiting for the lock,” he added jokingly, glancing at his boyfriend.

Leather enthusiasts pre-game ahead of the release party for the film, “Encuerados,” on November 28th at the Hotel Indigo in Downtown Los Angeles.

(Yair Lopez / For De Los)

It was a big day for Lopez. Earlier he showcased three of his photos as part of a leather art gallery and attended a screening of “Encuerados,” a short documentary he appeared in, which shadowed a group of Latino men carving out space in L.A.’s leather community. An “Encuerados” afterparty would soon follow.

For Lopez and his friends, leather is less about fetish and more about kinship, safety and visibility, in a city where queer Latino spaces remain scarce.

Lopez has become a visible force in L.A.’s leather underground scene, building community through both his art and the spaces he helps create. He has self-published his work through photos and zines; he also founded Contramundo, a Latino leather night at the Bullet Bar in North Hollywood. His community work even led to a third-place finish in the 2023 Mr. L.A. Leather competition.

He started shooting a decade ago, moving from street scenes and hikes to L.A.’s queer nightlife. That work eventually led him to the Eagle, where he found a muse and a community he didn’t know he needed.

“I grew up in a pretty religious Mexican household in the San Fernando Valley. I was made to feel ashamed of who I was, even my own body, so finding this felt so needed,” he recalled.

Located in Silver Lake, the Eagle is a legacy leather bar that has anchored L.A.’s kink scene for decades. It is also one of the few remaining spaces for this corner of queer nightlife. And while Lopez did feel seen through the leather community, there was still a piece missing.

“It is no surprise that a lot of gay spaces are predominantly white, so finding gay brown community is hard. But that changed when I started meeting other like-minded Latinos in leather,” Lopez said.

One of those Latinos was Leonardo Iriarte, the first Latino Mr. L.A. Leather and co-founder of Payasos L.A., a nonprofit that organizes events and mutual aid efforts to support Latino visibility in the leather world.

The group of friends ran into Iriarte as they made their way to the 18th floor, where he was DJing for the night in a large, dimly lit conference room.

Dressed in black leather pants and boots, Iriarte had “Mr. L.A. Leather 2011” embroidered across the back of his vest. The Michoacán native also happened to be the protagonist of the “Encuerados” documentary and host of the “” afterparty.

“When I moved to the United States in 2001, I didn’t move for the classic American dream of looking for a better life financially,” said Iriarte. “My purpose of moving here was to be free as a gay person.”

Latinos in leather pose ahead of the “Encuerados” screening during the CLAW L.A. convention on November 28th at the Hotel Indigo in Downtown Los Angeles.

(Yair Lopez / For De Los)

And while Iriarte did find that freedom he hoped for, he was not prepared for the racism he would encounter in the leather scene — especially after winning his title.

“I remember a hate campaign and even death threats after I won,” he said. “It was scary, but it opened a door for other Latinos, and this space has grown so much since.”

As it gets closer to midnight, the dark conference room swells with bodies moving to Iriarte’s pulsing techno. Partygoers poured in sporting leather chaps, chest-hugging harnesses, and even tejana hats for a vaquero-leather twist.

Lopez put down his camera to circulate and greet friends from over the years. He bumped into Orlando Bedolla, director of “Encuerados,” who first met Lopez four years ago while filming the documentary.

“I learned about his photography, the zine he was making, all of it,” Bedolla said. “I found him interesting because he is literally a Latino increasing Latino representation in the leather community.”

Bedolla recalled attending CLAW L.A. in 2021 and going to his first Latino party there after getting an invite from Payasos L.A. Inside, he found a room full of mostly Latino men in jockstraps, harnesses and leather. He was struck by the energy of an underground community he didn’t realize existed. That night would become the seed for the film.

On the dance floor, colored lights flashed across Lopez’s visage as he tried to keep track of his room key. His friends borrowed it to run upstairs to their shared room for more drinks — and he wondered aloud about how messy it would be after their two-night stay.

These spaces, low-lit yet overflowing with camaraderie, offer the community something harder to find anywhere else, especially during the holidays: the freedom to be fully themselves.

“When I step into spaces like this, I don’t just see leather,” Lopez said, taking a sip of his vodka soda. “I see people reaching for some kind of joy and connection we’re constantly told is wrong. But we all want to feel touched and seen — and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Steph Sarah recalls a time in Venice Beach’s mythical skateboarding history — long before the sandy expanse on Ocean Front Walk became the world-famous skate park, a concrete playground where pro skaters are born.

“It was all boys,” says Sarah, a 36-year-old Venice Beach native who learned to skate at age 12. “If you did come across another girl skating, they were your competition, because there wasn’t even enough room for one girl to skate, let alone multiple girls.”

The group welcomes all skill levels and jokes that they’re the “world’s okay-est skaters.” (Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

On this Thursday night, that is distant history. As fog rolls in over the Venice Pier, Sarah skates alongside dozens of women on the coastal path. They belt out the lyrics to “Hey Jude” as singer Chloe Kat serenades them with a guitar in hand. Curious fishermen eye them, their fishing lines cast into the black ocean. But they pay no attention. Twirling under the moonlight, the women resemble a witch’s coven — their spells are good vibes, California weather and the boards beneath their feet.

Since its inception in 2018, GrlSwirl has been a leading force in creating a more inclusive skateboarding culture in Venice Beach — and across the world. The Venice Beach-based organization fosters community among female skateboarders. Twice a month, the group hosts nighttime “group skates” for women and community members. The event has exploded on social media, often attracting over 100 participants on warm summer nights.

“You get to witness what it’s like for people to break all the rules and show up fully as themselves,” Lucy Osinski, one of the co-founders of GrlSwirl, says of the group skates. “The weirder, the sillier, the more authentic, the better.”

Participants dodge a parking barrier gate during a nighttime group skate.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

Growing up in the world of professional ballet with its restrictive body standards and intense discipline, Osinski found newfound freedom in skateboarding. “I went from feeling so fragile and weak to so powerful,” she says. “It made me feel like I belonged and liberated in a way I had never experienced before.”

But when she moved to Venice Beach in 2017, skateboarding as a woman invited hostile attention. “Every time I would skate, people would catcall us or yell at us to do a kickflip,” she says. (“Do a kickflip” is considered a skateboarding taunt.) “I started chasing down any girl I saw on a skateboard. I made a text chain. I called it GrlSwirl.”

Osinski began posting about group skates on Instagram, where GrlSwirl gained traction. “The next week, 20 girls showed up just from word of mouth, and then the next week 40, and then the next 60, and then we had over 100 girls.” Soon, the group’s reputation attracted brand sponsorships and inquiries about starting chapters in new cities.

Today, the organization also doubles as a nonprofit that teaches underprivileged communities to skate worldwide, including surf-skate retreats that empower women and girls. Osinski explains that GrlSwirl has hosted skateboarding clinics from refugee camps in Tijuana to the first-ever women’s skate jam in the Navajo Nation. GrlSwirl has an international following with chapters in more than seven cities and an online community spanning 80 countries.

Lindsey Klucik, left, dances with friends to Christmas songs at the Venice Pier during a GrlSwirl group skate.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

Lucy Osinski rolls in with a skateboarding move.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

“Everything we’ve done from Day 1 is to make spaces and find ways to build community through skateboarding,” says Osinski. “People want to be in a village, but they don’t know how to be a villager. GrlSwirl is the village.”

The popularity of the bimonthly group skates has even attracted out-of-towners curious about the event. Osinski says the event has drawn tourists from Japan, Russia and more. Traveling from Salzburg, Austria, Karoline Bauer joined the skate with her partner while on vacation after following them on Instagram. “We were just looking for some community. We don’t have that back home,” Bauer says.

The group skate welcomes skateboarders of all skill levels. As a motto, the group jokes that they’re the “world’s okay-est skaters.” “We’re not looking for people to be shredding like crazy,” says Naomi Fulta, a team rider for GrlSwirl. “We have people who come here who literally have never stepped on a skateboard, to people who’ve been skating their whole lives.”

Yuka Okamura has been attending GrlSwirl’s group skates with her 10-year-old daughter for over five years. To her surprise, Okamura began learning to skateboard when her daughter started taking lessons. “I had no idea that I would start something new after I had a child. It’s amazing to share the joy and the experience with her,” she explains.

Yaya Ogun, a GrlSwirl team rider, poses with the group.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

For Yaya Ogun, one of the team riders, group skates are an opportunity to build community and make friends. Skateboarding naturally lends itself to community, she explains. Ogun attended her first GrlSwirl event alone and now rides as a sponsored skater. “You have to go someplace physical, you’re gonna meet people, you’re gonna make friends,” she says.

Ogun is a self-proclaimed pandemic skater. “There’s a huge wave of us who started either during or after the pandemic,” she says. “I grew up wanting to skate, but I just never had the time. And then all of a sudden, I had a lot of time,” she says with a laugh.

As a transplant from Texas, Ogun was drawn to GrlSwirl because the organization is anchored in the local community, which has experienced rent hikes and the closure of local institutions in recent years. “This is a special place, and it’s changing a lot,” laments Ogun. “We want to respect it and raise it up and not change anything.”

Osinski credits GrlSwirl’s success to its birthplace, Venice Beach, a place that celebrates uniqueness and community. Venice is a mecca for skateboarding, home to the Z-boys who revolutionized the sport in the 1970s and the subject of the documentary “Dogtown and Z-Boys.”

GrlSwirl aims to inspire people to “come together through the simple act of trying something new.”

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones/For The Times)

“Venice is a place of creation. You don’t have to look like a Venice skater to be a Venice skater. It’s about growing up and giving back,” Osinski says.

The girls skate into the evening, the sunset casting an orange light onto their smiling faces. Ogun declares her contempt for longboards — not to mention penny skateboards, which she says are a death trap. In the distance, waves carry surfers to the shore after their last surf of the day. As darkness falls on Venice Beach, the promise of something new swells.

It was supposed to be a speech with a clear message of hope for survivors of the Palisades fire.

In her State of the City address in April, Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass called for a law exempting fire victims from construction permit fees — potentially saving them tens of thousands of dollars as they rebuild their homes.

Eight months later, the City Council is still debating how much permit relief the city can afford. Palisades residents have been left hanging, with some blaming Bass for failing to finalize a deal.

“This should have been pushed, and it wasn’t pushed,” said electrician Tom Doran, who has submitted plans to rebuild his three-bedroom home. “There was no motor on that boat. It was allowed to drift downstream.”

Since the Jan. 7 fire destroyed thousands of homes, Bass has been announcing recovery strategies with great fanfare, only for them to get bogged down in the details or abandoned altogether.

After two of the most destructive fires in the state’s history, The Times takes a critical look at the past year and the steps taken — or not taken — to prevent this from happening again in all future fires.

At one point, she called for the removal of traffic checkpoints around Pacific Palisades, only to reverse course after an outcry over public safety. She pushed tax relief for wildfire victims in Sacramento, only to abruptly pull the plug on her bill. Her relationship with Steve Soboroff, her first and only chief recovery officer, quickly unraveled over pay and other issues. He left after a 90-day stint.

Critics in and outside the Palisades say the mayor’s missteps have undermined public confidence in the rebuilding process. They have also made her more politically vulnerable as she ramps up her campaign for a second term.

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1. Tom Doran poses for a portrait in the remains of his home in the Pacific Palisades. Doran, who has submitted plans to rebuild the home he lived in for decades, has said that Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass should have done more to secure passage of a law giving residents relief from city rebuilding permits after the wildfires. (Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times) 2. Statues are seen in an aerial of the remnants of Doran’s home. (Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times) 3. An aerial of the remains of Doran’s home. (Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

Bass, seated in her spacious City Hall office earlier this month, said the recovery is happening at “lightning speed” compared to other devastating wildfires, in part because of her emergency orders dramatically cutting the time it takes to obtain building permits.

By mid-December, more than 2,600 permit applications had been filed for more than 1,200 addresses — about a fifth of the properties damaged or destroyed in the fire. Permits had been issued at about 600 addresses, with construction underway at nearly 400, according to city figures.

Still, Bass acknowledged that fire victims are feeling angry and frustrated as they enter the holiday season.

“I think people have a right to all of those emotions, and I wouldn’t argue with any of them,” she said.

Rebuilding a community after a natural disaster is a monumental task, one with no clear playbook. Many of the obstacles — insurance claims, mortgage relief — reach beyond the purview of a mayor.

Still, Bass has plenty of power. City agencies crucial to the rebuilding effort report to her. She works closely with the council, whose members have sharply questioned some of her recovery initiatives.

Palisades residents had reason to be skeptical of the rebuilding process, given the problems that played out on Jan. 7: the failure to pre-deploy firefighters, the chaotic evacuation and the fact that Bass was out of the country on a diplomatic mission to Ghana.

In the weeks that followed, Bass was unsteady in her public appearances and at odds with her fire chief, whom she ultimately dismissed. She struggled to give residents a sense that the recovery was in capable hands.

Perhaps the most disastrous narrative revolved around Soboroff, a longtime civic leader known for his blunt, outspoken style.

Mayor Karen Bass, right, and her disaster recovery chief, Steve Soboroff, during a news conference at Palisades Recreation Center on Jan. 27.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

To many, the assignment made sense on paper. Soboroff had a background in home building, roots in the Palisades and extensive knowledge of City Hall.

Soboroff initially expected to receive a salary of $500,000 for three months of work as chief recovery officer, with the funds coming from philanthropy. After that figure triggered an outcry, Bass changed course, persuading him to work for free. Soon afterward, Soboroff told an audience that he had been “lied to” about whether he would be compensated. (He later apologized.)

Soboroff also voiced frustration with the job itself, saying he had been excluded from key decisions. At one point, Bass appeared to narrow his duties, telling reporters he would focus primarily on rebuilding the community’s historic business district and nearby public areas.

Bass told The Times that she does not view her selection of Soboroff as a mistake. But she acknowledged there were “challenges along the way” — and decisions where Soboroff was not included.

“In those first few months when everything was happening, I’m sure there were decisions he wanted to be in that he wasn’t in,” she said.

In April, amid Soboroff’s departure, Bass said she was searching for a new chief recovery officer. She repeated that assertion in July. Yet she never publicly announced a replacement for Soboroff, baffling some in the Palisades and providing fresh ammunition to her critics.

Real estate developer Rick Caruso, who ran against Bass in 2022 and founded the nonprofit SteadfastLA to speed the rebuilding process, said the recovery czar position is still desperately needed, given the size of the task ahead.

“You’ve got infrastructure that has to be rebuilt, undergrounding of power lines, upgrading of water mains. At the same time, you want to get people back in their homes,” said Caruso, who is weighing another run for mayor.

A Samara XL modular house is lowered into place at a project site in Culver City on March 21. Developer and former mayoral candidate Rick Caruso’s Steadfast L.A. nonprofit wants to raise $30 million in the hopes of providing between 80 and 100 Samara XL homes for fire victims.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Behind the scenes, Bass opted not to select a single person to replace Soboroff, going instead with a trio of consultants. By then, she had confronted a spate of other crises — federal immigration raids, a $1-billion budget shortfall, a split with county officials over the region’s approach to homelessness.

Soboroff declined to comment on Bass’ handling of the recovery. Early on, he pushed the mayor’s team to hire the global engineering giant AECOM to oversee the recovery. Bass went initially with Hagerty, an Illinois-based consulting firm that specializes in emergency management.

At the time, the mayor pointed out that Hagerty was already working with county officials on the Eaton fire recovery in Altadena and Palisades fire recovery in other unincorporated areas.

The city gave Hagerty a one-year contract worth up to $10 million to provide “full project management” of the recovery, Bass said at the time.

Hagerty quickly ran into trouble. At community events, the firm’s consultants struggled to explain their role in the rebuilding.

Two months after Soboroff stepped down, Bass announced she was hiring AECOM after all to develop a plan for rebuilding city infrastructure. Hagerty ended up focusing heavily on the logistics around debris removal, helping the city coordinate with the federal Army Corps of Engineers, which spearheaded the cleanup.

Hagerty quietly finished its work earlier this month, billing the city $3.5 million — far less than the maximum spelled out in the firm’s contract.

The confusion over Hagerty’s role created a major opening for Bass’ best-known challenger in the June 2 primary election: former L.A. schools Supt. Austin Beutner, a onetime high-level deputy mayor.

Beutner, whose home was severely damaged in the Palisades fire, called the selection of Hagerty a “fiasco,” saying it’s still not clear what the firm delivered.

“The hiring of Hagerty proved to be a waste of time and money while creating a false sense of hope in a community that’s dealing with a terrible tragedy,” he said.

Executives with Hagerty did not respond to multiple inquiries from The Times.

An aerial image of some homes being reconstructed and lots that remain empty in Pacific Palisades.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

AECOM joined the city in June, working to prepare reports on the rebuilding effort that dealt with infrastructure repairs, fire protection and traffic management. Those reports are now expected by the one-year anniversary of the fire.

Matt Talley, who spent part of the year as AECOM’s point person in the Palisades, praised Bass for her focus on the recovery, saying he watched as she took lengthy meetings with Palisades community members, then made sure her staff worked to address their concerns.

“I think the mayor gets a bad rap,” said Talley, who left AECOM in mid-November. “She takes a lot of incoming, but in her heart, she really does want to drive the recovery and do the right thing, and that’s evidenced by the meetings she’s having with the community.”

Bass, in an interview, said she eventually decided to have three AECOM staffers form a “recovery team,” instead of a single replacement for Soboroff.

“It didn’t make sense to go in the other direction,” she said. “We evaluated that for quite a while, met with a number of people, consulted many experts.”

By the time Bass announced AECOM’s hiring, she had also begun pursuing another initiative: relief from Measure ULA, the city’s so-called mansion tax, which applies to most property sales above $5.3 million.

Proponents argued that Palisades residents should not have to pay the tax if they sell their burned-out properties. For those who can’t afford to rebuild — either because they are on fixed incomes or have little insurance — selling may be the only option, they argued.

In June, Caruso sent Bass a proposal showing how Measure ULA could be legally suspended. By then, Bass had tapped former state Assembly Speaker Bob Hertzberg to work on a bill overhauling Measure ULA, not only to aid fire victims but to spur housing construction citywide.

Three months later, near the end of the legislative session in Sacramento, Bass persuaded some L.A.-based lawmakers to carry the bill, infuriating affordable housing advocates who accused her of attempting an end run around voters.

But right before a key hearing, Bass announced she was withdrawing the bill, which had been submitted so late that it missed the deadline for lawmakers to make changes.

Bass said city leaders are now working to identify other pathways for suspending ULA in the Palisades.

Meanwhile, her push for permit relief is also a work in progress.

Alice Gould, who lost her home in the Palisades fire, is rebuilding her home on Akron Street in Pacific Palisades. Gould, who has lived on the property for 28 years, is upset that Mayor Karen Bass has not yet secured passage of a law to exempt fire victims from city permit fees for rebuilding.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

In April, a few days after her State of the City speech, Bass issued an emergency order suspending the collection of permit fees while the council drafted the law she requested. If the law isn’t enacted, fire victims will have to pay the fees that are currently suspended.

Councilmember Bob Blumenfield, who sits on the council’s powerful budget committee, said Bass’ team did not contact him before she issued her order.

“When I read that, my first thought was: ‘That’s great. How are we gonna pay for that?’” he said.

Bass issued a second emergency order in May, expanding the fee waivers to include every structure that burned. By October, some council members were voicing alarms over the cost, warning it could reach hundreds of millions of dollars, depending on the details.

Palisades residents called that estimate grossly inflated. On Dec. 2, dozens of them showed up at City Hall to urge the council to pass legislation covering every residential building that burned — not just single-family homes and duplexes, a concept favored by some on the council.

Council members, still struggling to identify the cost, sent the proposal back to the budget committee for more deliberations, which will spill into next year because of the holiday break.

Bass defended her handling of the issue, saying she used her “political heft” to move it forward. At the same time, she declined to say how far-reaching the relief should be.

Asked whether the Palisades should be spared from permit fees for grading, pools or retaining walls, she responded: “I can’t say that,” calling such details “minutiae.”

“What I wanted to see happen was, all fees that were possible to be waived should be waived,” she said.

Hank Wright, against a backdrop of his neighbor’s home being built, walks on the property where he lost his four-bedroom home in the Palisades fire.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

Hank Wright, whose four-bedroom home on Lachman Lane burned to the ground, remains frustrated with the city, saying he doesn’t understand why Bass was unable to lock down the votes.

“She has not been the point person that I wanted her to be,” he said. “I don’t think she has been able to corral that bureaucracy.”