When the 2018 Woolsey fire reduced Carla and Kevin Fern’s modest house in the Malibu hills to ash, they knew they wanted to rebuild. “Where else would we go?” Carla Fern asks, having grown up in Malibu. “Being in a place with deep personal history is irreplaceable. But everyone must take responsibility for the choice of living here.”
Once a peaceful retreat framed by oaks and terraced stone walls on a rural stretch of the Santa Monica Mountains, their 11,000-square-foot home was among the nearly 1,700 structures destroyed by the fire.
To help residents rebuild, authorities pledged to expedite permits, yet it took the couple close to two years just to secure a temporary permit for a tiny house on their land. They were only able to start laying their new foundation last June — nearly six years after the fire. Fern (who asked that RTBC not use her real name so she could speak openly about the process) is not alone in this struggle: Five years after the Woolsey Fire, only about 13 percent of the 688 homes lost in unincorporated Los Angeles County had been rebuilt, and residents complain about the bureaucratic hurdles.
The devastating Palisades and Eaton fires this January destroyed more than 12,000 structures. Just like after the Woolsey fire, Governor Gavin Newsom and Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass both promised to relax regulations and environmental requirements to help displaced residents rebuild quickly. However, environmental and planning experts question whether simply reconstructing what was lost is the best path forward.
Rethinking rebuilding
Some even argue that residents in high-risk fire zones should not rebuild at all. “I don’t know [if] it’s the government’s job to say you can’t do that,” Fern says, “but it is our job to take responsibility, be safe, and act as stewards of the wild — not just be users and abusers of nature.”
The canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains funnel the Santa Ana winds, fueling catastrophic megafires in Malibu at least once every decade. In his famous essay “The Case for Letting Malibu Burn,” historian Mike Davis references the legendary landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted, who pleaded with the county of Los Angeles after the devastating 1930 fires to buy 10,000 fire-prone acres of the scenic mountain and beach areas between Topanga and Malibu as a buffer zone.
“The prominent discourse in Los Angeles right now is speed, speed, speed,” says Rob Olshansky, urban planning professor emeritus at the University of Illinois. “But rushing to rebuild exactly as before is one extreme, and treating burnt areas as a blank slate is another. The reality lies somewhere in between. Rebuilding is an opportunity for building back better.”
He studied cities’ recovery efforts, from the 1995 Kobe earthquake to Hurricane Katrina in 2005, for the book After Great Disasters, and argues that cities can rebuild stronger and smarter. “Both Kobe and New Orleans rebuilt a more resilient city,” he says. Now he is trying to be a “cheerleader” for Los Angeles and urges that “planners should work with all stakeholders to evaluate the risks and consider alternatives to complete relocation.”
Olshansky and Laurie Johnson, with whom he co-wrote After Great Disasters, have analyzed three rebuilding scenarios in areas with very high risk after California megafires in Santa Rosa, Ventura and Paradise in 2017 and 2018:
- Rebuilding as usual.
- Managed retreat, where survivors are incentivized to move to lower-risk locations.
- Creating resilience nodes, where communities incorporate robust wildfire mitigation features, including defensible space.
Both he and fire survivor Carla Fern advocate for community-driven recovery. “Rather than reconstruction as a top-down process, disaster recovery begins from the bottom up, just as all community development does,” Olshansky emphasizes. “Residents seek housing, building owners seek resources for construction, and businesses look for ways to continue their work. It’s a self-organizing system.”
Lessons from the fire
Fern’s rebuilding experience is an example of resilience, but it also underscores the bureaucratic challenges of rebuilding sustainably. As an energy policy consultant, she was eager to integrate ecological solutions into the new home, aiming for a net-zero energy home. However, though she and Kevin received donated solar panels, regulatory hurdles blocked the installation. “They allowed us to use a stinking 10-kilowatt diesel generator immediately,” her husband recalls, “but our six kilowatts of solar panels stayed in storage. After pushing to get permission at all, we only got approval for two kilowatts on a little shed, and no installer would do such a small job.”
Building codes further complicated their use of renewable energy on-site. Regulations require “like-for-like” designs with no more than 10 percent added to the original home footprint, so because they didn’t have rooftop solar before, they couldn’t incorporate it into the rebuild.
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She acts as an informal consultant to other fire victims, and one of her most urgent pleas is for the bureaucracy “to cut the red tape, learn from places like Santa Rosa that got things done much faster.” Santa Rosa created the Resilient City Permit Center to help residents get permits quickly and boasts a rate of 80 percent of the homes lost in the fires rebuilt. Fern’s advice to building departments: “Focus on the big things, like fire resistance, but don’t let minor issues, like slightly altering a door placement, delay permits.”
For instance, she was among the first fire victims to sign up for debris removal, but the authorities lost her certificate. “You have to be your own advocate every step of the way,” Fern says. “I eventually called the supervisor every single day, something I really didn’t have the energy for. I was so exhausted.”
Building smarter, not just faster
For their rebuild, the Ferns have prioritized disaster resilience. They chose non-combustible MgO (magnesium oxide) board sourced in the U.S. instead of drywall, fire-rated clay roof tiles, an unvented cathedral ceiling, and they replaced the 1970s windows that shattered in the heat with laminated windows that withstand flying embers. “To help protect the character of the canyon and reduce resource intensity, we are creating the home’s veneer out of stone collected from our property and salvaged from the old house, and we’re making flooring and other finishes out of wood we milled from the 160 trees lost in the fire,” Fern explains. “We are trying to let the fire teach us and take its lessons.”
While most of the measures don’t add much to their rebuild costs, some investments stretch their budget. For example, they will install water cannons with multiple sensors to automatically douse the house if fire approaches. “With insurance being increasingly uncertain and stronger winds fueling bigger fires, we are not the only ones looking at defending our homes,” says Fern. “We hope to do so without risking lives.”
Defensible space is another priority. Unlike before, their new home will be surrounded by a 30-foot safety zone cleared of most vegetation. The Ferns spent months removing invasive plants that emerged in the burn areas and replanted 30 native oaks and other native plants that are highly fire-resistant. “Researchers have determined that oaks, other native trees and shrubs like toyon can catch embers and prevent homes from igniting, if they are moist and not too close to structures,” Fern explains. Her husband adds, “Fire-wise landscaping can be a first line of defense. Chumash elders figured this out long ago. The Indigenous people of this coastal area hold wisdom on how to work with vegetation to manage fire and other life necessities.”
Palm trees, by contrast, are among the biggest hazards. While California is known for its iconic palm trees, most are not native and might be among the features that are destined for removal. “Growing up in L.A., I never questioned palm trees because they’re part of the aesthetic,” Olshansky says. “But they provide no shade, no habitat for anything, and during fires, they act as ember catapults.”
Who gets to rebuild?
Both Fern and Olshansky worry about climate gentrification, where wealthier residents and investors rebuild bigger and more exclusive homes, pricing out those with fewer resources. In Santa Rosa, home prices have risen by 93 percent since the 2017 fires, making it difficult for residents to return. Already, Los Angeles rental prices have spiked 20 percent post-fire, leaving many displaced families struggling to find housing.
“In the Pacific Palisades, I fear wealthy interests will turn it into an even more exclusive enclave,” Olshansky says. He advocates for more resilient, community-focused rebuilding efforts — such as mixed-use, multi-story buildings in town centers rather than expanding sprawl into fire-prone areas.
Another solution: collective land strategies. Several landowners could buy adjacent lots to create defensible space, similar to the Lot Next Door program in post-Katrina New Orleans, which was designed to let property owners purchase property directly next door, rather than opening the door for developers or investors to snatch up blighted lots.
A call for community-driven recovery
For the Ferns, not rebuilding was never an option. But they and their neighbors want to ensure that their rebuilt community retains its history and soul.
“We’ve seen disaster and economics drive away long-term residents, replacing them with bigger homes and commercial interests,” Carla Fern says. “That loss of local wisdom and community saddens us.”
There have been days when she wanted to give up. Yet, despite the challenges, she remains committed. “For now, as the old Malibu adage goes, we’ll take 99 percent heaven, knowing it comes with one percent hell.”
Her community continues to clear fire-prone weeds, rescue injured animals and invest in beauty and resilience — far beyond market incentives. “We feel responsible for being stewards of this sacred place,” Fern says. “It’s hard and sometimes heartbreaking work, but also meaningful. If those with deep roots and commitment leave, that knowledge and dedication will likely be lost.”
