ybvdadminuser(RNS) — This column is a love letter to the children of Pasadena and Altadena.
I often write about religion and interfaith cooperation in disaster and conflict. This week, as I write this column in tears, my analysis hits home. My children are products of a public school system in which almost 7,000 students lived in the evacuation zone of the Eaton Canyon Fire, and 2,600 in the core burn zone of the same fire. My children spend half their life in Altadena. The neighborhood as of this moment is still closed off; my children still have a home, though the house next door burned down.
We often worshipped in Altadena and, especially in Ramadan, broke fast in Masjid Al-Taqwa, now only a pile of ash and rubble. In the past, for five years, I ran an organization that served northwest Pasadena and Altadena schools and communities. I lived in the Pasadena area for 15 years. Our connections to these communities are deep and beloved.
My daughter has been active on Instagram trying her best to raise money for the many friends she knows who have lost their homes. She is awe-inspiring to me. Immediately after hearing from her friends and schoolmates, these teenagers moved into action, sharing GoFundMe’s and other sources.
They have been out of school for two weeks and have spent every day volunteering at different sites, naturally folding into it without question. They are not interested in photo opportunities — in fact, many seem allergic to pictures of them doing service. Instead, I see them using their powerful tools of social media not to amplify their efforts but to highlight the donation needs of different communities. They are sharing stories that change the narrative of the fires from one that impacted only celebrities and high-income families. Their volunteerism is concentrated in the notion that service is an ethic of care, that compassion is a way of being. These collective efforts offering immediate support and hope for healing are hallmarks of their generation.
Altadena and northwest Pasadena have historically been home to a diverse array of communities — from Black businesses, homes and historic institutions, to powerful Latino churches, to Armenian and other communities. We are all a part of the fabric of greater Pasadena and Altadena. A Jewish synagogue, a mosque and at least three area churches were lost in the fires.
These are communities rich not in wealth in comparison to some others, but in their celebration of diversity, a place that was open when racism and redlining kept groups from buying property elsewhere.
It should not be surprising that the children of this community would lead in taking care of their own across faiths, ethnicities and languages. And they are also children of the pandemic. Their eighth grade graduations were full of speeches that talked about the trauma of collective isolation. Even then, they sounded like individuals far beyond their years. They have grown up already in the face of global crises, and when it hit home, their huge hearts and ethical orientations responded to the moment without hesitation.
A teen-led clothing drive in Pasadena at Bravo Salon, for instance, and the Altadena Teen Girls Fire Recovery were organized and fueled by teens. Other teens are serving at organizations they already had connections to, like the Flintridge Center, which is in the heart of the community. Faith-based and public schools, as well as churches and other religious sites, have become centers for teens to organize relief efforts. Many family-owned and local businesses have also been sites for teens to organize relief efforts and activities such as feeding first responders.
I was part of an interfaith vigil organized online this week on Zoom because so many of the families had lost their homes. A Muslim, Jewish and Christian team of clergy and leaders prayed and offered words of wisdom for navigating what will be a long-term recovery for the communities impacted by this tragedy. I offered a caution on making sure theology and religion are not used to blame anyone or communities for the cause of this catastrophe — and instead to focus on our overlapping teachings of healing and hope.
Our teens are doing that in the very practical sense. Their continued service and their steady moral compass make me excited to see the world they will run. A world in which we don’t need a litmus test on your beliefs before we offer care, where your story is important to share no matter which income bracket you come from. A world in which the measure of our humanity is how much we show up for each other with an embodied empathy that asks, “What do you need, dear friend, who I may not know? Let me be there for you.”
This vision of humanity in crisis contradicts the tropes of a self-centered generation that is concerned only with its own public personas and presentation. It is evidence of a group of young people who, when faced with the gravity of so much loss, chooses connection over isolation, action over apathy, generosity over a scarcity mindset. When one of us flourishes, we all flourish.
It would be a great way to go into 2025 with this imperative, one that many older generations and, dare I say, policymakers could benefit from in their own work.
(Najeeba Syeed holds the El-Hibri Endowed Chair at Augsburg University in Minneapolis and is executive director of the Interfaith Institute there. She splits her time between Minnesota and Los Angeles. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of RNS.)
