Why Some LA Neighborhoods Face Higher Toxic Exposure After Wildfires

Historical divisions in Los Angeles real estate have resulted in a disparity of damage from wildfires.

Los Angeles is no stranger to wildfire seasons – catastrophic, heartbreaking events that turn the skyline apocalyptic, and leave a trail of charred hillsides and smoke-cloaked cityscapes – at best. No matter the extent of the damage, long after the last ember dies out, another invisible threat lingers – airborne toxins and hazardous debris settling unevenly across the city. 

Among these nasties, asbestos – a known carcinogen – poses a particularly insidious risk. Not all neighborhoods bear the same toxic burden, and the reasons behind this disparity are as complex as LA’s urban sprawl itself. Let’s dig a little deeper:

When Smoke Clears, the Fallout Begins

Wildfires don’t just burn forests – as we have painfully witnessed in recent weeks, they consume homes, cars, industrial buildings, and just about everything contained therein. Older structures – particularly those built before the 1980s – often contain asbestos insulation, asbestos cement, and fireproofing materials that, when burned and/or disturbed, release microscopic fibers into the air. Along with it, plastics, treated wood, synthetic fabrics, and chemicals turn into a toxic cocktail of airborne particles that drift with the wind, settling unpredictably across the city. Some areas are exposed to more hazardous material than others, depending on geography, wind patterns, and – less predictably – economic and historical factors.

The Wind Doesn’t Care About Zip Codes – But Infrastructure Does

Santa Ana winds are notorious for fanning the flames of California’s worst wildfires, but they also play a role in dictating where the toxic ash lands. Lower-income communities – particularly in the eastern and southern parts of LA – often find themselves downwind of fire-prone hills and wealthy enclaves; that means pollutants from multimillion-dollar homes – in other words, full of high-end furniture, treated wood, and electronics – end up contaminating neighborhoods already grappling with poor air quality.

Moreover, areas with aging infrastructure, limited tree coverage, and high urban density retain more toxic dust. Older apartment buildings and industrial facilities in these communities may still have asbestos-containing materials in their walls, ceilings and flooring; when fire breaks out, asbestos fibers can mix with the smoke and debris, creating a long-term inhalation hazard. Unlike wealthier communities in which power-washing teams and flashy air filtration systems are on hand to jump into action post-wildfire, lower-income areas often lack the resources to mitigate exposure, leaving residents breathing in hazardous particles for weeks – even months.

The Hidden Legacy of Industrial Zones

Some neighborhoods are already carrying an environmental burden before wildfires even enter the equation. Places like Boyle Heights, South LA, and parts of the San Fernando Valley, for example, have long histories of industrial pollution, meaning that when wildfire ash mixes with pre-existing contaminants from factories, refineries, and heavy traffic corridors, the health risks multiply.

Lead, arsenic, and heavy metals from industrial zones can also bind to wildfire ash, making it even more dangerous when inhaled or absorbed into the soil. Asbestos, once widely used in industrial settings, can also be released from these zones during fires, compounding the risks for nearby communities; research has shown that post-wildfire contamination in these areas can exceed safety thresholds, yet cleanup efforts rarely target them with the same urgency as the wealthier, more visible communities.

The Buildings Themselves: When Age Becomes a Risk Factor

Of course, not all homes are built equally – or with the same materials. Older neighborhoods, often concentrated in historically marginalized areas, contain homes with aging construction materials that introduce additional health hazards when burned.

Pre-1980s construction is particularly concerning. Many of these homes contain asbestos insulation, asbestos-laced roofing, lead-based paints, and outdated siding that, when exposed to fire, can release toxic compounds into the air and soil. Unlike newer homes that comply with modern asbestos abatement laws, these structures continue to pose a long-term health risk for residents who return to fire-damaged areas. This means that in areas where construction is older and less updated – often lower-income communities – wildfire smoke isn’t just carrying soot and ash; it’s carrying carcinogens that wealthier neighborhoods with newer homes aren’t (anywhere near) as exposed to.

Industrial presence compounds this problem. Factories, auto shops, and manufacturing plants – often zoned near working-class communities – release additional pollutants into the air when burned, adding a chemical complexity to the smoke that wealthier, more residential areas don’t experience at the same scale. When these toxins settle, they don’t just make a neighborhood dirty – they pose long-term health risks, from respiratory illnesses to increased cancer risk.

Who Gets the Resources, Who Gets Left Behind

LA has a disaster response problem that mirrors its broader socioeconomic divide. After a wildfire, immediate cleanup efforts tend to prioritize wealthier neighborhoods – places with political clout, active homeowner associations, and private funding to speed up remediation efforts. Meanwhile, working-class communities wait longer for street sweeping, air quality testing, and soil decontamination – if they receive it at all.

When it comes to asbestos exposure, cleanup is even more critical. Without proper remediation, asbestos fibers remain in the air and on surfaces, where they can be disturbed long after the fire is out; yet, because asbestos abatement is expensive and requires specialized crews, it all-too-often gets overlooked in lower-income areas.

Insurance coverage plays a role too. Homeowners in affluent areas tend to hold policies that include post-disaster cleanup, while renters in lower-income neighborhoods are often left to navigate the aftermath on their own. Without intervention, asbestos-contaminated, toxic debris lingers, increasing long-term exposure risks, and exacerbating respiratory illnesses, skin conditions, and long-term health risks.

The Price of Clean Air: When Remediation Is a Luxury

Toxic exposure doesn’t magically disappear once the flames are out. Homes and businesses often require extensive remediation – deep cleaning, ductwork replacement, and even structural repairs to remove hazardous residues; naturally, that comes with a hefty price tag.

Homeowners in affluent neighborhoods may have the means to pay for immediate abatement or even upgrade to fire-resistant materials. But in working-class and lower-income communities, many residents either don’t own their homes or lack the financial means to cover these costs; this can be particularly problematic for renters, who often don’t have the authority to demand cleanup from their landlords or the resources to move somewhere safer.

Some landlords take action, but many don’t – especially in neighborhoods with high tenant turnover and/or where renters may lack legal leverage. Asbestos contamination requires specialized removal, and when landlords fail to act, tenants can unwittingly remain exposed for months – even years. Without regulation requiring fire-specific remediation, many rental units remain contaminated long after the fire, exposing families to ongoing health risks with the potential for disastrous consequences.

Fires Don’t Discriminate – But Policy Does

Wildfires don’t target specific demographics, but the aftermath exposes systemic gaps in how cities handle environmental disasters. There’s no two ways about it, policies that rely on homeowners’ ability to pay for cleanup inherently leave lower-income renters at a disadvantage.

A more equitable approach would include automatic deployment of asbestos abatement teams and cleanup crews to high-risk communities, expanded air filtration programs for vulnerable neighborhoods, and stricter regulations on industrial zones near residential areas to minimize compounding hazards. Without these changes, wildfire season will continue to deepen existing health disparities rather than simply leaving behind scorched landscapes for everyone to recover and rebuild from as a united front.

The Deep Roots of Disparity: Redlining and Environmental Injustice

It’s impossible to talk about modern environmental inequities in LA without addressing the historical weight of redlining. During the mid-20th century, banks, real estate agencies, and government policies deliberately segregated cities, preventing Black, Latino, and immigrant families from moving into wealthier, predominantly white neighborhoods. These discriminatory lending practices shaped where different communities could live, and the impact lingers today.

Many of the neighborhoods that were historically redlined – such as South LA, Boyle Heights, and parts of the San Fernando Valley – still bear the brunt of environmental hazards. Asbestos exposure becomes a renewed threat in these areas when wildfires burn through aging buildings and factories; these areas often have higher concentrations of industry, older housing stock, and less green space, all of which contribute further to the dangers of wildfire-related toxins.

Meanwhile, wealthier areas, historically shielded from redlining’s effects, tend to have newer infrastructure, stronger zoning protections, and more community resources to push for immediate cleanup when disaster strikes. The result? The toxic footprint of a wildfire is far from random – it follows the socioeconomic and racial divides that were set in motion generations ago.

The Invisible Aftermath Deserves Just as Much Attention

Wildfires make headlines when they’re burning – but the toxic aftermath doesn’t disappear when the flames do. For many LA neighborhoods, the lingering presence of asbestos in charred debris turns an already dire situation into a long-term public health crisis. Until disaster response becomes more inclusive, these disparities will persist, smoldering just beneath the surface long after the fire is gone.