The smell of smoke lingers as wildfires rage through Southern California. Families near the Los Angeles Basin pack their cars with what they can carry—photographs, keepsakes, fragments of their lives. For thousands, those fragments will be all that remains. These fires, driven by intense winds and prolonged drought, have burned over 40,000 acres in a month, devastating communities like Porter Ranch and Malibu. Yet, as I scroll through social media, I see comments like, “That’s what they get for living in California,” or “Maybe they should vote smarter next time.” The cruelty is stunning but unsurprising.

The same callousness surfaced earlier this year when historic floods ravaged parts of North Carolina. Torrential rains caused rivers to overflow, displacing nearly 25,000 residents and submerging towns. Instead of universal sympathy, victims faced derision. Comments like, “They deserve it for voting red,” or “Good luck with your small-government policies now,” dismissed their suffering as if disasters consider political affiliations before upending lives. This troubling trend raises the question: What makes someone “human enough” for empathy, and how do we decide? Why must disaster victims meet ideological checklists to deserve compassion? Compassion, once instinctive, has become conditional, weaponized by partisanship. Fires in California and floods in North Carolina are less about human loss and more about scoring political points.

These attitudes are not confined to social media. Public figures often fan the flames. During the current fires in Los Angeles (LA) County, then-President-Elect Donald Trump blamed California’s forest management practices, dismissing the broader role of climate change. Similarly, Governor Gavin Newsom’s recent handling of wildfire responses has been met with accusations of political posturing rather than effective governance. On the other side, Democratic leaders have framed natural disasters in red states as consequences of ignoring climate policy, sometimes implying a form of karmic justice. These narratives shift the focus away from the urgent need for relief and recovery, turning crises into partisan battlegrounds.

Reflecting on this, I have confronted my own biases. I have liked posts mocking disaster victims for their political affiliations and nodded along to comments suggesting communities brought their suffering upon themselves. However, when I see families standing in ashes or wading through floodwaters, I am reminded of our shared vulnerability. How can I claim to value human life if my empathy is so easily withheld? Compassion, I have realized, cannot be transactional. To honor the sanctity of life, kindness must be unconditional—even to those who might not extend it to me. This realization forced me to grapple with difficult questions. Should I care about someone who dismisses my well-being? Do I have a responsibility to show compassion to those harboring prejudice? The answer, though neither simple nor easy, is yes. Dehumanizing others—even in response to bigotry—erodes our humanity. Somewhere in North Carolina, someone may hold views I find abhorrent, but does that justify the destruction of their home?? Absolutely not.

Natural disasters remind us of our fragility. Fires, floods, and hurricanes are not partisan events. They destroy indiscriminately and should inspire universal compassion. Yet our polarized society has weaponized even these moments of suffering. Allowing politics to dictate who deserves sympathy fails us as individuals and as a society.

Rebuilding after disasters requires more than physical reconstruction; it requires a commitment to empathy, solidarity, and action. We cannot let differences overshadow our shared humanity. The charred ruins of a California home or the flood-soaked remnants of a North Carolina neighborhood are not partisan images—they are human ones, and they should move us to act.

The solution starts with personal accountability, as I have attempted in this piece. It requires self-awareness, challenging biases, and choosing empathy, even when it feels undeserved. It is difficult to resist the pull of partisanship, but being human is, and always will be, enough to deserve compassion, solidarity, and support. When disasters strike, the ruins they leave behind are not red or blue—they are simply ruins, reminders of our shared existence. In those moments, the measure of our humanity is not in the dividing lines we have drawn, but in how willing we are to erase them.