<div>The Mekredijian family—Mike, Tamar, and their children Emelia (10) and Ara (6)—have experienced unimaginable loss due to the Eaton Fire. In the span of 24 hours, Mike lost his job, their home was destroyed, and their cherished memories were reduced to ashes.

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<div>We are raising funds to help the Mekredijians rebuild their lives, find a new source of income, and begin the long road to recovery. Please consider donating to support this incredible family and share their story to spread hope during this devastating time.

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<div>Read below to learn their full story.

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<div>My name is Ara Astourian. Tamar is my first cousin and is like a sister to me, and Mike is a very close friend of mine. As we share the grief of everyone affected by the fires, I want to give you a window into the way that this tragedy is affecting Tamar and Mike.

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<div>For the last few years, Mike has been working for an agency that helps nonprofits with marketing and fundraising. On the morning of Tuesday, January 7, Mike got an email stating that the agency was restructuring and that January 7 would be his last day. Totally unexpected. No warning. As he drove to work for the exit interview, we got on the phone and tried to process what was happening. He was at a loss. He was asking a lot of questions, trying to understand why this was happening to him and his family and why it was happening now.

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<div>Meanwhile, Tamar, who teaches English and Humanities at Fresno City College and Glendale Community College, was responding to student emails and trying to get some grading done. As she waited for Mike to get back to their home on Alicia Avenue, she decided to take their kids, Emelia (Emi) (10) and Ara (6), to her parents’ house. That would give her and Mike some time and space to cry and talk and plan.

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<div>It would be good for the kids too. A temporary shield from reality. Maybe grandpa and grandma would take them to Eaton Canyon, which was just a short walk from their home on Altadena Drive. Maybe they’d make a pit stop at the McDonald’s down the street for some Happy Meals. Mike sent a message in our cousins group chat and shared about the loss of his job with these words: “Hey fam: some wild weather outside and in our Mekredijian household . . . Prayers appreciated.”

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<div>When evening came, my wife Lilit and I drove up to the Mekredijians’ home through the powerful wind gusts, hoping to hug them, ask them questions, and listen. We sat down in their living room and asked Mike how he was feeling.

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<div>Halfway through his first answer, Tamar got a call from her parents. They said there was a fire in Eaton Canyon and that it was rapidly approaching their home. Mike and I immediately left to pick up the kids from their grandparents’ house.

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<div>The bright red glow in the night sky was ominous. Within seconds, we could see flames raging on the face of the San Gabriels. When we reached the fire, the scene was apocalyptic. Chaotic wind. Embers flying everywhere. Toxic air. As I lifted a fallen fence that was blocking our path, Mike got the kids in the car. We raced away. The kids peppered us with anxious questions. They wanted to know if their grandparents’ house was going to burn down. They wanted to know if their house was going to burn down. They wanted to know if we were going to die. We reassured them. We reassured ourselves. “We’re just trying to get away from the ash and smoke. The canyon and the mountain might burn, but the firefighters will fight really hard to defend our homes. We’ve seen fires like this before. We’ve seen winds like this before.” We left it at that.

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<div>As we made our way back to the upper reaches of Altadena, Tamar called and told us a neighbor had come banging on the door, saying that they had to evacuate immediately and that she and Lilit had started to pack their things. When we arrived, Mike and Tamar packed frantically, as Lilit and I took the kids to their rooms and told them to pick out their favorite things.

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<div>Emi grabbed one of her little brother’s original onesies, but she left behind her one-of-a-kind crafts and drawings, including the drawing she’d recently made of the lady at the museum. Ara grabbed his stuffies and his fire truck, but he left behind his remote control cars, which were hidden from us in the darkness of the backyard. Mike grabbed a watch that his parents had gotten him, but he left behind 20 years of journals, his wedding band, and the custom cufflinks his dad made for Mike’s ordination in 2007. Tamar grabbed the original copy of her Master’s thesis but left behind her book collection and the meticulously arranged storyboard for her next novel.

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<div>We brought the Mekredijians to our place several miles to the south, but before we could get the kids to bed, we had to evacuate from our place too. Mike, Tamar, Emi, and Ara found shelter at a hotel in downtown LA with Tamar’s parents and sister.

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<div>On Wednesday morning, Lilit and I tried to get to Mike’s house, but we eventually found ourselves surrounded by burning homes and businesses. Dark black smoke was billowing in every direction. We’d come too close to the destruction. There in the chaos, we found Mike driving around in his car, trying to get to his house too. We decided to escape together.

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<div>We drove under sagging power lines. We drove by teetering telephone poles. We drove past Emi’s and Ara’s elementary school and saw it being eaten up by flames.

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<div>After getting to safety, we heard that our uncle’s garage was burning down and that his home was in danger. So Mike and I used hoses from a neighboring home to try to slow the flames. As we pointed our hoses over the fence between the houses, I saw Mike break down, and I heard him break down. He was confronting something none of us wanted to talk about. If it was too dangerous to make it into their neighborhood, what was happening to their home? What was happening to their car? What was happening to their books and their photos and their countless mementos?

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<div>After some firefighters arrived, we got a chance to put down our hoses. We stood in the street with tears in our eyes and scrolled through the hundreds of messages in our phones.

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<div>Then, suddenly, Mike turned the screen of his phone toward Lilit. What she saw was the icon of a loading file. He said he couldn’t look and asked her to let him know if his house was visible in the photo. But reception was horrible, and the photo was lagging. The moment he turned the phone back toward himself, the photo loaded, and Mike fell to his knees.

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<div>He wailed. He bawled. We fell to the asphalt with him and wept bitter tears. Right then, his mom called from New Jersey, and he cried to her in Armenian, “It’s all gone! Everything! It’s gone! It’s done!”

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<div>No more school. No more job. No more home. It was all gone.

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<div>We sat in silence for a long time, watching the flames peel out of our uncle’s work truck.

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<div>Mike finally broke the silence. He started talking about his wife and his kids. He said he didn’t want them to see their memories in shambles. He said he didn’t want them to see everything they’d worked for and everything they’d built in ruins.

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<div>We also heard the things he didn’t say. He didn’t want his kids to go through what he’d gone through. He didn’t want them to be traumatized like he’d been traumatized by the bombs that destroyed his childhood in Lebanon and left undying wounds in his heart, soul, and mind.

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<div>On Thursday, we finally got access to Mike and Tamar’s neighborhood. Not a single home was left standing. All we saw, block after block, was smoldering piles of ash and stone, distinguished only by the sizes and shapes of their chimneys.

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<div>We got to their address and searched in vain for Mike’s cherished cufflinks. We wept over the unrecognizable remains of the bookshelf that held Tamar’s novels, Mike’s Bible commentaries, and the special journal they’d shared in their early dating days. We grieved for the irreplaceable family photos and handwritten notes.

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<div>We found a charred version of the typewriter Mike had given Tamar for their anniversary. We found a blackened coffee “jezveh” that Tamar had inherited from our grandmother. And we found one of Ara’s tiny monster truck toys, its oversized tires melted out of shape. But Mike’s triathlon bike was nowhere to be seen. Emi’s drawings and crafts were gone.

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<div>The winds had come, and they’d swept away the Mekredijians’ income, their school, and their every earthly possession.

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<div>We don’t know what recovery will look like for Mike, Tamar, Emi, and Ara. We’re praying for hope to bud in their souls, and we’re showering the ground of their hearts with our tears, but there’s no sign of life yet. There’s just utter devastation.

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<div>We’re asking for your help. Please pray for a new source of income. Please pray for a peace that surpasses all understanding and a renewal of hope and joy.

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<div>And if you’ve connected with their story and feel their pain, please consider helping them financially. All donations will go directly to the Mekredijians, and they will be the sole determiners of how those funds are used. These funds will be used solely for expenses not covered by the Mekredijians’ insurance policy. 
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<div><span>Thank you.</span>
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