Why even wealthy enclaves should be turned into ‘sacrifice zones’ and given back to nature

This week there were three wildfires burning within 100 miles of Los Angeles. Sadly, this isn’t breaking news; it’s the opening salvo of California’s new reality. Each year, wildfires trigger a predictable sequence of events: The fires burn, homeowners flee, firefighters battle the blazes often to catastrophic loss, and, once the ash settles, people rush to rebuild grander homes, frequently in the exact same spots and typically directly or indirectly funded by taxpayer dollars.

Despite the increase in frequency and intensity of wildfires and other natural disasters, people continue to be drawn to high-risk areas. Some of the most dangerous wildfires, heat waves, floods, and droughts are found in some of the fastest-growing residential markets: About 446,000 more people moved in than out of the U.S. counties with the highest risk of wildfire over the past two years—an increase of 51% from 2019 and 2020. The counties with the highest heat risk registered a net influx of 629,000, a 17% uptick. The most flood-prone counties had an influx of 400,000 people, up more than 100% from the two years prior to 2021.

We’ve been here before, and we’ll be here again. The same areas will burn, the same areas will flood. It’s time we acknowledge a universal truth. Through fire, flood, extreme heat, and other disasters, nature is telling us in no uncertain terms: “You shouldn’t live here.” It’s time that we listen.

For the sake of public safety and fiscal responsibility, building or rebuilding should be prohibited in zones that are simply no longer fit for human habitation. To break this costly and dangerous cycle, we must designate certain disaster-prone areas as sacrifice zones—areas should be “sacrificed” back to nature.

In disaster-prone areas where human development has not yet occurred, state or local governments should preemptively limit development. In areas where people already live but repeatedly experience catastrophic loss after multiple disaster strikes, state and local governments should step in and prevent rebuilding—no matter how nice the view.

Sacrifice zones are not an abstract idea. Many state and local governments already take a similar regulatory approach for conservation or housing purposes.

“Urban growth boundaries” in Pitkin County, Colorado, and Washington state are designed to control urban sprawl and protect natural resources by separating urban areas with populations over 50,000 from rural and agricultural lands. “Conservation zones” in Hartford, Connecticut, and Shreveport, Louisiana, protect natural environments, preserve open space, and limit development in ecologically significant areas. Following catastrophic flooding in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the city launched a buyout program targeting around 1,300 flood-damaged properties. By 2014, they had purchased 1,356 properties at a cost of just under $100 million. These areas were repurposed to create a multi-layered defense for the city’s inhabited zones, starting with a natural buffer to mitigate future flood risks.

Designating sacrifice zones through local zoning laws can limit development in disaster-prone areas while avoiding a regulatory “takings” challenge under the Fifth Amendment. Property owners may argue the regulation deprives them of or “takes” value, but it could also be argued that the property’s worth is preserved by preventing future destruction from floods, wildfires, or other disasters. By implementing sacrifice zones, governments protect communities from catastrophic loss, while ensuring that property values do not decline due to repeated devastation.

In areas where development has already occurred, like Los Angeles, state and local governments could use eminent domain to buy out homeowners in high-risk zones. Would this be less expensive and safer than the current disaster cycle of firefighting and rebuilding? In a word: Yes.

A quick fiscal inquiry is crucial here. The cost of annually battling wildfires, rebuilding homes, providing long-term healthcare stemming from wildfire smoke pollution and providing disaster relief is massive. California, for example, spent over $1.3 billion on firefighting efforts in 2020 alone. It’s not just homes that are affected; key infrastructure like power lines and roads face the same repetitive damage. The expenses become astronomical when we tally the costs of recovery, rebuilding infrastructure, federal disaster relief, and rising insurance premiums.

One study estimated that the annual national short-term costs associated with premature deaths and respiratory hospital admissions stemming from wildfire smoke—just the smoke!—was between $11 billion and $20 billion in 2010, with a 2018 value of $63 billion. The long-term costs was between $76 and 130 billion, with a 2018 value of $450 billion. A 2020 report from the nonpartisan California Council on Science and Technology found that “the immediate and long-term economic consequences from wildfire smoke health impacts are estimated to approach $100 billion per year nationally.”

In contrast, the one-time cost of using eminent domain to create permanent sacrifice zones would pale in comparison. Firefighters wouldn’t have to risk their lives, and we wouldn’t be stuck in an endless cycle of rebuild, burn, and rebuild again.

But this is a strategy that must be taken with caution. Eminent domain has an ugly, troubling legacy, marked by injustice and government overreach, particularly affecting marginalized communities. Historically, it has been used to displace people of color and those without the resources to contest the seizures, as seen in urban renewal projects that dismantled vibrant Black neighborhoods in cities like St. Louis, Atlanta, Chicago, Detroit, and many others.

In California, examples such as Belmar Park and the Fillmore District illustrate how eminent domain demolished thriving African American communities under the guise of progress. Freeway construction across the state has disproportionately targeted minority neighborhoods, such as Russell City and Sugar Hill. World War II internment and the ongoing seizure of Native American lands further underscore the systemic abuses of this practice.

The scars of these injustices are found across the landscape, and it’s crucial to avoid repeating history. Eminent domain use this time is different, I would argue, because the areas we’re talking about designating as sacrifice zones are not underprivileged neighborhoods. In fact, many of them are wealthy enclaves where homeowners can afford second homes or vacation properties.

Another key difference is in motivation. We are not bulldozing neighborhoods for segregation, discrimination, profit, or development; we aim to save lives, protect communities, and save billions of taxpayer dollars, all by preventing future disasters.

The reality is that no amount of money or modern technology can make a home fireproof in a zone that is not safe for human life. As wildfires rage and other natural disasters become more common with climate change, it’s time we stop pretending we can outsmart nature with bigger houses, fancier fire suppression systems and more money. We need a new strategy.

And to be clear, sacrifice zones are just one part of the puzzle. Facing a future of increasingly frequent disasters will require major policy shifts. Local laws such as defensible space ordinances and wildland-urban interface subdivision standards, and measures like controlled burns are important steps. They must be paired with a planned retreat.

As we continue to see fires, floods, droughts, hurricanes, and other storms ravage communities across the country, let’s remember that some places were never meant to be home. Let’s leave the rebuilds to nature, where the only residents are the ones that belong.

This story first appeared in Next City and is republished with permission.