The Brief

Los Angeles Unified has reached a labor deal with its teachers union on Sunday.

In a news statement, LAUSD said the tentative two-year agreement with United Teachers Los Angeles would increase salary scales by 11.65% and starting teacher salary to $77,000 per year. No additional details of the agreement have been released.

The district says negotiations with the unions that represent support staff and administrators are ongoing and they expect to settle contract negotiations to avert a strike on Tuesday. It also wasn't immediately clear if schools would be closed Tuesday without those additional deals.

The district had an April 14 deadline to reach a deal, or else face a walkout. A strike including teachers would have shut down district schools and disrupted the education of about 400,000 students and the lives of families scrambling for child care.

The unions have been negotiating with the district over pay, benefits and additional support for students for more than a year. The members of each union voted overwhelmingly to give their leaders the power to call a strike after contract talks stalled.

The union’s members and the Los Angeles Unified Board must vote to approve the deal.

What is UTLA bargaining for?

UTLA’s bargaining team had met with the district more than a dozen times since negotiations began in February 2025.

The union’s proposals included: 

• A 17% raise over two years.
• A minimum starting teacher salary of nearly $78,000 — a 13% increase.
• Changes to the salary schedule so that newer teachers who complete professional development can earn increases more quickly.
• Reducing class sizes and adding more mental health support for students. 
• Learn more. 

What about the other unions?

The other two unions that have yet to reach agreements include SEIU Local 99, which represents support staff, and Associated Administrators of Los Angeles, which represents administrators.

SEIU Local 99

30,000 members include: bus drivers, cafeteria workers, classroom and campus aides
Contract expired: June 30, 2024
Most recent meeting with LAUSD: Thurs., April 9, 2026

The union’s proposals include: 

• A 30% wage increase over three years. 
• More hours for workers who don’t have enough to qualify for benefits.

LAUSD’s most recent offer includes: 

• A 13% wage increase over three years.
• A task force to advice the district on Artificial Intelligence use that includes SEIU Local 99 members.
• Learn more.

SEIU Local 99 also declared an impasse in December, but was at a different stage in the bargaining process than UTLA.

The state has appointed a mediator to try and help the two sides meet an agreement.

The basis for SEIU’s strike vote is what the union says are more than a dozen unfair practice charges where members have been disciplined or lost hours as a result of participating in union activities.

SEIU Local 99 reports its members make an average of $35,000 a year.

Maria Avalos is a supervision aide at Fernangeles Elementary School in Sun Valley. Avalos said she’s only assigned four hours of work a day and also cleans houses and sells tamales to support her daughter.

“We need more hours,” Avalos said. “I live in an apartment that has one bedroom for 10 of us.”

Associated Administrators of Los Angeles

3,000 members include: principals, directors and other administrators
Contract expired: June 30, 2025
Most recent meeting with LAUSD: Monday, April 6, 2026

The union’s proposals include: 

• A 12% raise over two years.
• The ability to use flex time more easily.

LAUSD’s most recent offer includes: 

• A 10% wage increase over three years.
• Additional stipends for administrators in specific positions.
• Learn more.

If AALA members still walk out April 14 it would be a first for the union, which affiliated with the Teamsters in 2024.

The union declared an impasse in February, an assessment the district disagreed with, but it agreed to continue negotiating.

“We don't have the necessary resources to really say we have safe schools, to really say that we're servicing students,” said Maria Nichols, president of AALA, during a pre-strike rally.

Senior editor for education Ross Brenneman contributed to this story.

In 2022, the city of Inglewood agreed to a contract with developers to build apartments in place of the boarded-up building at 100 E. Nutwood St.

The company, 317 La Brea, LLC, had big plans for the parcel and a neighboring piece of land that included more than 140 apartments and 21,000 square feet of restaurants and stores, according to city documents. The developers were set to purchase the plot for $4.6 million, according to a development agreement with the city.

But nearly four years and one shredded contract later, no apartments are in sight.

“[The buildings] have just been sitting there,” said Yisel Pat, the manager of a clothing store around the corner.

Community members told The LA Local they’d like to see some use come out of the Nutwood parcel, whether for housing or a shopping center. The vacant parcel is just two blocks away from Inglewood’s beleaguered Market Street commercial corridor — with both sites serving as focal points of city efforts to spread the rapid growth of Inglewood’s sports and entertainment district more broadly across the city.

Those efforts hit a recent roadblock as Inglewood City Council voted on March 24 to re-list the city-owned property on Nutwood as surplus, five months after the city and 317 La Brea, LLC, terminated their development agreement.

The city will reopen the land for new proposals, Inglewood Mayor James Butts told The LA Local.

Bernard McCrumby, the city’s development services director, said the city hopes to see the vacant land developed with some mix of housing, commercial and hospitality projects.

“We’ll see what comes out in the wash. I’m excited to see the growth and the movement,” McCrumby said.

No contact information was listed, specifically, for 317 La Brea, LLC. The company shares officers and an address with the Chatsworth firm Uncommon Developers, whose representatives did not respond to a request for comment.

City staff wrote in meeting documents that the developer made “reasonable efforts” to start construction but was blocked by factors including the COVID-19 pandemic and shifting real estate markets.

McCrumby told The LA Local the city was excited about the project, but developers were not able to make the project finances pencil out.

The Nutwood Street parcel shares a block with Grevillea Art Park and another husk of a building at 317 La Brea Ave. The area around the parcel is in the middle of big changes. To the north sits the Jordan Brand basketball facility that replaced a former public adult school in January. To the west, heavy machines were busy Wednesday demolishing part of the Inglewood High School campus for reconstruction.

Pat, the clothing store manager , said she’d be happy to see housing go up on the land if it included low-income apartments. She said she understands if the city goes in a different direction.

“They’re trying to make (the city) look more high class,” she said.

Inglewood resident Cheryle Matlock said much of the city’s recent years of development have seemed to center around sports and entertainment venues.

Matlock said that if the city goes ahead with plans to close down a mall on nearby Market Street, she’d like to see the Nutwood Street parcel and neighboring buildings turn into some sort of shopping center.

One of America’s most iconic roads is turning 100 this year: Route 66.

Affectionately known as the Mother Road, the historic route idealized ‘getting your kicks’ on a road trip and driving West with the top down. The aspirational ideal of Southern California probably wouldn’t be the same without it, with Route 66 ending at the ultimate sunny destination: the Pacific Ocean.

But beyond the nostalgia, the Main Street of America has another history: a path for migration to the West. Black Americans used it to escape the South during the Jim Crow era, but for them, it was far from a dreamy getaway drive. It’s part of the dark underbelly of Route 66.

Route 66 history 

Architect Frank Lloyd Wright, who designed the famed Hollyhock House, once described Route 66 as a “giant chute, down which everything loose in this country is sliding into Southern California.” He was right. Route 66 was, in some ways, a perfect road.

Built in 1926, just before the Great Depression, the path was southern enough to avoid the snow and open all-year round. Crossing eight states and over 2,000 miles, it was designed to link rural communities as far away as Illinois to Southern California.

It was the first highway in the country to be fully-paved in 1938 — a luxury at the time — making it vital to trucking companies and commercial trade. And soon after it also took on a military role. After the Pearl Harbor attack in 1941, the U.S. government decided the Pacific Coast needed more protection, so it invested billions of dollars and moved thousands of military members to California. A desert training facility was also established along the road.

Migration on the Mother Road

The road was also useful for people going on vacations or visiting family. However, its role in migration might be the most influential. Route 66 became an escape route during urgent moments of need, for both Black and white families. Author and cultural documentarian Candacy Taylor has studied Black travel and Route 66 extensively. She said white families used it as a means to get away.

“It became this route for mostly white Americans escaping poverty… [or] the stock market crash in Chicago,” Taylor said. “These men were just saying, ‘well, we’ll just leave and we’ll go to California where it’s better.’ So, the route became this really important method to find salvation for white folks.”

A section of Route 66 near Prewitt, New Mexico in 2003. Rita Powdrell and her sister ended up taking Route 66 a second time to migrate to New Mexico for college.

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Robyn Beck

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For Black Americans, it was about fleeing the crushing prejudice of Jim Crow laws in the South. Taylor said depending where you lived, there were three main paths to take. If you were around the East Coast, you’d likely follow the coast up to New York. If you were in the Mid-South, like Alabama, you’d take the railway up to Chicago.

If you were closer to the West coast, such as Texas, you’d head to Los Angeles, making Route 66 one of the best ways to get out. But it was also highly dangerous.

Racism on Route 66

Rita Powdrell is the 79-year-old director of the African American Museum and Cultural Center of New Mexico. But when she was 16, in 1963, Powdrell got her first taste of the West — and Route 66. Her family traveled to California so her father could attend a National Medical Association conference in L.A.

“We took a week to get to L.A. and we camped all the way to Arizona because my father didn’t want to encounter the segregated hotels and motels that you find along the way,” she said. “He wanted to make sure we’d have a safe space to spend the night when we stopped.”

She remembered they camped on national parkland, and that it was her sister’s job to check all the parks to make sure they had toilets instead of outhouses. Powdrell recalled how cold it was camping, seeing beautiful forests, taking in the smells of the outdoors and her mother cooking over a charcoal fire.

She didn’t realize why the family was camping at the time — which felt like a vacation — but Powdrell said she learned about it later on.

It wasn’t just the segregated hotels that needed to be avoided. Route 66 went through a lot of sundown towns, white communities which prohibited Black people from staying after sunset. If you found yourself in one of these towns after dark, Taylor said it wouldn’t be good.

“There was usually either some kind of sign that said ‘N-word don’t let the sun set on you here’, or they would ring a bell at 6 p.m. because,” she said, “Black people who were working in the towns, that was their cue… to leave, because you shouldn’t be there.”

At best you’d be harassed for staying and escorted to the border, according to Taylor. At worst, your life would be at risk. Sundown towns were known for bigoted people who would carry out beatings, lynchings and other serious threats.

“ Given that 44 of the 89 counties on Route 66 were sundown towns, traveling Route 66 was like a minefield,” Taylor said.

The Green Book

Black travelers had to plan ahead, just like Powdrell’s father. You’d have to bring your own supplies on long drives, like cans to urinate in, extra lunch boxes for meals and bedding to sleep in. It was fairly common for Black drivers to crash on Route 66 as well. According to Taylor, the NAACP told a local newspaper that the crashes were happening because sleep-deprived drivers couldn’t find a place to sleep.

This is where the Green Book came in. It was essentially a national Black Yellow Pages, a key for survival. The travel guide was written by postal carrier Victor Hugo Green for Black folks to find safe places to visit. You could find welcoming communities and things like rest stops, restaurants, gas stations and even real estate offices. While there were multiple Black travel guides, the Green Book was the longest-running and most well-known, published between 1936 and 1967.

“As far as movement, the freedom to move comfortably from one space to another,” Powdrell said, “I think that’s what the Green Book gives African Americans.” She doesn’t know if her father used it on their trip, but Powdrell said it helped people avoid discrimination — like she experienced traveling.

As her family got closer to California, they stopped camping and began to look for motels. Her father thought they’d be fine the closer they got to the coast.

“I remember us going from motel to motel and they would have the vacancy sign out and as soon as my dad would walk in, they would say, ‘oh, we just rented the last room. We’re so sorry.’” she said. “That happened a few times and I could feel the anxiety of my parents because it’s night, they hadn’t planned on camping anywhere.”

Once they reached Barstow in California, it became crystal clear the progressive state in the 1960s wasn’t immune to racism. It was a hot day, so Powdrell and her sister wanted to swim in the hotel pool.

“ We run down to the pool, we get in and all the other guests get out of the pool as soon as we get in,” she recalled.

Since Powdrell was a teenager, she was old enough to know of racism but still hadn’t yet experienced it like she did on this trip. Growing up, her father was the first African American doctor in the Pennsylvania state hospital system. They were the only Black children in an all-white environment. She said because of that her perception of prejudice and segregation was a little skewed.

“When I’m traveling, I’m really thinking that the country is a more accepting place than it is,” she said. “So the type of treatment we start to get as we travel Route 66 — I don’t know how to explain it, but it floods you with an immense sense of shaming. That there’s something wrong with you. That you’re not allowed into these spaces.”

Today, Powdrell admires her father for coming up with an enjoyable camping experience, despite the circumstances. She said it’s another sign of the “sovereign resilience” of Black Americans to resist restrictions on movement, a cornerstone of segregation.

The end of Route 66

Route 66’s demise came with the creation of the Interstate Highway system, through the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1956.

The interstate was designed to be straight and fast, a superior alternative to Route 66, which intentionally wound through remote towns. Because it was straight, the speed limit was higher, so people could even drive faster.

In L.A. County, the 10 Freeway took the place of Route 66, opening in Santa Monica in the 1960s. The route was ultimately decommissioned in 1985 and removed from the U.S. highway system.

The 10 Freeway west of the East Los Angeles Interchange on March 20, 2026.

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The building of the freeway system often cut through Black neighborhoods, said D’Artagnan Scorza, executive director of racial equity for L.A. County.

“The thing about Route 66 in particular is that while it opened the door for western migration, the freeways built in L.A. undermined a lot of the gains that Black communities made,” Scorza said.

He pointed to Sugar Hill in West Adams, a once wealthy Black neighborhood in L.A. County that was split in half by the 10 Freeway’s construction. That, along with redlining and urban renewal, meant Black and brown communities did not have the political power to fight back, he said.

And now, Black communities are leaving the metropolitan areas where they initially gathered, like South L.A. According to Michael Stoll, a professor of public policy and urban planning at UCLA, families are increasingly moving to places like the Inland Empire and Antelope Valley largely because of housing costs and gentrification.

While transit is just one part of systemic issues facing Southern California, Route 66 is an example of how roads are never just roads. Over 100 years, it’s redefined the West and influenced what happens to communities.

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

On a weeknight in April 2016, about 20 people gathered in Koreatown for a run organized by two friends who weren’t sure what they were doing or if anyone would even show up.

Ten years later, that group has become Koreatown Run Club, a weekly fixture that now draws hundreds at a time and roughly 800 to a thousand runners across a typical week, according to co-founder Duy Nguyen. The club has expanded well beyond the neighborhood through partnerships with major brands, including sneaker collaborations with Nike and a banner encouraging the group for this year’s L.A. Marathon.

Neither Nguyen nor co-founder Michael Pak expected it to last this long, or to take on the kind of role it has in people’s lives. The pair, Nguyen said, were “just looking for stuff to do together.”

“I don’t think we thought that far ahead. The idea itself was kind of spur of the moment and then when we had the first run, we were like, ‘oh, what are we doing next?’ And then you blink and it’s 10 years later,” he said.

The first run was loosely organized. Nguyen, an avid soccer guy, had originally planned to start a soccer club, but field access and liability concerns made that difficult. Running was simpler to coordinate and required little beyond a meeting point and a time.

“You could run for free and people could come out at their own will and join,” Pak said.

Even then, they were unsure how it would work in practice.

“None of us are runners,” Nguyen said. “So we were worried like, what route do we run?”

Koreatown Run Club founders Mike Pak and Duy Nguyen at Love Hour in Koreatown.

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About 20 people showed up that first night, many of them friends who came to support the pair. Pak said much of the attendance over time happened through word of mouth rather than any formal outreach.

As the runs became more organized and more people came out to run, the nature of the group began to change. Pak said he started to notice it in conversations with runners who were willing to share more about their lives outside of running. He recalled one woman telling him about her struggle with alcohol addiction and how the club had helped her through it.

“That’s when a light bulb went off,” he said. “They have their own personal life, they’re going through their demons in life, and for them to express those feelings at a run club where they don’t know anyone, I realized, well, if it’s just that story, I’m sure there are thousands of other stories that maybe we have an opportunity to learn from.”

For many members, the club functions as a place to build relationships that extend beyond the runs themselves.

Julie Lee, co-captain of the crew on Thursdays, joined in 2023 after seeing its runners hype each other up in the Rose Bowl Half Marathon. She already knew who they were from Instagram, but said experiencing their energy in person made her want to join.

Originally from Maryland, Lee said finding a community she can trust in a new place has been life-changing.

“These are the friends that I call when I’m having hard times in life, when I’m going through my breakups, when I need a ride to the airport. This has become my family outside of my actual home,” she said.

Charles Austin, another co-captain, said the club filled a similar role for him after returning to the city after college. He’s invited people he met through the club, including Lee, to his wedding last year.

“That’s the sort of bonds that you end up building. And that’s something that kind of fulfills me day in and day out,” he said. “I probably couldn’t make it through some of the harder things I’ve been through in the last couple of years if not for KRC.”

Runners pose for a group photo before running with Koreatown Run Club at Love Hour in Koreatown.

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The club has also influenced how participants interact with the neighborhood itself. Pak said that before joining, he felt some people were hesitant to spend time in the neighborhood or felt unsure navigating it.

“When you have friends in the neighborhood and you live in the neighborhood, you get a little curious and have curiosity to explore more of the neighborhood that you live in. And I think we just opened a little door,” he said.

Nguyen agrees.

“I think maybe the run club opened it up more to being like, ‘Oh, I’m just gonna walk to get coffee after a run and stumble upon all these places and meet all these people,’” he said.

Running through the neighborhood also shapes how people experience it. While the streets of Koreatown are “unpredictable,” Pak said, moving through the area on foot allows runners to notice details they might otherwise miss.

“I think in the beginning, I didn’t expect to see some really undiscovered restaurants and businesses,” Pak said.

Over time, Koreatown Run Club has expanded well beyond the city. Lee said that while traveling in South Korea for a marathon, she was welcomed by a local run club simply because she was associated with KRC.

Nguyen described a similar experience while traveling in Taiwan, where someone recognized the club’s name on his shirt and came up to talk to him.

Similarly, Pak said while traveling Japan, he ran into someone wearing a KRC shirt and ended up going to dinner together.

But Pak felt one of the clearest indicators of the club’s reach was when runners began sending him photos of unofficial club merchandise being sold overseas.

“That’s when I thought we really made it,” he said, laughing. “We didn’t know we could be bootlegged.”

The club has also taken on a larger role during moments of crisis. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Pak and Nguyen said runners used group chats to coordinate grocery deliveries and other forms of mutual aid.

More recently, after the L.A. fires, the club converted one of its spaces into a relief center, collecting and distributing donations to affected families. Pak said volunteers from the community showed up consistently to help run the effort.

“There were just so many volunteers that came through every single day,” he said. “It’s the community that we built. They all come together in a time of need.”

To Austin, the run club has become something he could rely on.

Runners along their route with Koreatown Run Club at Love Hour in Koreatown.

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“It’s a spot where I can come to and I can build on friendships and family,” he said. “It all starts here and it just kind of branches out from here.”

On a recent weeknight at Love Hour — a burger joint co-owned by Pak and Nguyen — Lynn Nguyen, who joined the club in 2017, was in the middle of an interview after a run when she turned to Pak.

“I’m getting married, Mike! You’re invited to my wedding!” she said, before returning to her answer.

A few moments later, another runner walked by and stopped to greet her. Nguyen mentioned she had officiated their wedding three years earlier, then laughed and gestured toward the exchange.

“See? That’s how it is.”

Both founders said their lives have changed dramatically. Neither expected to run full marathons — Pak has done 10, Nguyen 31 — or to meet people from around the world and see strangers become friends who go on to get married and have kids.

“It’s really inspiring to see how many people look at us outside of just Los Angeles. And at this point, it’s way bigger than us and it’s really cool to see new people coming in who I have no idea who they are, but they are part of this long-term journey,” Pak said.

Ten years after the first run, they say they still approach running the club without a long-term roadmap and take things day by day.

“We’ve been doing that from the start and it’s gotten us here, so I think we’ll just keep going at it,” Nguyen said. “We never think too far ahead.”

For Fatmah Muhammad, Astralab is a home away from home. 

The community space sometimes feels safer than the confines of her home, where she sits alone watching the constant reports of violence and death flash across her screen — reminders that her homeland of Palestine is being torn apart by war.

There isn’t much she can do from thousands of miles away, so she and hundreds of others find solace in the refuge that Astralab provides. 

And the space is at risk of closing.

After nearly two years in the Westlake neighborhood, the founders of Astralab say they’ve been told to leave. The news arrived abruptly as the founders said they were in talks to extend their lease with their landlord JMF Development.

The building manager had even thanked them for bringing life into the studio and creative office space.

“We’ve been great tenants and kind neighbors. We’ve really built a space for people to come and to gather and not just grieve, but also joyfully be together,” said Yusuf Misdaq, co-founder of the third space venue that borders Koreatown.

“But they just took it off the table and gave us no response since then,” he said.

For Fatmah Muhammad, Astralab is a home away from home.

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Hanna Kang

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The LA Local

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Located in the Granada Buildings — a block-long Mediterranean and Spanish Colonial Revival complex on La Fayette Park Place with open courtyards and greenery — Astralab sits as a kind of refuge in an otherwise blighted stretch of the neighborhood. 

In February, Astralab received a 60-day notice to vacate. Co-founder Christina Lila said they are now working with a pro bono lawyer to challenge the landlord. 

When reached by phone, a person at the real estate office declined to provide his name and questioned why anyone was asking about the notice to vacate. 

“Why is this a story? I don’t know why I’m even entertaining this conversation,” he said. 

He said Astralab’s tenancy ends April 19 and that they would need to vacate the space. The real estate company did not respond to requests for comment via email. 

'Community is medicine'

While all are welcome at Astralab, the space was created to provide refuge with a specific community in mind.

Lila is half Iranian and Misdaq is originally from Afghanistan. The community space was meant to cater to people from Southwest Asia and North Africa, or the SWANA region, who often feel unmoored away from home.

“We really saw the lack of cultural centers in America, frankly. And while working in the SWANA region, I saw the vibrant cultures and the community love and how powerful it was,” Lila said. “It feels like there’s almost a psychological torture in America, and you can’t get the medicine. Community is medicine, and we just don’t have it as much here.”

For Fatmah Muhammad, Astralab is a home away from home.

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Courtesy Astralab

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Muhammad said that sense of community is what drew her to Astralab.

“My kids have performed cultural songs and dances there. That place just reminds me of who we are and it just gives me that comfortability of being there,” she said.

Muhammad, who owns Knafeh Queens, a dessert shop based in Rancho Cucamonga, has also hosted workshops at Astralab, teaching people how to make the dessert and sharing its history.

“I’ve rarely been able to find spaces like this that I barely have to put effort into. I always show up as my full self, but there’s something really special about Astralab and how welcoming they are to everyone regardless of background and faith,” she said.

Shortly after opening, Astralab quickly started hosting a steady rotation of gatherings, drawing people from across Los Angeles and beyond. Some nights are quiet, with poetry readings or small group discussions, Lila said. Other nights spill into the courtyard.

“We host regular bazaars where we open our courtyard, and there’ll be 30, 40 creators and so many people, artists, musicians, healers — we have a ‘Silk Road’ type of space where people will come and put their creations — all sorts of different medicines and jewelry and things like that,” Lila said.

More than 200 artists, musicians and small business owners have participated through those events over the last two years, according to the founders. Astralab is sustained through event-based income and the bazaar, Lila said, but most paid events include sliding scale or free tickets for those who could not otherwise afford to attend. 

For Fatmah Muhammad, Astralab is a home away from home.

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Misdaq can tell that people often visit carrying the weight of what’s happening back home.

“With Iran being so prominent, people are coming in tears. We’ve had a lot of grieving events where people can just come and just be,” he said.

But “a lot of dance happens here, a lot of celebration happens here. It’s not all sad. In fact, it’s mostly joyful, actually,” Misdaq adds.

'A drop of solace'

Parisa Nkoy, an Iranian-Congolese organizer, had been following Astralab online before visiting earlier this year. She has used the space to host workshops connecting struggles across the world, including Congo and Palestine.

Earlier this year, she led a teach-in on Congo, inviting Congolese organizers who do advocacy work for refugees and immigrants.

“We did a little presentation and a workshop, and then we were able to connect to Palestine as well. It was a fundraiser as well to raise money that we donated to folks on the ground in Congo and I just don’t know that I could have found another space that would have been as comfortable for me to do that,” she said.

“I think that that’s super important and we need more of that, not less of that,” she said.

Neighbors say they haven’t seen similar action taken against other tenants.

“As far as I know, no one else here has gotten something like this just randomly. I mean, most people will move out on their own accord if they can’t pay rent. We’ve only really had positive interactions with them,” said Eric Gorvin, who runs a branding agency next door.

“Every time they’ve had an event, it’s been really respectful people. It’s always community-driven,” he added. “I didn’t know much about that community until meeting them, and it’s been really refreshing to have them around.” 

The founders say they haven’t been given a reason for the notice to vacate, but they believe it’s due to their pro-Palestine stance. 

“We’ve basically been speaking a lot about the genocide in Palestine, and we’ve used our platform to try and not shy away from that too much, but we also do a lot of other things besides that,” Misdaq said.

“We just had a Passover [seder] led by a Jewish mystic, and it’s a testimony that we feel the world needs right now where there can be an alliance of all these different people,” Lila said.

“We can share the beauty of our uniqueness together,” she said.

The founders said they invested most of their personal savings into creating Astralab and had only recently moved beyond breaking even. Lila said that milestone would have allowed them to begin offering new programs.

“We’ve become a home to so many people separated from their families during these wars, our space gives people a drop of solace while watching their homelands being bombed,” they said.

“If we have to, we’ll be nomadic, which is kind of appropriate maybe in some ways for our people. So maybe we’ll take it on the road for a little while before we find a space if they do kick us out,” Misdaq said. 

Astralab will host HAYAT, a Middle-Eastern/Persian celebration of dance and music on April 18. More details can be found on their Instagram page, @astralab_la .