The Brief

Tears welling in her eyes, Assemblymember Rebecca Bauer-Kahan paused mid-sentence to calm herself on the Assembly floor.

Almost a century ago, the Nazis forced her grandmother to flee Austria, leaving behind her great-great-grandmother who died in the Holocaust, the Jewish Democrat from San Ramon told her fellow lawmakers. Last year, she said, her daughter told her that the bathrooms at her school had been vandalized with swastikas.

“My children deserve to show up at school and not have to face hate crimes in their building, to face the symbols that represented the end of their relatives,” she said.

Stories like hers, as well as Hamas’ attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, prompted California’s Jewish lawmakers to make countering antisemitism in schools their top priority this year. They sought to create a list of words and ideas that could not be mentioned in classrooms, including heavily disputed claims about Israel. The effort sparked the biggest, most emotional legislative fight of the year: Should the government regulate what can be taught in schools? If so, how far should it go?

At issue was Assembly Bill 715, which Gov. Gavin Newsom signed into law this month after it went through multiple major, sometimes last-minute rewrites during months of political tussling.

Champions have argued the law will protect Jewish students from rising bullying and discrimination, sometimes from teachers. While the state does not collect data on antisemitism in schools, reports of anti-Jewish bias statewide have doubled between 2021 and 2024, according to the California Department of Justice. Last year, more than 15% of all hate crime events in California were anti-Jewish, even though Jewish people make up about 3% of the state population.

“We cannot hide from the profoundly unfortunate truth that Jewish kids are being isolated, made to feel unwelcome, and verbally and physically attacked. And far too often, our schools are failing to protect them,” Assemblymember Rick Zbur, a Los Angeles Democrat and co-author of the bill, said during a May hearing, when the bill started as merely a promise to curb antisemitism in schools.

Assemblymember Rick Chavez Zbur speaks to lawmakers during an Assembly floor session at the state Capitol in Sacramento on Oct. 1, 2024.

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Fred Greaves

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CalMatters

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By July, it had undergone a major overhaul, including determining that any instruction that “directly or indirectly deny Israel’s right to exist,” equating Israelis with Nazis, or disrespecting “the historical, cultural, or religious significance of Israel to the Jewish people” would count as creating an “antisemitic learning environment.” It reinvigorated debates over whether criticism of Israel’s founding, or even the belief that Jewish people should have an independent country in their ancient homeland, counts as antisemitic — something Jewish thinkers do not agree on.

Mainstream Jewish groups maintain that anti-Zionism, a broad term that generally opposes the idea of a standalone state with a Jewish-majority population, is antisemitic. Many Jewish academics, however, don’t think it is antisemitic on its own, but they agree that blaming individual Jews for the actions taken by the Israeli government is antisemitic.

That July version of the bill drew heavy opposition from a vast coalition of education groups, from teachers unions to school boards, civil rights advocates and Muslim community organizations, who feared censorship of pro-Palestinian voices and infringement upon academic freedom. They would remain opposed through its many iterations, and many of them urged Newsom to veto it.

Their concerns lingered even as the bill was ultimately watered down in the final days of this year’s legislative session to address bias more broadly: The final version no longer mentions the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and bars using professional development materials that violate the state’s anti-discrimination laws. It also requires “factually accurate” instruction that is free of “advocacy, personal opinion, bias, or partisanship” — a controversial element the bill’s authors said they ran out of time to tackle and promised to “clean up” next year.

“In its current form, this bill only reinforces broader national trends of silencing constitutionally protected speech, erasing historically relevant curriculum, and persecuting anyone who expresses even the slightest opposition to the federal administration,” said Assemblymember Robert Garcia, a freshman Democratic lawmaker from Rancho Cucamonga and former teacher and school board member, who ultimately abstained from voting on the measure.

The squabble over the bill was messy, marked by hundreds of attendees, hourslong hearings, and accusations of bad faith from both sides. Bauer-Kahan called a teachers union advocate who opposed the bill antisemitic. After the bill passed out of the Legislature, a handful of pro-Palestinian activists protested from the Assembly gallery for more than an hour, yelling: “You will all have blood on your hands!”

Assemblymember Rebecca Bauer-Kahan speaks in support of SCR 135, which would designate May 6, 2024 as California Holocaust Memorial Day on the Assembly floor at the state Capitol in Sacramento on April 29, 2024.

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Miguel Gutierrez Jr.

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CalMatters

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The tension highlights the discomfort for California Democrats, who, despite having traditionally defended Israel, have had to reckon with a base growing increasingly critical of Israel. They faced a tough choice: Support the bill and risk upsetting some of the most powerful labor allies as well as their pro-Palestinian constituents, or oppose the bill and risk being labeled as antisemitic or unwilling to combat antisemitism. Amid the pressure, some Democratic lawmakers voted for the bill even as they warned it could be used to censor free speech. Others abstained instead of taking a side.

“I'm actually surprised that California state legislators would want to even touch it, because it's just so radioactive right now,” said Kim Nalder, a political science professor at Sacramento State University. “It just feels like at this political moment, we want to lower the temperature, not shine a spotlight on ways in which we might target each other.”

The issue was such a hot potato that many lawmakers avoided tackling it early in the legislative process, when policy differences are often ironed out, said Sen. Sasha Renée Pérez, a freshman progressive Democrat from Pasadena who chairs the Senate Education Committee. When the bill arrived in her committee in June, it still had no substantive language. Some lawmakers told her to not touch it either, while others left it up to her to “take care of it,” she said.

“The ball got thrown to me,” she told CalMatters. "And people knew that they were doing that."

'People would end up being very angry on both sides'

California’s Jewish lawmakers introduced the bill in response to intensifying clashes in schools and college campuses nationwide over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in Gaza. For some Democrats, the timing couldn’t have been worse.

The Gaza war has forced a tidal shift within the Democratic base, as voters’ support for Israel’s military campaign tanked over the past two years. That has forced some Democrats, even moderates who have historically backed Israel, to condemn the country and pull away from pro-Israel donors. Young Democrats are also more critical of Israel than their older peers, so any vote that could be perceived as silencing pro-Palestinian voices is risky.

“A very strong part of Democratic and leftist values that we are seeing expressed now is anti-genocide or anti-war,” Nalder said. “(For) my students who are politically active, this is one of the chief issues that they care about.”

The bill also came as President Donald Trump ordered immigration agents to arrest student activists critical of the Israeli government and withheld billions of dollars in funding from universities for their alleged failure to protect Jewish students. At least half a dozen other state Legislatures sought to fight antisemitism in schools this year, with some adopting a highly disputed definition of antisemitism in state education codes. Enraged, some opponents accused California Democrats of taking a page out of Trump’s playbook.

But the Democratic lawmakers had to balance all that with the risk of upsetting the Jewish community, a key voting block. A no vote could be construed as antisemitic, making the lawmaker vulnerable to challenges in the next election, Nalder said.

The bill was the sole priority of the 18-member California Legislative Jewish Caucus, which is composed entirely of Democrats and led by Assemblymember Jesse Gabriel of Encino and Sen. Scott Wiener of San Francisco, who chair the budget committees in their respective chambers.

Neither would speak with CalMatters about what happened with the bill. Gabriel’s office did not respond to several CalMatters emails seeking an interview, whereas Wiener declined to comment, pointing CalMatters to the bill authors instead.

David Bocarsly, executive director of the Jewish Public Affairs Committee, which sponsored the bill, said the caucus’ backing was crucial.

“The Jewish caucus was able to leverage their influence and respect with their colleagues and effectively represent the Jewish community’s needs,” he said.

Pérez acknowledged the political challenge, telling CalMatters she would have preferred to hold the bill until next year, but said legislative leaders had promised to deliver a bill the governor could sign this year. She said some colleagues told her it was “an impossible situation” to navigate.

“They felt like there was no winning,” she said. “Regardless of what they would try to do to make amendments to it … people would end up being very angry on both sides.”

A debate over academic freedom

The clash over AB 715 is the latest episode of yearslong strife over how to teach about marginalized communities in California’s K-12 schools and who should be included.

In past years, the fight primarily focused on ethnic studies — a mandatory high school course on the history and culture of groups such as Latinos, Asian Americans, African Americans and Native Americans. The state adopted a model curriculum in 2021, after years of fine-tuning amid disputes over which ethnic minority groups to teach about and criticism from Jewish advocates, who accused past versions of being antisemitic.

Jewish lawmakers championed a bill earlier this year that aimed to tackle antisemitism by restricting the ethnic studies curriculum, but the effort was stopped early in its tracks, and legislators turned to AB 715 instead.

“This is a bill about protecting Jewish students, and it shouldn't have been controversial,” said Bocarsly, of JPAC. “If we don't teach empathy and understand it, we're going to build a generation of intolerance, and that's what we're trying to correct for.”

He said AB 715 was “the hardest political fight in JPAC’s history” and that the initial definition of an antisemitic learning environment was only meant to offer teachers guidance.

But opponents had two major concerns: that the bill’s initial definition of antisemitic learning environment risked silencing discord about Israel, and that even in its final watered-down version it could chill free speech and open teachers up to lawsuits for teaching about anything controversial.

“Jews are most safe when democracy flourishes, when pluralism flourishes, not when rights are taken away,” said David Goldberg, president of the California Teachers Association and a Jewish father to three children who attend public schools.

A classroom at a high school in Imperial County on Dec. 12, 2023.

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Kristian Carreon

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CalMatters

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What’s safe for Jews was itself a matter of disagreement among the bill’s backers and dissenters. Bocarsly said CTA leadership’s opposition to every version of the bill shows that they “have little interest in supporting a bill that would protect Jewish students.”

Goldberg, in an interview, called that accusation “a lot of chutzpah, frankly.”

The fact the bill even tried to prescribe what an antisemitic environment looked like in classrooms was concerning to Kenneth Stern, a scholar on hate. More than 20 years ago, he was the lead author of the highly controversial definition of antisemitism that’s been adopted by some states this year. It all but labels anti-Zionism as a form of antisemitism. Now, nearly 50 countries, including the U.S., have embraced the definition.

Though Stern wrote the definition, he opposes using it to restrict speech in schools, arguing that it could threaten academic freedom and fuel censorship by chilling discussion about controversial topics. Stern said despite all the revisions made during the process, the final version will likely make antisemitism worse.

The law creates an antisemitism prevention coordinator to advise education and legislative leaders and says the person in that role should use federal guidelines published under former President Joe Biden as “a basis” for decision-making. The controversial definition of antisemitism Stern wrote is labeled as the most prominent definition of antisemitism in those guidelines, though it mentions others.

“I understand why people care about (preventing antisemitism in schools),” he said. “They want the Legislature to do something. I think the legislators are sincere that they want to do something. This is the wrong thing.”

Educators like Goldberg worry the bill could allow bad-faith critics to also dispute a wide array of controversial topics taught in schools. Will it become the basis for critics of the transgender community to pressure teachers to say there are only two genders, he wondered.

Gabriel Kahn, a Jewish teacher in Oakland who said he’s being investigated by his school district after challenging the content of an antisemitic training last year, said he fears prosecution for voicing the need to distinguish between antisemitism and criticism of Israel.

“What I’m most afraid of is that in the Democratic state of California, we can pass a censorship bill that protects a foreign nation from criticism implicitly,” he said. “What does that say about the future of academic freedom in our country?”

CalMatters reporter Carolyn Jones contributed reporting.

This article was originally published on CalMatters and was republished under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license.

Meta will lay off 10% of its staff in May, according to an internal memo which was published by Bloomberg. A Meta spokesperson confirmed the report's accuracy to NPR.

The layoffs will take place on May 20 and affect some 8,000 workers. Meta will also not hire for 6,000 open roles that it had intended to fill.

In the memo, Meta's chief people officer Janelle Gale wrote, "We're doing this as part of our continued effort to run the company more efficiently and to allow us to offset the other investments we're making. This is not an easy tradeoff and it will mean letting go of people who have made meaningful contributions to Meta during their time here."

Calling it "unwelcome news" that "puts everyone in an uneasy state," Gale wrote, confirming the layoffs to employees now "is the best path forward, given the circumstances."

Meta and other big players in artificial intelligence have been spending vast amounts of money to build data centers and try to win the AI race — one in which Meta lags behind competitors such as OpenAI, Anthropic and Google.

In January, Meta forecast record capital expenditures this year of up to $135 billion — almost double what it spent last year.

The pivot to AI comes at a time when Meta seems to be backing away from its previous focus on its virtual reality Metaverse products. The Metaverse was once key to CEO Mark Zuckerberg's vision for the company's future — so fundamental that in 2021, he changed the name of the company from Facebook to Meta.

In a separate round of layoffs this month, the company announced that it was laying off some 700 people as part of its efforts in "right-sizing" its investment in Reality Labs, the division that runs the company's Metaverse products.

Meta is also facing a string of costly legal challenges. The company lost two pivotal court cases earlier this year: a New Mexico jury found that Meta failed to protect young users from child sexual exploitation. Penalties in that case could reach $375 million.

Meanwhile, a jury in Los Angeles found the company — along with Google — liable for the mental health problems experienced by a woman who used social media as a small child, awarding her $6 million.

In the Los Angeles case, the woman's lawyers argued that Meta's products were designed to be addictive to kids.

Meta has said it will appeal both lawsuits.

The company faces similar lawsuits, including one brought by several school districts against Meta and several other social media companies, which will be heard in Oakland, California this year.
Copyright 2026 NPR

The first thing you notice when you unwrap the fried chicken sandwich from Hokkaido Fried Chicken is the craggy crust, almost geological in its texture — the kind of fry that makes you want to reconsider every other fried chicken sandwich you've ever eaten.

The craggy, crunchy Hokkaido fried chicken

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Courtesy Hokkaido Fried Chicken

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The chicken itself — shattering on the outside, improbably juicy within — holds its own against everything surrounding it. With the miso vinaigrette slaw, the pickled cucumbers, the chili truffle shoyu sauce, it’s a revelation — and for me, the best fried chicken sandwich I’ve ever eaten in L.A., hands down.

Hokkaido by way of Arcata

Hokkaido Fried Chicken, which is online-only, has been running since January out of an unassuming ghost kitchen on the edge of Koreatown. It’s the brainchild of Ronuk Patel, an Indian American who grew up outside Chicago, fell in love with snowboarding, and relocated to Arcata, a Northern California town about three hours from the Oregon border.

Ronuk Patel, chef and owner of Hokkaido Fried Chicken and Hokkaido Soup Curry, at his ghost kitchen on Olympic Blvd on the outskirts of Koreatown.

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Courtesy Hokkaido Fried Chicken

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There, he built a career as a cannabis farmer — and began making regular snowboarding pilgrimages to Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island, chasing powder and, eventually, some of the most interesting food he'd ever eaten. It was on that first trip to Sapporo, over a decade ago, that he met Gory, a Japanese chef who would become a close friend and, eventually, his collaborator.

In 2024, Patel sponsored Gory's visa and brought him to Arcata to help launch Susukino Ramen Bar — named after the Sapporo neighborhood where they first met. It was there, with Gory's family zangi recipe on the menu as an appetizer, that the seed of Hokkaido Fried Chicken was planted.

What is zangi?

Most Angelenos with a passing familiarity with Japanese cuisine know karaage — the lightly battered, juicy fried chicken that has become a fixture on Japanese menus across the city. Zangi is Hokkaido's answer to that tradition, and it plays in a different register entirely. Where karaage tends toward a lighter touch — a brief marinade, a delicate crust — zangi goes deeper. The marinade is heavier on soy and sake, more aggressive with garlic and ginger and almost always incorporates a fruit component that varies by chef.

Patel and Gory pushed it further still, applying a dry batter separately after marinating — rather than mixing everything together in the traditional wet batter method — for a crust that fries up dramatically craggier and crunchier. The result is chicken that is deeply seasoned all the way through and improbably juicy — both of which hit you immediately on first bite.

The HFC sandwich up close — the craggy, dry-battered crust is the first thing you notice, a direct result of Patel and chef Gory's decision to depart from zangi's traditional wet batter.

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Gab Chabrán

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LAist

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Inside the sandwich

Bite into the sandwich ($10.99), and you immediately understand why it took four or five months to get here. Every detail is thought through. The miso slaw cuts the richness of the chicken without competing with it. The cucumbers, pickled in a brine riffed from Patel's own recipe, add brightness and snap. The chili truffle shoyu sauce, born from mixing his ramen shop's house chili with a white shoyu-truffle product he'd been experimenting with, ties it together with a depth that sneaks up on you.

Just getting started

Fried chicken sandwiches aren't all that's on the menu at HFC. Nuggets and tenders round out the chicken offerings, along with the fries, which are definitely worth ordering — particularly the loaded pork belly fries ($10), topped with chashu pork belly, spicy truffle aioli and green onions over crispy shoestring fries, and the furikake fries ($5), whose umami-rich seasoning makes them a natural companion to the chicken.

Patel has also launched a second concept out of the same ghost kitchen: Hokkaido Soup Curry, a Japanese dish that combines aromatic curry spices with a lighter, broth-based preparation rooted in the same Hokkaido culinary tradition that inspired HFC — and one that hints at the Japanese-Indian fusion menu Patel says he's only just beginning to develop.

For Patel, none of it feels calculated — and that, perhaps, is the point.

"It just happened really organically, naturally, just like us being in the kitchen, having a good time."

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

When I first started, I went alone. I couldn’t convince any of my friends to commit to riding 20 miles on a bicycle on a Friday night through a city known for its car culture. It didn’t help that I told them the bike ride would start in Koreatown, among the most densely populated neighborhoods in the whole country. 

I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. 

What I discovered is that Los Angeles Critical Mass (LACM) is the largest community bicycle ride in the United States, drawing almost 4,000 riders each month, according to the group’s own records. 

The modern Critical Mass movement began in San Francisco in 1992 as a grassroots effort to reclaim the streets has since grown into a global movement, with Los Angeles now hosting one of its largest rides.

LACM Vice President JoJo Valdez, told The LA Local that the event is ”a living example of what safer, more human-centered streets could look like” in the City of Angels. 

Critical Mass Los Angeles riders roll through Koreatown, January 2026.

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Courtesy of LACM

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The ride takes place on the last Friday of every month on the corner of Western and Wilshire across from The Wiltern. Routes change monthly, turning each ride into a moving tour of the city. Some rides head west toward Marina del Rey, others east toward Mariachi Plaza, passing through neighborhoods that rarely feel connected outside of car travel.

As the ride moves through different neighborhoods, it often brings energy — and customers — to local businesses along the route as riders stop for food, drinks and supplies throughout the evening.

Valdez said, “Cyclists, skaters and riders moving together make the demand for alternative transportation impossible to ignore.”

A cyclist takes off on a monthly Critical Mass ride in Koreatown on Nov 8th, 2025.

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Steve Saldivar

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The LA Local

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L.A. is the last place you’d expect a mass cycling movement to take hold. That’s probably why it did. In a city defined by gridlock, LACM offers something rare — movement through neighborhoods at a human pace.

I’ve experienced it firsthand. 

For me, LACM became an alternative to the typical night out. Instead of bars or clubs, it became a way to decompress, stay active and explore the city differently.

Over time, I built connections that turned into a consistent group of six friends I now ride with each month. I’ve even brought my girlfriend along, and it’s become one of our favorite end-of-month traditions.

Critical Mass Los Angeles riders roll through Los Angeles.

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Courtesy of LACM

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How a ride typically goes

The LA chapter of Critical Mass is led by LACM President Lisa Lundie and Valdez, who both began as volunteers before stepping into leadership roles for the Los Angeles chapter. According to the organization, their focus includes accessibility, community and mental wellness accessibility, community and mental wellness — and those values show up throughout the ride itself.

Valdez said that what people see — the crowds and energy — is only part of the story. There is real coordination and planning to keep the ride safe and organized as it moves through the city.

“We look out for each other. We ride together. If you’re alone, you won’t stay that way for long,” he said.

Critical Mass Los Angeles riders roll through Hollywood Boulevard, December of 2024.

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Courtesy of LACM

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Ride marshals help guide traffic, support newer riders and keep the group together, while a lead vehicle sets the pace and support riders follow behind to ensure no one is left behind. The result is a ride that may feel overwhelming at first, given the number of people, but quickly settles into a relaxed rhythm.

With everyone following the lead car and built-in stops to regroup, it becomes approachable for first-timers and more communal than a typical solo ride through Los Angeles.

As the ride unfolds, speakers carried by riders create a shifting soundtrack — hip-hop, EDM, reggae and Latin music blending with each neighborhood the group passes through, turning the streets into a moving reflection of L.A.’s culture.

Critical Mass Los Angeles riders roll through Koreatown.

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Louie Martinez

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The LA Local

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Some rides carry deeper meaning, including moments of silence for cyclists lost to traffic accidents and ongoing calls for safer streets.

This month’s ride, taking place on April 24 at 7:00 p.m., will celebrate West Coast hip-hop legend DJ Battlecat, who will perform from the lead vehicle, transforming the ride into a rolling party on wheels.

The distance might sound intimidating, but the pace is manageable, with plenty of breaks and lots of potential new friends.  Whether you come with a group or show up solo, Critical Mass offers a new way to experience Los Angeles one ride at a time.

Cyclists gather for the monthly Critical Mass rides in Koreatown on Nov 8th, 2025.

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Steve Saldivar

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The LA Local

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