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Leia a hist\u00f3ria completa abaixo ou no Guardian website<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n After wildfire and mudslides ravaged Montecito, the little\u00a0Calif\u00f3rnia<\/a>\u00a0town had at least one consolation: the trauma united the community.<\/p>\n Everyone had suffered in some way. Flames scorched the hillsides last December in the\u00a0biggest wildfire<\/a>\u00a0in California\u2019s modern history. Weeks later torrential rain unleashed\u00a0huge mudflows<\/a>, killing at least 21 people, destroying dozens of homes and forcing thousands to flee.<\/p>\n The grief and devastation prompted an outpouring of solidarity for this bucolic town, one of America\u2019s wealthiest communities, which nestles in Santa Barbara county on the Pacific coast, 90 miles north of Los Angeles.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going to come together and do what great Americans do all the time. We\u2019re going to help each other,\u201d said Oprah Winfrey, one of many celebrity residents.<\/p>\n Now, three months after the mudslides, normality is returning. Roads and businesses have reopened. Insurance companies have started paying some of the claims totalling $421m. Tourists are back. The town\u2019s carved, hand-painted street signs are being repaired. \u201cSigns of recovery,\u201d the\u00a0Montecito Journal<\/a> declared on its front page last week.<\/p>\n One segment of the population, however, is struggling to recover: the largely Latino service workers \u2013 maids, nannies, gardeners, caregivers, cooks, waiters, busboys \u2013 who earn near minimum wages and live in the shadows, paycheck to paycheck.<\/p>\n Many recently returned to work after enforced layoffs and discovered they would not be paid for any lost time.<\/p>\n \u201cNot a cent,\u201d said Zita Nevarez, 38, a barista and single mother who lost six weeks of work. She was unable to pay rent or her daughter\u2019s school fees.<\/p>\n \u201cI had hoped for some compensation from my employer, some help, but nothing,\u201d said Serafin Torres, 45, a maintenance worker who lost seven weeks. He has kiboshed a plan to buy a computer for his children.<\/p>\n Angelica Garcia, 30, a florist and single mother, could not pay utilities after losing three weeks\u2019 salary, resulting in her gas and electricity being cut off. \u201cI have three children. It was very difficult,\u201d she said, tears welling.<\/p>\n Few such workers have spoken out publicly, to avoid antagonizing their employers. However, a handful spoke to the Guardian on condition the employers not be identified.<\/p>\n Another reason some are unwilling to speak out: they are undocumented and fear deportation.<\/p>\n Lacking legal status also bars them from seeking emergency relief from the Federal Emergency Management Agency (Fema).<\/p>\n Those with US-citizen children are eligible for federal help but have hesitated to apply lest their details be passed on to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (Ice), said Frank Rodriguez, of\u00a0Cause<\/a>, a grassroots advocacy group for California\u2019s central coastal region. \u201cIn this political climate, people don\u2019t want to take the risk.\u201d<\/p>\n The solidarity is no myth, though. Some businesses have paid full or partial salaries for lost weeks. Residents have also helped workers, who tend to live out of town, by establishing\u00a0a fund<\/a>\u00a0gifting individuals up to $600. It has raised tens of thousands of dollars.<\/p>\n Nevarez, the barista, received $500. \u201cA huge help, more than I expected,\u201d she said. It helped her catch up on rent and school payments.<\/p>\n Such efforts are welcome but do not offset systemic forces that marginalise service and agricultural workers, forces amplified by the natural disasters, said Rodriguez, of Cause. \u201cThere is a huge class divide. The gardeners and maids and others who make this city thrive are still struggling. We feel there hasn\u2019t been enough support.\u201d<\/p>\n