When I was 11, Iraqi scud missiles exploded next to our home, collapsing part of our roof while I huddled together with my younger siblings on my parents’ bed wearing gas masks. This was in 1991, during the Gulf War when Israel was under attacks for the better part of January and February. I lived with my family near Tel Aviv, in an area designated ‘Zone A’ – the most likely to be hit by missiles. This wasn’t the only time I’ve experienced bombings: as an operations sergeant in the IDF, I was stationed on the border with Lebanon at a time of fierce and frequent fighting with Hezbollah; and as a civilian living in Israel during several rounds of fighting with Hamas that involved rocket attacks.
To say that I dislike loud sudden noises would be a gross understatement. I moved to the UK over a decade ago, thinking the move would be temporary. Instead, I have found a home here. Beyond my love of the people and the culture, I encountered something unexpected: widespread enthusiasm for fireworks combined with the legal permission to set them off on any day of the year. But New Year’s Eve is always the worst.
During ‘fireworks season’ – between November and the end of the year – the hyper-vigilance I experience is stressful and exhausting. I know that on any given evening fireworks may, and will very likely, be set off nearby. It often brings back painful memories; when fellow soldiers and friends were killed by Hezbollah IEDs so powerful, the explosion was heard and felt several miles away. These memories can be so vivid, that I can sometimes smell the horrible rubbery stench of the gas masks we had on during the Gulf War.
My reaction to fireworks isn’t unique, and it isn’t nearly as bad as it gets.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Don't miss out
Join the conversation with other Spectator readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.
UNLOCK ACCESSAlready a subscriber? Log in