Growing up I always loved fireworks. In Michigan, and nearby Ohio it was easy to get impressive fireworks, and every year around the Fourth of July we would stock up on a large variety; bottle rockets, mortars, Roman candles, firecrackers- you name it. I loved watching the flying colors through the air, the deep “BOOM” that could be felt in your chest, the thrill of lighting a fuse and then running to safety before the explosion. I even loved the rush of adrenaline when something would go wrong, and for a brief moment everyone would panic until the situation was back under control. Fortunately I’d never been around for a serious fireworks accident. 

In contrast to myself, Hector, our family dog Z”L, was not as enthusiastic about fireworks as I was. He was afraid of all loud noises, whether they were fireworks, thunder, or a slammed door; his reaction was always the same. He would run downstairs and hide in a dark part of a closet behind a bunch of hanging clothes until the noise stopped. Usually he would also pee on the carpet, which was particularly frustrating to me, as my room was in the basement and it was often me who ended up cleaning the mess. Still, I never truly empathized with the fact that he was triggered by these loud noises. I just knew that he was. It would be several years after leaving the house before I considered the fear that he was experiencing from his point of view. Today when I think back, I imagine him afraid of these noises, running to his hiding place where he would feel safe, and I also understand the impulse to get away and hide. In the summer of 2014, I came to Israel for my gap year at Yeshivat Eretz Hatzvi. Needless to say, as an 18-year-old kid on a gap year program, when Purim came around, I was very excited to dress up in costume, get drunk with my friends and celebrate the most exciting holiday with the people of my homeland. I had eagerly bought myself a costume and a cap-gun, and I remember being annoyed when I learned that some people complain every year about the loud bangs from cap-guns and other pyrotechnics during Purim. If it bothers them, I thought, they should just wear earplugs, or simply stay at home. Why should they spoil the fun for everyone else? I complained about this to an Israeli friend who tried to explain the rationale, but I was not convinced. At the same time, my early Israel experience was significantly influenced by national events. I arrived in Israel immediately after Operation Protective Edge, which was followed by a “terror wave” with many months of frequent terror attacks. Whenever I heard an ambulance, my first impulse was to check for updates on the Telegram channels to see if there had been an attack, as this had become my default assumption. That experience pushed me to enlist in the IDF and become a combat medic. 

Two years later, in early 2017, I returned from my 3-month course for IDF combat medics. This is when much of my outlook on life would begin to change. By this time, I was already well acquainted with my rifle and was even a pretty solid shot. Yet, very soon after returning to training with my team, I began to feel something new. I had just dedicated 3 months of my life to rigorous medical training to save lives. Upon my return, I became intensely aware of the fact that I was now training to kill people. At the range, the human silhouette on the targets would haunt me as I imagined the horror of actually taking a life. My weapon became very heavy on my shoulder. The smallest reminder of my inevitable duties would trigger an assault on my mind by my conscience, often in very unexpected scenarios. I remember once being on kitchen duty when something sent me into a panic. Perhaps it was the glint of a knife, or some comment that a buddy made, but I reacted like Hector, desperately scrambling for a place to hide. The next thing I knew, I was trembling, wedged behind a refrigerator which I had pulled slightly from the wall, hiding from the world, and praying that nobody would come looking for me. At night, my imagination would torture me until I could fall asleep. I was 20 years old and had no idea how to process these feelings. When I finally broke, I spoke with my mom over the phone and described the feeling of shattered glass all over the inside of my brain. I don’t wish this feeling on anyone, but I know that there are far too many others who can also relate. 

For years people have complained around Purim about the use of firecrackers, cap-guns, and other loud pyrotechnics, because they trigger soldiers with PTSD. Every year there are efforts to discourage their use, but usually it is to little avail. This year particularly though, awareness, and motivation to alleviate the stress, and triggers of PTSD seems particularly high. Perhaps it is because throughout the war, exposure to PTSD has grown, and with it, consideration for those who suffer and an eagerness to do something about it. This week, the Jerusalem municipality put out a very strong video encouraging people not to use these loud pyrotechnics this year. In the video, they rename fireworks after specific soldiers with trauma explaining, “This one is now called Shachar Mizrahi, cause when you light it up, you also ‘light up’ Sgt. Shachar Mizrahi.” The motivation to help traumatic soldiers is high, but it’s not only soldiers who suffer from PTSD. Throughout this recent war, huge portions of the Israeli population, both adults and children, have shown symptoms of PTSD. In only 2 years, this went from a somewhat common issue in Israel, to an overwhelming one, which has touched just about everyone in the country either directly or indirectly. I mention this because, like in my case, it often seems to take being personally affected before we are moved to change our behavior for the sake of others.

We have all been advised by our grandmothers at one point or another, “Don’t judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.” This advice reaches deeper than it seems on the surface. It is not simply advice on good manners. I believe it should be seen as a warning as well. A warning to recognize our fellow’s cry for help, before it becomes our own. We have all felt the disappointment of having a request for accommodation denied, or of having our struggles go unacknowledged. The reverse is of course also true- we sometimes fail to sympathize with or accommodate the needs of others, even those we love. Empathy is not something you are either born with or not. Empathy is a social muscle. The more we intentionally practice it, the more natural it becomes for us and the more it spreads like fire to those around us. 

Intentionally choosing not to use loud pyrotechnics this year is a meaningful act of empathy, one which we should celebrate. This year, let’s get comfortable stepping into the shoes of our neighbors, and let’s wear this badge of compassion and empathy proudly. חג שמח

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)