Silent Purim: Israelis plead for a firecracker-free holiday 

As the joyous chaos of Purim approaches, a somber plea is rippling through Israel: put down the firecrackers. This year, the holiday’s traditional clamor—meant to drown out the name of the wicked Haman—feels too much like the crack of gunfire, a sound that drags soldiers back to the front lines they’ve only just left. With a new wave of reservists grappling with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from the ongoing war, communities are begging for silence, not celebration, to shield those still haunted by battle.

The call comes from a nation weary from conflict, where the scars of war aren’t just etched into the landscape but carved deep into the minds of its people. Since the October 7, 2023, Hamas attack and the ensuing Israel-Hamas war, tens of thousands of soldiers—regulars and reservists alike—have cycled through Gaza’s hellscape and Lebanon’s tense border. Many return home, but not whole. The sudden bang of a firecracker, once a playful hallmark of Purim, now sends them ducking for cover, hearts racing, eyes scanning for threats that no longer exist—or do they?

“It’s not just noise,” says reservist Kfir Doyeb, his voice tight with exhaustion. Kfir, who fought in Gaza last year, spoke to students last Purim as part of Project Firecrackers, a grassroots effort to raise awareness about PTSD. “It’s a trigger. One pop, and I’m back there—smoke, screams, the weight of my rifle. I can’t unhear it.” He’s not alone. A study from Hebrew University and Columbia University estimates over 500,000 Israelis—soldiers and civilians—could face PTSD from this war. Even conservative figures peg new cases at 30,000. For these men and women, the line between past and present blurs with every loud snap.

This isn’t the first time Israel has wrestled with the sound of celebration. In 2022, Independence Day fireworks were scrapped in many cities after veterans spoke out about the booms echoing artillery fire. Now, Purim—a holiday of costumes, groggers, and revelry—faces a similar reckoning. Social media is awash with posts from families, veterans, and even toy stores taking a stand. A Tel Aviv shop posted a sign last week: “Dear customers, due to the rise in combat-related trauma, we’ve stopped selling firecrackers.”

For soldiers like Sgt. Avi Cohen, 26, the stakes feel personal. After months in Gaza, he flinches at sudden sounds, his body wired for war mode. “Last Purim, my nephew set off a firecracker outside our house,” he recalls, eyes distant. “I hit the floor, shouting orders to no one. My sister just stared at me, crying. I can’t do that again—not to her, not to me.” Avi’s story echoes across Israel, where the war’s toll lingers in quiet corners: a father startling awake, a mother clutching her child at a stray bang, a nation holding its breath.

The IDF has joined the chorus, amplifying last year’s plea from spokesman Rear Adm. Daniel Hagari: “Don’t throw explosives on the holiday. We’ll do everything to embrace the soldiers wounded in body and soul.” With over 30,000 reservists seeking mental health support since October 2023, the message feels urgent.

Yet the silence carries its own weight. Purim celebrates survival, a defiant Jewish triumph over annihilation. For Israelis, it’s a story that hits close to home—too close, perhaps, when survival still feels fragile. The absence of firecrackers won’t erase the war’s echoes, but it might offer a fleeting reprieve for those who’ve borne its brunt.

This Purim, Israel isn’t just masking its faces—it’s muffling its fears, hoping for a holiday where joy doesn’t sound like war.