When a missile explodes in the sky, it looks like a firework

That's what I always say when people ask me what missile attacks were like in Israel. I never mention the smoke smelling like rotten eggs, or how the sound of the sirens gave me a tremor in my left hand.

My most memorable missile attack was on a highway. I was thirteen. When The U.S. Navy stationed my family in Tel Aviv, Israel, I only cared about one thing: the beach. My mom and I had spent the day by the water, looking for sea glass in the sand. On our way home the sirens began ringing. The cars around us were stopping, and people began getting out and ducking behind their cars for shelter. I believed I was safe. But as the small white dots in the sky kept coming closer and closer to us my confidence withered. Pretty quickly, it dawned on me that the destination of the missile was out of my control. All I could do was hold onto my mom and wait, with my heart in my throat. 

I heard it before I saw it, a quick zoom and then a bursting crackle. Up above us, the missiles exploded; halos of sparks dimming into smoke. The relief was palpable, the couple ducked behind the car next to us didn’t speak any English, nor did we Hebrew, but the hot tears running down all our faces left nothing unsaid. I don’t remember how we got home. I know we went back in the car, but was the radio on? Did my mom say anything? To this day, I can’t recall. All I remember is my heart pounding in my ears, and my left hand violently shaking.  

In the following weeks, it became harder and harder for the tremors in my hand to stop. I found myself disconnected from my life before the missiles, no longer seeking joy in subjects at school, my friends, or soccer. It was difficult for me to rationalize what had happened, as my outlook on the world was no longer positive. I became very nervous; always anticipating another siren sound. 

I started challenging the world around me, numbing out my nerves. My left hand served as a reminder of what lay beyond the safety of my home, and I couldn’t pretend the past few weeks didn’t happen. I knew the biggest impact I could make was through my community. So, I began researching. I listened to podcasts, watched videos, and read articles to educate myself on rocket attacks, the Iron Dome, and Middle Eastern history. I engaged in adult conversation, eager to include my views and ideas. And at school, I changed the lunchroom discussion at my table from Fortnite to politics. Additionally, I held hands with the kids who felt scared during the bomb shelter drills, and explained what a missile attack looks like to the new students on campus. 

Finally there was a sense that everything was changing for the better. I found a new approach to life, and felt indestructible. Yet, my left hand was still shaking, and it never stopped. 

Roughly two years later, as I was packing up my room getting ready to ship out to Washington D.C., a crumpled origami swan fell out of my music folder. The swan must have been at least 6 years old, but as I held the brittle paper, I was taken back to those piano lessons after school with my Japanese teacher Tomoko. Being a very apprehensive student, I vividly remembered her telling me, “If you find no fear in what you do in your life, then you're not really challenging yourself.” I knew right then that the tremor in my left hand was going to be okay. 

So, when fireworks go off, or the thunder roars a little too loud, my left hand still shakes a little. But I don’t mind it anymore. It serves to remind me that my work is not yet done. I have more to give, and more to overcome. And maybe one day, I’ll be able to tell people that the smoke smelled like rotten eggs, and the sirens were so loud I couldn’t think, but until then I’ll tell the story the way I want to, missiles exploding like fireworks in the sky.

Leah Strosin is a High School Senior at Randolph-Macon Academy in Front Royal, Virginia.  Her father proudly served in the United States Navy for 32 years.  This op-ed has been adapted from her college essay.