Hendrik Beekman

The smell of smoke clung to my uniform, even after I had scrubbed my hands raw and changed into fresh clothes. It was past noon on New Year’s Day, and the house was eerily silent, except for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. My wife had gone to visit her sister, leaving me to my thoughts.

Last night, Rotterdam, Netherlands, lit up not with celebration, but with chaos. Despite the ban, the city erupted with fireworks smuggled in from neighboring countries. The streets were littered with burnt-out shells, shards of glass, and the aftermath of recklessness. I had seen this too many times in my 53 years—illegal fireworks leading to destruction, and always the same excuses: "It was just for fun," or "We didn’t think it would go that far."

Around midnight, a call came in. A ball bomb had shattered windows in a residential block, and some drunk fool thought it clever to launch a rocket through one of the broken panes. The fire spread faster than we could have anticipated. Flames licked through the building, consuming everything in their path. We worked through the night, pulling families from smoke-filled hallways, shielding frightened children, and dousing flames that seemed determined to fight back.

By dawn, the fire was out, and the building was nothing more than a blackened husk. Miraculously, everyone survived. No injuries. A rare win, but the exhaustion hit me harder than ever before. I’m not the man I was when I first donned this uniform. My knees ache after every shift, and my lungs feel heavier each winter.

I stared out the window at the grey sky. Every year, it’s the same. A ban ignored, lives endangered, and all for a moment of noise and light. I’m proud of the work we did last night, but I wonder how much longer I can keep doing this. The city feels heavier now, and so do I.