Mayla Sakour

The young man’s hand was a mess of raw flesh, shredded tendons, and shattered bones when he arrived in our emergency department on New Year’s Eve. His name was Julian, barely 18, and his face was as pale as the sterile walls surrounding us. "It was just supposed to be a joke," he murmured, his voice trembling under the weight of morphine and regret.

He had filled the casing of a ballpoint pen with an explosive compound—an improvised firecracker. The device misfired the moment he lit it, tearing apart the palm of his hand and peppering his face with shrapnel. His friends had driven him here, panicking as they wrapped his hand in a scarf that was already soaked through by the time he arrived.

As a doctor, I’ve learned to compartmentalize. The sight of blood, exposed bone, or even someone’s raw agony doesn’t faze me anymore. But Julian’s case shook me. Perhaps it was his youth, the fragility of his trembling body on that gurney. Or perhaps it was the memories his injuries stirred in me—memories of explosions that weren’t accidents, of nights in Aleppo when fireworks were replaced by artillery fire.

I was 27 when I left Syria. Now at 36, living in the safety of Linz, Austria, I still flinch at the cracks and booms of celebratory fireworks. I’ll never understand how anyone could find joy in something so destructive, so careless.

Julian’s surgery lasted hours. Our microsurgeons did what they could, piecing together the remnants of his hand. When I checked on him the next morning, his face was stitched but intact, though his eyes were bloodshot with sleeplessness and tears. "Will I still be able to play the guitar?" he asked me, his voice fragile.

I didn’t have the heart to give him false hope. "It’ll take time and therapy," I said, carefully noncommittal.

That night, as fireworks exploded over Linz, painting the sky in vibrant colors, I sat in my apartment, curtains drawn, and wondered about Julian. About how something meant to celebrate life could leave so much destruction in its wake.