I Who Have Never Been Bombed

Ani Arzoumanian

Bombs rained down over Palermo.

My head shot up off of my pillow, and I looked out the window of the hotel room as a barrage of explosions sounded outside. Studying the night sky for any hint of what was happening, I saw only a faint orange hue. 

I glanced over at Neha, lying in the bed next to mine. The two of us had made last-minute plans to tour Europe after taking Step 1, the notorious exam marking the halfway point in medical school. We had just had a late night out in the city, drinking wine and eating pizza by the Sicilian coast — so I knew she was awake, but she did not stir.

Finally, the last explosion ended in a familiar pop and crackle. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Fireworks. 

Dozens of fireworks had gone off in the span of 2 or 3 minutes. “Jesus,” I exclaimed, my heart still racing. Neha laughed. 

“Fireworks at midnight is a crazy idea,” I continued. 

“It’s 1:30 am,” was all she said in response, seemingly unperturbed. I laid back down, but I did not fall asleep.

Bombs did not, in fact, fall on Palermo, Italy on March 3, 2026.

No. Bombs only fell in the appropriate places — in Beirut, Lebanon, where a girl my age posts a poem on social media titled “How Do You Talk to People Being Bombed.” In Tehran, Iran, where parents are still searching for their children, sifting through the rubble of an elementary school struck on the very first day of war. In Gaza, Palestine, where the world no longer flinches at the news of airstrikes on hospitals and sniper shots aimed at children.

Geographic safety is a privilege. I am writing this from a place where explosions in the night sky are always fireworks. And so I ponder, what would life be like as a medical student in the midst of war and genocide? 

Would I still walk to school for 8 am class? Would I go to the hospital, would I visit the refugee camps, would I see friends, would I turn on the news, would I start gardening, would I go to the pond and watch the ducklings? Would I keep my stethoscope, would I be brave enough to help the victims, or would I stay at home, even if home might not be safer than anywhere else? 

How would I talk to people being bombed?

The truth is, I do not know. I am illiterate in the language of violence.

And so, it is I who have never been bombed.

You — who are you?

This is a work of creative non-fiction inspired by Lebanese-Armenian poet Perla Kantarjian’s “How Do You Talk to People Being Bombed” published on March 2, 2026. The U.S./Israel-Iran War began on February 28, 2026.

Ani Arzoumanian is an MS3 at UMass Chan Medical School. She is a descendant of Armenian Genocide survivors. Her father and his family fled Beirut, Lebanon, after a bomb shattered windows and shrapnel ripped through the furniture of their home.