I was reminiscing one day with a woman I cared for named Ellen. When I asked about her nightly routine before drifting off to sleep, she described the ritual she had adopted ever since the bushfires of 1967.
Each evening, Ellen would carefully turn off all electrical sockets and make sure that all the lights in her room were out, except for a nightlight that cast a calming, partial darkness. With a final glance at her surroundings, she would leave her door slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of soft light from the hallway to spill in. It created a gentle sense of safety and peace as she drifted off into sleep.
She told me about her escape from the bushfires in February 1967.
“Over sixty people lost their lives, nearly a thousand were injured, and thousands more lost their homes, animals and livelihoods, including mine.”
The morning had started with a scorching hot sun and strong winds, always a warning sign in the summer months of the imminent threat of bushfires. Little did Ellen know that this day would make her homeless and nearly cost her life.
The family already had an emergency escape plan with essentials packed in the car. As the day grew longer, the sun raged through the dry vegetation. The wind grew stronger, fanning the flames into a statewide inferno.
As a child, Ellen had witnessed the devastation of bushfires before, and the fear of fire never left her mind.
The decision was made to evacuate and drive north to safer ground. Ellen had a sister who lived on the north coast. The drive was treacherous, and leaving her beloved alpacas and goats behind was heartbreaking. The gates were left open, allowing them to escape in the hope that they might survive.
Ellen recalls the blind panic and adrenaline that surged through her body as they drove through the town and out onto the highway, not knowing what lay ahead or how fast the fires would spread.
That day, Ellen lost her smallholding, livestock and most of the family’s possessions. She survived along with her husband and her two young daughters, Amelia, 5, and Sophie, 7. They lived to see another day and rebuild their lives.
Months later, they returned and purchased a small home in the same town. However, Ellen never felt safe during the long summer months, constantly fearing that the fires would return as ferociously as before.
Ellen’s body betrayed her inner turmoil whenever scenes involving fire played on television. Each flickering ember and crackling flame seemed to transport her back to the haunting memories of the bushfires that had consumed her world, leaving her visibly tense and shuddering with panic.
To help ease her distress, the staff would quickly intervene, offering her warm cups of tea. They would gently shift the conversation to lighter topics or familiar stories, creating a protective cocoon of reassurance around her. It was their way of reminding her that she was safe, far removed from the infernos of her past.
Ellen added, “Back then, there was no counselling or psychotherapy to deal with our anxiety or emotional turmoil. We were told to get on with life, which never addressed our fear or helped us deal with it. I have had to endure that fear ever since.”
I held her hand and gave her a reassuring smile as she shed a tear. We sat in the dusk light, talking about her grandchildren, until she felt calmer and more relaxed.
The psychological scars she carries to this day serve as a reminder of the fear and destruction that fire can bring and the devastation it can leave behind.
Pyrophobia is the intense fear of fire that can severely impact a person’s life and daily functioning.
“Fear is like a fire. If you can control it, it can cook for you. It can heat your house. If you cannot control it, it will burn everything around you and destroy you. Fear is your friend and your worst enemy.”
Su Ishida
