This series of essays is not a war memoir; it’s not an academic study. It also isn’t a collection of personal stories. While it includes pieces of those, along with reflection, it is rooted in what we lived, witnessed, or heard.
You’ll see the word we throughout. Sometimes it means Afghans. Sometimes civilians. Sometimes trauma survivors. The meaning shifts; take what fits, leave what doesn’t.
Each essay explores different, mostly psychological and emotional consequences of living through war and uncertainty.
You’ll find a few short personal stories that help illuminate something bigger. For clarity, these are labeled From Memory. You’ll see a touch of professional insight, but always in service of understanding what we lived, not diagnosing it.
Much of this writing focuses on the last Republic era (2001-2021) in Afghanistan, but the themes aren’t limited to Afghanistan or that period. They’re about what happens when people live under chronic stress, what we normalize, what we carry. What happens when no one ever asks how we’re really doing, not even ourselves.
You will come across references to trauma, grief, and coping. If you need to pause, do. Come back when you’re ready.
This writing can’t speak for everyone. It’s just one voice among many.
And maybe, if it’s done its job, it helps you notice something too.
If it provokes reflection or sparks a conversation you have never had before, even better.
You’ll see the word we throughout. Sometimes it means Afghans. Sometimes civilians. Sometimes trauma survivors. The meaning shifts; take what fits, leave what doesn’t.
Each essay explores different, mostly psychological and emotional consequences of living through war and uncertainty.
You’ll find a few short personal stories that help illuminate something bigger. For clarity, these are labeled From Memory. You’ll see a touch of professional insight, but always in service of understanding what we lived, not diagnosing it.
Much of this writing focuses on the last Republic era (2001-2021) in Afghanistan, but the themes aren’t limited to Afghanistan or that period. They’re about what happens when people live under chronic stress, what we normalize, what we carry. What happens when no one ever asks how we’re really doing, not even ourselves.
You will come across references to trauma, grief, and coping. If you need to pause, do. Come back when you’re ready.
This writing can’t speak for everyone. It’s just one voice among many.
And maybe, if it’s done its job, it helps you notice something too.
If it provokes reflection or sparks a conversation you have never had before, even better.
Before we begin
Most people don’t walk away from war neatly categorized as broken or unbreakable. Dead or alive. Most of us live somewhere in between, scanning for exits, laughing at the wrong moments, carrying on like everything is fine when it isn’t.
In Afghanistan, we built lives while everything kept breaking, sometimes our windows, sometimes our hearts, and sometimes our minds.
Over the past five decades, many Afghans were killed by rockets, explosions, landmines, suicide bombers, bullets, and more. And many survived.
But did we live? Our bodies did. Our minds? That’s another story.
After the collapse of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan in August 2021, many Afghans had unexpected reactions. People were overwhelmed, some stranded at airports and borders, some in hiding. So, when a friend, safe abroad, complained about something not urgent or fatal, I responded as many of us did, “Thank God you and your family are ok and safe.” Eventually, one of my friends sent me a meme from The Hangover Part II.
“But did you die?”
At first, I did not understand. It was a punchline from a reckless comedy. Somehow, it fit the mood.
Apparently, I had turned into the meme.
At the time, I didn’t see anything strange about it. It was just how we coped, by minimizing, by measuring everything against death, by comparing worst-case scenarios and deciding we were fine.
It wasn’t until later, much later, that I began to notice what all that had cost.
I had been so busy surviving, and so had many of us, that we didn’t realize how much we’d absorbed. We had never really stopped long enough to ask how any of us were actually doing.
A couple of years later, I watched a parenting video online, one of those lists of subtle ways parents traumatize their children. I asked my then-eighteen-year-old daughter, “Have I done any of these things?”
She shrugged, laughing. “Other than raising me in a warzone? Nope.”
We talked about it, but it stayed with me.
That one-liner cracked something open. It made me ask a harder question: What happens to a society, or to an individual, that keeps surviving without ever getting the chance to heal?
It made me reflect more seriously on what it means to have lived in a war zone, as an individual, a parent, a friend, or a member of a community. And most of all, what it means to be born and raised in one, simply trying to live while everything around you keeps breaking.
Once you begin to unpack it all, it’s hard not to see it everywhere: in yourself, in the people around you, in the silences, the dark jokes, and the ways we cope.
I started writing through that unpacking, not just for myself, but to reach others who’ve lived through similar experiences; many far worse than I can even imagine, especially those who have quietly wondered about what it all did to them.
In Afghanistan, mental health was, and still is, mostly taboo. Our understanding came with its own language. We didn’t say “trauma.” We said “God’s will.” PTSD was something Western soldiers had, if we had heard of it at all. Depression was a lack of faith or, sometimes, ungratefulness. Anxiety was weakness, or just life.
You could be breaking inside, but if you were still functioning, still breathing, you were called resilient. A word that sounds like a compliment, but could also mean: You’re suffering well enough to be ignored.
Most of us didn’t grow up naming emotions or sitting in therapy rooms. We grew up managing and pushing through, using dark humor like bubble wrap. In Kabul, we coped with what we had: distraction, routine, sarcasm, silence, and mostly faith. Faith saved us. And sometimes, it became the place our unspoken pain went to rest.
We did not get therapy.
We got tea and candy.
And prayer.
And pretending.
Most people don’t walk away from war neatly categorized as broken or unbreakable. Dead or alive. Most of us live somewhere in between, scanning for exits, laughing at the wrong moments, carrying on like everything is fine when it isn’t.
In Afghanistan, we built lives while everything kept breaking, sometimes our windows, sometimes our hearts, and sometimes our minds.
Over the past five decades, many Afghans were killed by rockets, explosions, landmines, suicide bombers, bullets, and more. And many survived.
But did we live? Our bodies did. Our minds? That’s another story.
After the collapse of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan in August 2021, many Afghans had unexpected reactions. People were overwhelmed, some stranded at airports and borders, some in hiding. So, when a friend, safe abroad, complained about something not urgent or fatal, I responded as many of us did, “Thank God you and your family are ok and safe.” Eventually, one of my friends sent me a meme from The Hangover Part II.
“But did you die?”
At first, I did not understand. It was a punchline from a reckless comedy. Somehow, it fit the mood.
Apparently, I had turned into the meme.
At the time, I didn’t see anything strange about it. It was just how we coped, by minimizing, by measuring everything against death, by comparing worst-case scenarios and deciding we were fine.
It wasn’t until later, much later, that I began to notice what all that had cost.
I had been so busy surviving, and so had many of us, that we didn’t realize how much we’d absorbed. We had never really stopped long enough to ask how any of us were actually doing.
A couple of years later, I watched a parenting video online, one of those lists of subtle ways parents traumatize their children. I asked my then-eighteen-year-old daughter, “Have I done any of these things?”
She shrugged, laughing. “Other than raising me in a warzone? Nope.”
We talked about it, but it stayed with me.
That one-liner cracked something open. It made me ask a harder question: What happens to a society, or to an individual, that keeps surviving without ever getting the chance to heal?
It made me reflect more seriously on what it means to have lived in a war zone, as an individual, a parent, a friend, or a member of a community. And most of all, what it means to be born and raised in one, simply trying to live while everything around you keeps breaking.
Once you begin to unpack it all, it’s hard not to see it everywhere: in yourself, in the people around you, in the silences, the dark jokes, and the ways we cope.
I started writing through that unpacking, not just for myself, but to reach others who’ve lived through similar experiences; many far worse than I can even imagine, especially those who have quietly wondered about what it all did to them.
In Afghanistan, mental health was, and still is, mostly taboo. Our understanding came with its own language. We didn’t say “trauma.” We said “God’s will.” PTSD was something Western soldiers had, if we had heard of it at all. Depression was a lack of faith or, sometimes, ungratefulness. Anxiety was weakness, or just life.
You could be breaking inside, but if you were still functioning, still breathing, you were called resilient. A word that sounds like a compliment, but could also mean: You’re suffering well enough to be ignored.
Most of us didn’t grow up naming emotions or sitting in therapy rooms. We grew up managing and pushing through, using dark humor like bubble wrap. In Kabul, we coped with what we had: distraction, routine, sarcasm, silence, and mostly faith. Faith saved us. And sometimes, it became the place our unspoken pain went to rest.
We did not get therapy.
We got tea and candy.
And prayer.
And pretending.
The Weight of Our Recent History
“If a victory is told in detail, one can no longer distinguish it from a defeat.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre
Before we talk about trauma, we must briefly walk through what happened to us as a people, because trauma does not arrive in a vacuum. So, let’s look at Afghanistan's "recent" history, if you can call around half a century recent; not for political analysis, but in an effort to describe the atmosphere people lived in.
It began unraveling before many of us were born. And that alone says something. For most Afghans, the turning point came in the 1970s. Since then, we have lived through decades of nearly continuous conflict. Long enough not just to fracture lives but to reshape generations.
What we lived was more than conflict; it was national trauma, carried not just in events but in memory, identity, daily life, and across generations. Even now, in 2026, we are still tallying the cost.
We became a Cold War chessboard before we even understood the game. The USSR had a plan. So did the U.S. So did our leaders, or at least they claimed.
What followed was a parade of power shifts, from coups and Soviet-backed governments to the Mujahideen, their infighting and civil war, the rise of the Taliban, and eventually the event that finally caught global attention: 9/11.
Yes, 9/11 was in the U.S., but Osama Bin Laden was in Afghanistan at the time. His presence wasn't a secret, but it wasn’t treated as the world’s problem until suddenly, it was.
That is when the Global War on Terror started. Some welcomed it, others didn’t. But it wasn't just Al-Qaeda and the Taliban who suffered. Afghan civilians also bore the weight.
As the Afghan saying goes: dar jang halwa taqseem namesha. War isn't a feast. No one's handing out dessert. People get hurt.
Immediately after the world’s response to 9/11 in Afghanistan, millions were affected, not all in the same way. Some lost their homes, but many regained them and returned after years or decades. Some came back from displacement, while others were displaced again. And some Afghans born abroad saw their country for the first time.
After the Taliban were ousted in late 2001, a transitional government was formed, and democracy was established, first under President Hamid Karzai, followed by the Government of Mohammad Ashraf Ghani. We were given a shot. Two decades of something resembling stability. A chance at democracy, even as the country simultaneously hosted a global war.
In the aftermath of 9/11, the initial target was clear. But as the years passed, the war grew murkier. Violence never really left; it receded, then returned. First through the border regions, then the provinces, then the capital.
For years, words like IED, VBIED, suicide attack, complex assault, night raid, airstrike, bombing, targeted assassination, and variations of them became part of the civilian vocabulary. Each recalibrated what "normal" meant.
And then came another collapse.
Like every regime change, this one came with dual names. Most called it a "collapse". The Taliban called it a "victory". In Afghan terms: suqoot versus fatha. History books will decide which one survives, and which one future generations say aloud.
The victors usually write history. But who won this time? That part remains unclear. Beyond headlines and press conferences, the "winners" and "losers" look suspiciously alike in some “forever” wars. The only certainty so far is that, once again, the Afghan people lost a lot.
The collapse in 2021 felt sudden. It was a shock to many. But the signs had been there. The international narrative had quietly shifted. The Global War on Terror was gradually rebranded until it became "a civil war."
That rebranding was not accidental. It gave external powers an excuse to step back, to call the conflict internal. But it wasn't. It was layered, externally influenced, and heavily manipulated.
Those caught in the middle weren't decision makers; they were civilians trying to live with dignity.
Even as we acknowledge the failings of the Afghans responsible, outside interference cannot be denied. International governments played their parts. Regional powers stirred chaos. Intelligence agencies moved behind the scenes. Our neighbors backed their preferred factions, ensuring peace moved farther away.
And throughout all this, we carried the baggage of colonial decisions. The Durand Line, one of the British Empire's parting gifts to the region, remained a festering wound. That arbitrary boundary haunted every disaster. It gave the neighbor cover to keep the fire alive and call it strategic depth.
Throughout these decades, each wave of war came with its own cost, a cost Afghans paid most. We endured terror, hunger, chaos, forced displacement, and fractured identities. These aren't losses you can capture in graphs. They are too vast for numbers and too intimate for language.
By the time the Republic fell in 2021, the statistics were already staggering.
Hundreds of thousands were brutally killed. Millions were displaced; many were displaced more than once. Families were scattered, futures suspended, and healing deferred.
This series is about the people who kept going despite all this. People who cracked jokes during lockdowns. Who built routines beside blast walls. Who raised children between airstrikes and complex attacks. People who didn’t always get therapy, but still found ways to stand.
“If a victory is told in detail, one can no longer distinguish it from a defeat.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre
Before we talk about trauma, we must briefly walk through what happened to us as a people, because trauma does not arrive in a vacuum. So, let’s look at Afghanistan's "recent" history, if you can call around half a century recent; not for political analysis, but in an effort to describe the atmosphere people lived in.
It began unraveling before many of us were born. And that alone says something. For most Afghans, the turning point came in the 1970s. Since then, we have lived through decades of nearly continuous conflict. Long enough not just to fracture lives but to reshape generations.
What we lived was more than conflict; it was national trauma, carried not just in events but in memory, identity, daily life, and across generations. Even now, in 2026, we are still tallying the cost.
We became a Cold War chessboard before we even understood the game. The USSR had a plan. So did the U.S. So did our leaders, or at least they claimed.
What followed was a parade of power shifts, from coups and Soviet-backed governments to the Mujahideen, their infighting and civil war, the rise of the Taliban, and eventually the event that finally caught global attention: 9/11.
Yes, 9/11 was in the U.S., but Osama Bin Laden was in Afghanistan at the time. His presence wasn't a secret, but it wasn’t treated as the world’s problem until suddenly, it was.
That is when the Global War on Terror started. Some welcomed it, others didn’t. But it wasn't just Al-Qaeda and the Taliban who suffered. Afghan civilians also bore the weight.
As the Afghan saying goes: dar jang halwa taqseem namesha. War isn't a feast. No one's handing out dessert. People get hurt.
Immediately after the world’s response to 9/11 in Afghanistan, millions were affected, not all in the same way. Some lost their homes, but many regained them and returned after years or decades. Some came back from displacement, while others were displaced again. And some Afghans born abroad saw their country for the first time.
After the Taliban were ousted in late 2001, a transitional government was formed, and democracy was established, first under President Hamid Karzai, followed by the Government of Mohammad Ashraf Ghani. We were given a shot. Two decades of something resembling stability. A chance at democracy, even as the country simultaneously hosted a global war.
In the aftermath of 9/11, the initial target was clear. But as the years passed, the war grew murkier. Violence never really left; it receded, then returned. First through the border regions, then the provinces, then the capital.
For years, words like IED, VBIED, suicide attack, complex assault, night raid, airstrike, bombing, targeted assassination, and variations of them became part of the civilian vocabulary. Each recalibrated what "normal" meant.
And then came another collapse.
Like every regime change, this one came with dual names. Most called it a "collapse". The Taliban called it a "victory". In Afghan terms: suqoot versus fatha. History books will decide which one survives, and which one future generations say aloud.
The victors usually write history. But who won this time? That part remains unclear. Beyond headlines and press conferences, the "winners" and "losers" look suspiciously alike in some “forever” wars. The only certainty so far is that, once again, the Afghan people lost a lot.
The collapse in 2021 felt sudden. It was a shock to many. But the signs had been there. The international narrative had quietly shifted. The Global War on Terror was gradually rebranded until it became "a civil war."
That rebranding was not accidental. It gave external powers an excuse to step back, to call the conflict internal. But it wasn't. It was layered, externally influenced, and heavily manipulated.
Those caught in the middle weren't decision makers; they were civilians trying to live with dignity.
Even as we acknowledge the failings of the Afghans responsible, outside interference cannot be denied. International governments played their parts. Regional powers stirred chaos. Intelligence agencies moved behind the scenes. Our neighbors backed their preferred factions, ensuring peace moved farther away.
And throughout all this, we carried the baggage of colonial decisions. The Durand Line, one of the British Empire's parting gifts to the region, remained a festering wound. That arbitrary boundary haunted every disaster. It gave the neighbor cover to keep the fire alive and call it strategic depth.
Throughout these decades, each wave of war came with its own cost, a cost Afghans paid most. We endured terror, hunger, chaos, forced displacement, and fractured identities. These aren't losses you can capture in graphs. They are too vast for numbers and too intimate for language.
By the time the Republic fell in 2021, the statistics were already staggering.
Hundreds of thousands were brutally killed. Millions were displaced; many were displaced more than once. Families were scattered, futures suspended, and healing deferred.
This series is about the people who kept going despite all this. People who cracked jokes during lockdowns. Who built routines beside blast walls. Who raised children between airstrikes and complex attacks. People who didn’t always get therapy, but still found ways to stand.
A Parallel Life
Even in war, we found moments of color, rhythm, and rebuilding. This too is part of the story.
Our story over the two decades of democracy is not all heartbreak and war-zone-related mental health issues. It is not all about loss, either; the gains during these decades were undeniable. This era gave many Afghans a chance to reconnect with their culture, heritage, and traditions. It entered Afghanistan with military boots, but allowed most people a space to breathe, reflect, and live again.
Of course, it would have been better if there hadn’t been a war parallel to the development. But those who lived it can’t ignore the colors that returned, not just to the Afghan flag but to daily life as well. We lived, we grew, and a new generation was born, opening their eyes to democracy and a constitution that preserved their right to think, dream, and achieve.
Amid the chaos, we lived and worked to rebuild our nation. With help from the international community, Afghans built roads, hospitals, schools, universities, and shopping centers. Girls returned to school and university. Language centers and computer courses became routine. It was a sight Afghanistan had missed dearly.
Where, only a short time before, the Taliban had broken any television sets they found, leaving haunting images of videotape and cassette ribbons dangling from trees as warnings; after 2001, TV and radio returned. Music was heard in the streets, at weddings, and in concerts again. But so were recitations of the Holy Quran. There were singing competitions and Quran recitation contests on the radio and television.
Young men and women studied religion, the arts, and modern sciences. Women could choose to become religious scholars, teachers, politicians, doctors, entrepreneurs, police officers, or pilots. Afghans once again had opportunities and choices. Poetry readings resumed. Young people debated politics and philosophy in cafés.
All of this unfolded alongside risk. People experienced all the above, while also dodging suicide bombers, shootings, and explosions in seemingly random places.
We began and continued the rebuilding somewhere between diplomacy, bombs, and grief. It was like renovating a house during an earthquake, with snipers outside. And still, there was hope.
What we lived wasn’t simply a parallel of hope and danger; it was a kind of pressure that never eased. The kind that doesn’t come from one explosion or one bad memory, but from living where danger is always possible, and safety is never guaranteed.
It wasn’t a phase. It was the backdrop of life. For most, a mosque, a classroom, a hospital, a sports center, or a roundabout, nothing felt reliably safe.
We adjusted, not dramatically, practically.
Even in war, we found moments of color, rhythm, and rebuilding. This too is part of the story.
Our story over the two decades of democracy is not all heartbreak and war-zone-related mental health issues. It is not all about loss, either; the gains during these decades were undeniable. This era gave many Afghans a chance to reconnect with their culture, heritage, and traditions. It entered Afghanistan with military boots, but allowed most people a space to breathe, reflect, and live again.
Of course, it would have been better if there hadn’t been a war parallel to the development. But those who lived it can’t ignore the colors that returned, not just to the Afghan flag but to daily life as well. We lived, we grew, and a new generation was born, opening their eyes to democracy and a constitution that preserved their right to think, dream, and achieve.
Amid the chaos, we lived and worked to rebuild our nation. With help from the international community, Afghans built roads, hospitals, schools, universities, and shopping centers. Girls returned to school and university. Language centers and computer courses became routine. It was a sight Afghanistan had missed dearly.
Where, only a short time before, the Taliban had broken any television sets they found, leaving haunting images of videotape and cassette ribbons dangling from trees as warnings; after 2001, TV and radio returned. Music was heard in the streets, at weddings, and in concerts again. But so were recitations of the Holy Quran. There were singing competitions and Quran recitation contests on the radio and television.
Young men and women studied religion, the arts, and modern sciences. Women could choose to become religious scholars, teachers, politicians, doctors, entrepreneurs, police officers, or pilots. Afghans once again had opportunities and choices. Poetry readings resumed. Young people debated politics and philosophy in cafés.
All of this unfolded alongside risk. People experienced all the above, while also dodging suicide bombers, shootings, and explosions in seemingly random places.
We began and continued the rebuilding somewhere between diplomacy, bombs, and grief. It was like renovating a house during an earthquake, with snipers outside. And still, there was hope.
What we lived wasn’t simply a parallel of hope and danger; it was a kind of pressure that never eased. The kind that doesn’t come from one explosion or one bad memory, but from living where danger is always possible, and safety is never guaranteed.
It wasn’t a phase. It was the backdrop of life. For most, a mosque, a classroom, a hospital, a sports center, or a roundabout, nothing felt reliably safe.
We adjusted, not dramatically, practically.
From Memory: Living Fully, Despite Fear
Joy did not disappear; it adapted. And we learned to live beside fear, not after it.
The Afghan Premier League (APL), launched in 2012, was more than a football tournament. It brought together players and fans from across provinces, ethnicities, and backgrounds. The matches were broadcast nationwide, and the energy around them was patriotic, joyful, and electric.
We tried to attend whenever we could. The stadiums were almost always on high alert during the big matches. They represented more than sport: crowds, visibility, and a celebration of culture and the Republic. That alone made them a target.
During one of the games, we were with a group of friends and family. A friend grew tense whenever someone passed wearing a heavy coat or a patoo (a large traditional woolen shawl).
“What if they’re hiding something underneath?” she whispered.
We knew what she meant. We shrugged, smiled, and stayed.
The following year, we were at another match. The atmosphere was the same as always: national songs at the start, the Afghan security forces marching across the field, flags waving in every direction.
We were sitting next to a dear friend, a woman whose wisdom and calm I admire. Even her alarming thoughts arrived with a smile. She slowly surveyed the seating area. Then, in her usual measured tone, she shared a mini evacuation plan, detailing how we could escape the area in case of an attack. She even considered which route to take depending on which side the attackers might arrive from. We added to her ideas while laughing.
In some situations, fear doesn’t leave the room. It simply takes a different seat.
People sang with the artists. They danced and performed Atan (a traditional Afghan dance). They cheered. They chose life, even when fear sat beside them.
Joy did not disappear; it adapted. And we learned to live beside fear, not after it.
The Afghan Premier League (APL), launched in 2012, was more than a football tournament. It brought together players and fans from across provinces, ethnicities, and backgrounds. The matches were broadcast nationwide, and the energy around them was patriotic, joyful, and electric.
We tried to attend whenever we could. The stadiums were almost always on high alert during the big matches. They represented more than sport: crowds, visibility, and a celebration of culture and the Republic. That alone made them a target.
During one of the games, we were with a group of friends and family. A friend grew tense whenever someone passed wearing a heavy coat or a patoo (a large traditional woolen shawl).
“What if they’re hiding something underneath?” she whispered.
We knew what she meant. We shrugged, smiled, and stayed.
The following year, we were at another match. The atmosphere was the same as always: national songs at the start, the Afghan security forces marching across the field, flags waving in every direction.
We were sitting next to a dear friend, a woman whose wisdom and calm I admire. Even her alarming thoughts arrived with a smile. She slowly surveyed the seating area. Then, in her usual measured tone, she shared a mini evacuation plan, detailing how we could escape the area in case of an attack. She even considered which route to take depending on which side the attackers might arrive from. We added to her ideas while laughing.
In some situations, fear doesn’t leave the room. It simply takes a different seat.
People sang with the artists. They danced and performed Atan (a traditional Afghan dance). They cheered. They chose life, even when fear sat beside them.
The Quiet Toll
Fear leaves fingerprints, even when never spoken aloud.
It lived in how we scanned rooms. In how we hugged loved ones before leaving home. In how we went quiet after the news. It became so constant that we stopped noticing it.
Over time, the nervous system adapted. Muscles stayed tense. Sleep grew light. Breath grew shallow. We functioned. We worked. We raised children. But something accumulated.
What showed up wasn’t always panic or collapse. It was numbness. Irritability. Exhaustion that rest couldn’t fix. Dark humor that covered too much. Strength that began to feel heavy.
Many of us did not break in public. We entertained guests. We went to work. We kept going. And beneath that, something quietly shifted.
That is the toll of prolonged survival without space to absorb what it costs.
However, not all distress in warzones looks like trauma.
Some people were living with conditions like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or other serious mental illnesses, conditions that would have needed care anywhere in the world, but became harder to notice, name, or treat in the middle of war.
Their pain often went unseen, not because it didn’t exist, but because everything else was on fire.
Fear leaves fingerprints, even when never spoken aloud.
It lived in how we scanned rooms. In how we hugged loved ones before leaving home. In how we went quiet after the news. It became so constant that we stopped noticing it.
Over time, the nervous system adapted. Muscles stayed tense. Sleep grew light. Breath grew shallow. We functioned. We worked. We raised children. But something accumulated.
What showed up wasn’t always panic or collapse. It was numbness. Irritability. Exhaustion that rest couldn’t fix. Dark humor that covered too much. Strength that began to feel heavy.
Many of us did not break in public. We entertained guests. We went to work. We kept going. And beneath that, something quietly shifted.
That is the toll of prolonged survival without space to absorb what it costs.
However, not all distress in warzones looks like trauma.
Some people were living with conditions like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or other serious mental illnesses, conditions that would have needed care anywhere in the world, but became harder to notice, name, or treat in the middle of war.
Their pain often went unseen, not because it didn’t exist, but because everything else was on fire.
If any part of the above resonated with you, that recognition matters.
In such situations, most people did not get therapy. We coped with what we had: prayer, routine, humor, silence, distraction. Sometimes, habits we now question.
What went unnamed still shaped us – in our bodies, our relationships, our children, and our communities.
But remember, while naming does not heal everything, it does change the terrain. It makes room to breathe. It reminds us that what we adapted to was real. And that matters.
In such situations, most people did not get therapy. We coped with what we had: prayer, routine, humor, silence, distraction. Sometimes, habits we now question.
What went unnamed still shaped us – in our bodies, our relationships, our children, and our communities.
But remember, while naming does not heal everything, it does change the terrain. It makes room to breathe. It reminds us that what we adapted to was real. And that matters.
By Sadia Fatimie
Find her on Instagram and Twitter (X).