A Brief Note
This essay is part of a series about mental health under prolonged instability and war. While many examples come from Afghanistan, particularly the years between 2001 and 2021, the experiences described are not unique to any one place or people.
They reflect what happens to the human mind when danger becomes ongoing, unpredictable, and unresolved.
These essays are not memoirs, though brief sections marked From Memory draw on personal experience.
This series is not a clinical guide. The language of psychology is used carefully, not to pathologize, but to give form to experiences that were often normalized, misunderstood, or endured without words.
Throughout the series, the word "we" appears often. Sometimes it refers to Afghans. Sometimes to civilians. Sometimes, to people shaped by trauma more broadly. The meaning shifts; take what fits, and leave what doesn’t.
You will come across references to trauma, grief, and coping. If you need to pause while reading, do. Come back when you’re ready.
This is a story about people who didn’t always get help or therapy, and still found ways to keep going.
This writing can’t speak for everyone, but if something here feels familiar, you’re not being diagnosed. You’re being recognized.
If you’d like more context, Essay 0 sits at the beginning of the series.
This essay is part of a series about mental health under prolonged instability and war. While many examples come from Afghanistan, particularly the years between 2001 and 2021, the experiences described are not unique to any one place or people.
They reflect what happens to the human mind when danger becomes ongoing, unpredictable, and unresolved.
These essays are not memoirs, though brief sections marked From Memory draw on personal experience.
This series is not a clinical guide. The language of psychology is used carefully, not to pathologize, but to give form to experiences that were often normalized, misunderstood, or endured without words.
Throughout the series, the word "we" appears often. Sometimes it refers to Afghans. Sometimes to civilians. Sometimes, to people shaped by trauma more broadly. The meaning shifts; take what fits, and leave what doesn’t.
You will come across references to trauma, grief, and coping. If you need to pause while reading, do. Come back when you’re ready.
This is a story about people who didn’t always get help or therapy, and still found ways to keep going.
This writing can’t speak for everyone, but if something here feels familiar, you’re not being diagnosed. You’re being recognized.
If you’d like more context, Essay 0 sits at the beginning of the series.
Carried Forward
In Afghanistan, for many people, “before the war” is not a memory.
It is a story told by someone else.
War outlasted more than one childhood. It stretched long enough to shape not only those who lived through it directly, but those who came after.
When the Taliban first took power in the 1990s, many families waited – hoping restrictions would ease, that schools would reopen, that life might settle into something livable.
Decades later, when the same group returned in 2021, some of the women who were now mothers did not wait in the same way. They already knew what the early signs meant, especially for their daughters. This did not require analysis. It was recognition. Memory that had turned into instinct.
But not all trauma is experienced firsthand.
And not all of it is remembered.
Some of it is inherited.
This kind of inheritance does not usually arrive as a story, or even as something that can be named. More often, it arrives as tone. As atmosphere. As what goes unspoken.
Children do not only inherit culture or history. They inherit nervous systems shaped by what came before them. They learn, quietly, what the world expects of them, and what it might do to them.
Psychologists sometimes call this intergenerational trauma: the transmission of unresolved survival across time – not through intention, but through living.
In Afghanistan, for many people, “before the war” is not a memory.
It is a story told by someone else.
War outlasted more than one childhood. It stretched long enough to shape not only those who lived through it directly, but those who came after.
When the Taliban first took power in the 1990s, many families waited – hoping restrictions would ease, that schools would reopen, that life might settle into something livable.
Decades later, when the same group returned in 2021, some of the women who were now mothers did not wait in the same way. They already knew what the early signs meant, especially for their daughters. This did not require analysis. It was recognition. Memory that had turned into instinct.
But not all trauma is experienced firsthand.
And not all of it is remembered.
Some of it is inherited.
This kind of inheritance does not usually arrive as a story, or even as something that can be named. More often, it arrives as tone. As atmosphere. As what goes unspoken.
Children do not only inherit culture or history. They inherit nervous systems shaped by what came before them. They learn, quietly, what the world expects of them, and what it might do to them.
Psychologists sometimes call this intergenerational trauma: the transmission of unresolved survival across time – not through intention, but through living.
How Silence Teaches
Silence is not the absence of communication.
It is one of its most powerful forms.
Children learn early what can and cannot be spoken. Which questions are welcomed, and which ones tighten the room. They shape their inner world around those boundaries long before they understand why they exist.
In Afghanistan, reassurance often arrived as a sentence, not a solution.
Shab dar miyan, Khoda Mehraban – a way of saying there is still time, that even in the dark, God is kind.
Not a promise.
Not an answer.
Just a way of keeping fear from filling the room.
This, too, is inheritance.
Children do not only inherit what frightens us; they inherit where we turn for comfort. Faith is learned the way tone is learned: by watching what adults reach for when there is nothing else to hold.
Silence is reinforced through small, repeated gestures: the quick hushing of children, the double-checking of doors, the practiced reassurance that keeps panic from spreading.
A house where certain memories are avoided teaches restraint.
A family where grief is contained teaches self-control.
A home where danger was once real teaches vigilance, even when the danger is no longer visible.
None of this requires explanation.
It is learned through proximity.
Parents do not sit down and decide what fears to pass on. They model what they know. They transmit what helped them survive.
Many children watched the adults around them endure their pain without language. They learned that “life has its ups and downs” not just as philosophy, but as posture, tone, and routine – learning early how much feeling was allowed, and how much had to be carried alone.
It was transmission.
Pain moved forward quietly, without intention, and without making anyone responsible for it.
Many women kept a patoo or shawl close to the door at night – not as a habit, but as a quiet form of readiness learned long ago, embedded in routine rather than decision.
Silence is not the absence of communication.
It is one of its most powerful forms.
Children learn early what can and cannot be spoken. Which questions are welcomed, and which ones tighten the room. They shape their inner world around those boundaries long before they understand why they exist.
In Afghanistan, reassurance often arrived as a sentence, not a solution.
Shab dar miyan, Khoda Mehraban – a way of saying there is still time, that even in the dark, God is kind.
Not a promise.
Not an answer.
Just a way of keeping fear from filling the room.
This, too, is inheritance.
Children do not only inherit what frightens us; they inherit where we turn for comfort. Faith is learned the way tone is learned: by watching what adults reach for when there is nothing else to hold.
Silence is reinforced through small, repeated gestures: the quick hushing of children, the double-checking of doors, the practiced reassurance that keeps panic from spreading.
A house where certain memories are avoided teaches restraint.
A family where grief is contained teaches self-control.
A home where danger was once real teaches vigilance, even when the danger is no longer visible.
None of this requires explanation.
It is learned through proximity.
Parents do not sit down and decide what fears to pass on. They model what they know. They transmit what helped them survive.
Many children watched the adults around them endure their pain without language. They learned that “life has its ups and downs” not just as philosophy, but as posture, tone, and routine – learning early how much feeling was allowed, and how much had to be carried alone.
It was transmission.
Pain moved forward quietly, without intention, and without making anyone responsible for it.
Many women kept a patoo or shawl close to the door at night – not as a habit, but as a quiet form of readiness learned long ago, embedded in routine rather than decision.
When Survival Becomes a Pattern
What is passed down is often not fear alone, but protection.
Intergenerational trauma is frequently misunderstood as coldness or distance. In reality, it is often rooted in care.
A mother who never lets her child play outside is not unloving. She is afraid.
A father who stays emotionally reserved is not indifferent. He is trying to spare his child the weight of his own grief.
Sometimes, love and fear take the same shape.
When danger lasts too long, protection becomes pattern. Caution becomes culture. What once kept someone alive becomes the background setting for the next generation.
Even when the war changes form, these patterns can persist. The checkpoints disappear, but the alertness remains. The threat shifts, but the nervous system does not immediately update.
Children may grow up careful without knowing why. Alert without a clear threat. Responsible without a clear memory of what demanded it.
Some grow into adults who feel safest when they are useful, productive, or needed. Rest feels unfamiliar. Stability feels temporary, even suspicious. Calm can bring unease rather than relief, as if something important has been forgotten.
This is not imagination.
It is inheritance.
What was learned under one set of conditions can quietly organize life under another, long after the original danger has passed.
In Afghanistan, there is a saying that means: "the one bitten by a snake is afraid of a long rope" –a truth found in many languages. It is not about irrational fear. It is about memory doing its job too well.
What once harmed you teaches the body to treat anything similar as potential danger, even when the context has changed.
For some, this unresolved readiness later surfaces as irritability or anger – energy mobilized for a threat that never arrives.
In many Afghan families, especially for women, the day still ends early. Not because of a curfew, but because darkness learned to feel unsafe long ago, and the body remembers even when the city does not require it.
What is passed down is often not fear alone, but protection.
Intergenerational trauma is frequently misunderstood as coldness or distance. In reality, it is often rooted in care.
A mother who never lets her child play outside is not unloving. She is afraid.
A father who stays emotionally reserved is not indifferent. He is trying to spare his child the weight of his own grief.
Sometimes, love and fear take the same shape.
When danger lasts too long, protection becomes pattern. Caution becomes culture. What once kept someone alive becomes the background setting for the next generation.
Even when the war changes form, these patterns can persist. The checkpoints disappear, but the alertness remains. The threat shifts, but the nervous system does not immediately update.
Children may grow up careful without knowing why. Alert without a clear threat. Responsible without a clear memory of what demanded it.
Some grow into adults who feel safest when they are useful, productive, or needed. Rest feels unfamiliar. Stability feels temporary, even suspicious. Calm can bring unease rather than relief, as if something important has been forgotten.
This is not imagination.
It is inheritance.
What was learned under one set of conditions can quietly organize life under another, long after the original danger has passed.
In Afghanistan, there is a saying that means: "the one bitten by a snake is afraid of a long rope" –a truth found in many languages. It is not about irrational fear. It is about memory doing its job too well.
What once harmed you teaches the body to treat anything similar as potential danger, even when the context has changed.
For some, this unresolved readiness later surfaces as irritability or anger – energy mobilized for a threat that never arrives.
In many Afghan families, especially for women, the day still ends early. Not because of a curfew, but because darkness learned to feel unsafe long ago, and the body remembers even when the city does not require it.
From Memory: Watching the Room
For years, I had a habit of choosing where to sit based on where I could see all the entrances and exits. I rarely thought about it. It felt practical. Automatic. It was just how I moved through rooms.
Somewhere along the way, that began to soften.
Far from Afghanistan, far from war and blast walls, I noticed I could now sit with my back to a room. To a crowd. To a door or a window. Nothing happened. My body stayed.
I didn’t mark the change at first. It arrived quietly, the way safety sometimes does.
Then one day, we walked into a café in a calm European city. Bright windows. Open tables. People talking softly. No reason to calculate anything.
As we looked for a place to sit, I noticed my daughter pause. Her eyes moved quickly, almost imperceptibly, mapping the space and crowd. She chose a seat with a clear view of the entrance and the people.
I followed her gaze before I caught myself.
I hadn’t taught her this. I had never explained it. We had never talked about exits, angles, or where to sit. It wasn’t even something I was doing anymore.
But her body knew.
In that moment, I realized something had moved forward without words. I had learned how to watch. Later, I learned how to rest.
She had learned how to watch.
Nothing about the café was dangerous. Nothing about the day called for vigilance. And yet, there it was. Not fear exactly. Not panic. Just awareness, carried quietly into a place that did not ask for it.
That is how inheritance works sometimes.
Not as memory.
Not as story.
As posture.
As instinct.
As a way of being in the world that arrives before language.
For years, I had a habit of choosing where to sit based on where I could see all the entrances and exits. I rarely thought about it. It felt practical. Automatic. It was just how I moved through rooms.
Somewhere along the way, that began to soften.
Far from Afghanistan, far from war and blast walls, I noticed I could now sit with my back to a room. To a crowd. To a door or a window. Nothing happened. My body stayed.
I didn’t mark the change at first. It arrived quietly, the way safety sometimes does.
Then one day, we walked into a café in a calm European city. Bright windows. Open tables. People talking softly. No reason to calculate anything.
As we looked for a place to sit, I noticed my daughter pause. Her eyes moved quickly, almost imperceptibly, mapping the space and crowd. She chose a seat with a clear view of the entrance and the people.
I followed her gaze before I caught myself.
I hadn’t taught her this. I had never explained it. We had never talked about exits, angles, or where to sit. It wasn’t even something I was doing anymore.
But her body knew.
In that moment, I realized something had moved forward without words. I had learned how to watch. Later, I learned how to rest.
She had learned how to watch.
Nothing about the café was dangerous. Nothing about the day called for vigilance. And yet, there it was. Not fear exactly. Not panic. Just awareness, carried quietly into a place that did not ask for it.
That is how inheritance works sometimes.
Not as memory.
Not as story.
As posture.
As instinct.
As a way of being in the world that arrives before language.
What the Body Carries Forward
A late-night knock.
A phone ringing after midnight.
Fireworks in a peaceful country.
A door slamming too loudly.
The body can return to Afghanistan before the mind catches up.
Trauma does not travel only through stories or silence. It also travels through the body.
Even years later, some families still find themselves placing beds away from windows and doors, the body remembering what the mind no longer needs to explain.
Research on stress and epigenetics suggests that prolonged fear can leave biological traces, not as destiny, but as sensitivity. A nervous system tuned to danger. A stress response that activates quickly. A baseline shaped by what once mattered for survival.
This does not mean trauma is permanent.
And it does not mean the future is fixed.
It means history can quietly live inside biology, and without consent.
Some things are carried in the body long after their original purpose has shifted.
Atan, once a war dance and now a celebratory one, still carries the stamp of readiness in its movements: the grounded feet, the circling, the rhythm that builds and releases. The body remembers even when the meaning changes.
These bodily responses are not learned through instruction but absorbed through exposure and repetition.
A late-night knock.
A phone ringing after midnight.
Fireworks in a peaceful country.
A door slamming too loudly.
The body can return to Afghanistan before the mind catches up.
Trauma does not travel only through stories or silence. It also travels through the body.
Even years later, some families still find themselves placing beds away from windows and doors, the body remembering what the mind no longer needs to explain.
Research on stress and epigenetics suggests that prolonged fear can leave biological traces, not as destiny, but as sensitivity. A nervous system tuned to danger. A stress response that activates quickly. A baseline shaped by what once mattered for survival.
This does not mean trauma is permanent.
And it does not mean the future is fixed.
It means history can quietly live inside biology, and without consent.
Some things are carried in the body long after their original purpose has shifted.
Atan, once a war dance and now a celebratory one, still carries the stamp of readiness in its movements: the grounded feet, the circling, the rhythm that builds and releases. The body remembers even when the meaning changes.
These bodily responses are not learned through instruction but absorbed through exposure and repetition.
What Was Also Preserved
Inheritance is never only loss.
Amid the silence, many families also passed down other things: poetry, ritual, faith, endurance.
The same mother who flinched at sudden noise also taught how to keep going.
The same silence that buried pain also carried strength. Our inheritance was contradictory.
Silence and art.
Fear and faith.
Trauma and the skills to survive it.
This complexity matters. It prevents the story from becoming one of damage alone.
Inheritance is never only loss.
Amid the silence, many families also passed down other things: poetry, ritual, faith, endurance.
The same mother who flinched at sudden noise also taught how to keep going.
The same silence that buried pain also carried strength. Our inheritance was contradictory.
Silence and art.
Fear and faith.
Trauma and the skills to survive it.
This complexity matters. It prevents the story from becoming one of damage alone.
Naming Without Blame
Intergenerational trauma is not about accusing parents or condemning cultures. It is about understanding how survival travels when it does not get the chance to resolve.
What was passed down was often protection, installed in a world that demanded it.
Naming this inheritance does not undo the past. But it can soften confusion. It can loosen the grip of fears that never belonged to this moment.
And it can create space to notice what was carried forward, and why.
If parts of this essay stirred recognition, you may be noticing inherited patterns rather than personal failure.
Terms like intergenerational trauma, emotional modeling, and transmitted coping scripts exist to describe how fear and care move across generations without being spoken.
You may recognize vigilance you did not learn directly.
Silence that feels older than you.
Care shaped by restraint.
None of this means your future is decided.
It means your nervous system learned from a past that mattered – and is still learning what it may not need to carry in the same way.
Intergenerational trauma is not about accusing parents or condemning cultures. It is about understanding how survival travels when it does not get the chance to resolve.
What was passed down was often protection, installed in a world that demanded it.
Naming this inheritance does not undo the past. But it can soften confusion. It can loosen the grip of fears that never belonged to this moment.
And it can create space to notice what was carried forward, and why.
If parts of this essay stirred recognition, you may be noticing inherited patterns rather than personal failure.
Terms like intergenerational trauma, emotional modeling, and transmitted coping scripts exist to describe how fear and care move across generations without being spoken.
You may recognize vigilance you did not learn directly.
Silence that feels older than you.
Care shaped by restraint.
None of this means your future is decided.
It means your nervous system learned from a past that mattered – and is still learning what it may not need to carry in the same way.
By Sadia Fatimie
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