A Brief Note
This essay is part of a series of essays 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 civilians, and sometimes trauma survivors. 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. It’s just one voice among many.
If something here feels familiar, you’re not being diagnosed. You’re being recognized. If it helps you notice something, it has done its job. If it provokes reflection or sparks a conversation you have never had before, even better.
If you’d like more context, Essay 0 sits at the beginning of the series.
This essay is part of a series of essays 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 civilians, and sometimes trauma survivors. 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. It’s just one voice among many.
If something here feels familiar, you’re not being diagnosed. You’re being recognized. If it helps you notice something, it has done its job. If it provokes reflection or sparks a conversation you have never had before, even better.
If you’d like more context, Essay 0 sits at the beginning of the series.
When Staying Present Is No Longer Safe
When a nervous system has spent too long bracing for what might happen, another kind of adaptation may begin to appear. If staying fully present becomes too costly, the nervous system may find another way to survive.
It may step back.
In Afghanistan, presence was not always a gift. It was a risk. To be fully inside a moment meant fully absorbing what might shatter it as well. When explosions, assassinations, and sudden loss could arrive on ordinary days, being present required a kind of courage that was not always sustainable.
For some of us, this stepping back felt like emotional numbing. For others, it felt like watching life from a slight distance, as if the world was happening, but we were not fully inside it. Sounds felt a little dull. Time flattened. Sensations lost their sharp edges.
Conversations were remembered without their tone. We attended meetings, cooked meals, raised children, and later struggled to recall how the hours had moved. Life was lived, but slightly out of focus.
The body continued to function, but something essential was held slightly farther away.
Work was done. Children were taken to school. Guests were hosted. Condolences were offered. Jokes were made. The outward rhythms of life continued, even as something inside stayed at a distance.
The term dissociation can be used to describe this protective distancing from sensation, emotion, or, at times, from the self. It is not a breakdown or loss of control.
It is a defense, one that often goes unnoticed, precisely because it allows people to keep going.
Dissociation is the quieter counterpart to hypervigilance. Where one keeps the body constantly ready, the other creates space. Both emerge from the same condition: prolonged threat without relief.
Many of us moved between these states without naming them – alert in the streets, distant at home; ready in public, and absent in private.
When fear or pain could not be resolved, discharged, or spoken about safely, stepping back became safer than staying fully present.
When a nervous system has spent too long bracing for what might happen, another kind of adaptation may begin to appear. If staying fully present becomes too costly, the nervous system may find another way to survive.
It may step back.
In Afghanistan, presence was not always a gift. It was a risk. To be fully inside a moment meant fully absorbing what might shatter it as well. When explosions, assassinations, and sudden loss could arrive on ordinary days, being present required a kind of courage that was not always sustainable.
For some of us, this stepping back felt like emotional numbing. For others, it felt like watching life from a slight distance, as if the world was happening, but we were not fully inside it. Sounds felt a little dull. Time flattened. Sensations lost their sharp edges.
Conversations were remembered without their tone. We attended meetings, cooked meals, raised children, and later struggled to recall how the hours had moved. Life was lived, but slightly out of focus.
The body continued to function, but something essential was held slightly farther away.
Work was done. Children were taken to school. Guests were hosted. Condolences were offered. Jokes were made. The outward rhythms of life continued, even as something inside stayed at a distance.
The term dissociation can be used to describe this protective distancing from sensation, emotion, or, at times, from the self. It is not a breakdown or loss of control.
It is a defense, one that often goes unnoticed, precisely because it allows people to keep going.
Dissociation is the quieter counterpart to hypervigilance. Where one keeps the body constantly ready, the other creates space. Both emerge from the same condition: prolonged threat without relief.
Many of us moved between these states without naming them – alert in the streets, distant at home; ready in public, and absent in private.
When fear or pain could not be resolved, discharged, or spoken about safely, stepping back became safer than staying fully present.
Distance as Protection
Not everyone responded to long-term danger with visible anxiety or tension. Some of us responded by pulling away internally. We might have described ourselves as calm, steady, or composed, but this was not always the same as safety.
In a place where panic could draw attention, spread fear, or invite danger, calm was often a responsibility, rather than a feeling.
What looked like ease was often containment, a careful regulation of how much of life was allowed in at once.
Dissociation limited contact with what felt overwhelming. Emotions flattened. Sensations dulled. Attention narrowed. Not to escape life, but to survive it.
Many people described feeling less joy, but also less despair. Less fear, but also less aliveness. This narrowing was not emptiness. It was rationing.
This kind of distance was common in environments shaped by conflict. It allowed people to function and kept panic from spreading. It made daily life possible under conditions that did not allow rest.
It showed up in how we listened to the news without reacting. In how reports of attacks were absorbed with a quiet khair basha / khair de wee – a way of saying, we will carry this too. In how grief was postponed because there was still work to do, still children to protect, and still a life to manage.
We did not pull away because we did not care.
We pulled away because caring too fully felt dangerous.
Caring fully, in a place where loss was frequent and arbitrary, risked breaking something that still had to function the next day.
When the nervous system has been on high alert for too long, even connection can feel like exposure. Some might call this denial, but denial implies refusal. What was happening instead was calibration; learned over years, not chosen in a moment. We were allowing ourselves the ability to feel just enough to stay human, but not so much that life became unlivable.
Not everyone responded to long-term danger with visible anxiety or tension. Some of us responded by pulling away internally. We might have described ourselves as calm, steady, or composed, but this was not always the same as safety.
In a place where panic could draw attention, spread fear, or invite danger, calm was often a responsibility, rather than a feeling.
What looked like ease was often containment, a careful regulation of how much of life was allowed in at once.
Dissociation limited contact with what felt overwhelming. Emotions flattened. Sensations dulled. Attention narrowed. Not to escape life, but to survive it.
Many people described feeling less joy, but also less despair. Less fear, but also less aliveness. This narrowing was not emptiness. It was rationing.
This kind of distance was common in environments shaped by conflict. It allowed people to function and kept panic from spreading. It made daily life possible under conditions that did not allow rest.
It showed up in how we listened to the news without reacting. In how reports of attacks were absorbed with a quiet khair basha / khair de wee – a way of saying, we will carry this too. In how grief was postponed because there was still work to do, still children to protect, and still a life to manage.
We did not pull away because we did not care.
We pulled away because caring too fully felt dangerous.
Caring fully, in a place where loss was frequent and arbitrary, risked breaking something that still had to function the next day.
When the nervous system has been on high alert for too long, even connection can feel like exposure. Some might call this denial, but denial implies refusal. What was happening instead was calibration; learned over years, not chosen in a moment. We were allowing ourselves the ability to feel just enough to stay human, but not so much that life became unlivable.
Functional Dissociation
Dissociation does not always look dramatic.
Many people lived this way quietly and even competently. We worked. We raised children. We cared for the elderly. We met obligations.
From the outside, we appeared reliable, composed, even strong.
Inside, something was held at arm’s length.
This is often called functional dissociation: a form of distancing that allows life to continue under pressure. It develops in environments where danger is ongoing and emotional openness does not feel safe.
In these contexts, composure was praised, quiet was admired, and endurance was rewarded; but endurance was not the absence of strain.
Distance protected against overwhelm but also dulled joy. It shielded against pain, but over time, it could also erode closeness.
People began to feel disconnected from themselves, from others, and from moments that should have felt meaningful. This was not because they didn’t care. It was because caring fully had once required too much.
Dissociation does not always look dramatic.
Many people lived this way quietly and even competently. We worked. We raised children. We cared for the elderly. We met obligations.
From the outside, we appeared reliable, composed, even strong.
Inside, something was held at arm’s length.
This is often called functional dissociation: a form of distancing that allows life to continue under pressure. It develops in environments where danger is ongoing and emotional openness does not feel safe.
In these contexts, composure was praised, quiet was admired, and endurance was rewarded; but endurance was not the absence of strain.
Distance protected against overwhelm but also dulled joy. It shielded against pain, but over time, it could also erode closeness.
People began to feel disconnected from themselves, from others, and from moments that should have felt meaningful. This was not because they didn’t care. It was because caring fully had once required too much.
When What’s Held Back Has to Go Somewhere
Distance can only do so much.
When emotions are muted, sensations are dulled, and words are unavailable or unsafe, what is held back does not disappear.
It moves.
When the mind steps back to survive, the body often steps in.
This is where dissociation and somatization may meet.
When fear, grief, anger, and exhaustion could not be felt fully or expressed safely, they still needed a place to live. For many of us, that place was the body.
Not symbolically.
Physically.
Distance can only do so much.
When emotions are muted, sensations are dulled, and words are unavailable or unsafe, what is held back does not disappear.
It moves.
When the mind steps back to survive, the body often steps in.
This is where dissociation and somatization may meet.
When fear, grief, anger, and exhaustion could not be felt fully or expressed safely, they still needed a place to live. For many of us, that place was the body.
Not symbolically.
Physically.
When the Body Speaks
Not all pain announced itself as fear or grief.
Some of it moved quietly into the body.
Headaches that did not lift. Tight shoulders, backs, or muscles that ached without a clear reason. Jaw pain from holding tension. Digestive trouble that came and went. Chest pressure with no obvious cause. Fatigue that no amount of rest seemed to fix. Sleep that never felt restorative.
These were not dramatic symptoms. They were ordinary, persistent, and easy to normalize.
When pain went unnamed for long enough, it did not disappear. It settled. It learned the body. Sometimes it surfaced years later, long after the most obvious dangers had passed.
This is called somatization: when psychological distress is expressed through physical symptoms, often because there was no safe space, language, or permission to say it out loud.
It was not imaginary.
It was not exaggeration.
It was not “all in your head.”
It was the body carrying what had nowhere else to go.
Not all pain announced itself as fear or grief.
Some of it moved quietly into the body.
Headaches that did not lift. Tight shoulders, backs, or muscles that ached without a clear reason. Jaw pain from holding tension. Digestive trouble that came and went. Chest pressure with no obvious cause. Fatigue that no amount of rest seemed to fix. Sleep that never felt restorative.
These were not dramatic symptoms. They were ordinary, persistent, and easy to normalize.
When pain went unnamed for long enough, it did not disappear. It settled. It learned the body. Sometimes it surfaced years later, long after the most obvious dangers had passed.
This is called somatization: when psychological distress is expressed through physical symptoms, often because there was no safe space, language, or permission to say it out loud.
It was not imaginary.
It was not exaggeration.
It was not “all in your head.”
It was the body carrying what had nowhere else to go.
“Everything Looks Fine”
Many people who have lived with somatic symptoms may recognize this.
If you were fortunate, you saw a doctor. Tests were run. Scans came back clear. Blood work was normal. You were told, sometimes kindly, sometimes dismissively, that everything looked fine.
But it wasn’t.
The pain was real. The exhaustion was real. The pressure, the nausea, the tightness – they were happening.
In places shaped by prolonged stress, these symptoms were often explained away as weak nerves, bad digestion, aging, or just life. People learned to live with them, to adjust, and to carry on.
Somatization does not mean the body is broken. It means the body is remembering.
Under prolonged stress, muscles stay tense. Breathing stays shallow. Sleep fragments. The nervous system holds patterns shaped by danger, even when the danger is no longer present.
The body learned to brace.
But it does not always know how to stop.
Many people who have lived with somatic symptoms may recognize this.
If you were fortunate, you saw a doctor. Tests were run. Scans came back clear. Blood work was normal. You were told, sometimes kindly, sometimes dismissively, that everything looked fine.
But it wasn’t.
The pain was real. The exhaustion was real. The pressure, the nausea, the tightness – they were happening.
In places shaped by prolonged stress, these symptoms were often explained away as weak nerves, bad digestion, aging, or just life. People learned to live with them, to adjust, and to carry on.
Somatization does not mean the body is broken. It means the body is remembering.
Under prolonged stress, muscles stay tense. Breathing stays shallow. Sleep fragments. The nervous system holds patterns shaped by danger, even when the danger is no longer present.
The body learned to brace.
But it does not always know how to stop.
When the Body Becomes the Language
In many cultures shaped by conflict, emotional pain was rarely named directly. Physical pain, however, was easier to acknowledge.
This often created an unfair divide, where physical pain deserved more attention than emotional pain, but the body did not separate experiences that way.
Fear, grief, and exhaustion were experienced emotionally and physically. When language was unavailable or unsafe, the body took over the work of expression; it had to.
Strength, in war, is rarely optional. For many women in particular, endurance became a requirement. Someone had to keep households running, emotions regulated, children reassured, and elders cared for. Falling apart was a luxury few could afford.
Over time, that endurance exacted a cost, one often paid quietly in the body.
In societies where women had limited sanctioned space to speak openly about distress (especially anger, despair, or exhaustion), the body often became the last available language.
At funerals in Afghanistan, one of the few public spaces where women were permitted to cry openly, grief often overflowed the immediate loss. There was a common saying that women did not cry only for the deceased person being buried, but for other people who had died before as well, and for all the losses carried privately for years.
Some women even released grief through physical expression: loud cries, collapsing to the ground, striking their own bodies, or pulling at their hair. At funerals, these responses were often treated as ritual and restrained by family members concerned for safety, dignity, or propriety.
What was being witnessed was not disorder or a desire to harm themselves.
It was an accumulation of grief layered upon grief, fear held for years, and restraint practiced so long that when it finally gave way, it did so through the body rather than through words.
This does not mean the body was “out of control.”
It means expression arrived through the only channel that had not been closed.
In many cultures shaped by conflict, emotional pain was rarely named directly. Physical pain, however, was easier to acknowledge.
This often created an unfair divide, where physical pain deserved more attention than emotional pain, but the body did not separate experiences that way.
Fear, grief, and exhaustion were experienced emotionally and physically. When language was unavailable or unsafe, the body took over the work of expression; it had to.
Strength, in war, is rarely optional. For many women in particular, endurance became a requirement. Someone had to keep households running, emotions regulated, children reassured, and elders cared for. Falling apart was a luxury few could afford.
Over time, that endurance exacted a cost, one often paid quietly in the body.
In societies where women had limited sanctioned space to speak openly about distress (especially anger, despair, or exhaustion), the body often became the last available language.
At funerals in Afghanistan, one of the few public spaces where women were permitted to cry openly, grief often overflowed the immediate loss. There was a common saying that women did not cry only for the deceased person being buried, but for other people who had died before as well, and for all the losses carried privately for years.
Some women even released grief through physical expression: loud cries, collapsing to the ground, striking their own bodies, or pulling at their hair. At funerals, these responses were often treated as ritual and restrained by family members concerned for safety, dignity, or propriety.
What was being witnessed was not disorder or a desire to harm themselves.
It was an accumulation of grief layered upon grief, fear held for years, and restraint practiced so long that when it finally gave way, it did so through the body rather than through words.
This does not mean the body was “out of control.”
It means expression arrived through the only channel that had not been closed.
What This Was
Calling these experiences dissociation or somatization does not make them less real, but it can make them more understandable.
It places them back in context; inside lives shaped by prolonged danger, restraint, and adaptation.
You did not imagine this, you did not bring it on yourself, and your body is not betraying you. It is doing what it learned to do when remaining present was too costly, and speaking about it was not always an option.
If your pain moved into your body (into your head, your chest, or your stomach) or affected your memory and your sleep, you are not alone.
You were not “just stressed.”
Your body was carrying more than it could say.
Naming this is not about blaming the mind or fixing the body. It is about understanding how survival leaves its marks.
That distance kept you going, and your body held what even the distance could not.
Both were acts of survival.
Calling these experiences dissociation or somatization does not make them less real, but it can make them more understandable.
It places them back in context; inside lives shaped by prolonged danger, restraint, and adaptation.
You did not imagine this, you did not bring it on yourself, and your body is not betraying you. It is doing what it learned to do when remaining present was too costly, and speaking about it was not always an option.
If your pain moved into your body (into your head, your chest, or your stomach) or affected your memory and your sleep, you are not alone.
You were not “just stressed.”
Your body was carrying more than it could say.
Naming this is not about blaming the mind or fixing the body. It is about understanding how survival leaves its marks.
That distance kept you going, and your body held what even the distance could not.
Both were acts of survival.
By Sadia Fatimie
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