War in Ukraine and the psychological state of people

maxiss (48)in #writing • 3 days ago

In Ukraine the war has been going on for three and half years. Air-raid sirens sound every day, and several times a day. People react differently: some have stopped noticing the sound because the body is conserving its remaining strength, while others startle every time and their body freezes up. Neither reaction is abnormal. What’s abnormal is that the alerts have become part of ordinary life, that plans and conversations can be torn in half at any moment. This kind of everyday life wears you down quietly and insistently. It takes away sleep, memory, patience. A person tires faster, gets irritated over trifles, mixes up words, forgets why they came into the kitchen. This isn’t a “bad temperament,” but the price of constant strain.

I’ve lived abroad for many years, but that doesn’t make the connection with home any weaker. We read the news, keep the phone close at hand, try to be in touch at the same time. My wife’s father has remained in Ukraine. He is 61. All his life he was a man of action: fixed things himself, carried things himself, asked no one for help. When we managed to talk without interference, his voice was steady, the conversation about simple things: what he bought, what he cooked, who stopped by from the neighbors. But as soon as an alert begins, the person changes right there on the line. He hears explosions nearby, his voice breaks, panic starts, tears, his breathing goes ragged. No “restraint” remains, and that’s normal. It isn’t weakness and it isn’t a reason for shame. That’s how a living organism reacts when it has lived too long under the threat of death. Everyone’s reserve of strength is limited, even for those who have been the family’s rock all their lives.

In such moments I don’t invent clever speeches. I speak briefly and to the point. I say that I’m on the line and not going anywhere. I ask him to sit down, lean his back so his body has something to rest on. I remind him to take a sip of water, asking where he is,whether it’s safe nearby, whether he can move to the corridor or a shelter at a calm pace, without rushing. Then I try to speak less and not bombard him with questions. Sometimes we’re silent. The sheer presence over a voice call already helps—the person hears that he hasn’t been left alone, that someone is talking to him evenly, without commands or reproaches.

There are rules we agreed on in advance. During an alert we don’t argue about politics and we don’t discuss forecasts. Only concrete steps that can be done right now. After the all-clear we return to everyday things: open a window, pour something warm, wash up, sit quietly for a few minutes. Only then do we discuss what to do next, whom to call, what to check. That sequence saves strength. No long arguments in a period of panic, only short actions to restore a sense of control.

It’s very important not to argue with feelings. Phrases like “it’s not scary ” only make things worse. It is scary.That’s a fact. When you acknowledge it aloud, the tension doesn’t rise from the feeling thatr someone is trying to talk you out of it. I say it plainly: I hear that this is hard for you, it really is hard, Im here. After that it’s easier for a person to breathe. They’re not being told they’re “experiencing it wrong”; they’re simply given support and time.

A separate topic is the sense of guilt among older people. You often hear: “I’m sixty, why am I like a child.” I have one answer to that: you are an adult going through dangerous events, and your reaction is normal. Tears are not a personality pathology. It’s a way for the body to release what has accumulated. When there is such an “outlet,” the likelihood of a breakdown in health is lower. I don’t demand “hold it together for someone’s sake”; I offer manageable roles that give a sense of usefulness. For example, regularly checking the first-aid kit against a list, keeping the phone numbers of the doctor, neighbors and volunteers at hand, watching the power bank’s charge, sending a short morning message “everything is fine.” Small tasks help you endure a long distance.

About getting used to alerts… Many say they’ve adapted. That doesn’t mean it has become easier. It means the psyche saves the battery: muffles some signals, narrows the range of emotions so that a person can function at all. From the outside they look composed; inside—exhausted. From this come side effects: insomnia, quick fatigability, flashes of irritability, forgetfulness, a painful reaction to loud sounds, blood pressure spikes, stomach problems. This is common under prolonged stress and it isn’t treated by talks in the spirit of “pull yourself together.” Simple steady routines and medicine help here. You need to cut out coffee in second half of the day, stop reading the news before bed, air out the room, goto bed at the same time, drink water evenly, go out for short walks withoutf headphones. If sleep and anxiety don’t improve,you need to see a doctor and discuss support options—from talking to a specialist to balancing medications. This isn’t weakness; it’s basic self-care.

Financial and everyday help works better when it’s regular. One-time large transfers don’t relieve constant anxiety. We arranged things so that every month utilities and medicines are reliably covered, and groceries and water arrive on schedule. This puts life in order and removes part of the uncertainty. We gathered important phone numbers in one place: the family doctor, the neighbors next door, the shelter coordinator, a local volunteer, our shared chat. When such a list is at hand, in a hard moment you don’t have to frantically recall contacts.

Communication is not only support during an alert. You can’t talk exclusively about bad things and expect the psyche to withstand it. Ordinary topics are needed. I deliberately ask about food, purchases, the weather, the neighbors, household chores. This isn’t trivial. Everyday conversations restore interest in life and gather a person back together, piece by piece. If you constantly talk only about alerts, burnout sets in very quickly. Five minutes about the cat, fixing the faucets, and cucumbers at the market—that’s a return to a normal rhythm of life.

For those of us far away, we also can’t pretend we’re always on duty. The attempt to be available twenty-four hours a day ends in a breakdown. I set in advance the time when I’m definitely reachable and immediately say if I have no energy today: without excuses, I just promise to be back tomorrow and I come back. Better a brief daily contact than a long conversation once every two weeks. Stability matters more than scale here. And it’s also important to limit endless news scrolling. I leave two or three news channels a day; the rest of the time I don’t climb into the heap of channels where everyone repeats the same thing. This simple discipline saves a lot of nerves.

It happens that the condition worsens: anxiety becomes almost continuous, the person stops leaving the house, refuses to talk, loses sleep. This is not a time to wait. It’s a signal to act faster: make an appointment with a doctor, look for a local support group, talk to those neighbors you trust. And this isn’t about weakness; it’s about preserving health. Shame is harmful here.

There’s another thing men are embarrassed to talk about, especially at an older age. At 61, crying into the phone isn’t shameful. What’s shameful is leaving a person alone when they’re shaking. We don’t choose exactly how the body will react to danger. We choose whether we will be there. If tears come, it means feelings are alive, not sealed up. People live as long as they feel. Our task is not to judge, not to measure another’s pain with a ruler, but to be available when needed. Some endure alerts more quietly, some more loudly. There’s no difference in worth.

Sometimes by evening fatigue and emptiness roll in. On such days it’s better to honestly admit you’re at zero and postpone calls until tomorrow. An empty person is a poor helper. It’s normal to recover and return. It’s normal to delegate: one person handles groceries, another medicines, a third the contact with the doctor. The more a system consists of concrete small actions, the less chance it will fall apart.

We cannot switch off the alerts with a single decision and we cannot end the war with a single call. We can do what is within our power and do it at a steady rhythm. Be in touch when a person feels bad. Speak briefly and to the point. Acknowledge fear rather than argue with it. Bring back ordinary topics so that life isn’t reduced to threats. Help with money and daily needs regularly, not “as it happens.” Watch yourself so you don’t burn out and disappear at the very moment you’re most needed. Remove shame from the conversation. Give older people manageable roles that restore meaning. All this sounds boring, but it works. Families in a long war are held together by just such work. When you live like this day after day, everyone on both ends of the conversation becomes calmer—and that, right now, matters more than beautiful words.