It is now over five weeks into the Russian invasion of Ukraine and extremely distressing videos of dead and injured civilians, including the children and the elderly continue to pour out as a reminder of what war does to people, their land and culture. I am frequently reminded of the war that defined my own childhood.

I was born into an 8-year-long war between Iran and Iraq that killed close to a million people. The resulting devastation of both countries left deep wounds of trauma on our bodies and minds. When I was born, my parents were still living in Tehran which is the capital of Iran. At that point the city was under heavy bombardment by Iraqi forces in an attempt to demoralize the people. After 4 years of living through that campaign of terror, we moved to the south of Iran to a city nearby a well-defended military base, which deterred such attacks. Because of this move I don't have much conscious memories of the war, but my body remembers and manifests the trauma and the impact of the war.

I will return to this trauma, but for now I want to tell you a story of illusion and bravery, a story of the courage of a young couple attempting to shelter the mind and the soul of their young child as the bombs fell on their city destroying neighbourhoods and families. This is a story of me and my parents surviving.

At nights when the majority of the bombing was taking place people were told to draw their curtains, cover their windows with dark plastic bags, and turn off the lights so the Iraqi fighter jets could not see them. People who lived in houses with basements were told to sleep in them every night.

My parents witnessed the effects of the war on the older children in the family, particularly the effects of the nightly sirens, and wanted to spare me from that traumatic stress and anxiety. So they weaved together a different story of what the sirens and the flares illuminating the sky represented: we were enjoying nightly fireworks! We lived in such a rich and happy country that there were nightly celebrations! 

They told me the sirens were a signal to people that the fireworks was about to commence, to give people time to come out to their yards to enjoy them. The flares, which were meant to make visible the Iraqi bombers in the night's sky so that the Iranian military could destroy them were our fireworks. Every night when the sirens would begin, signalling to everyone that they must take shelter, my parents would bring me out in the yard to look at the 'fireworks'. They would tell this story so repeatedly and bring me out so often, (read: how often we were being bombed) that the story left deep grooves in my mind. To the point that when the sirens would start, I would start clapping and laughing telling my parents to hurry to the yard so as to not miss any fireworks!

Years later, I asked my mom if they were scared as the bombs were dropping on them.

"Yes, we were very scared but we tried not to show it.” She told me with sadness and grief that “when the bombing would stop for the night, I was overcome with a sense of relief, saying to myself ‘thank God we are still alive’. But that the sense of relief would be immediately followed by so much sadness at the realization that 'oh it was someone else's mother, daughter, or husband who just died'." 

For most of my childhood in Iran the specter of war was an ever-continuing presence not only through the long years of war, but also through recession and food shortages that in turn stunted the cultural growth of the nation. This was the norm that my young mind did not register as damage and it would not register as trauma until years later. 

I had not realized how much my body remembered those fighter jets until we immigrated to Canada and I experienced the yearly fighter jets flying over Toronto during the Labour Day Weekend National Airshow. During those times I began to notice something curious about my body. As I would hear the sound of the fighter jets approaching, I felt the need to want to hide or make myself smaller. It was as though my body wanted to collapse in on itself almost in a protective mode with my arms going over my face and head. This sensation appeared almost as an instinctual need of recoiling away from something one has learned to be dangerous. Over the years I began going to therapy and began to learn how much my anxiety and panic attacks were related to those early years of turmoil. The turmoil that even with my parents’ brave efforts to remain hidden, still manifested itself in my body. 

And here is the flip side of that bravery: by concealing the truth and their own feelings, my parents would, ever so lovingly and with all the best intentions, negate my feelings. ‘What are you afraid of? There’s nothing to be afraid of, these are just fireworks, let’s go have fun.’ This early experience led to a tendency of questioning my gut feeling and sometimes not listening to my body when it signals alarm. This is not a criticism of my parents’ actions, which I still think was incredibly courageous, rather it is to turn over the stone and look under it for a more complex understanding of the stories that we tell our children and ourselves about unknown and dangerous situations.

Children understand the general mood of their parents, even if they cannot accurately pinpoint the feeling. As they grow older, they will be more attuned to something being wrong, a problem existing in the family, or a national or an international tragedy dominating the news. One of the best ways to deal with and prevent trauma is by acknowledging children’s feelings as real. During times of crisis and uncertainty, our job is to neither negate nor catastrophize their feelings, rather to validate their reality for the child. It makes sense for children to be anxious and worried about the state of the world and they need to know that their feelings make sense to the adults around them.

Just like it is not appropriate to tell children that ‘the world is going to hell in hand-basket’ (one of my favourite phrases), it is also not the best practice to tell a child that ‘everything is perfectly fine and there’s nothing to fear’. 

As we watch the war in Ukraine unfold, the news of pandemic dragging on, and all the other issues of the world, many parents are struggling with how to talk about these issues with their children, especially as they begin to be more exposed to it through social media. I want to offer you some concrete tips to address these issues in the way the best protects children’s mental health, both in the short and long-term.

Have open, honest and age-appropriate Conversations:

Dr. Jane Gilmour, clinical psychologist and the author of “How to Have Incredible Conversations with your Child” recommends honesty in moderation. Especially in times of uncertainty, telling something to children that is not true may harm their sense of trust, but that doesn’t mean that the child needs to know everything. 

If your child brings up an issue, she recommends beginning with “What do you know about this?” as opposed to “What are you worried about?”. The first question will give space for your child to be able to talk through what they know and to allow you to better understand how much they know and then gauge how much you need to tell them about this.

Psychologist, Pilipa Perry offers the same recommendation of open and honest communication. A simple statement of ‘It’s okay to feel scared, I’m here to listen if you want to talk’ might provide some relief from anxiety because the first part of that statement is the validation of the child’s feelings and it’s a permission to feel their feelings without trying to ignore or dismiss them, all the while letting them know you are there to take care of them. 

Be compassionate as a way to diminish stigma and prejudice:

War can fuel discrimination and prejudice against a group of people and the effects of that will be felt on our own doorsteps no matter how far we physically are from the war. 

In all my life, I have never heard my parents say anything negative about the Iraqi people. My mother particularly lost many family members to the war, and although they would criticize Saddam Hussein as well as their own government, my parents always separated the people from their state and their politicians. For them it was all about those who were in power, not the ordinary people and not even the soldiers since they both believed that in a different time, under different circumstances those people might have been friends. I never witnessed any discrimination from my parents towards the Iraqi people and therefore I never internalized such messaging. 

UNICEF encourages parents to avoid terms like ‘evil people’ or ‘bad people’ but instead spread kindness and compassion by reminding children that people deserve to be safe and now many families are forced to leave their homes and be separated from each other. 

Focus on the helpers:

Remind your children that there are people who are actively trying to reduce human suffering, and they are working hard to end the war. There are mediators, counsellors, volunteers, doctors, nurses, and firefighters who work hard to make sure that bad things don’t continue to happen and they especially think about children and their best interests.

Take care of yourself:

Your children will pick up on your own mood, vibes, sensations, and the feelings you’re carrying. Reach out to your own support network and talk, go for a walk, write out your feelings in longhand and let the page hold space for at least some of the things you’re feeling, and put a limit on how much news you are reading. 

Despite our best efforts, we have not yet been able to build a world where we don't have to explain war to children. Let's equip them to be in touch with their fears so they can manage them peacefully and so that they can build that world for themselves.