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‘If things were bad before, they will be worse': can families recover from the stress and strain of war?

‘If things were bad before, they will be worse': can families recover from the stress and strain of war?

The Guardiana day ago

When her husband went off to help defend Ukraine against Russia's invasion in 2022, Yulia stayed at home with their toddler. She describes being overcome by a feeling of 'numbness'.
'I'd been left alone with a small child. The worst thing for her was the thought that her father had left her and would never come back. The worst time was when she blocked her father when he tried to call.
'It took several months to get a connection again. I'm glad my husband didn't give up.'
Amid a multitude of strains on life in Ukraine after three long years of war, Yulia's family have managed to survive the pressures, helped by a group that offers war-damaged families supportive counselling.
Others have not been so lucky. While there are no official figures, anecdotal evidence points to a growing number of relationship stresses and families that have broken up under the pressures of war. From absence when wives and children have fled abroad, to the enforced separation when service at the front means men might only get home for a short period of leave once a year, there are a variety of factors driving relationship stress.
Research from other countries, including by King's College London, suggests that in families where one member deploys for 12 months in a three-year period – considerably less than is usual in the Ukrainian military since the Russian invasion – relationship issues are 8% more prevalent than in families where soldiers deploy for shorter periods.
How partners adapt and change to new circumstances, whether at home or on the frontline, can also test the closest of bonds.
'It's really a sensitive issue,' says Natalia Umerenkova, a psychologist at Ukraine's Institute of Social and Political Psychology who is involved in running the counselling sessions that Yulia attended.
'One of the main things is fatigue. The war in Ukraine has been going on for more than 10 years, including more than three years of all-out war.
'People are exhausted. We have a hotline for families who have members in the military and we see requests connected to relationships increasing. It's not only wives but also men in the military calling, asking for help because they need help with the feeling that their relationship might be ending,' she says.
'Everything is different in each family. But there are three broad categories. If things were bad before, the war is a catalyst and things will be worse. Then there are the families who were close and know how to deal with the experience, how to communicate and have the same values.
'Between those two are the families where there are differences in outlook, and some trust issues. The war can bring them together or break them up. But there's a feeling that both of them have changed.
'When you don't have enough strength to deal with issues that appear, to talk about them, then it becomes a vicious circle.'
For men, the immersion in a military culture can create emotional separation from home.
'It's like a closed male club, where certain initiations take place,' says one woman who recently separated from her partner. 'They are surviving dangerous tasks. The men are physically together most of the time. They become emotionally closer to them than their partner because of the different shared experiences.
'And it takes a lot of empathy from the soldier who's dealing with life and death issues to empathise with the issues his partner is dealing with in civilian life.'
The war, she says, has tilted the balance in Ukraine society's gender politics. 'There is more of a tendency to excuse men's behaviour. It's considered bad if people feel you are talking shit about your partner.'
The issue of trust can be one of uncertainty, and difficulty in communication, corroded by uncomfortable truths: including the awareness that some soldiers visit sex workers, a reality much in evidence in areas adjoining the immediate frontline.
'It's normal when in combat conditions,' says Umerenkova. 'Your brain switches to survival mode to try to cut off emotions not connected to war.
'You put all emotions into your survival and the survival of the group. Lots of wives say that communication with their husband changes because they are communicating the same way as in their military group. Short unemotional communications. And the wives are asking: 'Are we OK?' They see it as rejection.'
Mutual misunderstanding compounding a sense of doubt is a common theme.
'I came to this group,' says Yulia, 'because I felt I had no choice. I could go crazy or learn to find help from other people. I was worried something was wrong with me.'
For Marina, 41, the stress responses became physical over the separation from her husband of 22 years, a combat medic who was injured during the conflict.
'We have never been apart for more than a month. We worked to find ways to communicate but it was really hard for me to understand why he wasn't here. It was like losing a limb and I had a physical reaction – rashes – when he left.
'I couldn't understand if my emotional reactions were correct. In the beginning I thought the war would last one year at most. Then life will be the same but it's not.
'2022 was a bad year for me,' she adds. 'I started therapy and then I heard about the support group. I found it hard to stay in touch with people whose life didn't change as much and didn't have the huge stress of a husband in the military.
'One of the things I understand now is the right time to talk about certain things. Because my husband is a medic it's sometimes hard for him to talk about a lot of things, including the loss of colleagues. Now we have special words when he doesn't want to say something. Now I understand.'
Umerenkova says the necessary level of social support is lacking in Ukraine. 'Everyone needs some support but its not easy to get with so many people in the army. As a society we need it, and it's important to start to talk about this now while the men are still in the army – because after the war, our veterans will need to deal with it.'

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When they first met, it was not long after Russia illegally seized Crimea, Ruslan's homeland, in 2014, and also invaded eastern Ukraine. Ruslan, a professional soldier, had already served on the front line. From the beginning, Olha understood that life as a military wife meant constant sacrifice — long separations, missed milestones, and the uncertainty of war. But she never imagined that one day she would be waiting for her husband to return from captivity. When she describes Ruslan, tears well up in her eyes. 'He's kind, he has a heightened sense of justice,' she said. 'For him, it was a matter of principle to return home and bring our Crimea home,' she said, a loss she fully comprehended only after Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. 'Only when I lost my home did I fully understand him." Facing cancer and hair loss Olha managed to complete only two sessions of chemo before the full-scale invasion. When her long hair began to fall out, she shaved her head. When she sent Ruslan a photo, he didn't hesitate: 'God, you're so beautiful,' he told her. Later, he made a confession. 'He told me, 'Yeah, I saw your hair falling out in the mornings. I gathered it all from your pillow before you woke up — so you wouldn't get upset.'' At the time, she believed that losing her hair was the worst thing that could happen to her. But soon after, she discovered what real tragedy meant. War and captivity Olha never made it to her third round of chemo. She stayed in Berdiansk, which was seized by Russian forces in the early days of the war. Cut off from medical care and waiting for news of Ruslan, she quietly began helping the Ukrainian military from inside occupied territory. 'There was no oncology department in Berdiansk. There was simply nowhere to get treated,' she said. 'But honestly, I didn't even care that much at the time.' In early April, she discovered that Russians had captured Ruslan and others from his marine forces' unit. 'I started to cry, but then I stopped myself. I thought, 'Wait. Is this something to cry about? He's alive. That's what matters.'' At the time, she said, their idea of Russian captivity was naive. Only later did it become synonymous with torture, starvation and medical neglect. Olha left Berdiansk in June of 2022. 'Walking through your own city, but feeling like it's someone else's — that's horrifying,' she said. 'There were Russian flags everywhere. I kept Ukrainian music in my headphones. I was scared my Bluetooth might disconnect, and they'd kill me. But it was worth it.' She spent several months moving between cities, helping to organize peaceful rallies to raise awareness about Ukrainian POWs. Eventually, she settled in Kyiv. Throughout that time, she paid little attention to her cancer diagnosis, even as her health steadily declined. Then her condition worsened sharply. Her temperature spiked to 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit). 'When the doctor looked at my test results, she said, 'How are you even walking?'' she recalled. Her lymphoma, left untreated during occupation, had progressed to Stage 4. Emergency chemotherapy began — and it hit her hard. 'My second round of chemo was disastrous,' she said. She developed an intestinal blockage, couldn't digest food, and was rushed to intensive care. 'It was morphine all night from the pain. I couldn't stand. I couldn't sit. They moved me like a dead body.' In the hospital, she overheard doctors say her condition was inoperable. Then a nurse came to her bedside and spoke plainly. ''We're going to try to restart your system manually,' she told me. 'But if it doesn't work, you may not wake up tomorrow. You must help us however you can.'' It was the thought of Ruslan, still in captivity, that helped Olha survive. Unanswered letters In April 2024, five days before her birthday, Olha was told she was in remission. Now she juggles civic activism with running an online cosmetics store. She co-founded the Marine Corps Strength Association, representing over 1,000 Ukrainian POWs still in captivity. In close contact with former prisoners, Olha gathers fragments of information about Ruslan — she has had only one phone call with him in the past three years. She sent several letters but never received a reply. Like an investigator, she pieces together every detail. That's how she discovered that Ruslan had broken ribs and a crushed arm during regular beatings, according to the testimony of one of the POWs. As part of the psychological torture, he is made to listen to the Russian national anthem repeatedly. A Crimean Tatar and a Muslim, he is given only Christian religious texts to read — not the worst form of pressure, Olha acknowledges, but still a clear violation of his faith. One day, a Russian guard struck him eight times on the head with a hammer. 'The other prisoners said they had never seen bruises like that in their lives,' she said. Ruslan spent months in solitary confinement. And yet, somehow, he remains emotionally strong. 'He tells the others about me,' Olha said, her voice softening. 'One of the guys who came back said (Ruslan) told him: 'She's your age, but she's got a business, she's strong, she's fighting for us. She'll get us out.'' That story stayed with her. 'I can't afford to be weak. How can a marine's wife be weak?' Olha said. 'What matters is that he knows I'll keep fighting for him — until the very end." ___ Associated Press writers Vasilisa Stepanenko, Evgeniy Maloletka and Volodymyr Yurchuk contributed to this report. ___

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