A Bosnian and a Syrian walk into a bar…
Sounds like the beginning of a joke but it was, for me, the beginning of a long healing journey.
Back in august 2017, the war in Syria had been raging for over 6 years and I was at a really low ebb. August is a particularly traumatic month for me. In 2013, during one of my many medical missions to northern Syria, I witnessed a war crime. A school full of children had been bombed with a napalm-like chemical and dozens of severely burnt children flooded into the hospital I’d helped establish with Hand in Hand for Syria. The medical team and I did what we could with limited resources to save the lives of these severely injured children. This horrific scene was captured by the BBC panorama documentary “Saving Syria’s Children”. Though I’ve witnessed many tragedies, though I’ve grieved for family members and for the loss of our home, nothing has come close to scarring me as much as this event did.
I had thought the war would last a few weeks, but as it marched on and the months became years, world leaders were doing nothing to stop the senseless massacre of civilians. I desperately needed re-energising. Normally a hopeful person, I realised that I was in danger of losing my conviction that our tragedy too would end. I needed to restore my faith - to believe that there was light at the end of the tunnel, however far off.
As I sat thinking of how I could put that fire back in my belly, I recalled a Feminist Advocacy trip to the Balkans I had been part of a year earlier. The delegation included luminaries of peace and activism from Nobel Peace laureates to heads of human rights and peace orgs I respected deeply. Together, we traced the journey that refugees were taking across Europe in order to better advocate for their rights. I got to know the Bosnian women who were making it all happen behind the scenes: the half dozen activists who were the logisticians and translators.
Talking to them felt like home. We instantly connected.
There was something so easy, so comfortable in talking with them about war and trauma. They knew in the way that others, despite their good intentions, empathy or professional involvement, could not. It was the knowledge of lived experience: when war wasn’t your 9-5 day job, but your whole life. I’d promised to visit them and so, on my quest to restore belief and renew hope, I found myself on a flight to Sarajevo. I realised quickly how little I knew about this country beyond a few impressions from wartime images I'd seen and stories I’d read. Bosnia and Herzegovina is beautiful, a land of green mountains, rivers and waterfalls. The people are friendly and hospitable and, as we say in Arabic, ‘from our smell’ meaning similar to us. I felt an immediate affinity and found myself walking around, smiling happily. This is what I needed to see, a place that had suffered a terrible war now looking so mundane: street vendors selling toys and clothes, a woman giving ice-cream to her child, an old man sitting in a cafe smoking and drinking a delicious aromatic coffee - the favourite Bosnian pastime whether for man, woman or cat.
What struck me, however, was that despite the fact it ended some 22 years ago, it only took a few minutes of conversation with a Bosnian for the subject to turn to the war. The streets and buildings themselves spoke of unhealed trauma , especially Mostar, which saw some of the worst violence, still having bullet and mortar riddled walls. Their wounds were still visible.
During my ten day trip to Bosnia I laughed and cried in equal measure. It was the first time I truly gave space to my grief and allowed a flood of emotions to come to the surface by listening to stories of the Bosnian war. It was the first time since my war started that I’d been in a society that knew war. Though our wars were different on many political, military and economic levels, the tales of suffering, resilience and survival - of lives shattered, some rebuilt, some never recovered - were very similar. The role that humour, music and art played in their resistance and surrender was reminiscent of my own experience, reminding me of a time when half a dozen of us sat laughing out loud as bombs fell uncomfortably close to us in northern Syria.
But it would be the almost invisible trauma that would particularly catch my attention. A friend who lived through the siege of Sarajvo told me, ‘everyone has PTSD. It’s not the in-your-face experience of traumatic images but the kind of trauma that seeps under your skin and into your bones and becomes a part of you and gets passed onto your children. It's in the little aggressions, short tempers, frustrations, low morale. The cynicism with which you see the world. The acceptance of corruption and a dysfunctional state. The ever present hatred between the Croats, Serbs and Bosnians. There’s been little collective healing to a devastating collective trauma. If you strike a match, our war would restart in an instant.’
Being in Bosnia did elevate my spirits. The vibrant streets, the culture and arts scene, the stunning scenery - the peace! The fact there were no more fucking bombs. No more massacres. I believed our war would one day end. I also knew that if we don’t mindfully and purposefully act to heal our trauma, personally and collectively, that any peace we achieve would be superficial. The true battle ground is ourselves. The war that needs to stop is the war within. We need to heal ourselves and each other.
Fast forward four years and I’m married to a Bosnian man I met during that trip. Only the warped sense of humour of two souls deeply affected by war would find hilarity in discussing our favourite massacres on the night we met! Now we have a glorious little daughter, Naya, aged 19 months, and this summer it was time to introduce her to one of her homelands, Bosnia, wounds and all.
A few days after we arrived it was the Srebrenica memorial day. On 11th July 1995, over 8,000 Bosnian Muslim men and boys were massacred by the army of Republika Srpska under the command of Ratko Mladic. As I was in the country, I wanted to join the commemoration of this genocide - as a show of solidarity with the martyred and, more importantly, those who were left behind. What I got instead was a deeper insight into the impact of war. My Bosnian friends weren’t as keen to mark it as I was - ‘It’s important to remember but I really don’t want to face it today’. It reminded me of the day back in 2017 when Mladic ‘the butcher of Serbia’ was convicted of genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity at the UN International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yoguslavia. I was elated. Justice and accountability for war crimes are two of many Syrians’ dreams for our future and it had been achieved, finally, for Bosnians. But whilst my Bosnian friends acknowledged the significance and ‘rightfulness’ of the convictions, their reaction was muted. Mladic’s conviction didn’t create the jubilation I was expecting, it seemingly failed to ease any pain or heal any wounds. This left me asking: If justice doesn't heal trauma, what does?
I found an answer.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa was a court-like restorative justice body established after the end of apartheid. In an incredible effort to heal a deeply divided country, witnesses who were identified as victims of gross human rights violations were invited to give statements about their experiences, some at public hearings. Perpetrators of violence could also give testimony and request amnesty from both civil and criminal prosecution. Archbishop Desmond Tutu in his account of the proceedings describes how a group of black women faced the white military personnel who ordered the shooting of their young sons - the hearing had to be adjourned at one point because one of the women threw her shoe at the perpetrator. Reading the Archbishop’s description of the heat in that courtroom, I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, that it was my child who had been murdered. The thought was utterly overwhelming - exactly what made the outcome all the more incredible; by the end of the session, despite unimaginable suffering, those mothers were calling the perpetrator ‘my son’ and telling him they forgave him.
Eva Kor, an Auschwitz survivor who was horrifically experimented on during her years in captivity as a child, wrote, ‘the day I forgave the Nazis, I privately forgave my parents whom I had hated all my life for not saving me from Auschwitz...I then forgave myself for hating my parents. Forgiveness is really nothing more than an act of self-healing and self-empowerment...I felt the burden of pain lifted from me. I was no longer in the grip of hate. I was finally free’. You can read her story and other inspiring stories at The Forgiveness Project.
These stories made me weep at the beauty and capacity of the human spirit to endure and elevate and forgive the seemingly unforgivable, to love in the face of so much hate. Trauma, loss and grief can imprison us, as can the desire for revenge, or even justice. A major factor in the deleterious effect of trauma is our sense of disempowerment, our loss of control. Unfortunately, modern healthcare has medicalised trauma and mental illness to such an extent that it has become something that can only to be “fixed” by doctors or therapists rather than healed by the affected themselves. And it's having this sense of inner power and control that moves us from being victims to survivors. Forgiveness is one such incredibly powerful tool that empowers us to tear down our own prisons and let the past be just that - the past.
I went to Bosnia overwhelmed by my own story only to find it deeply entwined with the histories of so many Syrians, Bosnians and others, who have experienced the horrors that we can inflict on one another. Yes, we need to heal as individuals, but the issue is much bigger, much deeper, much more complex. There is a collective trauma that needs to be healed. South Africans talk about a concept called Ubuntu - a founding principle for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It is based on the belief that we are all interconnected, that we are all responsible for, and accountable to, one another and that we don't become ourselves by ourselves. Neuroscientists too have demonstrated the profound importance of a sense of connection, community and belonging. Research by Dr Richard J. Davidson of the Centre for Healthy Minds at the University of Wisconsin demonstrates that a sense of connection has a greater impact on our physical health than exercise, and Dr Bessel Van Der Kolk writes in the brilliant The Body Keeps the Score, that ‘our capacity to destroy each other is equalled by our ability to heal one another. Restoring the community is central to our wellbeing.’
When I pause to think of the Syrian community I see a mirror shattered into a million little pieces. Yet, I also know it has brought many of us closer together and created a deeply woven kinship that has at times been the only safety net between us and the abyss. There is zero - absolutely zero - doubt in my mind that if it weren't for we Syrians supporting each other, the catastrophe we are living through would be many times worse. But to heal the fractures, within and without, we first need to acknowledge that we have experienced profound trauma and that we need help. But how can we do any healing work when war is still being waged on us? How do you heal while you are still being traumatised? Whether we're fighting COVID, caught up in an ongoing war or working as a therapist for an endless stream of broken people, how do we ease our own pain when the injury is repetitive and ongoing?
For years, I’d subconsciously delayed my proactive healing strategies, waiting for the day when the war was over, thinking any effort or attempt before then would be futile. Ten years on, I know how counterproductive that is. If we allow too much pain, trauma and suffering to build up in us without doing the work necessary to release and integrate what we can, then we risk turning into bitter, twisted, shadow versions of ourselves.
But how do we do it?
For a while I focused on balancing my life; less work, more rest and play. But the transformation truly started to occur when I had a profound inner shift; when I finally knew with all my being that prioritising my well-being was not a luxury, but an absolute necessity that I owed to myself, my loved ones and all whom I seek to serve. By the grace of god, I fell pregnant after years of infertility and it was nourishing my daughter in my womb that proved to be my most powerful lesson. I finally understood that caring for myself was an act of caring for others. I now know I cannot lead on the frontlines nor heal the world if I am wounded, carrying my invisibly bleeding mind and spirit into battle. With the responsibility of leadership comes the responsibility to self - they are absolutely inseparable and any cunning strategy to create positive change in the world must include a holistic wellbeing plan.
We must put the oxygen mask on ourselves first if we are to continue doing our critically needed work.To save the most, change the most, inspire the most we need to radically commit to being our best selves. To develop the kind of fierce dedication to our own health, body-mind and spirit. To recognise that our duty of care starts with us, not as a selfish act, but exactly the opposite, as our highest aspiration and intention; towards a more healthy, joyful and just world.
Bitter, battered and broken frontliners who don't take their own health and wellbeing seriously risk being part of the problem - adding to the workload of others or at best being ineffective. I know, I was one of those who thought my self care was a luxury I didn't have time for. Frontliners who do not tend to their wounds, who refuse to acknowledge their pain, who don't make a habit of stopping, reflecting, integrating, letting go, and cleansing their inner landscape will sooner or later become engulfed in the darkness they witness. This darkness permeates inside and out, making it hard to see the light, and seeds of anger, bitterness and futility start to germinate. When you hear yourself saying, ‘I can't take it any more’ that's your final warning, the red flag that you must heed: your situation is critical, the world urgently needs you to stop, look in, clear out, heal, rest and recharge. Then come back when you see light, inside and out. It's not a matter of ‘if this happens, it's a matter of ‘when’. Don't let it get as late as I once did.
I’ve grown so much in this last decade and learnt so much about myself, love, life and the universe. I often wonder what another me in a parallel universe would be like - without this war, without all the death and devastation I’ve witnessed. As I meditate on that I feel an immense sense of gratitude. Though I’d do anything to end all wars and their ghastly consequences and will be a peace campaigner until I die, I’m so grateful for everything I have and everything I am. This is my growth journey and I embrace it, the good, the bad and the ugly. What I know for sure, is that healing trauma is a priority. It enables us to redefine our past, reimagine our future and live in peace in the now. Whether at an individual or collective level, it requires talking, sharing and opening up to ourselves and each other in a safe space. It requires establishing connections through communication with ourselves and each other, to share our stories - to be heard and seen and to hear and see each other. It is in these connections that healing lies, especially if we can be brave enough to build these bridges not just with our allies but with our so-called enemies and together begin our journey of reconciliation towards a future with more love than hate. Working to proactively heal our wounds is not just for us here and now, but perhaps the biggest gift we can give our children and their children. It can be our most profound legacy- to teach generations how to be strong enough to go through the worst and come out even bigger, better and more beautiful.
I know that many reading this, especially those who have experienced the worst of loss first-hand will at best think I am naive and unrealistic OR that I am demanding too much of us, the wounded. Some may even think it's treacherous to suggest to forgive when bloodshed continues.
All I will say for now is that after 10 years of war, I am more hopeful about humans than ever. For all the darkness I've witnessed, I've seen so much more light. Perhaps because I choose to. I went to Bosnia looking for hope and I found it. I walked into a bar and found a man who saw me whole though I was wounded, who taught me that only the strong can cry, that we have all the love and courage we need to have difficult conversations and when in doubt - laugh.
