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16 OUR LIFE • November 2022 As we watch the horrific invasion of our homeland by the brutal russian hordes (I can’t dignify them by calling them an army), we recognize the trauma inflicted on Ukraini - an families, particularly on the children. We see photo - graphs of young children with terrified expressions, chil - dren crying, children with vacant stares. We know that these memories will not be erased easily, that the scars will likely remain. There are professionals in Ukraine who are well aware of these traumas and, despite profound limitations, are doing their best to reach out to all they can to help. There is one group, however, that I fear is likely being neglected with this outreach. More than once, I have heard comments that, fortunately, at least infants and the younger toddlers will be spared the trau - matization, as they are “too young to remember.” This belief, sadly, is misguided and untrue, and this is what compels me to share my story. I am a member of the last generation born in Ukraine during World War II whose family was able to escape the return of the Soviet army into Western Ukraine. As ref - ugees, we settled in camps for displaced persons. I was Ksenia Olesnycka Kuzmycz , Branch 56, North Port, FL THE TRAUMA OF WAR Ksenia (center) with her cousins in Zhygestiv, Lemkivshchyna, immediately prior to the family’s escape. The photo was taken in early September 1944, when Ksenia was 11 months old. A Personal Reflection on How War Affects the Very Young an 11-month-old infant when my family escaped. I have no memories of the years we lived in the camps, of our eventual journey by ship to the Unit - ed States when I was 5 years old, or of our arrival in this country. The only memory I have of my early years in America is of recurrent nightmares charac - terized by very frightening loud noises and flashing lights. I consistently awoke from these nightmares with my stomach clenched in knots and had diffi - culty catching my breath. Every night I prayed not to have a nightmare; by the age of about 12, they final - ly dissipated. However, the knot in my stomach and the feelings of anxiety often recurred, seemingly for no apparent reason. My mother – widowed when my father, a sur - geon with UPA (the Ukrainian Insurgent Army), was murdered by the NKVD (the forerunner of the KGB) – was already feeling overwhelmed, so I kept the nightmares and the ongoing anxiety to my - self. While I was quite shy and quiet, I developed a pretty effective facade of being OK, although I did occasionally hear adults comment on my apparent “sadness.” Nonetheless, I successfully completed college, obtained two master’s degrees, was cer - tified in school psychology, had a successful pro - fessional career, married the love of my life, and raised two great sons. When I was about 28 years old, I worked as a psy - chologist in a small alternative school program in Reading, PA. In addition to daily staff meetings after school, we met weekly with our consulting psychiatrist. During one of these meetings, the psychiatrist mentioned that he had recently com - pleted training in hypnosis and was planning to incorporate hypnosis within his practice. When I offered to provide him with added practice, he agreed to hypnotize me. While I do not recall what he did exactly, I do remember his direction that I was walking down this long white empty corridor to my past. Within seconds, I began to shake, cry,
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