2 years in Canada. Processing the war.

It's been 2 years already since we arrived in Canada. I think that staying here, just like in any other country, every Ukrainian who moved because of the war will continue to mark each year lived as another milestone, mentally wiping away the heavy feeling of "Phew, I made it through another year".

Really, being in the status of a temporary resident, with a temporary social insurance number and very uncertain prospects, time here flies at cosmic speed, and you always remember the expiration date of your Work Permit with crystal clarity.

Two years ago, we woke up in our Polish family's apartment in Warsaw, having arrived there completely exhausted on March 2, 2022, which — I was sure —we would definitely leave. That early morning, on the day of departure, started with my younger son waking up with signs of a cold and a loss of voice. To say that I panicked would be an understatement because I was very scared that we wouldn’t be allowed on the plane due to possible COVID-19. I was anxious that everything would fall apart. I rummaged through all the cabinets in our hosts' apartment looking for medicine, gave Platon an inhalation as he had difficulty breathing, and gave him antiviral pill — in other words, I was calming myself down as best I could.

Then our hosts came to us. Patrycja saw me, took my hands in hers, and said, "Olya, you need to calm down. Here’s some tea, and I’ll make Platon a drink with cloves. He just took on your anxiety". Half an hour later, I had calmed down a bit, and all of Platon's symptoms had disappeared. Our new family drove us to the airport, helped us unload and check our luggage, and then hugged us all the way to the flight check-in.

On June 7, 2022, we moved from one set of hugs to the equally warm embrace of our Canadian family: a young Canadian couple who undertook the incredible task of welcoming my noisy family into their home. They waited for us at the airport for four hours late into the night because many Ukrainians arrived that day. Most of them didn’t know English and communicated with immigration officers through Google Translate. I helped as much as I could to distract myself from my own nerves—arriving on another continent with my children and mother and not knowing the people we were about to stay with was terrifying.

But in Canada, it was as if I had entered the same river of unprecedented care and attention from people I didn’t know for the second time. I doubt that even in the wildest tarot card spreads I could have theoretically met these people who would later become a huge part of my family and play such a role in my life.

They say one of the signs of fully lived grief is when you easily and calmly pass each year on the date of your loss. Although June 7 for me is the start of a great journey of transformation and achievements, it also signifies many moral, emotional, and social losses.

I won’t write any conclusions or lessons in this post. I’ll just say that what initially felt sharp and painful gradually became healing. For example, I realized that when you are traumatized by war, nervously flinching at any loud sounds, often reacting inadequately at the mere sight of the Russian flag, you find yourself in a country where people have lived peaceful lives for generations, always smiling and friendly by nature. Initially, this glaring dissonance in realities psychologically drains you, but step by step, it begins to heal you. Like homeopathy, in small doses.

So, it can definitely be written on the tablets for future generations of refugees who will go through other wars that it will get easier. Difficult, gradually, but sooner or later, it will.

During my last session with my therapist, I discussed that if you set aside all identity crises, immigration issues, and cross-cultural nuances, I have one big unresolved problem that I haven’t progressed with.

I still can’t process the very phenomenon of war.

In my mind, there are many colourful doors. Each has a plate. There’s a door that leads to the experience of childbirth, a door with memories of university studies, and doors about marriages and divorces, professional history, friends, parents, Melitopol, Kyiv, and dozens and dozens of others. All coexist peacefully in these spaces, visit each other, get along, and cooperate harmoniously.

There is no place in my head for war. For the third year now, it roams the corridors of my consciousness like a malicious crazy old woman, trying to prove that she is here, that she exists. She angrily bangs her thick stick on all the entrances, but no one opens the door for her. Even one of the oldest, iron doors with a heavy padlock, labeled Major Loss, which divided my life into before and after—even there, she is not allowed. They just whisper quietly and persistently from there—go away, there is no place for you even here.

When I told this to my therapist, she couldn’t speak for a couple of minutes. Then she said, "I have no words, and I have goosebumps".

"I bet", - I replied.

We live on.

Until victory.