Deputy Prime Minister of Ukraine Iryna Vereshchuk recently reported that almost 800,000 Ukrainians had lost their homes in the war. As early as May, one in ten Ukrainians were already in need of materials to rebuild homes that had been destroyed; this number has only grown with each day of the war. Some Ukrainians' homes have been hit by Russian missiles; others have lost the feeling of home as their sense of security has melted away as the scale of the consequences of the Russian occupation becomes clearer.

Alina Shumak, a psychologist, psychotherapist and psychiatrist, joins us to explain how we develop a sense of home; why it is so difficult to let go of material things and how to accept their loss; and why people who had already left their parents’ home might find it easier to adapt.

Ви також можете прочитати цей текст українською.

Illustrations: Anna Shakun

Translator: Olya Loza

How a sense and imaginary of home develops

Home, for most people, means a safe, comfortable and intimate space, though we rarely consciously register how we develop a sense of home. For example, we are not responsible for creating the sense of home that we feel in our parents’ homes; it is, rather, something built by the people who raised us and created that particular atmosphere: your father might have liked to mend things or to bring something new home with him, while your mother might have enjoyed cooking. Your parents might have discussed the importance of home with you, or shown in practice why it is so crucial. We associate important times in our lives, our memories and many significant events with our homes.

When we lose our home (meaning either a physical, material loss or the loss of the sense of home), the imaginary of home is often also lost. One can no longer figure out what ‘home’ means, and may feel bewildered and at a loss when asked about their own home. One might experience derealisation, either mildly or acutely. This happens because the old imaginary of a ‘home’ is no longer available, and a new one has not yet been formed.

It takes as long to develop a new sense of home as it does to rebuild a house

People who leave their parents’ homes are forced to grapple with the need to develop their sense of home anew. It’s not something that can be done quickly – over a couple of months – because our sense of home is informed not only by our physical comfort, but by our social milieu, by having opportunities for self-fulfilment. It takes as long to develop a sense of home anew as it does to build a house: it is a meticulous process and things might go wrong along the way. The speed with which this feeling develops depends on the time that we have and our willingness to get on with our life, to make it more comfortable.

Some people keep moving in search of this elusive sense of home: they move flats, cities, countries.

Others surround themselves with material signifiers of comfort: they buy new throws, replace their curtains, renovate their kitchens. Others still have objects or routines that help anchor them: a favourite mug, a daily run. These can contribute to a sense of comfort, of stability. Eventually, we reach the point when we begin to feel good in our new home.

Those who have experienced a feeling of ‘homelessness’ in the past might be better equipped to process the loss of the sense of home during the war, because they have already had this experience. They understand what they have to do to approximate a sense of belonging in a new place. In contrast, those who have not had this experience or who have not yet developed a sense of home and so do not realise that this process has an endpoint – these people might experience the loss of home as a much more stressful event.

Home is more than an imaginary – it offers us safety and security. Compromising it raises a lot of questions

One might lose their sense of home during the war due to the physical loss of the place where one lived (whether it was damaged or destroyed during hostilities or is currently under Russian occupation), or due to the psychological, subjective experience of fear and insecurity. In the latter case, one might know that they will physically be able to return home, but does not feel the same sense of belonging as before, because it has become impossible to lead the life one led before, even in the same place.

When one loses a home, it is not just an imaginary that is lost, but a crucial element of our safety and security.

On the other hand, when a person has a physical home but does not feel safe there, they begin to wonder (consciously or not): What does safety mean for me? What gives me a sense of home? What do I have to do to feel more comfortable? How did I make this decision in the past and was my choice of home conscious and deliberate? Did I deliberately choose the people I was living with? Is this system still in place?

The questions that we might have had in peaceful times have multiplied and become more acute during the war. We are facing more life-changing decisions than ever before, and we are facing them more often than ever before. That is why we face so much confusion, discomfort and anxiety.

Losing home is not unlike losing a loved one

Losing home is not unlike losing a loved one, a break-up or a divorce: in these cases, we lose something (or someone) that plays a very important part in our lives. Regardless of whether this is a physical loss or a sense of loss, a person who lost their home might go through the well-known stages of grief:

  • denial (“This can’t be true, we will definitely return there”)
  • anger (the desire to avenge one’s loss by personally killing every Russian responsible for it)
  • bargaining (“What if negotiations take place and we’re able to come back home?”)
  • depression (despair, helplessness, realising the inability to turn back time; this can manifest as clinical depression and other psychological disorders);
  • acceptance (accepting the changes in one’s life)

This pattern was first proposed by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross to describe the stages of realisation of one’s own mortality or that of the loved ones. Shock might be part of this pattern and manifest as emotional dysregulation, behavioural problems or a combination of both.

For example, if one’s house is on fire, deep down the person knows that it is dangerous to go there, but cannot think rationally in the moment – they want to go in, to save their belongings. When a person is in a state of shock, they are governed by fear, anger, and despair – or, they may have a completely flat affect.

Shock usually lasts no longer than a couple of hours or, at most, days. If it persists, the person may require medical intervention.

Of course these stages might take place in a different – and random – order, and a person might cycle through them several times before they finally reach acceptance. It depends on the person’s history, how they react to disruptions and manifest or articulate their emotions, whether they are well-adjusted socially, whether they have a support network, and whether they suffer from physical or psychological disorders.

In general, within clinical norms, the grieving process can last up to a year. A continued sense of loss attests to a prolonged reaction, and should come under medical supervision.

Why is it so difficult to let go of material possessions?

People’s sense of self is shaped by the contexts in which they find themselves; their self-perceptions are formed by their circumstances. In the absence of other ways to self-identify, leaving the familiar circumstances behind might seem particularly difficult and frightening.

We work in order to be able to buy things, we put our time, effort and heart into it. For example, our clothes are much more than just bits of fabric we use to cover up; they might be connected to important stages of our lives, to bear the imprint of those stages.

Everyone has a story about an object in their home that they cherish. It’s not just a matter of sentimental attachment, it is like a physical imprint of the life lived, material evidence of what would otherwise be relegated to our memory alone. That is why our homes and everything we accumulate in our homes over the course of many years constitute material evidence that we were really there, on this planet, even if we are not consciously aware of this.

How to accept that your home has changed

Consider the following situation: A person is afraid to see what has happened to their home and is therefore delaying their return, even if it is relatively safe to come back.

One can approach this in two ways. Some therapists believe that the sooner the person is exposed to evidence of change, the sooner they will adapt to their new circumstances.

Others believe that an overly hasty exposure to change might not be conducive to adaptation and so it is better to take small steps and evaluate their effects. If the person responds positively, the process can be accelerated. If, on the other hand, they develop somatic or psychological symptoms, it is better to slow down. In any case, personal tolerance [to change] should be taken into account.

Consider another situation: A person says that they felt better under the Russian shelling than after having returned to their hometown, now ravaged by the war.

When a person is in a place that is being shelled, they are taking part in what is going on, even if passively. They can, for example, remove their favourite vase from the windowsill to prevent it from breaking. In other words, under these circumstances a person’s worries and concerns correspond to the context in which they find themselves. They feel as though they’re participants and not just observers.

Yes, people are, in effect, powerless under shelling, but they feel a lot more powerless when they see changes and realise that they can no longer do anything about them. What they are seeing does not make sense to them: it is not clear how this could have happened and why no one is doing anything to address it. It no longer feels like the world they want to live in. An inability to reconcile themselves with the extent of their own powerlessness might cause a person to take responsibility for what has happened and therefore blame themselves for their inability to change things.

How to cope with a lost sense of home

1. Do not avoid memories of the past, but use them as a basis for new ones

You won’t be able to totally break away from your memories: you can try to forget something that you truly value, but it’s not going to go anywhere. However, you can also develop new values by building on the old ones.

For example, if you have fond memories of gathering your friends around the dinner table: don’t try to replace this memory – instead, you could try creating a new one in the new location where you find yourself. It’s not going to be better than your memory from the past, but it will be valuable in its own right. Sentimental memories might help you figure out how to build your life anew. Though some of the old values and memories might not end up useful in this regard, others might retain their significance.

2. If you’re struggling with developing a sense of home (for example, abroad), at least try to minimise discomfort

You might have been given a bed in a camp for displaced persons, but your sense of home extends beyond this bed. It is unlikely that you will accept this new life and will keep hoping for something more comfortable, safe and intimate, something you could call your own. So it is best to minimise your discomfort as much as possible, to find a place where you could stay for a while.

3. Look for people who share your experience

Your circumstances have changed, and therefore so have the cultural and social norms, such as the degree of intimacy and familiarity between strangers. The more particular the place where you find yourself, the more difficult it will be to adapt, but it might also be difficult to navigate new circumstances within Ukraine.

People who live in circumstances that are different from ours might not fully understand your background, even if they are empathetic and have a lot of sympathy for your situation. They don’t know what it’s like to not have a sense of tomorrow or to lose the ability to dream or desire, because they have never experienced immediate danger.

If this upsets or annoys you, it might mean that you haven’t fully processed the terrible things that you’ve been through or that you haven’t been able to share those feelings with anyone.

Those who find themselves in circumstances similar to yours might understand the context of what you’re going through better. The goal of talking to people who share your experience is not to discuss those who do not understand you, but to offer one another support and an opportunity to share your feelings with someone who has been through something similar. Going through what people are going through right now will have an effect on the rest of your life. But this need not be a tragic experience: you can look at it as another ring of growth in a tree, with a shade lighter or darker than all of the other rings.

4. Try to establish time frames

Having an endpoint in mind gives us a greater sense of direction and, therefore, a greater sense of security.

5. The idea of reconstruction, however utopian it may seem, could become a lifeline, even if it doesn’t have any practical actions attached to it

This idea can help you convince yourself that you really do believe that another world is possible and that you have faith in other people. Even if you are powerless at present, the idea of reconstruction and rebuilding can provide faith capable of influencing your future.

This article was published as part of the IREX SYLA programme, dedicated to integration of the internally displaced young people in Ukraine.