One night in Zambia our home was bombed. Luckily we'd gone to look for safety at our friends' house at that moment.
That night, my father had to work overnight and there was some unrest and movement around our house. Our garden was a convenient shortcut when going to the lake, frequented by the armed guerilla troops passing by our village. But this time, some of the men had stopped there, hanging out under our mango tree, smoking cigarettes. They had guns so my mother didn't let me and my sister go out and play. As they didn't leave she didn't feel safe in the house either. So we went to visit a friend and spent the evening there.
We knew that people had been killed by these, or some other guerilla troops. To a child, it seemed random and our parents didn't explain what was going on, they didn't want us to worry and be scared. But we knew that some of our local friends or acquaintances vanished and were mourned.
However children have sharp ears. We heard - eavesdropped - that this and that person whom we knew; the shopkeeper, the butcher, our friend's dad - had been killed. Even Katri and I understood to mourn them in silence.
And then that night, when we came home at night the wall between the garage and the children's room had been bombed down. Electricity was out - of course - so we inspected the damage with flashlights. My bed was by the wall that had collapsed, now it was covered in concrete rubble. The phone didn't work - of course - so we couldn't call dad for help.
I didn't remember any of this. Nothing. I was maybe 6 years old then but my memory had blocked it out for decades. As my mother told me about it now, just some months ago, I started to remember some fragmented feelings.
She had put me and my sister to sleep on their bed. Then she went to the kitchen and cried there alone, waiting for dad to come home. I remember the sound of her tears, I remember the echo of that house. I remember my own suffocating fear that night, lying on my parent's bed next to my 3-year-old sister, in that darkness. She slept. I couldn't.
I made her wake up and crawl under our parents' bed. Maybe nobody could find us there. I took us pillows and a cover. She fell back to sleep.
There I lay very still and listened to every sound. Were they steps? Did somebody come back to hurt us? Were those shadows moving? One of our walls was gone. The people who had bombed us could basically just walk in. Maybe they had come inside before we came home and were hiding somewhere in the house, just waiting for us to go to sleep. My heart was pounding, it was difficult to breathe. Dad was gone, in my little girl's heart he would have been fearless and known what to do. Now there was nobody to protect us. My childhood safety was killed that night.
All this time, I haven't understood my paralyzing fear of the dark. But when I'm alone I can't sleep in total darkness. The same panic I felt that night attacks me, every time. Like a child, I still have to have a night light when I sleep. Otherwise the shadows start moving.
Okay. Finally I get it. The darkness of that night is why.
But. If my boys are with me - I don't need any light. Stronger instincts kick in with them. When they are home with me, I'm the lioness. There is no monster I wouldn't dare to face to protect them.
And.. Even if I never can shake off this irrational fear within me it is easier to live with it knowing where it comes from. I no longer blame myself for being childish and weak, scared of non existing bogeymen. Those men with guns who attacked us that night existed once and left their mark on me.
And now finally, I've made my peace with it.
PS. I wrote this before the Ukrainian war.
In hindsight, our family actually had it easy.
How many decades will it take for today's Ukrainian children to find their peace?
