Por Peter Bach
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Photograph by Nathaniel St. Clair |
Russia’s full-scale invasion had entered its fourth year, yet the war was increasingly competing for international attention. Events in the Middle East were shifting diplomatic focus and energy markets in ways that indirectly benefited Russia, while Ukraine faced renewed pressure on its air-defence supplies as US Patriot interceptors were diverted elsewhere. The US had even eased sanctions to permit further limited Russian oil sales to help stabilise global markets.
Ukraine therefore risked slipping from view altogether until the US and a number of its increasingly strained Gulf allies began seeking Ukrainian expertise in defensive drone technology, assistance Kyiv had agreed to provide. Could such cooperation ultimately strengthen Ukraine’s own hand, even as millions of its own people continued to live in a state of frozen trauma?
Against that backdrop, the event carried a deliberately hopeful title: “Beyond Survival—Choosing Life.” It focused on efforts within Ukraine to support the spiritual and psychological rehabilitation of veterans and their families.
“This is about sharing your pain and being understood and accepted,” offered one participant.
In May last year, during an earlier such gathering, I was a guest of the principal organiser, the humanitarian Les Simm. A Buddhist today, Simm spent around thirty years in the military—five as a psychiatric nurse and twenty-five in specialist units. I had written about his work then and was keen to follow up. In the United States, the war had now largely faded from public consciousness, even though it was far from over.
The event was organised by Simm together with AHALAR, the Ukrainian civil-society organisation that runs psychosocial retreats, training programmes, and resilience initiatives for people affected by the war. Many of the retreats take place in the quieter mountain regions of western Ukraine. The retreats formed the heart of the discussion, as participants shared experiences and compared what they had learned in a field that is still rapidly evolving.
AHALAR’s approach is distinctive. It operates less like a commercial wellness programme than an NGO focused on mental-health support and burnout prevention. A recent film about the work showed everything from the restorative effects of movement and dance to the difficulty of expanding such programmes without losing the human closeness on which they depend.
It was another wake-up call for me. One participant spoke quietly about searching for her twenty-year-old son, still missing after months of war.
As well as Simm’s iFound (International Forum for Understanding), the gathering brought together partners from the Institute for Social and Political Psychology (ISPP), Solidarity Hub, the Institute of Psychology at the University of Oslo, and Mental Health and Human Rights Info (MHHRI).
Discussion centred on how veterans—and their families—navigated life after traumatic experiences that remained deeply under-reported. These ranged from frontline exposure to the severe and lasting effects of ill-treatment, including sexual and gender-based violence suffered in Russian captivity. “Stigma costs lives,” as Simm put it.
For several hours I listened on mute as participants shared the same virtual space, comparing harrowing experiences and exchanging—often with composed urgency—what they had learned.
Another participant described serving in the same fighting unit as her husband, their oldest son only seventeen.
“My apologies,” she winced at one point, “when we talk about children, it triggers me.”
A central theme was how trauma continued to shape veterans’ lives long after they left the battlefield. It influenced responses to stress, coping strategies, identity, and the small rhythms of daily functioning that most of us take for granted.
Families were inevitably drawn into this process. Partners and children often found themselves responding to changes they did not fully understand, sometimes experiencing forms of secondary trauma as relationships are strained or quietly reshaped.
There was also careful attention given to the challenges faced by those who endured sexual and gender-based violence and other severe abuse in captivity. Research suggested that sexual violence against boys and men, as well as women, rose dramatically in war zones—by some estimates by as much as ninety per cent—adding another painful layer to the challenge of reintegration.
What I also found moving was hearing directly from veterans’ organisations about where resilience seemed to come from—how recovery unfolded slowly and unevenly, and how small practical steps helped people rebuild meaning in their lives.
Equally important was the discussion of how communities might recognise warning signs earlier, reducing that stigma and offering support before people reached breaking point.
It was difficult not to think about even wider implications. The experiences described were rooted in the particular brutality of Russia’s war against Ukraine, but the questions they raised extended far beyond it.
What did it mean for a society when large numbers of people returned from war carrying injuries that could not always be seen? How did communities prepare themselves—not only to welcome veterans home, but to live with the long emotional aftershocks that conflict leaves behind?
Recovery from war was not simply a medical or psychological task. It was also social and cultural. It involved learning how to recognise suffering that may remain hidden, how to speak about experiences that were difficult to name, and how to create spaces where healing could begin without shame or isolation.
This was why the AHALAR retreats—often in quiet mountain settings—were so important.
Yet sustaining and expanding them will require resources that are far from assured. The retreats depend on modest but steady support for facilitators, spaces, travel, and the infrastructure that allows people to step briefly out of wartime pressures and focus on recovery.
Les Simm is now exploring the possibility of establishing a new starter hub: a place where retreats, training, and research can be brought together under one roof, and where new facilitators can be prepared to carry the work further across the country.
The ambition is not a single centre but eventually a network—small, locally rooted spaces capable of supporting veterans, families, and communities as the long process of recovery unfolds. There are also plans to reach out to the Ukrainian diaspora abroad, as well as to conduct future webinars. Ukraine is a country where the psychological consequences of war will be felt for decades. Such places for Ukrainians should become quiet anchors of resilience.
Far from the front lines, veterans gather in the mountains to relearn ordinary rhythms of life.
What this particular gathering made clear to me was that wars did not become less consequential simply because the world had begun to look elsewhere. Long after wars fade from headlines, this quieter work goes on.
For those interested in learning more about the initiative or supporting its development, Les Simm can be contacted at: lsimm18@gmail.com
Peter Bach lives in London.
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