World War II 80 Years After

August 23 marks the anniversary of the signing of the Ribbentrop–Molotov Pact – the secret agreement between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union that paved the way for the outbreak of the Second World War, the Holocaust, the gulags, and decades of repression and division across Europe. This year's edition of the Remember. August 23 campaign, organised by the European Network Remembrance and Solidarity, encourages reflection on how the crimes of totalitarian regimes continue to reverberate across generations.

To explore the psychological and societal legacy of mass violence, we interviewed Dr Yael Danieli – a world-renowned clinical psychologist, traumato¬logist and psychohistorian – whose pioneering work with Holocaust survivors and their families has transformed how we understand trauma, memory and healing.

ENRS, Magdalena Żelazowska: What exactly is intergenerational trauma? Is it just a metaphor – or is it a real, measurable psychological condition?

Intergenerational trauma is not just a metaphor – it is a measurable, lived reality. In my work, I refer to its consequences as Reparative Adaptational Impacts, or RIFEs. These are patterns of behaviour, thought and emotion that children – and even grandchildren – of trauma survivors unconsciously adopt in response to the emotional atmosphere shaped by their parents’ or grandparents’ trauma.

This process is shaped by several interwoven elements: the original trauma itself, what I call broken generational continuities, the conspiracy of silence that often follows massive trauma, and the adaptational styles that survivors develop – whether as victims, as emotionally disengaged, or as fighters striving for meaning and justice. The child is born into that world, and adapts to it. That adaptation, in turn, becomes part of their identity.

In my research, I’ve found that these impacts often show up as an intense need to protect others, chronic self-doubt, emotional constriction, over-identification with ancestral trauma, or a dependency that binds them tightly to the family system. Beneath all of it is often a profound, mostly unconscious, drive to repair – to heal not only for their parents, but also for themselves, and even for the world.

These aren’t vague tendencies – they are concrete, observable, and they correlate with clinical symptoms: anxiety, depression, PTSD. More importantly, they shape how people live – how they see themselves, relate to others and navigate their everyday world.

There is also a biological dimension, as research by scholars like Zahava Solomon and Amit Shrira has shown – indicating that children of survivors may carry a latent vulnerability to future trauma. That’s why we created tools like the Danieli Inventory, which assesses both the survivors’ adaptational styles and the resulting impacts on their children – not just whether certain patterns are present, but how intensely they are experienced.

Intergenerational trauma is not just theory. It is real, researchable and treatable. And understanding it is essential if we are to help individuals and families reclaim meaning and healing after the most devastating of human experiences.

This year we are commemorating the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War. Is the transmission of trauma naturally coming to an end with time, or do we need to actively handle trauma for it to be healed? What are the mechanisms of intergenerational trauma’s transmission?

The adaptational styles of parents lie at the heart of how trauma is transmitted. In our studies, we found that when survivors – especially mothers, though not only – adopt what we call the victim adaptational style, their children are at significantly higher risk. The most severe impacts occur when both parents are survivors and both have internalised this style. In such cases, we’ve observed the most intense reparative adaptational impacts – or simply, the deepest psychological distress in their children.

Trauma doesn’t fade with time. If it remains unaddressed, it persists. The way survivors adapt – how they cope, raise children and make meaning of their experiences – becomes the vehicle of transmission. And when these styles remain stuck in what I call non-adaptation – meaning the trauma is neither integrated nor transformed – it is passed on. That’s why it’s essential for society, in the aftermath of mass trauma, to support survivors in moving beyond the victim identity, or at least in reducing its intensity. This helps not only the survivors but also protects future generations.

Unfortunately – and we must be brave enough to name this – in both the 20th and 21st centuries, the victim identity has sometimes been politicised or misused. Leaders, religious figures and cultural influencers have instrumentalised it to serve other purposes. But this kind of appropriation does not promote healing. On the contrary – it often reinforces the trauma and blocks survivors and their descendants from reclaiming their lives.

So, to answer your question: no, the transmission of trauma does not end on its own. Healing requires conscious, intentional work – on the individual, family and societal level. Survivors have the right to heal. And their children have the right to be raised by parents who are no longer defined by their wounds.

To what extent is intergenerational trauma a personal or family matter, and to what extent does it become a national, or even global, issue? Can we talk about post-traumatic societies or nations? And is addressing trauma on an individual level different from dealing with it on a societal scale?

Trauma doesn’t exist in a vacuum. While individuals and families suffer the consequences, it is often society or the state that creates the traumatic conditions in the first place. So healing isn’t just a private matter for families to deal with behind closed doors. In many cases, society must be involved – not only to support recovery, but to acknowledge its own responsibility in the trauma that occurred. Instead of viewing history as just a list of dates, names and events, psychohistory explores how history is lived – how it affects our thoughts, emotions, choices and convictions on a daily basis. It’s about how our past shapes our present and future, both individually and collectively.

To come back to your question: the traumatised family did not cause the trauma – it was inflicted upon them by society or by historical events, often political or systemic in nature. Therefore, healing must involve society as a whole.

How does trauma affect identity across generations? How should we understand this connection beyond the individual psyche?

When we think of identity – Who am I? – we need to understand it as a complex, layered system, shaped not only by biology or internal psychology, but by family, culture, society, spirituality, history, law, even politics and the environment. It’s all interconnected. I often picture this as an elevator shaft, moving vertically through past, present and future – our identity constantly navigating those layers.

But trauma breaks that flow. It ruptures the natural continuity of self. I like to use a painting by Fred Terna, a Holocaust survivor and dear friend, to illustrate that rupture – a deep break in the timeline of identity.

How does this silence affect both survivors and their children?

Survivors learn, often painfully, that the world doesn’t want to hear about their pain. Society prefers to celebrate victory, not tend to the wounds. And so, in my research, I identified 49 distinct ways in which people fail to listen. It’s profound. It’s not just absence – it’s betrayal. And this betrayal – the silence, the denial, the distancing – can be more damaging than the original trauma.

Survivors internalise this silence. They tell themselves: “I won’t speak. I want my children to be normal.” But what gets passed on is not healing, but shame, isolation, a sense of not belonging. And the children – they are born into this silence. Into this fractured continuity of identity. That’s why I speak of “trauma in the continuity of self”. Because it’s not only psychological. It’s multidimensional – biological, social, cultural, historical. And that’s why healing must be multidisciplinary and integrative. On the surface, survivors may look “okay” – maybe a bit scarred, but functioning. But beneath that, the wound remains open. And so, the trauma lives on – in them, and in the next generation.

In your model, how is trauma transmitted within families?

As I mentioned earlier, it all begins with the trauma – a rupture in the continuity of self – and a kind of psychological “fixity” in that rupture. That’s the starting point in the dimension of time. From there, the victim-survivor develops survival strategies, first during the trauma itself, and later – especially under the conspiracy of silence – these strategies evolve into adaptational styles. These adaptational styles then repeat and manifest in the next generation, becoming what I call repetitive adaptational impacts in the lives of the survivor’s children.

What are the main intergenerational patterns that emerge in families of trauma survivors, and how do they shape the emotional lives of their children?

Altogether, this dynamic – the trauma, the adaptations and their intergenerational echoes – forms the family history and emotional environment, all deeply embedded within the broader societal context. In what I call the Numb Style, we often see emotional isolation: parents are distant, there is little to no emotional expression, and an intolerance for weakness emerges, because vulnerability feels dangerous. This is accompanied by a conspiracy of silence, not only with the outside world but within the family itself, leaving children confused and emotionally disoriented, unable to understand the atmosphere they are growing up in.

The Fighter Style, on the other hand, is driven by values such as justice, identity and meaning. It is characterised by speaking out, preserving memory, and transforming trauma into purposeful action. Many survivor organisations – including yours, I would say – operate in this mode. They believe: We must talk about it, learn from it, and act.

Each style is different, though there may be some overlap. And all are shaped not only by the trauma itself, but by culture, context and collective values.

Can you describe how children of survivors internalise the trauma of their parents, even without directly experiencing it themselves?

The Adult Child Reparative Adaptational Impact – the way children of trauma survivors adapt as they grow up, often taking on emotional burdens that aren’t theirs.

First, there’s reparative protectiveness – a deep urge to protect and “repair” the parent, often from a very young age. Then comes insecurity about competence. Many of these adult children carry the feeling that they’re not capable, that every task is a test. Historically, this comes from being expected to help their parents at age three or four, and, of course, not being able to. That feeling of failure stays with them, even though it was never really theirs to carry.

There’s also defensive psychosocial constriction – a rigid emotional posture, a need for power and control, because softness or vulnerability feels unsafe. You’re not allowed to be dependent, not even briefly.

This sometimes manifests as obsessive focus on trauma, like the Holocaust – reading everything about it, trying to master it intellectually, as if that could undo it. But, as I sometimes tell them: even God cannot undo the Holocaust. That’s a heavy truth to carry.

Then there’s immature dependency. Because everything is tied up within the family system, leaving or creating emotional distance feels like betrayal. The child stays – emotionally, psychologically – because loyalty is everything, even if it’s painful.

All of this adds up to a profound emotional burden, a sense that there’s always more to do, more to repair, more to carry.

How does broken historical continuity contribute to trauma transmission beyond the family context? What does your research tell us about this broader rupture?

What we examined in our study was the impact of family history across four generations: the generation before the trauma, the generation that experienced the trauma, their children, and those children as future parents. We looked at the family milieu – how many survived, whether families held on to their religious or cultural beliefs, how identity was preserved or fragmented. All of these elements matter.

It’s not just about diagnoses or labels – it’s about how people live, how they make sense of life, how trauma and its echoes shape that sense across time.

Our model shows that family history and experience lead to post-trauma adaptational styles in parents, and these in turn generate repetitive adaptational impacts in their children. That part might be expected. But what we also found – and this is crucial – is that trauma doesn’t affect the child only indirectly through the family. It can have a direct impact. And that’s a pivotal finding in our understanding of intergenerational trauma.

In cases like the Holocaust, what enters the family is not only the silence or behaviours of survivors – it’s also what we call a broken generational linkage: the rupture of history itself.

And this isn’t just theory – it’s something children express in very concrete ways. For example, a child might say: “I know my family history only in bits and pieces.” There’s no coherent narrative of where they come from – just fragments here and there, disconnected.

And that disconnection isn’t only because the parents didn’t talk, or the child didn’t ask, or the family couldn’t bear to remember. It’s also because society itself silenced it. It shut it down. It didn’t want to know.

Another example that speaks to the depth of this loss: children of survivors often say they don’t really think of their grandparents as their grandparents. They think of them as their parents’ parents, abstractly – because they never actually had a grandparent. They never experienced what that relationship means. And that absence, that missing link, leaves a mark – a particular sense of rootlessness, of something never known but deeply felt.

So when we talk about intergenerational trauma, we have to go beyond the family. We need to recognise that trauma can be transmitted directly to the next generation – not just through silence or behaviour, but through the very rupture of history and belonging.

It’s not enough to treat individuals or families. We must also work to prevent trauma itself. That’s a different way of seeing things. “Never again” cannot remain a phrase we repeat – it has to become a principle we act upon.

In your opinion, what role should institutions, governments, courts and international bodies play in addressing and healing collective trauma? What can be done today?

Speak. Teach. Open up. Don’t leave things hidden. Don’t let things remain vague or opaque. If the trauma was national – and many of the traumas we’re talking about are – then full transparency is key.

People have lost trust in institutions – and not without reason. That trust was broken. So what must be done? Regain it. With honesty. With openness. With consistency.

Institutions must remember: they exist for the people. And that means the people – especially the victims – must be an integral part of any decisions made about them. They cannot just be informed after the fact. They must participate. Otherwise, it’s just another abuse of power. Even if that’s not the intention, that’s how it will be experienced.

So live up to your founding ideals. Become idealistic about yourselves again. Remember why you’re there in the first place. Keep that purpose alive. Let it challenge you. Let it inspire you. Don’t fall asleep in bureaucracy. Don’t reduce your work to a routine: go to the office, go home, eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you lose the meaning of what you do.

And this is not only about institutions as a whole – it’s also about the people inside them. Remember: what you do matters to people. They look up to you. So live up to that. Live up to what they believe you can be. It’s so easy to forget that, isn’t it? So easy to flatten everything and slip into indifference. And then suddenly, it becomes culturally acceptable to hate your job, to complain all the time. But why should you? Why not make it meaningful again? Why not reconnect to what brought you there in the first place?

Look at me. I’m 85 years old. Why do you think I’m still here, still working? Because I look forward to every single day – to what I might learn, what I might contribute. And yes, like anyone else who cares deeply, I feel despair. I feel fear about where we’re going. But still – I choose to show up. Because the work matters.

You’ve spoken so powerfully about the legacy of trauma. I was going to ask what gives you hope when you look at how the world is responding – but I think, in a way, you’ve already answered: speak and listen.

Yes – speak and listen. Those are the two essential steps. They help us move forward, but also protect us. And when you need to cry – take the time. When you run from grief, you run from parts of yourself. The same is true for anger – we’re often afraid of it. But every emotion matters. That’s why I created what I call the Principles of Self-Healing . At first, it was for psychotherapists. But truly, it’s for anyone who engages with human suffering – journalists, peacebuilders, caregivers, survivors themselves.

First: awareness. Your body often knows before your mind does. Pay attention. Second: words. We must learn to name what we feel. As Bettelheim wrote – what cannot be talked about cannot be put to rest. Then: containment. It’s not just the emotion that overwhelms us, but its intensity. Know your limits. Stay open. And remember – no feeling lasts for ever. Nobody has cried for ever. Nobody has screamed for ever. Let it move through you.

There’s no “back to normal” after trauma. Instead, we ask: what now? What can we build? Take time to heal before showing up for others. If someone’s story awakens your own pain – seek help. That’s not weakness. That’s integrity. Don’t do this alone. We build communities so we can hold each other.

And finally – joy is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. I always say: have fun. Not because every day is happy, but because purpose gives us the strength to go on.

Dr Yael Danieli (www.dryaeldanieli.com) is a clinical psychologist, traumatologist, victimologist and psychohistorian. Having developed the first program to help Nazi Holocaust Survivors and their Children in the 1970s, she has devoted much of her career to studying, treating, writing about, and preventing lifelong and multigenerational impacts of massive trauma worldwide, to ensuring victims’ rights, the rights of future generations, and to reparative justice.

In the last two decades Dr Danieli created the Danieli Inventory – the gold measure to (comparatively) assessing intergenerational legacies of Trauma and founded the International Center for MultiGenerational Legacies of Trauma (www.ICMGLT.org).

As a victimologist, she has spent over four decades participating in drafting, adopting, implementing victims' rights, and ensuring that victims’ rights reach the victims.

When I was choosing the topic for my doctoral dissertation, I was guided by what my parents had taught me, by European ideals. Despite the Holocaust, despite having lost everyone who stayed behind in Europe, my parents also shared with me what they loved about that world, what it had given them, the good, solid values they had carried with them. And one of those values was the importance of knowledge, of scholarship, of meaningful intellectual work.

When it came time to choose my dissertation, I knew it had to matter. I drove myself crazy over it — sleepless nights, truly. I kept asking: what is the most meaningful thing I can study? I remember thinking, in light of such horrific history, why do people stay alive? And the only answer I could come up with was: hope.

So I decided to focus on the psychology, or really the phenomenology — of hope. Even back then, I was already working in a multidisciplinary way, and I was teaching at the time. My students were also involved — we looked at what challenges hope, how people respond when it is threatened.

Some students observed people who had just missed their bus — which sounds minor, but it taught them that even something small can hold deeper emotional weight. Back then we didn’t have iPhones. Missing a bus might mean missing a job interview, or missing the one person you love. It wasn’t just about being late — it could be a rupture in a life path.

My students interviewed each other — divorced students interviewed divorced students, disabled students interviewed disabled students. And I took on what I believed to be the greatest challenge to hope: I began working with concentration camp survivors, blockade survivors, people terminally diagnosed, prisoners of war, and their families. I learned an extraordinary amount.

My doctoral committee warned me: “They won’t talk to you. Holocaust survivors don’t talk to anyone.” It was the same conspiracy of silence I would later study in depth. But I’ve always believed in meeting people where they are — not in some lab, not in a setting that’s only convenient for the researcher. So, for example, I worked with cancer patients directly in the wards. I would speak with one, and soon more would come. It was the first time someone had come to listen — truly listen. We even placed a big glass jar in the middle of the ward where patients could leave their thoughts, anonymously, at any time — even in the middle of the night. And so, group therapy for cancer survivors was born.

And then I began to work more deeply with Holocaust survivors. I would visit them in their homes — and they would put me in the kitchen. And I rarely left before morning. These people who supposedly “wouldn’t talk to anyone”? They spoke. All of them. And not just survivors — also their children, their neighbors, their extended families. Everyone gathered. It was as if they had been waiting for someone who would truly listen.

And what they told me, every single one of them — and I know this sounds scientifically impossible, but it’s true — was that no one believed them, no one really heard them. They said only another survivor could understand — that even a Nazi might understand them better than someone who hadn’t lived through what they had. They said therapists didn’t listen, judges didn’t understand, lawyers didn’t care…

I was a very idealistic graduate student. I was shattered by what I heard. But it became immediately clear to me that the conspiracy of silence was not just a theme — it was a central obstacle to healing, and one that had to be understood. So I made the decision to shift the focus of my dissertation. I still wrote about hope, but I began to focus much more on investigating how silence functions after trauma.

The only profession in the world trained not only to listen to others, but also to be aware of their own internal reactions to listening, is psychoanalysis. So I decided to study psychoanalysts who knew they were treating Holocaust survivors. Because let’s be honest — if you don’t ask, if you don’t truly listen, you don’t know who you’re treating. You don’t even know what’s in the room with you. And what I found — and this became a core part of my work — were 49 ways of not listening.

Why was it so crucial to focus on psychoanalysts? Because while society has a moral obligation to listen to survivors, professionals — therapists, clinicians — have a contractual obligation. If they don’t listen, they can’t understand. If they don’t understand, they can’t help. And yet many of them, knowingly or not, failed to truly hear.

That study taught me a great deal. And it confirmed what I would later find in broader research: that the conspiracy of silence after trauma — particularly after massive trauma, but really after any trauma — plays a decisive role in determining whether healing is even possible. I say “possible,” not “likely,” and not “ability,” because I want to be clear: this is not about blaming the survivor. It’s not about capacity. It’s about whether society creates a space where healing can occur. We’ve all heard it — the damaging logic of “What did you wear?” when a woman is raped. It’s the same dynamic — blaming the victim instead of challenging the structure that enabled the violence.

That was one of the first things that emerged from my early interviews. And from there, I moved on to create the group project Holocaust Survivors and Their Children. At the time, no one was trained to work with survivors — not in psychology, not in social work, not in law, not in medicine. So I thought: the survivors themselves are the only experts who can teach us. And they did.

We formed groups, and while we as professionals could facilitate the process, they taught us who they were. They told us what mattered — in their past, in their present, in their fears and hopes for the future. We listened. We learned.

So my initial work on hope, and then my findings on the conspiracy of silence, led me down two parallel but connected paths: one, researching silence itself, and two, studying adaptation to trauma and how that trauma is transmitted across generations. The deeper I went, the more I saw how much injustice survivors had endured — not only through the original trauma, but through what followed, or didn’t follow. That sensitised me to the absolute necessity of ensuring victims’ rights — not just in the therapeutic space, but in law, in society, and in policy. That realisation was foundational. It shaped who I became as a researcher, as a clinician, as an advocate, as a teacher, and as a writer. Because I always believed: each book should do a job. It should serve a purpose.

When the World Federation for Mental Health asked me to represent them at the United Nations, I wrote my first book to teach the UN about the importance of mental health, and to remind them — just as I said earlier about institutions — that the UN itself was born from trauma. The Charter begins with that trauma language: “to save succeeding generations…” That’s not a political phrase. That’s a trauma-informed mission statement.

My second book was about the impact of helping — not just on the victims, but on those who serve them: peacekeepers, humanitarian workers, justice professionals. Their wounds matter too.

And then came the book many people know: The International Handbook of Multigenerational Legacies of Trauma. That took me 25 years to complete. It includes 30 populations around the world, including children of perpetrators — because they are affected too. No one is untouched.

And after 9/11, I wrote two more books — this time on victims of terrorism. Because again, while the world focused on counterterrorism, almost no one paid attention to the victims. And that silence, once again, was devastating. This work is never done. No, it’s never done. But at least now... we know what we need to do.

Dr Yael Danieli (www.dryaeldanieli.com) is a clinical psychologist, traumatologist, victimologist and psychohistorian. Having developed the first program to help Nazi Holocaust Survivors and their Children in the 1970s, she has devoted much of her career to studying, treating, writing about, and preventing lifelong and multigenerational impacts of massive trauma worldwide, to ensuring victims’ rights, the rights of future generations, and to reparative justice.

In the last two decades Dr Danieli created the Danieli Inventory – the gold measure to (comparatively) assessing intergenerational legacies of Trauma and founded the International Center for MultiGenerational Legacies of Trauma (www.ICMGLT.org).

As a victimologist, she has spent over four decades participating in drafting, adopting, implementing victims' rights, and ensuring that victims’ rights reach the victims.

What gives me hope, when I look at how the world is now responding to the legacies of mass violence and repression, is the ability to speak and listen.

Speak and listen. Those are the two essential steps. They’re not just important to move forward, but to protect ourselves. When you need to cry – take the time. You must take the time. Because when you run away from grief, you’re also running away from parts of yourself. And it's not just the tears – it's also the rage. It's very hard to be angry, because we’re often afraid of our own anger. But every emotion matters. And this brings me to something I’d like to share – what I call the Principles of Self-Healing. I originally prepared it for psychotherapists, but really, it’s for anyone who works with human pain, with evil, with terror – whether you’re a therapist, a journalist, a peace worker, or just someone who cares.

The first step is to develop awareness – even of how your body responds. Your body is wise. It will often let you know what your conscious mind is not yet ready to see. Pay attention to it. The second step is to find words. Learn to name your inner experience, to articulate your emotions. One of my favourite quotes – one that I had posted at the entrance to my office – comes from Bruno Bettelheim:

What cannot be talked about cannot be put to rest. And if it is not, the wounds continue to fester from generation to generation.

So first, recognise your reactions. Then, contain them. Because it’s not just the emotion that can feel overwhelming – it’s the intensity of it. You have to know your own level of comfort so that you can stay open, tolerant, and ready to hear anything – especially when you work with others. And then comes something that I think is so liberating: every emotion has a beginning, a middle, and an end. People fear that if they start crying, they’ll cry forever. Or if they scream, they’ll never stop. But nobody ever cried forever. Nobody ever screamed forever. Let it run its course – without resorting to defense, without shutting yourself down too quickly.

And to heal – and to grow – you must also accept that nothing will ever be the same. People say, “I want things to go back to normal.” But there is no "normal" after trauma. Instead, we have to ask: What now? What can we build?

When we feel wounded, we need to take time to understand what we’re feeling, to soothe ourselves, and to heal, before we can go back out and offer ourselves to others again. And that’s true whether you’re a therapist, a caregiver, or a journalist. Anyone who listens – truly listens – must be fully present. And to be present, you have to have tended to your own wounds first.

If something someone says triggers an unexplored pain in you, seek help. It’s okay. It just means you want to do your work with integrity. And that’s a good thing. Any strong emotional reaction: grief, mourning, rage – may bring up old material. If you allow it to move through you, you can grow through it. That’s the gift hidden inside the pain.

This is so important – don’t do this alone. Find others. Create a network of people who understand what you’re doing. That’s why we build organisations. Not only to act, but to support one another, to hold each other when the work becomes too much. And finally: be kind to yourself. Allow yourself to feel joy, to have fun. That’s not a luxury in this field – it’s a necessity. Without it, you can’t fulfill your responsibilities, not to others and not to yourself.

I often say: have fun. But understand, it’s not about being happy every day. I don’t wake up smiling every morning. No. But I wake up with a sense of purpose. And that is what sustains me.

Dr Yael Danieli (www.dryaeldanieli.com) is a clinical psychologist, traumatologist, victimologist and psychohistorian. Having developed the first program to help Nazi Holocaust Survivors and their Children in the 1970s, she has devoted much of her career to studying, treating, writing about, and preventing lifelong and multigenerational impacts of massive trauma worldwide, to ensuring victims’ rights, the rights of future generations, and to reparative justice.

In the last two decades Dr Danieli created the Danieli Inventory – the gold measure to (comparatively) assessing intergenerational legacies of Trauma and founded the International Center for MultiGenerational Legacies of Trauma (www.ICMGLT.org).

As a victimologist, she has spent over four decades participating in drafting, adopting, implementing victims' rights, and ensuring that victims’ rights reach the victims.

23 August marks the European Day of Remembrance for Victims of Totalitarian Regimes – a day on which we pay tribute to those who suffered as a result of the violence of totalitarian systems in the 20th century - systems based on control, repression and ideological enslavement. This year's campaign "Remember. 23 August", organised by the European Network Remembrance and Solidarity, focuses on intergenerational trauma – one of the most complex aspects of historical heritage. Although it leaves no visible scars, it can permeate generations and influence entire societies, shaping relationships, identities, ways of thinking and reacting.

We invited a distinguished researcher to reflect on this topic: Professor Michał Bilewicz, a social psychologist and author of Traumaland, a book on the social effects of violence and collective memory.

ENRS, Mariola Cyra: What exactly is intergenerational trauma?

Professor Michał Bilewicz: In psychology, intergenerational trauma is the phenomenon of traumatic experiences being passed on from one generation to the next – not only in a narrative sense, but mainly in a psychological dimension, affecting the mental health of descendants. This phenomenon became the focus of intensive study in the 1970s and 1980s, particularly in Israel. At that time, it was noticed that veterans returning from the war in Lebanon, whose parents were Holocaust survivors, showed significantly stronger symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) than those whose parents had not had such experiences. Research conducted at the time by Solomon, Kotler and Mikulincera showed that trauma can affect the sensitivity of subsequent generations to stressors, causing them to react more strongly to new, difficult situations.

Systematic research on this phenomenon is still being conducted in Israel today. Among other things, there is a research panel involving descendants of Holocaust survivors and people with identical demographic profiles but from families without such experiences, such as those who lived in the former Soviet Union or the Middle East during the war. They are regularly surveyed, both in everyday situations and in times of crisis. In stressful situations, the differences are clear: descendants of survivors are more likely to experience mood swings, anxiety, symptoms of depression or PTSD.

At the same time, Professor van IJzendoorn's meta-analyses show that in everyday conditions there are no significant differences in mental health between descendants of trauma victims and people from families without such experiences. Differences only appear in response to stressors – and it is this increased sensitivity to threat that is one of the key mechanisms of intergenerational trauma.

Of course, this clinical understanding of the phenomenon is only one perspective. I am also interested in the social consequences of such trauma, such as heightened distrust, a tendency to believe in conspiracy theories, hypersensitivity and anxiety. These are traits that cannot be reduced solely to mental disorders – they are rather manifestations of a specific social functioning shaped by the legacy of past traumas.

To what extent have totalitarian regimes left their mark not only on history but also on the psyche of society? Can we talk about post-traumatic societies?

Yes, we can definitely talk about such societies. In transcultural psychiatry, but also increasingly in psychology, the term historical trauma is used in this context, which differs from transgenerational trauma. The latter refers mainly to psychological or psychiatric effects passed down from generation to generation. Historical trauma, on the other hand, is a broader phenomenon that encompasses the ways in which societies adapt to extreme experiences – war, occupation, ethnic cleansing or genocide – and how these adaptations persist even when external conditions change.

After the end of a war or the fall of a regime, people formally return to normal life, but their social functioning continues to bear the marks of those experiences. We see this, for example, in entrenched mistrust, especially towards strangers, representatives of other nations or states. Fears and anxieties arise easily and resonate strongly, especially when they concern children or women – groups that have been particularly vulnerable to violence in the past. In societies that have experienced mass child deaths, rape or other forms of large-scale violence, threats of this kind trigger very strong reactions – much stronger than in societies that have not gone through such trauma.

Although intergenerational trauma refers to the experiences of past generations, its effects can also be felt by those who did not themselves experience war, repression or persecution. How does this happen?

This is a very interesting phenomenon, which has been well described by Michael Wohl and Jay van Bavel in their research among Canadian Jews. They noticed that symptoms of transgenerational trauma also appeared in people who did not have direct victims of the Holocaust among their ancestors – their families were already living in Canada during the war. The key factor here was not family history, but the strength of identification with the community. People who strongly identified with the Jewish community showed more pronounced symptoms of transgenerational trauma.

This shows that the transmission of trauma is not limited to family relationships. Of course, there is a hypothesis of epigenetic trauma transfer – i.e. biological adaptation inherited by subsequent generations – but so far there is little hard evidence for this. Cultural or social transmission is much better documented.

Trauma can be transmitted through family stories, silence, parental behaviour, but also through education, the media, rituals of remembrance or anniversary celebrations. Cultural transmission – what is said (or not said) about the past in a given community – can shape the perception of history to the same extent as individual family experiences. It is this social dimension of trauma that causes even people with no personal connection to a past tragedy to experience it as part of their own identity and respond to it emotionally.

Can people born after 1990, who grew up in a free Europe, carry the emotional legacy of totalitarian systems? How does this manifest itself – in relationships, identity, language?

The way the younger generation of Poles functions – especially those born after 1989 – is indeed very interesting and sometimes even surprising. In the research conducted by my PhD student, Damien Stewart, an Australian who analysed the phenomenon of transgenerational trauma in Poland, an intriguing observation emerged: the highest level of transgenerational PTSD symptoms is not found among the children of people who survived the occupation, but in the third generation, i.e. the grandchildren of those who experienced the war. This surprising phenomenon shows that trauma can return with a certain delay.

This generation grew up in the reality of transformation and free Poland, but also during a period of a certain renaissance of traumatic memory, which began at the start of the new millennium with the establishment of the Warsaw Uprising Museum and later with the intensification of the narrative about the Cursed Soldiers. Memories of war and violence began to return strongly to the public sphere – in mass culture, museums and education.

How can mass culture, monuments, museum narratives and school textbooks contribute to healing or, conversely, deepening trauma?

If we look at school textbooks and reading lists, we see that young people learn about the occupation most often through the stories of Tadeusz Borowski – deeply challenging texts that depict the severely degraded reality of camp life, people who lost the will to live and became known as ‘Muslims’ in camp language or, in camp literature, ‘dojchaga’. These are individuals who are mentally and physically destroyed, on the brink of life and death.

However, while such images are accurate, they depict extreme cases. The history of the occupation also includes people who, despite everything, tried to live, function, and adapt — under extreme conditions, yet still managing to preserve their humanity. Unfortunately, education often presents this darkest fragment as the norm, which leads to a distorted image of the past.

Added to this are today's immersive techniques, which are increasingly used in education and museology. Students take on the roles of victims, participate in realistic games and VR experiences. This can be effective educationally, but it also carries the risk of psychological overload.

In my research among young people visiting the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum, I found that several percent of students showed symptoms characteristic of PTSD a month after their visit – difficulty falling asleep, hypersensitivity, recurring images and nightmares. It is precisely for these young people that we must ask ourselves: How can we ensure that contact with a memorial site is an educational experience rather than a traumatic one? Remembering the past cannot be based solely on shock – its purpose should be understanding, reflection and the ability to incorporate this knowledge into a healthy identity.

So how can we talk to children about painful aspects of history when even a visit to a museum can provoke such strong reactions? What should we convey and what should we avoid?

I don't think we should avoid difficult topics or filter historical facts – that would be dishonest. It is equally dangerous to sensationalise cruelty, to focus exclusively on the most extreme and dramatic experiences, which, although true, were not the everyday reality for most people.

It is crucial to show agency. That is, to tell the story of how even in the most extreme conditions, people tried to cope, made efforts to preserve their dignity, help others, and resist – not necessarily with weapons in their hands. Often, this resistance was silent and civil. For some, religion was a form of resistance, for others it was culture, values or family ties.

Meanwhile, our education – in schools and museums – is dominated by heroic narratives: armed resistance, uprisings, guerrilla warfare. Rarely do we hear about everyday forms of survival: about someone transporting meat from the countryside to the city, enabling them to support their family; about someone hiding books banned by the occupiers or conducting secret teaching. These are stories that often circulate within families but are not passed on because they are not considered ‘heroic’. And yet they have enormous educational potential – they show how people were able to preserve their humanity, take action and care for others despite violence and fear.

It is important to teach children not only that evil and suffering existed, but also that people had a choice, that they were capable of solidarity, that they fought for survival – and that this history is not only a history of victims, but also a history of survival and courage in everyday life. This helps to build resilience, not just fear.

Isn't it silence that shapes future generations the most? Don't we remain silent too often? I ask this question personally – I am the great-granddaughter of an officer murdered in Katyn. Little has been said about the history that shaped the fate of our family.

It is definitely worth asking questions – and it is especially important when it is done by the grandchildren, the third generation. It is much more difficult for children to talk to their parents about traumatic experiences than it is for grandchildren to talk to their grandparents. There is often more emotional space and curiosity than resistance between grandchildren and grandparents.

Just as important as the question is what we do when the answer comes. Are we truly ready to listen? Many people from the generation of victims tried to speak out, but no one wanted to listen to them. As a result, many people withdrew from these attempts. They often sought community among people with similar experiences, which led to the creation of groups such as the Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Stutthof survivors’ associations. Though these names may sound unsettling today, they represented real efforts to build spaces where people didn’t have to speak about their trauma — they could simply be with others who understood it without words.

In the case of the Katyn families, silence was virtually enforced. For many years, talking about Katyn could be not only socially isolating, but also dangerous. It was a trauma pushed into the shadows – not only personal, but also political. I know that research has been conducted on how these families functioned after the war – how memory was frozen in them, passed on indirectly, through emotions and behaviour rather than words.

It was not until the 1990s and 2000s that some kind of social recognition of this memory emerged. Films such as Wajda's Katyn appeared, giving many families the feeling that they could finally speak. And that someone was finally listening.

To what extent can art – literature, film, theatre, photography – help heal intergenerational trauma?

Art can play a very important role in the process of coming to terms with and working through trauma. Sometimes it does so in a paradoxical way. If we look at the first post-war films about the occupation, we are surprisingly often confronted with comedy. Films such as Zezowate szczęście (Bad Luck) or Jak rozpętałem drugą wojnę światową (How I Unleashed World War II) were a way for the generation that had survived the war to come to terms with it. Ridiculing certain behaviours or situations allowed them to gain distance – and it is precisely this distance that is sometimes necessary to be able to integrate difficult experiences.

The same is true of other reactions that may seem inappropriate or even shocking to outsiders, such as laughter, jokes, or using a phone in places of remembrance, such as Auschwitz. We are studying these phenomena and finding that they often serve a defensive function. People are trying to come to terms with something that is almost unbearable.

This trend was also present in so-called Holocaust cinema. Films such as Train of Life and Life Is Beautiful attempt to talk about the crime in a way that not only conveys knowledge but also allows the viewer to alleviate the emotional burden at least a little.

However, it is important to remember that culture also has a darker side. It can also be traumatic. From research we have conducted, including among Polish Jews, as well as from analyses by Michael Wohl and Jay Van Bavel, we know that strong identification with a group carries with it a legacy of trauma. It can cause a person to experience secondary trauma. A culture that constantly reminds us of suffering and violence can reinforce feelings of threat, isolation and fear. It is therefore crucial how we talk about the past – and whether we give the audience the opportunity to enter this world while maintaining their own boundaries.

Can trauma teach us anything? Empathy, responsibility, freedom?

I think trauma can teach us something – though not necessarily what we would expect. In a sense, trauma prepares us for future crises. It leads to hypersensitivity and distrust, which may be destructive in times of peace but can be adaptive in moments of danger. This was evident, for example, after the outbreak of war in Ukraine in 2022. Poles did not wait for the state to act, but took grassroots action to help refugees. This is typical behaviour for a society that remembers trauma, even if it has never explicitly named it.

We see a similar mechanism at work in the context of living under constant threat, as in Israel or Ukraine. There, people learn to function in a reality of alarms, air raids and power cuts. At the same time, they are extremely distrustful of strangers. Sociologist Daniel Bar-Tal calls this the “ethos of conflict” – a daily way of life in the reality of war. It is something that may seem inhuman from the outside, but for people living in such conditions, it becomes the new norm.

And perhaps this is what allows us to better understand how the generation that lived under occupation functioned. For them, the sight of executions, ghettos and pacification was something they had to get used to in order to survive. In this sense, as Miłosz wrote, the carousel keeps turning – not because people are indifferent, but because they have to live. This is not cynicism, but a psychologically adaptive mechanism. It may outrage us, but this is how the human psyche works.

What would you like to change in the way societies relate to their future?

There is one thing that seems particularly important to me and that could change. Historically traumatised societies very often lack the ability to recognise the trauma of others. When we have experienced suffering ourselves – especially if our trauma has not been fully recognised by the world – there is a strong need to focus on our own pain. So strong that we begin to deny the trauma of others.

For me personally, writing Traumaland was a kind of exercise in empathy. I come from a family of Holocaust survivors – most of my family died in the Holocaust. I grew up in an environment where Jewish trauma was paramount – suffering of others, including the wartime experience of non-Jewish Poles, was treated as insignificant. Henryk Grynberg once wrote that in the case of Jews, decimation means that one in ten survived, while in the case of Poles, it means that one in ten died. And that these two experiences of occupation are completely incomparable. Yet losing 10% of the entire population is a huge historical wound. And it also deserves recognition.

A similar mechanism works in reverse – many Poles, focused on their own trauma, are not ready to acknowledge the pain of others: Ukrainians, Germans, Jews. People are reluctant to talk about crimes committed by Poles, whether during the Holocaust or after the war: in the camps in Świętochłowice, Łambinowice, during Operation Vistula. And yet, being a victim in the past does not absolve one from becoming a perpetrator in the future.

The history of genocide and violence clearly shows that perpetrators were very often victims themselves. This is a painful truth. Trauma, if not worked through, can lead to a readiness to traumatise others. That is why we need a psychological perspective that focuses on individual experience rather than national narratives.

Psychology, unlike history or political science, does not create narratives that justify one side's position. It gives space to everyone – because every trauma must be acknowledged in order to be healed. And this acknowledgement is, in my opinion, our greatest hope.

Why are defensive narratives so common? Is it natural that we prefer to see ourselves only as victims?

Yes, it's quite a natural psychological mechanism. In psychology, we talk about moral typecasting – we tend to see people in rigid roles: either victim or perpetrator. It is very difficult to accept that someone can be both. The stronger we build our identity on the role of victim, the harder it is to accept that we could also have been perpetrators. Only in a few cases, such as Germany after World War II or Rwanda following the 1994 genocide, has it been possible to create a space for acknowledging this difficult duality.

History and experience are not black and white. Just look at Kashubia or Pomerania, for example – before the war, people lived side by side, the borders were different. The divisions between perpetrators and victims are not clear-cut.

Exactly. And this shows the danger of national unification of historical narrative. In psychology, we see it as very harmful because it prevents individual expression and the sharing of personal experiences. This is clearly visible today in the exhibition Our Boys, which has provoked extreme reactions – often full of ignorance. Many people are unaware that hundreds of thousands of Poles were forcibly conscripted into the Wehrmacht – more than fought in the Home Army. And yet the fate of these people is suppressed, unwanted in the dominant narrative.

However, this is not a matter of evading responsibility. It is the result of the colonisation of Polish historical memory – first by one region, namely Central Poland, and then by one social class, the Polish intelligentsia. And it is the experience of this class, this geography, that has been extended to the whole of Poland, supplanting other histories. The history of the people of Kashubia, Pomerania and Galicia. People who could not always fit into heroic, insurrectionary narratives.

For me, as a psychologist, it is precisely these individual experiences – of people and families – that should be the starting point. Only then is it possible to truly acknowledge and work through trauma. Not through narratives imposed from above, which divide history into black and white.

Are there any countries or communities that you think have coped well with trauma and a difficult past?

Paradoxically, the more traumatised a society has been, the more difficult it is for it to deal with this trauma. I cannot name a nation that has truly come to terms with its past. For this work to be possible, there must be a starting point – acknowledgement of responsibility and calling crimes by their proper names. Germany and Rwanda are good examples. In both cases, there has been official recognition of genocide and its perpetrators, which has allowed a completely new narrative to be constructed, both educational and social.

In Germany, the Holocaust has become the absolute centre of historical memory. Research such as the MEMO-Studie by a team from the University of Bielefeld shows that most Germans know the history of their country from the moment of National Socialism onwards – earlier eras are almost absent from the collective consciousness. Teaching about the Holocaust is not questioned there – on the contrary, it is a fundamental element of civic identity.

The situation is similar in Rwanda, where tribal identities were completely abandoned after the genocide. Today, the younger generation does not know whether their families belonged to the Hutu, Tutsi or Twa. The justice system, including the Gacaca courts, not only punished the perpetrators, but also sought to reconcile local communities that had to continue living together. In this sense, one can speak of a successful internal reconstruction.

However, when we look more broadly – at Rwanda's relations with the Democratic Republic of Congo, or at the attitude of Germans in the eastern part of the country towards refugees – cracks begin to appear. Rwanda supports armed actions beyond its borders, and in Germany, the AfD (Alternative für Deutschland) is growing in popularity and anti-immigrant sentiment is on the rise. One might therefore ask whether this success of memory – the recognition of one's own trauma – actually translates into broader social functioning. Or perhaps something has been repressed and is now returning in a different form. Dr Fiona Kazarovytska from the University of Mainz shows that Germans who are particularly proud of how their nation has come to terms with its past tend to treat the history of National Socialism as a closed chapter – which in effect makes them more susceptible to xenophobic or racist ideologies today.

All this shows that working through trauma is not a closed process, but an ongoing task – also for future generations.

Where should we start to make future generations more aware, mature and think differently about their past?

I think the starting point should be to rethink our story about the past. Poland's historical identity is today largely based on an image of suffering and moral innocence – we see ourselves primarily as passive victims. Meanwhile, history was much more complex. We need a narrative that shows agency – even in the most difficult times. We need to remember that not everyone was passive, that there were people who acted, who resisted, but also that there were different attitudes – including those that do not fit into the convenient narrative of exclusively moral victims.

How can we talk to young people about traumatic chapters of history without provoking resistance or feelings of blame? How can we break this cycle of interlocking trauma? The key is to show the complexity of history – to avoid black-and-white narratives. We need to talk about suffering and injustice, but not only through the prism of the perpetrators and their victims. It is also worth focusing on those who survived – on their choices, decisions and ways of coping. On those who, in extreme situations, showed agency, even in the smallest ways.

Instead of presenting history to young people as a story of guilt and accusation, it is worth showing it as a space for reflection on the fate of individuals – on how people reacted in extreme conditions. Only then can we hope for true understanding, empathy – and breaking the mechanism of passing trauma from generation to generation.

Professor Michał Bilewicz – social and political psychologist, professor at the University of Warsaw, where he heads the Centre for Research on Prejudice. He specialises in psychological mechanisms of reconciliation, collective memory, trauma and prejudice. Author of the book Traumaland. Poles in the Shadow of the Past.

23 sierpnia przypada Europejski Dzień Pamięci Ofiar Reżimów Totalitarnych – dzień, w którym oddajemy hołd tym, którzy cierpieli w wyniku przemocy systemów totalitarnych XX wieku. Systemów opartych na przemocy, represji i ideologicznym zniewoleniu. Tegoroczna kampania koncentruje się na traumie międzypokoleniowej – jednym z najbardziej złożonych aspektów dziedzictwa historycznego. Choć nie zostawia ona widocznych ran, ale jak się okazuje potrafi przenikać przez pokolenia i wpływać na całe społeczeństwa – kształtując relacje, tożsamość, sposoby myślenia i reagowania.

Do refleksji nad tym tematem zaprosiliśmy wybitnego badacza: prof. Michała Bilewicza, psychologa społecznego i autora książki Traumaland, poświęconej pamięci zbiorowej i społecznym skutkom przemocy.
Prof. Bilewicz był także gościem naszego cyklu dyskusji „Zrozumieć Pamięć” w kwietniu 2024 roku, gdzie wraz z Katarzyną Surmiak-Domańską (autorką książki Czystki) omawiał m.in. swoją książkę Traumland – nagranie dostępne jest na YouTube.

ENRS, Mariola Cyra: Czym jest trauma międzypokoleniowa?

Profesor Michał Bilewicz: W psychologii trauma międzypokoleniowa to zjawisko przekazu doświadczeń traumatycznych z jednego pokolenia na kolejne – i to nie tylko w sensie narracyjnym, ale głównie w wymiarze psychicznym, wpływającym na zdrowie psychiczne potomków. Zjawisko to zaczęto intensywnie badać w latach 70. i 80., szczególnie w Izraelu. Wówczas zauważono, że weterani powracający z wojny w Libanie, których rodzice byli ocalałymi z Holokaustu, wykazywali znacznie silniejsze objawy zespołu stresu pourazowego (PTSD) niż ci, których rodzice nie mieli takich doświadczeń. Badania prowadzone wówczas przez Solomon, Kotlera i Mikulincera pokazały, że trauma może wpływać na wrażliwość kolejnych pokoleń na stresory – sprawiając, że reagują one silniej na nowe, trudne sytuacje.

W Izraelu do dziś prowadzi się wiele systematycznych badań nad tym zjawiskiem. Istnieje tam m.in. panel badawczy, w którym uczestniczą osoby będące potomkami ocalałych z Holokaustu, a także osoby o identycznym profilu demograficznym, ale pochodzące z rodzin bez takich doświadczeń – np. tych, które w czasie wojny przebywały na terenie byłego Związku Radzieckiego czy Bliskiego Wschodu. Badani są regularnie, zarówno w codziennych warunkach, jak i w momentach kryzysów. W sytuacjach stresowych wyraźnie widać różnice – potomkowie ocalałych częściej doświadczają pogorszenia nastroju, lęku, objawów depresyjnych czy PTSD.

Jednocześnie metaanalizy profesora van IJzendoorna, pokazują, że w codziennych warunkach nie ma istotnych różnic w zdrowiu psychicznym pomiędzy potomkami ofiar traumy a osobami z rodzin bez takich doświadczeń. Różnice pojawiają się dopiero w odpowiedzi na stresory – i to właśnie ta zwiększona wrażliwość na zagrożenie jest jednym z kluczowych mechanizmów traumy międzypokoleniowej.

Oczywiście to kliniczne rozumienie zjawiska to tylko jedna z perspektyw. Mnie osobiście interesują również społeczne konsekwencje takiej traumy – takie jak wzmożona nieufność, skłonność do wierzenia w teorie spiskowe, nadwrażliwość czy lękowość. To cechy, których nie da się sprowadzić wyłącznie do zaburzeń psychicznych – są one raczej przejawem specyficznego funkcjonowania społecznego, ukształtowanego przez dziedzictwo przeszłych traum.

W jakim stopniu reżimy totalitarne odcisnęły piętno nie tylko na historii, ale i na psychice społeczeństwa? Czy możemy mówić o społeczeństwach po traumie?

Tak, zdecydowanie możemy mówić o takich społeczeństwach. W psychiatrii transkulturowej, ale też coraz częściej również w psychologii, używa się w tym kontekście pojęcia traumy historycznej, które różni się od traumy transgeneracyjnej. Ta druga odnosi się głównie do efektów psychologicznych lub psychiatrycznych przenoszonych z pokolenia na pokolenie. Natomiast trauma historyczna to szersze zjawisko, obejmujące sposoby, w jakie społeczeństwa adaptują się do skrajnych doświadczeń – wojny, okupacji, czystek etnicznych czy ludobójstwa – i jak te adaptacje utrzymują się nawet wtedy, gdy warunki zewnętrzne ulegają zmianie.

Po zakończeniu wojny czy po upadku reżimu ludzie formalnie wracają do normalnego życia, ale ich funkcjonowanie społeczne nadal nosi ślady tamtych doświadczeń. Widzimy to na przykład w utrwalonej nieufności – szczególnie wobec obcych, przedstawicieli innych narodów czy państw. Obawy i lęki pojawiają się łatwo i silnie rezonują, zwłaszcza jeśli dotyczą dzieci czy kobiet – czyli grup, które były szczególnie narażone na przemoc w przeszłości. W społeczeństwach, które doświadczyły masowej śmierci dzieci, gwałtów czy innych form przemocy na dużą skalę, zagrożenia tego typu uruchamiają bardzo silne reakcje – znacznie silniejsze niż w społeczeństwach, które nie przeszły przez tego rodzaju traumę.

Choć trauma międzypokoleniowa odnosi się do doświadczeń przeszłych pokoleń, jej skutki bywają odczuwalne także przez tych, którzy sami nie przeżyli wojny, represji czy prześladowań. Jak to się dzieje?

To bardzo ciekawe zjawisko, które dobrze opisali Michael Wohl i Jay van Bavel, prowadząc badania wśród kanadyjskich Żydów. Zauważyli oni, że objawy traumy transgeneracyjnej pojawiały się również u osób, które nie miały wśród swoich przodków bezpośrednich ofiar Holokaustu – ich rodziny mieszkały już w Kanadzie w czasie wojny. Kluczowym czynnikiem okazała się tutaj nie historia rodzinna, lecz siła identyfikacji ze wspólnotą. Osoby, które silnie utożsamiały się ze społecznością żydowską, wykazywały wyraźniejsze objawy traumy transgeneracyjnej.

To pokazuje, że przekaz traumy nie ogranicza się wyłącznie do relacji rodzinnych. Oczywiście, istnieje hipoteza o epigenetycznym transferze traumy – czyli biologicznej adaptacji dziedziczonej przez kolejne pokolenia – ale jak dotąd mamy na to niewiele twardych dowodów. Znacznie lepiej udokumentowany jest przekaz kulturowy czy społeczny.

Trauma może być przekazywana przez rodzinne opowieści, milczenie, zachowania rodziców, ale także przez edukację, media, rytuały pamięci czy obchody rocznic. Przekaz kulturowy – to, co mówi się (lub czego się nie mówi) o przeszłości w danej wspólnocie – może kształtować postrzeganie historii w takim samym stopniu, jak indywidualne doświadczenia rodzinne. To właśnie ten społeczny wymiar traumy sprawia, że nawet osoby bez osobistych związków z przeszłą tragedią mogą ją odczuwać jako część własnej tożsamości i reagować na nią emocjonalnie.

Czy osoby urodzone po 1990 roku, które dorastały w wolnej Europie, mogą nieść w sobie emocjonalne dziedzictwo systemów totalitarnych? Jak to się objawia – w relacjach, tożsamości, języku?

To, jak funkcjonuje młodsze pokolenie Polaków – zwłaszcza tych urodzonych po 1989 roku – jest rzeczywiście bardzo ciekawe i czasami wręcz zaskakujące. W badaniach mojego doktoranta, Damiena Stewarta – Australijczyka, który analizował zjawisko traumy transgeneracyjnej w Polsce – pojawiła się intrygująca obserwacja: najwyższy poziom objawów transgeneracyjnego PTSD nie występuje wśród dzieci osób, które przeżyły okupację, ale właśnie w trzecim pokoleniu, czyli u wnuków tych, którzy doświadczyli wojny. To zaskakujące zjawisko pokazuje, że trauma może wracać z pewnym opóźnieniem.

To pokolenie dorastało już w realiach transformacji i wolnej Polski, ale też w okresie pewnego renesansu pamięci traumatycznej, który rozpoczął się na początku obecnego tysiąclecia, wraz z powstaniem Muzeum Powstania Warszawskiego, a później z intensyfikacją narracji o Żołnierzach Wyklętych. Pamięć o wojnie i przemocy zaczęła wtedy mocno powracać do przestrzeni publicznej – w kulturze masowej, muzeach, edukacji.

Jak kultura masowa, pomniki, narracje muzealne czy podręczniki szkolne mogą przyczynić się do uzdrawiania albo – przeciwnie – pogłębiania traumy?

Jeśli przyjrzymy się podręcznikom czy lekturom szkolnym, zobaczymy, że młodzież poznaje historię okupacji najczęściej przez opowiadania Tadeusza Borowskiego – teksty niezwykle trudne, ukazujące ekstremalnie zdegradowany świat obozów, ludzi, którzy utracili wolę życia, stali się tzw. „muzułmanami” w języku obozowym, czy – w literaturze łagrowej – dochodjaga. To są jednostki wyniszczone psychicznie i fizycznie – na granicy życia i śmierci.

Tymczasem takie obrazy, choć prawdziwe, dotyczą skrajnych przypadków. Historia okupacji to także ludzie, którzy mimo wszystko próbowali żyć, funkcjonować, przystosować się – w ekstremalnych warunkach, ale jednak zachować człowieczeństwo. Niestety, edukacja często przedstawia właśnie ten najbardziej mroczny wycinek jako normę, co prowadzi do zniekształcenia obrazu przeszłości.

Do tego dochodzą dziś techniki immersyjne – coraz częściej wykorzystywane w edukacji czy muzealnictwie. Uczniowie i uczennice wcielają się w postacie ofiar, uczestniczą w realistycznych grach, doświadczeniach VR. To może być skuteczne edukacyjnie, ale niesie też ryzyko przeciążenia psychicznego.

W badaniach, które prowadziłem wśród młodzieży odwiedzającej Muzeum Auschwitz-Birkenau, okazało się, że kilkanaście procent uczniów wykazywało miesiąc po wizycie objawy charakterystyczne dla PTSD – trudności z zasypianiem, nadwrażliwość, powracające obrazy, koszmary. Właśnie dla tych młodych ludzi trzeba zadać sobie pytanie: Jak sprawić, by kontakt z miejscem pamięci był doświadczeniem edukacyjnym, a nie traumatyzującym? Pamięć o przeszłości nie może polegać wyłącznie na szoku – jej celem powinno być zrozumienie, refleksja i możliwość włączenia tej wiedzy w zdrową tożsamość.

Jak więc rozmawiać z dziećmi o bolesnych aspektach historii, skoro nawet wizyta w muzeum może wywoływać tak silne reakcje? Co warto przekazywać, a czego unikać?

Nie uważam, żebyśmy powinni unikać trudnych tematów czy filtrować fakty historyczne – to byłoby nieuczciwe. Równie niebezpieczne jest epatowanie okrucieństwem, koncentrowanie się wyłącznie na najbardziej skrajnych i dramatycznych doświadczeniach, które – choć prawdziwe – nie były codziennością większości ludzi.

Kluczowe jest pokazanie sprawczości. To znaczy: opowiadanie o tym, że nawet w najbardziej ekstremalnych warunkach ludzie próbowali sobie radzić, podejmowali wysiłki, by zachować godność, pomagać innym, stawiać opór – niekoniecznie z bronią w ręku. Często był to opór cichy, cywilny. Dla niektórych formą oporu była religia, dla innych kultura, wartości, więzi rodzinne.

Tymczasem w naszej edukacji – w szkołach czy muzeach – dominuje narracja heroiczna: opór zbrojny, powstania, partyzantka. Rzadko mówi się o codziennych formach przetrwania: o tym, że ktoś przewoził mięso ze wsi do miasta, dzięki czemu był w stanie utrzymać swoją rodzinę; że ktoś przechowywał książki zakazane przez okupanta albo prowadził tajne nauczanie. To są historie, które często funkcjonują w rodzinach, ale nie są przekazywane dalej, bo nie uchodzą za „bohaterskie”. A to właśnie one mają ogromny potencjał edukacyjny – pokazują, jak ludzie potrafili zachować człowieczeństwo, działać, troszczyć się o innych mimo przemocy i strachu.

Dzieciom warto przekazywać nie tylko to, że istniało zło i cierpienie, ale również, że ludzie mieli wybór, że potrafili być solidarni, że walczyli o przetrwanie – i że ta historia nie jest tylko historią ofiar, ale też historii przetrwania i odwagi w codzienności. To pomaga zbudować odporność, a nie tylko lęk.

Czy to nie milczenie najmocniej kształtuje kolejne pokolenia? Czy nie milczymy zbyt często? Pytam o to też osobiście – jestem prawnuczką oficera zamordowanego w Katyniu. O historii, która wpłynęła na losy naszej rodziny, niewiele się mówiło.

Zdecydowanie warto zadawać pytania – i szczególnie ważne jest, gdy robi to pokolenie wnuków, to trzecie pokolenie. Dzieciom znacznie trudniej rozmawiać z własnymi rodzicami o traumatycznych doświadczeniach niż wnukom z dziadkami. Między wnukami a dziadkami jest często więcej przestrzeni emocjonalnej, więcej ciekawości niż oporu.

Równie ważne jak pytanie, jest to, co zrobimy, kiedy pojawi się odpowiedź. Czy jesteśmy gotowi naprawdę wysłuchać? Wiele osób z pokolenia ofiar próbowało mówić – tylko nikt nie chciał ich słuchać. W efekcie wiele osób wycofało się z tych prób. Często szukali wspólnoty wśród ludzi z podobnym doświadczeniem – stąd powstały takie środowiska jak Kluby Auschwitz, Buchenwaldu, Stutthofu. Te nazwy mogą dziś brzmieć makabrycznie, ale to były realne próby stworzenia przestrzeni, gdzie można nie tyle mówić o traumie wprost, ile po prostu być z ludźmi, którzy rozumieją bez słów.

W przypadku rodzin katyńskich milczenie było wręcz wymuszone. Przez wiele lat mówienie o Katyniu mogło być nie tylko społecznie wykluczające, ale i niebezpieczne. To trauma zepchnięta w cień – nie tylko osobisty, ale też polityczny. Wiem, że prowadzone były badania nad tym, jak te rodziny funkcjonowały po wojnie – jak pamięć została w nich zamrożona, przekazywana pośrednio, przez emocje, zachowania, a nie słowa.

Dopiero lata 90. i 2000. przyniosły coś w rodzaju społecznego uznania dla tej pamięci. Pojawiły się filmy, takie jak Katyń Wajdy, które dały wielu rodzinom poczucie, że wreszcie można mówić. I że ktoś wreszcie słucha.

Na ile sztuka – literatura, film, teatr, fotografia – może pomóc w leczeniu traumy międzypokoleniowej?

Sztuka może pełnić bardzo istotną rolę w procesie oswajania i przepracowywania traumy. Czasem robi to w sposób paradoksalny. Jeśli przyjrzymy się pierwszym powojennym filmom dotyczącym okupacji, to zaskakująco często mamy do czynienia z komedią. Filmy takie jak Zezowate szczęście czy Jak rozpętałem drugą wojnę światową były sposobem, w jaki pokolenie, które samo przeżyło wojnę, próbowało z nią sobie poradzić. Wyśmiewanie pewnych zachowań czy sytuacji pozwalało nabrać dystansu – i właśnie ten dystans bywa niezbędny, by móc jakoś zintegrować trudne doświadczenia.

Podobnie jest z innymi reakcjami, które z zewnątrz mogą wydawać się niestosowne czy wręcz bulwersujące – jak śmiech, żarty, korzystanie z telefonu w miejscach pamięci, na przykład w Auschwitz. Badamy te zjawiska i okazuje się, że one często pełnią funkcję obronną. Ludzie próbują oswoić coś, co jest niemal nie do zniesienia.

Taki nurt obecny był także w tzw. kinie Holokaustu. Filmy takie jak Pociąg życia czy Życie jest piękne – podejmują próbę mówienia o zbrodni w sposób, która nie tylko przekazuje wiedzę, ale też pozwala widzowi choć trochę złagodzić emocjonalne obciążenie.

Trzeba jednak pamiętać, że kultura ma też swoją ciemniejszą stronę. Może również traumatyzować. Z badań, które prowadziliśmy m.in. wśród polskich Żydów, a także z analiz Michaela Wohla i Jaya Van Bavel'a, wiemy, że bardzo silna identyfikacja z grupą niesie w sobie dziedzictwo traumy. Może sprawiać, że człowiek doświadcza traumy wtórnej. Kultura, która stale przypomina o cierpieniu i przemocy, może wzmacniać poczucie zagrożenia, izolacji, lęku. Kluczowe jest więc, jak mówimy o przeszłości – i czy dajemy odbiorcy możliwość wejścia w ten świat z zachowaniem własnych granic.

Czy trauma może nas czegoś nauczyć? Empatii, odpowiedzialności, wolności?

Myślę, że trauma może nas czegoś nauczyć – choć niekoniecznie tego, czego byśmy oczekiwali. W pewnym sensie trauma przygotowuje nas na kolejne kryzysy. Prowadzi do nadwrażliwości, nieufności, które w czasie pokoju bywają destrukcyjne, ale w sytuacjach zagrożenia okazują się adaptacyjne. Widać to było choćby po wybuchu wojny w Ukrainie w 2022 roku. Polacy nie czekali na działania państwa, tylko oddolnie ruszyli z pomocą uchodźcom. To typowe zachowanie dla społeczeństwa, które ma w pamięci traumę – nawet jeśli nigdy jej wprost nie nazwało.

Z podobnym mechanizmem mamy do czynienia w kontekście życia w stałym zagrożeniu, jak w Izraelu czy Ukrainie. Tam ludzie uczą się funkcjonować w rzeczywistości alarmów, nalotów, przerw w dostawie prądu. A jednocześnie w krańcowej nieufności wobec obcych. Socjolog Daniel Bar-Tal nazywa to „etosem konfliktu” – codziennym sposobem życia w realiach wojny. To coś, co z zewnątrz może się wydawać nieludzkie, ale dla osób żyjących w takich warunkach staje się nową normą.

I może to właśnie pozwala nam lepiej zrozumieć, jak funkcjonowało pokolenie, które żyło pod okupacją. Dla nich widok egzekucji, getta, pacyfikacji – był czymś, z czym musieli się oswoić, żeby przeżyć. W tym sensie, jak pisał Miłosz, karuzela kręci się dalej – nie dlatego, że ludzie są obojętni, ale dlatego, że muszą żyć. To nie cynizm, lecz psychologicznie adaptacyjny mechanizm. Może nas to oburzać, ale tak działa ludzka psychika.

Co chciałby Pan zmienić w tym, jak społeczeństwa odnoszą się do swojej przyszłości?

Jest jedna rzecz, która wydaje mi się szczególnie ważna i która mogłaby się zmienić. W społeczeństwach historycznie straumatyzowanych bardzo często brakuje zdolności do uznania traum innych. Kiedy sami doświadczyliśmy cierpienia – zwłaszcza jeśli nasza trauma nie została w pełni uznana przez świat – pojawia się silna potrzeba skupienia na własnym bólu. Tak silna, że zaczynamy zaprzeczać traumom innych.

Dla mnie osobiście pisanie Traumaland było pewnego rodzaju ćwiczeniem empatii. Pochodzę z rodziny ocalałych z Holokaustu – większość mojej rodziny zginęła podczas Zagłady. Dorastałem w środowisku, w którym trauma żydowska była najważniejsza – inne cierpienia, w tym wojenne doświadczenie Polaków nie będących Żydami traktowano jako mało doniosłe. Kiedyś pisał o tym Henryk Grynberg, że w wypadku Żydów zdziesiątkowanie znaczy, że co dziesiąty przeżył – zaś w wypadku Polaków, że co dziesiąty zginął. I że te dwa okupacyjne doświadczenia są zupełnie nieporównywalne. A przecież stracenie 10% całej populacji to ogromna, historyczna rana. I ona również zasługuje na uznanie.

Podobny mechanizm działa też w odwrotną stronę – wielu Polaków, skoncentrowanych na własnej traumie, nie jest gotowych uznać bólu innych: Ukraińców, Niemców, Żydów. Niechętnie mówi się o zbrodniach popełnionych przez Polaków – czy to w czasie Holokaustu, czy po wojnie: w obozach w Świętochłowicach, Łambinowicach, podczas akcji „Wisła”. A przecież bycie ofiarą w przeszłości nie wyklucza bycia sprawcą w przyszłości.

W historii ludobójstw i przemocy widać jasno: sprawcy bardzo często wcześniej byli ofiarami. To bolesna prawda. Trauma – jeśli nie zostanie przepracowana – może prowadzić do gotowości traumatyzowania innych. Dlatego potrzebujemy perspektywy psychologicznej, skoncentrowanej na indywidualnym doświadczeniu, a nie na narodowej narracji.

Psychologia, w przeciwieństwie do historii czy politologii, nie tworzy opowieści uzasadniających rację jednej strony. Ona daje przestrzeń każdemu – bo każda trauma, by mogła zostać uleczona, musi zostać uznana. I to uznanie jest, moim zdaniem, naszą największą nadzieją.

Dlaczego defensywne narracje są tak powszechne? Czy to naturalne, że wolimy widzieć siebie tylko jako ofiary?

Tak, to dość naturalny mechanizm psychologiczny. W psychologii mówimy o moral typecasting – mamy tendencję, by postrzegać ludzi w sztywnych rolach: albo ofiara, albo sprawca. Bardzo trudno jest pogodzić się z tym, że ktoś może być i jednym, i drugim. Im silniej budujemy własną tożsamość na roli ofiary, tym trudniej przyjąć, że mogliśmy również być sprawcami. Tylko w nielicznych przypadkach, takich jak Niemcy po II wojnie światowej czy Rwanda po ludobójstwie, udało się stworzyć przestrzeń do przyznania się do tej trudnej podwójności.

Historia i doświadczenia nie są czarno-białe. Wystarczy spojrzeć na przykład Kaszub czy Pomorza – przed wojną ludzie żyli obok siebie, granice były inne. Podziały na oprawców i ofiary nie są jednoznaczne.

Dokładnie tak. I to pokazuje niebezpieczeństwo narodowej unifikacji narracji historycznej. W psychologii postrzegamy ją jako bardzo szkodliwą, bo uniemożliwia indywidualną ekspresję i opowiedzenie osobistego doświadczenia. Doskonale widać to dziś przy okazji wystawy Nasi chłopcy, która wywołała skrajne reakcje – często pełne niewiedzy i ignorancji. Wiele osób nie zdaje sobie sprawy, że przymusowo do Wehrmachtu wcielono setki tysięcy Polaków – więcej, niż walczyło w Armii Krajowej. A mimo to losy tych ludzi są wypierane, niepożądane w dominującej narracji.

To nie jest jednak kwestia ucieczki od odpowiedzialności. To efekt tego, że polska pamięć historyczna została skolonizowana – najpierw przez jeden region, czyli Polskę Centralną, a potem przez jedną klasę społeczną – polską inteligencję. I to doświadczenie tej klasy, tej geografii, zostało rozciągnięte na całą Polskę, wypierając inne historie. Historię ludzi z Kaszub, z Pomorza, z Galicji. Ludzi, którzy nie zawsze mogli się wpisać w heroiczne, insurekcyjne narracje.

Dla mnie, jako psychologa, to właśnie indywidualne doświadczenia – ludzi, rodzin – powinny stać się punktem wyjścia. Tylko wtedy możliwe jest prawdziwe uznanie i przepracowanie traumy. A nie poprzez narzucane z góry narracje, które dzielą historię na czarne i białe pola.

Czy są kraje lub społeczności, które Pana zdaniem poradziły sobie z traumą, z trudną przeszłością?

Paradoksalnie – im bardziej społeczeństwo było straumatyzowane, tym trudniej mu się z tą traumą uporać. Nie potrafię wskazać narodu, który rzeczywiście w pełni „przepracował” swoją przeszłość. Żeby ta praca była możliwa, musi istnieć jakiś punkt wyjścia – uznanie sprawstwa, nazwanie zbrodni po imieniu. Dobrym przykładem są Niemcy czy Rwanda. W obu przypadkach mamy do czynienia z oficjalnym uznaniem ludobójstwa i jego sprawców, co pozwoliło zbudować zupełnie nową narrację – zarówno edukacyjną, jak i społeczną.

W Niemczech Holokaust stał się absolutnym centrum pamięci historycznej. Badania, takie jak MEMO-Studie zespołu z Uniwersytetu w Bielefeld, pokazują, że większość Niemców zna historię swojego kraju właśnie od momentu narodowego socjalizmu – wcześniejsze epoki są niemal nieobecne w zbiorowej świadomości. Nauczanie o Holokauście nie jest tam kwestionowane – wręcz przeciwnie, jest fundamentalnym elementem tożsamości obywatelskiej.

Podobnie w Rwandzie – po ludobójstwie całkowicie zerwano z tożsamościami plemiennymi. Dziś młode pokolenie nie wie, czy ich rodziny należały do Hutu, Tutsi czy Twa. System sprawiedliwości, w tym sądy Gacaca, nie tylko karał sprawców, ale też dążył do pojednania lokalnych wspólnot, które musiały nadal żyć razem. I w tym sensie można mówić o sukcesie wewnętrznej odbudowy.

Kiedy jednak spojrzymy szerzej – na relacje Rwandy z Demokratyczną Republiką Konga, czy na kwestie stosunku Niemców ze wschodniej części kraju do uchodźców – to pojawiają się rysy. Rwanda wspiera zbrojne działania poza swoimi granicami, a w Niemczech rośnie popularność AfD (niem. Alternative für Deutschland) i nastroje antyimigranckie. Można więc zadać pytanie, czy ten sukces pamięci – uznania własnej traumy – rzeczywiście przekłada się na szersze społeczne funkcjonowanie. A może coś zostało wyparte – i teraz właśnie wraca w innej formie. Dr. Fiona Kazarovytska z Uniwersytetu w Moguncji pokazuje, że Niemcy, którzy są szczególnie dumni z tego, jak ich naród rozliczył się z przeszłością, mają tendencję do traktowania historii narodowego socjalizmu jako zamkniętego rozdziału – co w efekcie czyni ich dzisiaj bardziej podatnymi na wszelkie ksenofobiczne czy rasistowskie ideologie.

To wszystko pokazuje, że przepracowanie traumy to nie zamknięty proces, tylko ciągłe zadanie – także dla przyszłych pokoleń.

Od czego zacząć zmianę, by kolejne pokolenia były bardziej świadome, dojrzałe, inaczej myślały o swojej przeszłości?

Myślę, że punktem wyjścia powinno być przeformułowanie naszej opowieści o przeszłości. Polska tożsamość historyczna jest dziś w dużej mierze oparta na obrazie cierpienia i moralnej niewinności – postrzegamy siebie przede wszystkim jako bierne ofiary. Tymczasem historia była znacznie bardziej złożona. Potrzebujemy narracji, która pokazuje sprawczość – także w najtrudniejszych czasach. Trzeba przypominać, że nie wszyscy byli bierni, że byli ludzie, którzy działali, opierali się, ale też, że różne były postawy – również takie, które wymykają się wygodnej opowieści o wyłącznie moralnych ofiarach.

Jak rozmawiać z młodymi ludźmi o traumatycznych kartach historii, by nie budzić w nich oporu ani poczucia oskarżenia? Jak przełamać to koło zazębiającej się traumy?

Kluczem jest pokazywanie złożoności historii – unikanie czarno-białych narracji. Trzeba mówić o cierpieniu i niesprawiedliwości, ale nie tylko przez pryzmat sprawców i ich ofiar. Warto kierować uwagę także na tych, którzy ocaleli – na ich wybory, decyzje, sposoby radzenia sobie. Na tych, którzy w sytuacjach granicznych wykazywali sprawczość, choćby w najdrobniejszy sposób.

Zamiast przedstawiać młodym ludziom historię jako opowieść o winie i oskarżeniu, warto ukazywać ją jako przestrzeń refleksji nad losem jednostki – nad tym, jak ludzie reagowali w skrajnych warunkach. Tylko wtedy możemy liczyć na prawdziwe zrozumienie, empatię – i przełamanie tego mechanizmu przenoszenia traumy z pokolenia na pokolenie.

Michał Bilewicz – psycholog społeczny i polityczny, profesor Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, gdzie kieruje Centrum Badań nad Uprzedzeniami. Zajmuje się psychologicznymi mechanizmami pojednania, pamięci zbiorowej, traumy i uprzedzeń. Autor książki Traumaland. Polacy w cieniu przeszłości.