Content note: some of the names in this story have been changed to protect anonymity.
Editor’s note (added November 6, 2023): the writer, Tracy Baim, is related to Clark Baim, who is a main subject in this story.
It’s Sunday morning in August 2022, and midway through an online group therapy session, Mariia, in Kyiv, tells the group that there is a missile alert. She needs to move her laptop computer into the closet, away from the windows. Multiple alarms are sounding across the city.
The group members, refugees scattered across seven countries, ask her if she wants to take shelter in a bunker. No, she says, she wants to go on. From inside her closet, surrounded by coats, she continues.
The group is a lifeline for the participants. There’s usually about 12 people, mostly Ukrainian, all affected by the war. Some are internally displaced in Ukraine, and others have had to flee with their children to Poland, Germany, the United Kingdom, Canada, Cyprus, and Israel.
The group also includes four members who are not Ukrainian, including the group leader, and this is because of the way the group was formed. One person remains in their home country of Russia.
This is one of many examples of how mental health professionals and social workers are offering help to soldiers and civilians during the Ukraine war. In October 2022, Ukraine First Lady Olena Zelenska, wife of President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, launched the National Program of Mental Health and Psychosocial Support. From June 12 through June 21 this year, at the request of the Office of Zelenska and Ukraine’s Ministry of Health, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) supported a study tour to the U.S. for 14 Ukrainian health officials and senior leadership of Zelenska’s initiative.
What follows is a deep dive into what one of the group members describes as an “oasis” in the war, a way for professionals to connect and support one another as they in turn help their clients survive the war’s devastating psychological impacts.
The online group was created by a fluke of timing. During a several-weeks-long workshop on developmental trauma in February and March of 2022, the Russian invasion began. As events overtook the theme of the training, the group members asked Clark Baim, then leading the training, if he could adapt the workshop to include understanding and healing war trauma as the theme of the training.
Over the next several weeks the training gradually evolved into a group, as participants requested not only training but support. From inside and outside Ukraine, individual work, group therapy, and family work take place in person and online. As they fled the attacks, and escaped with children and pets, the groups continued. Some joined from bomb shelters, some from train stations, some from cars in transit, and some from undisclosed locations in the woods.
Gradually, they settled in distant countries or in other parts of Ukraine. A few remained stalwartly at home, guarding the home front in Kyiv and elsewhere in Ukraine.
Group members come mostly from the helping and caring professions: social work, psychology, psychotherapy, adult education, medicine, children’s centers, and counseling. They are mostly women; the one man in the group, Manfred, is a German who is helping refugees find shelter in Germany, and who has raised funds and funneled supplies to support Ukraine.
A few of the group members have returned to Ukraine after months abroad. Some come and go, visiting family in Ukraine. All the group members are parents. Some are grandparents. Several have struggled to adjust to life in their country of refuge, and some see their children quickly adjusting to the new country and wonder how they will ever return to their previous life.
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The themes explored in the group are wide-ranging, including many that one might imagine being discussed in a wartime refugee psychotherapy session. This includes the trauma of being a refugee; finding safety; finding new strength (“that I never knew I had before the war,” a group member said); dealing with financial hardship; supporting spouses who suffer war wounds and war trauma; trying to help and support children dealing with war trauma; moving to a new country, or—for those still in Ukraine—trying to survive while still under siege; facing prejudice in the new country; loneliness; the heartbreak of separation; relationships fragmenting over time and distance; loss and mourning; rage at the invader; the loss of home, identity, and culture; and anger and incomprehension about relatives and (ex) friends in Russia who support the invasion.
The group also discusses topics that could be explored by any therapeutic group, at any time—such universal themes as love, family, history, growth, and searching for meaning.
The person running the group is not Ukrainian. Clark Baim was the trainer of the workshop on trauma which evolved into this ongoing group, due to the February 24, 2022 Russian invasion.
Baim is a psychodrama psychotherapist, a former Chicagoan based in the UK for more than 30 years, with decades of experience working in prisons in the U.S. and the UK. He is also a trainer in psychotherapy, attachment theory, and trauma-informed therapy. He has traveled to more than 30 countries offering training in more than 300 institutions and agencies over the past 35 years.
Baim started his psychodrama career after seeing an ad in the Reader in the mid-1980s for Geese Theater Company. The company, founded by drama therapist John Bergman, was at the time based in Chicago and touring U.S. prisons using theater as a form of rehabilitation. Baim started the UK version of the Geese Theatre Company in 1987, and they are now among the oldest and most influential criminal justice arts organizations in the world. He now serves on the company’s board.
In 1988, soon after starting the theater company, Baim was introduced to psychodrama by Chicago-based psychodramatist Dr. Elaine Sachnoff, during a one-week program in England. He went on to complete the full psychodrama training in the 1990s.
Baim is also my brother. Having witnessed his psychodrama work in a South African prison, and having read his books over the years, I was intrigued when he told me about the online support group.
He and the participants allowed me to listen to their Zoom sessions, sharing their trauma and grief, along with their hopes and dreams. The group agreed to my participation because they wanted to share the powerful lessons they have learned as individuals in wartime, and as a collective sharing support.
The group now meets for three-and-a-half hours every other Sunday, and it has become a lifeline for everyone involved. It is run pro bono by Baim —an act of solidarity in support of displaced victims of the invasion. He also covers the cost of the translator, Krista, a woman who knows five languages and who shows great skill and compassion.
Remarkably, the group also includes a Russian who still lives in Russia. For some group members, this is a weighty challenge, as her presence at first brought feelings of fear and hatred. Yet over time, this person has come to be an integral part of the group, precious for who she is and what she represents—an alternative view from Russia—profoundly saddened and angered by the war.
For some of the Ukrainians in the group, this woman has come to represent a preferred version of their lost family members—those Russian relatives who they have had to sever ties with because of their support of the war. To have someone in the group who is living in Russia and who opposes the war provides yet another lifeline, and hope that, in the end, humanity wins out.
‘Psychological terrorism’
When I joined the group’s May 28, 2023 call, just before 2 AM Chicago time, one member was on the call with Baim. They were talking about what had happened hours before in Ukraine.
Mariia had just survived a night of psychological and physical terror, one that thankfully her young son slept through. But she could not sleep and was emotionally raw from the experience.
Kyiv, where she lives, was just hit with what was at the time the largest drone attack of the war. Ukraine’s air defense was able to shoot down 52 of 54 Russian drones, but shrapnel from the explosions still rained down, and buildings caught fire. One man was killed, and a woman was injured.
The timing also seemed intentional to Mariia and others, coinciding with “The Day of Kyiv,” a day marking the founding of the city 1,541 years ago.
“A friend of mine in Lviv told me she’s really tired, she’s demotivated,” Mariia said in English. “These attacks last night came from the north, the south, and east in waves. I am exhausted. It is psychological terrorism. Two weeks ago there were six ballistic rockets. They were stopped, but they were scary, big sounds. The buildings shook.”
Mariia is still in private practice, and she is trying to think toward the future. She was visible on the call in front of a wood shelf full of books, wearing a white T-shirt with the Ukrainian rock band BoomBox’s logo across the front in big red Cyrillic letters.
Slowly others began to join the call, all trying to get WiFi access in places where it can be spotty. Manfred joined from his native Germany, while Natalia, who came to Germany from Ukraine, also signed on. A woman, Anna, held her cat as she appeared on the call. The translator, Krista, joined from Cyprus. One Russian, Lena, checked in from her home country. Others slowly joined, including Julia from her car after dropping her daughter off at music rehearsal; she was in Moscow at that moment but planned to return to Latvia soon after. There were 12 participants in all, including myself and my brother.
Having a reporter on the Zoom, even one who is a sibling of the group’s leader, can’t help but influence the call. Typically, Baim has them do a drawing exercise to start. His prompt during this call was to draw “something important in my life these days.” After that exercise, they would then move into a psychodrama that could help them act out a scenario, typically to help them get through an expected upcoming situation, or work through emotional or relationship problems. Baim explains this process further on the Birmingham Institute for Psychodrama website.
But on this day, there was a lot of processing to do. With the continued bombing and so much happening in their practices and their lives, everyone needed to expound on their emotions. And, in particular, there was a lot of discussion about identity.
Krista, the translator, did an excellent job moving from the Ukrainian language, and some Russian, to English, and back. She kept the flow of conversation going so that it felt very smooth discussing these hot-button personal issues in various languages.
Yana showed us her drawing first. She titled it The Sun is Crying. She said with 14 attacks in May in Kyiv, and the month not even over, “people are seriously tired.” She saw a girl sobbing and she and others were very worried about the nuclear station attacks (they call them atomic stations). “Yet today is the Day of Kyiv. The city is in bloom and beautiful.”
Natalia, living in Germany, said that she was so homesick. “I miss it so much,” she said. “What is the future: for education, for work, for me and my daughter?” She has also heard negative attitudes against people like her who left Ukraine to get away from the violence. “Some are returning,” she said. “I am so anxious and afraid. The news makes me scared.”
Natalia also works with another group member, who was not on this call. They help people who have had to pause their normal life due to the war.
Lena said she has been trying to do research to make her own psychotherapy practice better. She’s also traveling soon to Italy, and spending time with family.
Mariia’s drawing was full of rectangles and color. Her son was drawn as a bat, an animal that serves as his avatar. She said when night comes, the fear rises. As she wiped back tears, she talked about listening to the military channels on her radio. “When the shelling starts, my clients see that I am online, so we are online together,” she said. “We are monitoring where the shelling is going, and they text me when it’s near me, asking if I am OK.”
She was not turning away any new clients, because she needed money to support her son. She was also working on her Ph.D., possibly on gender identity for LGBTQ+ people, and told me that she hoped to open a new center to help more people. By July, Mariia had already opened her center in Kyiv.
Manfred showed photos from a German square where Ukrainians were celebrating in their blue and gold colors, including some wearing traditional embroidered shirts and dresses known as vyshyvankas. He said these photos caused a “wave of feelings, as I saw all those people in fancy dresses, all the Ukrainian children,” singing ‘Shche ne vmerla Ukrainy i slava, i volia,’” referring to “Ukraine’s glory and freedom / will have not yet perished,” the national anthem.
“I felt like fainting,” Manfred said. “So many memories came up. I felt very ashamed—they just wanted to celebrate in colorful dresses. There is an incredible ability of the Ukrainian people to know how to celebrate the beauty of life and colors. Since January I had felt a bit more distanced from pain and loss and sadness. But it came back and I am dreaming of Kyiv now. I purchased a bus ticket to go to Kyiv this summer.”
Anna showed her drawing of an empty vase to the group. She drew a few small flowers at the bottom, and “now the vase is not so empty,” she said. She uses her cats in her work, so the loss of one cat recently put her in a devastated state, as if losing a part of her own self.
Anna, a drama therapist, is Jewish and from Latvia. While she does not live in the war zone, she said via email after this meeting that she still is finding it hard to cope. To help the effort, she has volunteered to help in the Latvian camps organized for Ukrainian mothers and children who suffered during the war.
Olena’s drawing was of a cigarette nearly burned to the end. She was sad because her doctors told her she had to give up smoking, “or give up what’s left of your youth.” Trying to give up such a difficult habit was proving very hard as she coped with so much else.
Tanya lives in the United Kingdom now, but recently visited Ukraine. She was born in Russia, but now she doesn’t feel like she belongs there. She turns against the books and films of Russia, and toward those of Ukraine. She, like others on the call, were so torn about their traditions, their loyalties, and their identities. “Who am I? I do not have an answer. My Russian relatives are cutting me off.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Baim said on the call. “It is important, these themes of identity. You are not alone.”
Lena added her thoughts: “I can relate because my identity is being destroyed. It is clear that the Russian language is not Russian barbarism. It is not related to the bombing. I have it all separated and divided in me. But I am also clear I am Ukraine, and what Ukraine is doing defending itself is justified. The attack is completely the opposite.”
Tanya added that there are “different kinds of Ukrainians, too. You can’t really divide Russians and Ukrainians.” She felt guilty because she “doesn’t share the aesthetic state when people are sharing Ukrainian folk clothing. I don’t feel joy.”
Identity Politics
“A purity test in times of conflict is a source of great division,” Baim said.
This theme of identity dominated the remainder of the call.
“This is so complicated,” said Svitlana. “I burned my Dostoevsky book. I burned the Russian books we were obliged to read. I read immense amounts of Russian, but one cannot impose an identity. When your identity is hyper, you’re unable to accept others. It should be respected when we choose the language or culture, but not imposed, not forceful.”
“My container is overfilled,” Yana said. “There’s an inability to contain any more. Last week in a client consultation, I could not handle any more. The client said they did not know how I held it all. My immunity is not holding any longer.”
She added that she has a brother and sister in a Russian city, and they have stood by Russia. She felt her sister was being selfish and only cared about her own situation, not what was happening in Ukraine. She mentioned a Ukrainian joke about a golden fish as an example of these divisions. In the joke, a golden fish gives wishes to a Russian and a Ukrainian. The Russian wishes to isolate his country behind a wall—only real Russians allowed. The Ukrainian’s wish is to fill that now-enclosed country with water.
These divisive issues of identity were brought strongly home by the native German on the call, Manfred. “We had a history that demanded people prove they were not Jewish, back four generations,” he said. “They had to prove their nationality. If they could not, they were killed. And women in occupied countries, after the war, were judged if they had befriended the Germans, for their own survival. They were punished, their hair cut off, they were ostracized by their neighbors.
“It can be very dangerous, asking what nation you belong to. Also if you are ‘really’ or ‘halfway’ belonging to a nation, or only emotionally belonging. If you are inside a nation, or a refugee. For me it is very important that I can understand the feeling of being left alone, of not being seen or supported. There is anger about being attacked so much.
“But people on the other side also have feelings. I’m sorry for touching this nerve with these photos. A Ukrainian person told me, you are German, and very ashamed about your nation. But not every person who feels themself belonging to a nation must be nationalist,” Manfred concluded.
The three and a half-hour session ended with Tanya bringing up the Tower of Babel, another metaphor for the group to absorb. Will language, culture, and geographic boundaries continue to divide?
Resilience, and Distress
The next call I joined, on June 11, came after more days of Russian bombardment, and a new terror: a dam was bombed, with Ukraine blaming Russia for the economic terrorism that impacted millions on both sides of the disaster. And now there are more worries about the nuclear plant due to lower water levels. The pending Ukraine offensive is also on the minds of the participants.
Perhaps as a form of additional therapy, a few people had their cats join them on camera for the June Zoom.
Mariia joined again from Kyiv, starting the call with reports of bombing north of the city, where the air protections of Kyiv are not as strong. All that her clients could talk about that week was the flooding.
The stress was clear on the call. Manfred had severe back pain. Julia was feeling sick, though she was also planning a trip to America for her daughter’s music concert.
Baim’s prompt for this meeting was to “draw a person who gives you hope.” One group member shared that she has taken these drawing prompts so seriously that she is now taking drawing classes. Tanya drew a man whose family took her in and showed her what resilience can be.
Many drawings were elaborate, including a complex tree Julia drew representing her ancestors dating back to 1642. “All were refugees, migrants, nomads,” she said. “If I’m here, they survived. It is my duty, for them, I need to survive . . . I see this as the 1,000-year-old me, having this tree behind me. I see it like a tree growing out of a mountain, on top of which sits Noah’s Ark. The 1,000-year-old me helps me go on.”
Julia then noted that one of the drones that recently fell landed in her garden. “Even though something was broken I’m still not afraid,” she said, as if trying to convince herself. “But I don’t feel like doing anything at all—like my hands are tied.”
“[Julia], you said you can be other people’s medicine. That’s a noble thing to offer as long as you’re OK. I noticed you are ill today,” Baim said.
Svitlana noted that before the war she was at a psychodrama workshop where members were selecting between facing a war or an ecological catastrophe. “Now we have two in one. I see myself as the Fifth Element,” she said, referring to the 1997 movie starring Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich. Jovovich, born in Kyiv, played a character who sported hair dyed orange-red. Svitlana has dyed her hair a similar color, perhaps signaling her own attempt to help the planet survive these new crises.
Natalia drew a picture of Ukraine’s top military leader, and was clearly distraught. Baim validated Natalia’s feelings about having to keep going on by quoting Samuel Beckett: “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.”
Much of the focus for the rest of the call was on Natalia’s despair. Baim moved the group into a psychodrama exercise, with Natalia and Julia alternating roles. Everyone else turned off their cameras, while Baim directed from the background and Krista translated. Natalia got into character by wrapping a shawl around her, and Julia added a green strip of cloth to her outfit.
Natalia is feeling the guilt of being a survivor, with so many dignified people lost to war, now to drowning, and more. “I am getting more alone and separated,” she said. She lived in Kyiv when the war started, and is now in Germany. She’s a Ukrainian psychologist and psychodrama therapist in her late 40s, with two daughters (26 and 17). She doesn’t plan to return to Ukraine until the war is over.
It was powerful watching them navigate the delicate discussion. Natalia saw herself as that 1,000-year-old tree, communicating with other trees through their roots. She’s a tree that feels frozen with pain, but also empowered and nurtured by the sun, water, wind, and soil. “They gave me the nutrients that caused me to grow these 1,000 years,” Natalia said, choking up. “But I have reminders of other events, they cut like an ‘X’ on me. It reminds me of parents making a mark on a door frame as their kids were growing.”
Natalia added that she feels the tree saying “You can lean on me, you can rely on me,” adding “I will survive.”
“Imagine [Natalia] leaning on the tree now,” Baim added.
“I am here for you, I’m the symbol of what is here for you,” Julia said, acting as the tree. “You can lean on me, I will withstand, I will survive. Dealing with all of these catastrophes, lean on me, rely on me.”
Natalia said she felt comforted by this, but also felt fear and anger. They were pushing her to do something. “I’m afraid to die,” Natalia said. “Of not having time enough to live. I’m afraid of the life I am living. It is paused, it is as if frozen, postponed.”
Natalia continued with difficulty, and through tears, “It’s as if I’m losing it. It’s not exactly as it should be, how I’m living my life. Would I be able to do something else? But I would need resources I don’t have. And also there’s a sensation that what I am doing is not valued, not on a scale of what is needed. The impact is minimal.”
Baim had the women reverse roles, to see and feel the other points of view. Julia pointed to what positive value Natalia brought to the world. “It matters,” she told Natalia. “You are doing good helping those close to you. You are holding a support group. You are doing now what you are able to do, with exactly the amount of resources you have.”
In a show of solidarity, Clark asked the others to sway together as if they were trees in a forest. “Name the trees and they will be your company,” he said. Natalia named them, and people slowly joined her on screen, changing their screen names to “tree.”
“You are doing the impossible,” Julia said. “Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. There is a space for grief and for joy. You are not alone and you do not have to face this alone.”
While the exercise seemed to have helped somewhat, Natalia was still sad. “How can the planet Earth bear such people,” she said. “Those that simply demolish. I do not yet know what I do with that anger and hatred.”
Julia continued to try to help Natalia. “You found your path to me,” she said, in the role of a tree. “I’m a wise tree. Nietzsche comes to mind. ‘Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’ The fight with evil is the danger of the soul becoming rougher. This is me really wanting to hold you and tell you, you found the path here.”
“The feeling is just horrible,” Natalia added. “This wish to destroy, to demolish. Perhaps staying in this balance by the tree is the better option.”
Manfred told Natalia that she forgot something she does that does not seem like much, but is critical. “What you do is surviving,” he said. As a German, Manfred notes how important survivors are: “We call the survivors the candles of knowledge, who pass something on to the next generation. It is a very sad task. It costs a lot of energy, but it is also very powerful. Because you pass the hate but you also pass the love. It’s really necessary that you do it. Your time will come.”
Participant Anna noted that as a youth she had a lemon tree to lean on, one that survived much turmoil. She said she has turned to plants in hard times. “When I’m caring for plants I see it as a sign I am caring for myself,” she noted.
Through tears, Svitlana said she is thinking of everyone who wants peace, “I will be helping those who return [to Ukraine] with what they want to do.”
Baim ended the session by saying how inspired he was by the participants. They mirrored various gestures back and forth, as a way to confirm they were really seeing one another.
This was an incredible session to observe, through multiple languages, and through the words, drawings, and facial expressions that gave a small sense of the real-world repercussions of the madness of war.
I learned a little more about Natalia from an email interview after this call. She speaks Ukrainian, Russian, and German.
“My life has changed radically: the country of residence, language, and environment have changed,” she wrote. “I have lost contact with relatives and friends, I have lost my job. I fled the war with my younger daughter, two backpacks, and a cat in a bag, while my older daughter was at that time in the occupied territory near Kyiv.
“Unfortunately, I don’t always manage [to cope], but I try. I use the knowledge I have as a psychologist (grounding exercises, breathing, etc.), regularly participate in Clark’s group (which is a great resource for me), work with my supervisor and group supervisor, periodically just cry, go to the pool, I study German, I go to the park or the forest, I worry about my daughter and cat.”
For more than a year, Natalia has working with a colleague to lead a support group for Ukrainian psychologists. Some in the support group work with military personnel and their families, and internally displaced persons.
“I try to support those who are close to me and those with whom I only communicate online,” she said. “Clark’s group turned out to be not only a powerful resource for me, but also an opportunity to improve my qualifications as a psychodrama therapist.”
Living in Kyiv: Mariia’s story
Mariia, a psychologist, is in her mid-30s, with a son under age ten. She’s Ukrainian, and had a divorce during the war. She lives in Kyiv, and has stayed there during most of the war. She speaks Ukrainian, Russian and English. I interviewed her via Zoom and by email.
Mariia is the reason this group started. “Two and a half years ago I saw Clark at one of the conferences I attended and I literally got goosebumps,” she said via email. “The information that is important was simply presented. I remember I told my friends, ‘I will write to him and ask for a master class.’ It was my surprise when Clark quickly responded and agreed! I remember his first letter got into spam and I was upset that he was silent. And Clark sent a second letter asking why I was silent. Can you imagine my condition then? A world-class scientist replied and is worried why I am not going to contact.
“At first, our master classes were for me an attempt to unite psychodramatists, regardless of country and school of psychodrama. I really love attachment theory and the combination of psychodrama and attachment theory is just bingo for me. I use a lot of knowledge in practice. It is a pride that I can learn from a world leader, it inspires me and excites me every time. And with the onset of a full-scale invasion, the workshops turned into a support group. And the uniqueness in the fact that there are different people from different countries in the group.”
Mariia spent part of the war out of Ukraine. “I was in Berlin for four months,” she wrote to me. “I knew all that time I would return. Going to Germany was against my will, it became a big trauma. I was forced to do it by my ex-husband and friends. You can say they pressured me psychologically—a rocket was shot down near us in Kyiv and it was scary. I went through the traumatic experience of the road to Germany, four days, two of which I was afraid that we would be shot by Russian tanks somewhere on the road.
“I crossed the border with my friend, a container with a cat in one hand, a child, and a backpack with documents and a laptop next to me. A friend gave me $300, which at that time was incredible, there was no currency in the city, and I will never forget this act. In Germany, I worked, cried a lot. I flatly refused to learn German and assimilate there. Although, I am infinitely grateful to my friend [Manfred], who welcomed us into his home, helped with documents and adaptation. But the only memory from those times is a constant feeling of shame and guilt that I am abroad, safe.”
Mariia said the war has taught her that she could do “extraordinary things—I collected a lot of money for my former brother-in-law, passed an interview in English in an international organization—and my English is very mediocre. I continued to work with clients without a break—except for the road to Germany. I realized that I am strong and can be stable. Also during the war, I survived my husband’s betrayal. My support at that time was friends and a lot of work.”
Having a young son, “you understand that a person is waiting for you,” so she had to find a way to cope. “Do you know that terrible feeling when you are left alone during a war with a child and your already-ex-husband does not support you financially? But after returning to Kyiv, I found an office, have a private practice, am writing a dissertation, involved in projects. I think I’m a little bit good. The best medicine is a lot of work, psychotherapy, friends. Sometimes I buy myself something beautiful—clothes or flowers, or go to a concert of my favorite band, for example. I remind myself, [Mariia], life goes on.”
Mariia said that now that she’s back in Kyiv, “the only thing that is difficult to deal with is daily shelling, explosions, especially at night. The nightly shelling makes me exhausted. And daytime ones are tiring and deprive you of strength for further work. Then you are like a jellyfish, and in your head like cotton wool. Also, you physically feel how you are getting older.”
Yet Mariia, like the others in this group, continues to serve others. “I work with clients, they allow me to write even at night, especially if they are also experiencing shelling,” she said. “I tell clients a lot what is happening to us, how the psyche works during the war. I take part in two projects, I consult LGBT people. I understand that it may sound strange, but in Ukraine there is a problem with this, we have a fairly high level of homophobia. My help consists of donations and maximum work in my profession.”
For Mariia, the group has been critical to her daily life: “The group helped me survive a divorce, it helps me survive a war. I know that I can write to everyone even at night and they will respond immediately. And the same for Clark. He once joked that he looked over our correspondence, ‘your first letter began like this: Dear Mr. Baim, the group for me is a healing support, a kind of hearth where you can gather, warm up and talk about yourself.’”
Mariia said many of her clients have a problem with attachment. “They feel unsafe,” she said. “They cannot create a safe relationship. They, for example, did not believe in themselves. Before I met Clark, I worked with these people only in psychodrama.”
After meeting and learning from Clark, she was also able to begin to use lessons from attachment theory in her practice: “This connection, attachment theory and psychodrama, for me it’s really important because I think that first part—it’s a connection with our inner child.”
“I can be stable when I work with people,” Mariia said. “It’s really strange. For me, it’s really helpful. Because when you have a bad mood, for example, you say ‘oh my god, it’s all bad.’ You have clients dealing with the same things. I can say how I am feeling, and one client said to me, ‘Oh my god, [Mariia], I am like a mirror.’ You untie this. We see each other and it’s OK. So I think with my work it’s my possibility to be stable. It’s not manipulation of my profession. It’s like I can do it and I can be stable when I work. So I don’t know how I do it. But it’s, for me, it’s something like that.”
Mariia has family in Ukraine, including her mother, who lives—and wants to stay living—near the vulnerable nuclear power station. She said her mother is more the child in their relationship, needing Mariia’s support, but not helping in return. The area her mother lives in has a large percentage that is Russian occupied, but not where she is.
Mariia has been working with and supporting LGBTQ+ Ukrainians since before the war. She said it is very hard on them now. “We have now a high level of anxiety because in Ukraine, they do not have rights for civilians, for example, to have marriage,” she said. “And we have many couples from LGBT, they are soldiers and for example, one of them has died. This couple, man or woman, did not have rights for their bodies. It’s really big discrimination, especially now, and they talk about it. And they need this. We need to have this law. They need to have the possibility to be married, to have children.”
Asked what Americans can do to help, Mariia focuses on the weapons they need, and especially the air defense systems. She spoke of a nine-year-old girl who was killed by rockets the day before we spoke, a girl near her son’s age. Despite the constant attacks, her son still goes to school five days a week. Mariia is quick to point out that there is a basement they go to as soon as a siren goes off. They spend a lot of time down there.
Without a country: Julia’s story
Julia is an oncologist, psychologist, and psychodrama therapist in her mid-40s, with a husband and teenage daughter. She is a Russian citizen but is Armenian. Her husband is Latvian and she speaks Russian, Latvian, and English. She is now living between Latvia and Moscow, where her mother lives alone. She will need to leave Europe soon, due in part to issues with Latvia’s residency policies. “To be honest, I can’t even tell where I’m going to be next week, so I don’t plan ahead anymore,” she said in an email interview. We also spoke via Zoom.
The war has really unraveled Julia’s life. “The loss of home, separation from family, retraumatization from childhood after the first war experienced, insecurity due to ‘wrong’ citizenship, helplessness and uncertainty about the future, loss of freedom of choice,” she writes in response to a question about changes the war has caused for her. “I try to continue to do everything for the education of the child, to go headlong into work, to hold on to the values of my family and my ancestors, to remain humane, not to allow myself retaliatory aggression.”
Julia has helped refugees from Ukraine she knows, some financially, some with getting a job. She organized a charity concert, and also has helped refugees from Russia. She helped the children of her Russian friends who were left without money, being students in Europe, Canada, and America.
“This group gives me the opportunity to stay in touch with those who are humanly important to me,” she said. “It gives hope for connection, not separation. It gives a chance that someday we can be together.”
She expanded on her answers in a Zoom interview from New York, where her daughter had just performed in a concert.
Her family moved to Russia in 1988 when the war broke out between Azerbaijan and Armenia. Many of her relatives also fled to Russia, but then migrated to the U.S.
Julia’s mother wanted to stay in Moscow, having experienced two other migrations. For Julia, she is now taking on her own third migration, to an unknown destination.
A few days before our call, her mother called Julia, frantic. Her mom had gone to Rostov from Moscow, to bury her own mother. Then, the rebel Wagner mercenary troops briefly captured the city. Julia, from Riga, Latvia, had to buy an expensive ticket to get her mother back home. Even if her mother wanted to leave Russia now, it would be difficult, since many countries won’t accept Russian citizens, and she doesn’t speak languages key to success elsewhere.
For Julia, she sees how the world despises Russians. In Latvia, they keep raising the bar on the rules to stay. Though she has a Latvian husband and daughter, though she speaks the language and has lived there 18 years, they are creating more barriers. She said what passport you carry has more weight than even being married to a Latvian.
Once the war started and the support group continued, Julia said she spoke to Mariia about whether she as a Russian should continue. She was worried that even just seeing Russians on screen could trigger the Ukrainians, so she was willing to bow out, or just watch a recording of the session. “But Mariia said that she had a discussion with Clark . . . she said, ‘You are not like fascists—but you have to know that I can’t be responsible for aggression from other participants to you,’” Julia said.
The Russians staying worked out fine. Even when there was emotional aggression, the Russians listened and learned, she said.
“For me, it’s important to stay in connection with my colleagues from Ukraine,” Julia said. “Because it’s like a hope that maybe in a few years, in many years later, this is a piece of the heart which will stay warm. [It is also helpful to be] in contact with another Russian who also [feels] very guilty for the situation.”
I asked Julia how it was for her to be in the psychodrama for the recent session. She said it is just so normal for her. In Russia, she explained, the doctors are not just doctors. They provide a holistic approach, what might be referred to in the U.S. as wraparound care. They are like the doctor, the family, for their patients. So the work in the support group aligns well with what her work has been professionally.
The group, Julia said, has been worth the effort. Even her daughter is excited when she gets to work with Baim, because she sees how it helps.
“[The group] is my necessity to stay in reality,” Julia said. “I can listen to what real people think about the situation.” She said they read media from Ukraine, Russia, and around the world, and “It’s all bullshit. It’s not true at all. Even what’s happened in Rostov. And that’s why it is very important to stay in reality with real people.”
Julia has seen how her daughter takes cues from her behavior. After the war began, they were in Hamburg, Germany together when Julia saw a Ukrainian who needed help due to language barriers. Julia was afraid of what might happen if Julia and her daughter were called out as Russian, because her own accent is very identifiable as being from Moscow. So she stayed silent, and her daughter realized it was not safe to speak Russian in Europe. “I was ashamed,” Julia said. “I was more afraid [for my daughter], and didn’t want to help.”
But in December, when they were in Vienna, Austria, there were two Ukrainian women in line with them at Starbucks. This time, Julia stepped in to translate. At first they did not want help, “but they needed food.”
“My daughter said, ‘Mom, you are very brave.’” Julia said. “My daughter needed to see my example . . . to see my humanity.” Julia said this support group has helped her in relationship with her daughter—to keep her humanity, “don’t be against yourself, your values.”
Julia said she has asked other psychologists to do what Clark has done, to help others speak with Ukrainians, to be in support now, during the war. Some eighty percent of her friends have left Russia and are refugees; none of her friends support the war. But this one group makes her feel connected still to Ukraine.
Baim “wasn’t afraid to start an international group and was the only one and he’s still the only one who continues this. All other psychologists whom I ask because it was my idea and my dream, ‘please give us the civility to talk with Ukrainians’ because we are also crying for this—where we want to contact. They said no,” Julia said.
“That’s why I really, from the start, tried to explain to international people that you can’t imagine that we’re so close with Ukrainians and you are just looking at us like at the cinema—but for us it’s bleeding because it’s impossible to be separated. And please help us to stay in contact.”
The answer of most psychologists Julia consulted was that during acute trauma (war), it’s impossible to do this work. She said their response was: “We will make it in the post-traumatic period.”
But Julia said it is important to deal with this pain while it is happening, to lead to better outcomes after the war. “There are times [in the group] when we’re ready for emotional aggression from Ukrainians—we were ready because we know that it’s true, it’s absolutely right, that they hate us,” she said. “And we were ready just to stay with them and just listen,” and that’s why she asks other opinion leaders and psychologists to “please take an example from Clark. How he feels that he’s strong enough to try this absolutely unbelievable situation. But now it’s like a pearl, like an oasis. It’s only one place that we can meet, and no one can repeat it.”
Julia said the situation has worsened more than a year into the war, so starting something like this would be much more difficult now. “Russians start to think that OK, if all of the world hates us, what can we do?” she said. “And they start to come back to the country, and like, they died in life, OK, we can’t ask any help. We will stay here. OK. We are bad. So it’s not a possibility for conversation.”
Lessons of war: Manfred’s story
Manfred, in his 50s with two adult children, is a nurse, social worker, psychodrama therapist, and trainer living near Berlin. He speaks German, French, and Ukrainian, and has been helping refugees since the war broke out. We communicated via phone and email.
Before the war, Manfred had led trainings in Ukraine, and had friends and colleagues in the country. So after Russia attacked, he helped collect medicines, transported them into Ukraine, delivered a car for a military group, sent money, and committed himself to organizing support groups for Ukrainian psychotherapists.
The war has caused “a personal loss of a close relationship, depression, fundamental reconsideration of [my] professional approach, fundamental reconsideration of my personal version of pacifism and nationalism,” Manfred said.
The support group has “stabilized me. It held me in contact with people. Again and again [it has helped me] reconsider my views, my approach.”
Manfred, at the invitation of Mariia, was in Baim’s group before the war broke out. He was attracted to the discussion of attachment theory.
When the bombing started, Manfred explained that Ukrainians immediately relied on the skills, technology (including WhatsApp), and personal connections they used when Russia launched its attacks on Ukraine in 2014, annexed Crimea from Ukraine, and backed pro-Russian separatists in Donbas.
When Manfred brought medicine in, he said “it was not done through an organization but it was sent through special very personal channels because especially in the first weeks of the war, the infrastructure was not developed. They had to turn back to the infrastructure they developed from the year 2014, working with an unbelievably huge volunteer structure. You must imagine that around many of those fighter brigades there are the families of the soldiers. They are all connected in Facebook groups or WhatsApp groups.”
He said whatever the need is, from clothing to medicine, the system was set up so that all you had to do was post a time and the need, and the supplies would be there—no matter where in the country they were needed.
For example, in the 2014 attacks, the soldiers left their homes so quickly they did not have underwear. A call was put out, and people made thousands of pairs, and they found trucks to deliver them. “I have a lot of those stories,” Manfred said. “It’s really heartbreaking how, from scratch, they did this. This resistance. This also impressed me very much. They are much closer as a society than we are. The trust within those groups is very, very strong and they do everything—they work from house to house, from city to city, and also now internationally.”
One of the medications that was needed by hospitals early in this war was a drug for epilepsy. Manfred and others in Germany helped organize a mass collection of pills, and transported thousands into Ukraine.
Manfred spoke about how, as a German, he brings a strong understanding of “identity” issues to the support group. Half of his family is descended from perpetrators of the Holocaust, and the other half from victims of the genocide—they were Communists.
“I think stronger than any other country in the world, we Germans have dealt with the guilt and the shame coming out of being the perpetrator,” Manfred said, noting that he grew up in West Berlin, which was surrounded by East Germany. Since he was born in the mid-1960s, he had a significant portion of his life influenced by the post-World War II era.
This background has led him to utilize psychodrama in extremely vital ways. A few days before we spoke via Zoom, Manfred had taken a group of Israelis and Germans, all descendants of either victims or perpetrators of the Holocaust, to Auschwitz-Birkenau, the largest of the Nazi concentration and death camps. His description of this effort helped explain the importance of psychodrama work.
“We developed a special method for giving classes in which descendants from the perpetrator and from the victims meet each other,” Manfred said. “We made a very deep ritual work with creative arts and psychodrama. Not putting any pressure on them . . . we do it in a very gentle and still powerful way.”
One of the guests was trying to connect with his relatives—he had lost at least 38 in the Holocaust. The man was “massively touched” by the experience, Manfred said. There were several exercises, including when the man at one point invited his ancestors on stage, as embodied by two volunteers. He was able to speak to “them” about any unfinished business. “He just wanted to tell them that he is there and that he is alive and that he tries to maintain the values that they have given him.”
But there was also a feeling of shame that they had been victims—what could have happened if the Jews had fought back. “It’s not a reasonable thought, but it’s a very strong feeling,” Manfred explained, adding that these volunteers of course had no answers. But then the psychodrama switches, and this man is now embodying his relatives. “He then answers the questions he asked them. It was very powerful.”
Another man, a descendant of a SS perpetrator, shared a room with this Jewish descendent, and they became friends after this experience, Manfred said. This man, concerned as many were about so many souls having died in the camps with no proper burial, collected what he imagined were their souls into paper airplanes, setting them aloft as if flying away from the camps. “Wow, it was so touching. Such a wave of joy came to me in that moment,” Manfred said.
Manfred also thinks hard about the current conflict, and says he makes choices not to work with certain Russian organizations, “as long as they are fighting against my friends.” But the group Baim runs is different, Manfred said, because it started before the war, and a trust was built.
“This is the only group that I personally know of where Ukrainians and Russians are together. This is a worldwide specialty,” he said. “Why is this possible? It’s two things. One is that Clark is a very special person. He is very, very good. And second this special history of a group that existed before the war. I think one week after the war started there was the last ordinary group meeting. So people came to that group meeting and they said, ‘We can’t stop that work. It’s exactly what is now needed in this situation. And those people had established a kind of trust with each other.”
On the support group calls, Manfred said it is sometimes hard to hear the discussions of national pride and identity, as they can cross the line into nationalism. When he would travel in Europe as a young man, he experienced the intense hatred focused on him simply because he is German. “I was spit on by two old French ladies,” he said. “So I didn’t develop the feeling of ‘I love my country.’ It was much more like ‘I better not love my country.’”
As for Baim’s support group, Manfred has stayed with it because it has “in a way, saved me over this very hard time. I have also lost a personal relationship to one of those Ukrainian friends. Which was very, very hard for me. I feel a deep connection to those people [in the group]. Even if some I’ve never met in reality. [There is an] appreciation for each other. It’s a good feeling.”
Support from the top
Since last fall, Zelenska has been promoting her National Program of Mental Health and Psychosocial Support, including in an April 2023 interview for Vogue Ukraine. Asked whether she feels burnout, she responded, “I can hardly separate myself from others: the conditions are the same, the feelings are the same . . . The adrenaline that has kept me going all this time is running out. And it isn’t yet clear how long we have to keep going, but we understand that we have to keep going, so we must take stock of how much strength we have left. We all have to bear our responsibilities and work.”
Zelenska also launched the Olena Zelenska Foundation, “aimed at humanitarian aid to Ukrainians, restoration of schools and hospitals.” according to President Zelenskyy’s website.
Also in April, Zelenska wrote a column for NV magazine on the program. The president’s website notes that according to the results of surveys, more than 90 percent of Ukrainians during the Russian invasion had manifestations of at least one of the symptoms of an anxiety disorder.
“Just imagine: these are nine out of ten people—in transport, in the office, in a store, in a trench,” Zelenska wrote. “Outwardly, they are mature, balanced, courageous people. Inside, they are traumatized and in need of help. And at the same time, a third of Ukrainians tend to downplay their mental problems as if it’s not appropriate during the war or it’s a ‘sin to complain.’”
In May of this year, the Center for Strategic & International Studies in Washington, D.C. hosted a conversation with Zelenska on the impact of the war on the country’s health care infrastructure and the mental health of its citizens.
Her program was launched last fall in an event organized by the United Nation’s Children’s Fund (UNICEF) in Ukraine. At the event, Zelenska said: “Thousands of Ukrainian children witness death, their lives are threatened, they face danger and fears, and they all unexpectedly become mature. But they remain children and vulnerable. We can’t allow the burden of their experience to ruin their future.”
“Children and young people who are at home, at a playground or at school, often fear for their lives and run to shelters multiple times each day,” UNICEF Ukraine representative Murat Sahin said at the launch. “Children who are exposed to trauma, separated from their daily routines, impacted by war and scared from constant air raid sirens need mental health support. We are committed to scaling up the national efforts led by the First Lady and building the capacity of teachers, communities, social workers and frontline health workers so that people learn self-help techniques for mental health issues, seek quality and affordable psychological and psychosocial support, and are not ashamed or hesitant to do it.”
UNICEF said this effort is being coordinated by the Ministry of Health of Ukraine. The initiative is implemented with the support of the World Health Organization (WHO).
WHO estimated 9.6 million Ukrainians will experience mental health issues of some kind. In WHO’s 75th World Health Assembly in 2022, Zelenska “spoke of residents of Kharkiv—who had been living underground in the subway for three months while the city was being shelled—who could not ‘psychologically bring themselves to rise up,’ leave the shelter and return to their homes,” WHO reported.
Other organizations outside of Ukraine are also trying to help. First Aid of the Soul is a U.S.-based nonprofit effort “supporting Ukraine’s Mental Health.” Their 2022 IRS tax-exempt letter shows them based in Roslindale, Massachusetts.
Another organization helping women and children affected by the war in Ukraine is the Woman and War Charity Foundation. One of the founders is a refugee living in the UK. They have a large group of affiliated psychologists offering help across Ukraine and internationally. They state on their website: “Our goal is to prevent psychological and mental disorders in women and children in Ukraine at an early stage and to reduce the acute trauma of war, thereby eliminating the terrible consequences of post-war life. Such as an increase in domestic violence, an increase in chronic illnesses, suicides, alcohol abuse and other addictions, mental disorders, including in children, and an increase in serious crimes, among them terrorism and murder.”
Meanwhile, even the critical health care infrastructure is not immune from attacks and crisis. A project documenting attacks on health care infrastructure said that the Russian Federation’s “aggression—leading to both targeted and indiscriminate attacks on Ukraine’s health care facilities, amongst other civilian infrastructure—constitutes a gross violation of international law.” As of mid-2023, they have documented 972 attacks on Ukraine’s health care system with 384 attacks damaging or destroying hospitals and clinics—and note that 145 health workers have been killed since the war began.
USAID steps in with support
Ahead of the Ukrainian visit in June, and timed for Mental Health Awareness Month in May, USAID released a video on Twitter about the mental health crisis. USAID Administrator Samantha Power, Zelenska and U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine Bridget A. Brink are featured.
“USAID is committed to assisting with the vast and growing demand for mental health services in Ukraine following Russia’s unjustified and unprovoked invasion,” a USAID spokesperson said in an email. “USAID’s efforts align with and support the goals of First Lady of Ukraine Olena Zelenska’s National Mental Health Initiative, which is championing and prompting the scale-up of mental health and psychosocial support services (MHPSS) nationwide.”
With the support of the U.S. Congress, USAID has committed nearly $36 million to support access to mental health services through a wide range of initiatives. This includes direct support to the First Lady’s All-Ukrainian Mental Health Program to develop and roll out the national mental health communications campaign, “How Are U?”
The June delegation to the U.S. included representatives from the Ministry of Health, the Office of the First Lady’s Mental Health Initiative leadership, the Center for Public Health, and heads or deputy heads of regional health administrations and regional centers for disease control and prevention. They visited Philadelphia and D.C. In Philadelphia, they met with the Health Federation of Philadelphia and Temple University. In Washington, they engaged with the Embassy of Ukraine, the U.S. Veterans Administration, the Department of Health and Human Services, and the Department of State
“The delegation learned about and observed models of mental health provision in the U.S., and learned about strategies for expanding workforce training, demand, and access to services among veterans and other key groups, which may be helpful for Ukraine in the future,” the spokesperson said.
In July, Samantha Power traveled to Kyiv to reaffirm America’s commitment to the country. Among her visits was a stop at the Save Ukraine Children’s Center, an organization backed by USAID. This includes supporting a hotline for emergency, humanitarian, legal, and psychological support.
On July 19, Power joined Zelenska on a visit to a USAID-supported mental health and psycho-social support service in Irpin, another town that Russia attacked in the early days of the war.
Power highlighted USAID’s support of mental health care for all the people in Ukraine, and that same day in Kyiv, she announced $15 million in additional development funding to further strengthen USAID’s mental health and psychosocial support programming in Ukraine, including through the First Lady of Ukraine’s All-Ukrainian Mental Health Initiative. Administrator Power also met with Zelenskyy to discuss the strength of the U.S. and Ukraine partnership
Lasting impact
“This is the most important work I do these days,” Baim said, reflecting on his work with the support group. “Seeing how [the members] speak about the group I know so well, I see them and understand them—and what the group means to them—in important new ways. The group is a reminder of the crucial role that we can play in offering emotional support during a crisis—a crucial function of an attachment relationship—which can help to make it far less likely that a person will be debilitated by trauma later on.
“The group members have also formed a support group that functions in and out of session. They communicate via private messaging, they support each other outside of group hours, and they help each other through this living nightmare of war. So this is far more than a psychotherapy group. It is a 24/7 support system.”
Baim said that just as the group members see this as a lifeline, he sees it as one for him as well, “because the group is a vital way of grounding me in a reality where I can be of some use, rather than a distanced bystander offering thoughts and prayers from the sidelines. I have also learned so much about survival and the human ability to adapt in the most extreme circumstances, and continue to be human, and to maintain a tender heart. It is impossible not to be inspired by the people in this group.”
My brother then pointed out the more personal connection he and I have with this work—our Jewish ancestors lived in that part of the world. They migrated to America in the late 1800s.
“For me, this is not an abstract solidarity,” Baim said. “These people are my brothers and sisters. After all, go three generations back, and where do our ancestors come from? They were war refugees, fleeing oppression, just like the people in this group, and they came from Ukraine, from Belarus, from Russia, from Poland, and from Germany. We share a common story. So when I call the people in this group my cousins, my brothers, my sisters, this is real—whatever side of the border they are on in this insane war.”
So where does this leave this small online support group? Based on what I saw and heard in the three sessions with these professionals, and in subsequent interviews, I believe I was witnessing the Butterfly Effect. Each participant is helping others, who in turn are helping others, who are themselves helping others—across Ukraine, into Russia, and in other parts of the world.
While the bombing continues outside some of their homes.
Resilient, persistent—and essential.
