I Am a Victim of Totalitarianism
I am a victim of totalitarianism.
I was born in 1979, in the still-existing Soviet Union—a state built on fear, silence, and the destruction of individuality. My childhood unfolded inside a system that shaped not only my daily behavior, but also the emotional climate of my entire family (Figes 27). Even after the USSR collapsed, the psychological consequences of totalitarianism continued to live quietly inside our home, in our habits, in our anxieties, and in the way we understood ourselves in the world. I did not simply inherit trauma—I was raised inside it, breathing it in like air. Scholars of trauma emphasize that children growing up in authoritarian systems internalize fear long before they can intellectually understand it (Herman 89). This was the foundation on which my early identity was built.
From the earliest years of my life, fear lived side by side with ordinary routines. It was an emotion adults rarely named, but one I felt in the tone of conversations, in the way my relatives lowered their voices, and in their hesitation to express opinions openly. I grew up watching people measure every word. I learned early on that safety depended on silence and caution—patterns deeply rooted in Soviet society (Figes 89). These behaviors were not personality traits; they were survival skills passed down through generations who had learned that a careless sentence could destroy a life. Even long after the political system changed, the emotional memory of danger remained.
When I first read George Orwell’s 1984, I felt as if I were reading a mirror of the world that had shaped the generations before me. The novel’s “fictional dystopia” did not feel fictional at all—it felt familiar. Orwell describes a society where people wear identical clothing, live in identical apartments, repeat the same slogans, and fear any thought that challenges official ideology (Orwell 45). That was the landscape of my childhood: identical concrete apartment blocks, mandatory political lessons, and the constant sense that someone might be watching. Scholars argue that Orwell was not merely describing one country, but the psychological logic of all totalitarian systems, including the Soviet one (Orwell 102). His words helped me understand that what I experienced was not random—it was designed.
What struck me most deeply was Orwell’s idea that people eventually accept the system as normal. After generations of repression, this psychological phenomenon becomes predictable: totalitarianism reshapes the human mind until obedience feels natural (Orwell 102). The Soviet system had the same effect. People adapted so completely that the boundaries of the system became the boundaries of their thinking. Many did not recognize their own oppression because it had become the defining texture of their lives. This acceptance is perhaps the most dangerous victory of totalitarian power.
Even children were not protected from the pressure to conform. Schools taught loyalty to the state above all else and encouraged obedience. A careless comment could lead to disastrous consequences, especially if repeated outside the home. Families taught caution because they knew that innocence protected no one (Conquest 54). This created a culture in which trust was fragile, and emotional expression was limited. Children learned not only academic subjects but also the unspoken rules of survival: Do not stand out. Do not speak loudly. Do not question authority.
Silence became both a shield and a prison. Even after the collapse of the USSR, the instinct to stay quiet continued to shape the emotional world of millions. Trauma survived the end of the regime because it had already entered people’s hearts—psychological trauma, as scholars note, can persist across generations (Herman 89). A system that ruled by fear did not vanish simply because the political structure fell. It continued through behaviors, anxieties, and learned helplessness.
There is not a single Ukrainian family that avoided the reach of repression. Some lost relatives in execution chambers beneath NKVD, the Soviet Union’s secret police buildings; some were dispossessed during forced collectivization; some endured the Gulag (Snyder 211). In my family, these stories were rarely told directly. Instead they lived in long pauses, in cautious looks, and in the instinctive lowering of voices when discussing the past. Trauma was inherited not through stories, but through silence. Sociologists explain that silence itself becomes a powerful transmitter of historical suffering (Herman 121). It tells children: something terrible happened here, and it is dangerous to speak of it.
Growing up in a society built on this collective wound meant absorbing certain survival behaviors: obedience, emotional restraint, suspicion, and fear. My mother, who inherited these patterns from her parents, constantly reminded me: “Speak quietly. Don’t draw attention. Don’t trust anyone.” These were not simply parental warnings; they were echoes of political terror. Totalitarianism had trained people to live as if danger was always watching.
One of the most horrifying chapters of our history was the Holodomor of 1932–1934—an artificial famine that killed millions of Ukrainians. It was a deliberate act of genocide (Applebaum 112). Among the most monstrous laws of that era was the “Law of Five Ears of Grain,” which punished starving families for picking up leftover grain. People died not because the land could not produce food, but because the regime demanded their starvation. Historians describe the Holodomor as one of the most calculated and brutal uses of food as a weapon in world history (Applebaum 145). Its psychological impact shaped entire generations.
Then, in 1991, everything changed—at least on the surface. Suddenly we heard, “You are free now. You have your own country.” But freedom is not something people understand overnight. How does a society that has been psychologically imprisoned learn to be free? Historians describe how liberated prisoners often need decades to reclaim normal life (Herman 121). Ukraine experienced the same psychological journey. The political system collapsed, but the emotional system remained intact.
For years—even decades—people continued to speak in whispers. They remained cautious and fearful, unsure whether freedom was permanent. Many did not trust the new government because they had never been taught to trust any government. They did not know how to express opinions openly because doing so had meant danger for generations. Sociologists argue that post-totalitarian societies often require multiple generations before civic identity fully develops (Snyder 315). Ukraine was no exception. In my family, the transition was equally slow. Conversations about politics were whispered.
In my family, the transition was equally slow. Conversations about politics were whispered. Emotions were contained. Danger was expected like an inevitable visitor. The internal alarm system—built from trauma—never slept. Yet even inside this atmosphere of caution, something new was slowly forming: the first real understanding of what it means to belong to a free country.
And yet, during these years of transition, I watched something change gradually but profoundly. A new generation began to emerge—one not shaped directly by Soviet terror. Young people traveled, learned new languages, discovered world cultures, spoke openly, and questioned the silence that had defined previous generations. They challenged old fears and refused to repeat inherited caution. Scholars note that generational distance from repression often becomes the turning point when identity transforms from survival to self-expression (Snyder 315).
They rediscovered Ukrainian music, literature, folklore, and art. They reclaimed traditions that had been suppressed or forbidden. They learned to call themselves Ukrainians proudly, without shame or hesitation. This transformation—from subjects to citizens, from silence to voice—became one of the most important processes in modern Ukrainian history.
And then—when Ukraine finally stood tall and began defining itself confidently—our freedom was attacked again.
Modern Russian aggression is not simply geopolitical. It is a deliberate attempt to return Ukraine to a totalitarian empire, repeating historical patterns of repression (Snyder 336). It is an attempt to erase Ukrainian identity, as was done repeatedly in the past. It is an attempt to force Ukrainians back into fear. But this time, something profoundly different happened.
Ukrainians refused to be silent. They refused fear. They understood freedom not as a slogan, but as human dignity. This understanding—earned through suffering, loss, and historical memory—became their greatest strength.
My own family paid the ultimate price. I lost two of my brothers in this war. Their loss is a wound that will never fully heal, but their courage is the reason I am alive today, writing these words. Their sacrifice reminds me daily that freedom is never abstract. It is paid for with human lives.
Understanding how totalitarianism shaped my family helps me understand myself. It explains why my relatives avoided conflict, why they feared attention, why they struggled to express emotions, and why they always prepared for danger. These were not personal flaws—they were psychological mechanisms shaped by decades of trauma (Herman 133). Now the responsibility falls on my generation—to break the cycle.
My daughters must inherit freedom, not fear. They must learn to speak without whispering, to dream without asking permission, and to live without expecting danger. They must learn to trust themselves and their country. This is the true meaning of generational healing: transforming inherited fear into inherited strength.
Totalitarianism is not just a political system. It is a psychological shadow that stretches across generations. But shadows disappear when new light is created. And that is exactly what Ukrainians are doing today. We remember the horrors of our past, and because we remember, we can build a different future—a future rooted in dignity, agency, and truth. A future worthy of the best among us—those who gave their lives so we could be free.
WORKS CITED
Applebaum, Anne. Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine. Doubleday, 2017.
Conquest, Robert. The Great Terror: A Reassessment. Oxford University Press, 1990. Figes.
Herman, Judith. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—from Domestic Abuse To Political Terror. Basic Books, 1992.
Orlando. The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin’s Russia. Metropolitan Books, 2007.
Orwell, George. 1984. Harvill Secker, 1949.
Snyder, Timothy. Bloodlands: Europe Between Hitler and Stalin. Basic Books, 2010.