The home is supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where the world’s dangers stop at the door. But when you grow up the child of a WWII survivor, your sanctuary can sometimes feel more like a fortress. My childhood was defined by routines that made no logical sense to me—curtains drawn, a complicated series of locks on every door, and a rule that information shared inside the house stayed strictly inside. It was only later I realized I was living in a constant state of defense, governed by Intergenerational Trauma, a survival mechanism.
When people search for Intergenerational Trauma, they are often trying to understand the lasting impact of historical events on their own daily lives. My family’s life was a case study in recognizing these subtle but profound symptoms:
For us, the phrase "getting out" was never figurative; it was always literal. While other families worried about chores or homework, our family established and practiced escape routes. We always had various defensive strategies in place, ready to be activated at a moment's notice.
One of our most immediate escape options was a specific basement window. Right next to that window, a sturdy ladder was always propped against the wall. It wasn't there for repairs or cleaning; it was an escape route, and its constant presence was a silent but heavy reminder of the possibility of necessary flight. We knew exactly how to open that window and how to climb that ladder.
Preparation went beyond the walls of the house. We didn't just plan how to leave - we planned how to find each other afterward. We established a predetermined meeting place several blocks away from the house. My mother, my father, and I would all meet there once we had escaped. This wasn't a hypothetical drill; about once a week, we practiced going to our meeting place.
But before you get the wrong idea, this exercise wasn’t done in a scary way. It was done in a fun, playful way. And yet, it’s an example of how intergenerational trauma shows itself.
The physical defense of the home—the locks, the routes, the hiding spots—was only half the battle. The other half was maintaining an absolute fortress of information. My mother operated with the constant, unspoken fear that anything we said could be used against us. Secrecy was not a preference; it was a fundamental pillar of our survival. We learned to speak in code, or often, not to speak at all. Questions about family history, money, or even future plans were met with tight-lipped avoidance.
It goes without saying that nobody outside the family—not teachers, not friends, not acquaintances - was ever to know about our plans, nor about how our defensive home was set up. We weren't even to hint that we had any plans in the first place. This absolute boundary reinforced a painful lesson: that trust was a luxury you could not afford.
If escape was impossible, the strategy shifted to concealment. Within the home itself, we had established hiding places. There was an empty box which, from the outside, looked exactly like a dresser. We could hide inside that box, disappearing into plain sight. Furthermore, some closets were intentionally structured to appear narrower than they actually were, creating false backs or ends where we could squeeze in and hide from a quick inspection. These were the physical lessons of survival, taught by someone whose life depended on making oneself invisible.
The most telling sign of this ingrained, defensive mindset is how it follows us, even into adulthood. I remember the intense uneasiness I felt in a modern high-rise apartment because it was too high to jump from - that panic button of my survival training was still active.
So how does one overcome this intergenerational trauma? The first step is simply to recognize where it comes from. In order to break the cycle, we need to consciously choose safety and connection rather than constant defense.
It means replacing the fear of betrayal with secure boundaries and acknowledging that your parent's survival strategies do not have to define your life today. Our parents built a fortress to survive their past; we must choose to build a sanctuary for our future.