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             As the daughter of Italian Immigrants living in South America, life was not easy. We spoke Italian at home while my friends spoke Spanish. We had pasta for dinner, while my friends were served rice and black beans at their table. We were so different that I assumed my parent’s strictness, as I was never allowed to go on sleepovers, outings, and parties, was based on our differences.

            When I hit my teens in the late 70s, things got worse. I started fighting for every single inch of independence, that year I was forced to spend the summer with my grandmother from my mother’s side. I was 13 and that summer I would be punished for cutting school as freshmen, and almost failing the year.

Today, I realize that that summer was one of the most important gifts I have ever received, because the veil covering my parent’s strictness finally was removed.

            My Grandmother opened my eyes by revealing through story telling, some of my mother’s WW II experiences. I realized that their strictness was based on fear. My parents were afraid for me. They were afraid that I would experience any of the horrors that they had witness as children growing up during the war.

             I was relieved to find out that they didn’t just hate me, but was also devastated. I mean, how could I fight against that? I couldn’t but, did anyway. I fought to be allowed to go out; I fought to be able to have a boyfriend,

            “Can I go to the movies?” I was 16,

            “No.”

            “Why not?” I asked

            “Because I say so,” they would always answer.

There was no reasoning, no explanation…I fought so much and so often, that I did earn my limited independence, but lost any hopes of a relationship with any of my parents. I was angry. I resented the fact that they wouldn’t talk to me, they didn’t care enough to share with me their thoughts, but wanted to dictate my life anyway.

            Then at 19, I broke down fighting with my mother,

            “I hate you because when ever I need you the most, to let me cry on your shoulder, all you do is to push me away, deeper into the abyss!” I cried, not expecting anything back from her.

            “That is because you are weak…I need…I must make you stronger or you wouldn’t be able to survive.” My mother whispered.

            “Survive? Survive what?” I yelled,

            “War, Life! You have no idea of what you could be forced to face, you have to be strong…I must...” she was sobbing.

            I hugged my mother not knowing what she had witnessed, or suffered, I didn’t know what she had been forced to face. Our relationship started to heal, as she opened up to me.

            With my father it would take a lot more time and a lot of more effort. I got a glimpse of how long Post-traumatic stress can affect people’s lives in 1989 when riots broke in Caracas, Venezuela, which left a death toll of hundreds. After things calmed down, my father ventured out of the house to get bread, and found himself in a block long line, guarded by very nervous and rude uniformed eighteen year old kids, holding machine guns. He felt in Tripoli again, during WW II, when he faced the same situation as a 10 year old boy. His life went through his eyes and he went back home and started packing. In short, he decided to sell out all that he had built in 30 years and move to the US.

            His reaction was humbling. He was letting go of 30 years of his life…I needed to learn more about him… I left Venezuela with my parents and got settled in the US. As I got busy with my own life and started creating my own family, I got an idea,

            “Dad, if you tape some of your anecdotes, I could type them for your grandchildren…” I said to hear no response.

            I got my wish, and more a couple of years later. My father’s gift was himself in the shape of 5 tapes.

            In the end, I got my parents only when I stopped judging them and started empathizing, started understanding and accepting them. I started forgiving, and accepting that they were extraordinary people, because they were able to re-build their lives, in spite of their traumas, and they did this on their own.

            A desire to spend time with them took over the need to ask why and so they opened up even more, a conversation at a time.

            In those days, when I was growing up in Venezuela, the term of Post-traumatic stress was not known. Yet thousands of people like my parents, war survivors, migrated to other countries as they dared to dream again. It was a simple dream; they just wanted a peaceful life. They all did the best they could.

            It is up to us, the ones who live and love post-trauma stress sufferers to accept them not judge them. They are not the same, so it is unfair for us to expect them to behave like nothing has happened. They need space, time and a lot of patient love and understanding.

             But today no one has to face post-traumatic stress alone anymore. There are organizations such as The National Center for Post-traumatic Disorder dedicated to the study, treatment and education to help War veterans and their families. (For more information visit their website: www.ncptsd.va.gov/ncmain/index.jsp )

            One of the things that I learned growing under the PTSD effects is that there is good out of bad. If it wasn’t for my father’s flashback in 1989, and his reaction to the Riots, we would have never moved to the US and would be living right now a very difficult situation in Venezuela.

            Today my parents live a peaceful life among their children and grandchildren. They still do the best they can, they still dare to dream. As I discovered through my journey of getting to know them through Innocent War, to tell their story was one of their dreams.