The defense of humanity

By Iya Kiva

Originally appeared @Krytyka

In war, poetry is definitely not a soldier. It’s more like a shout instead of a gunshot. That’s why Ukrainian poets often remind me of people who, after a car crash, are the first ones to rush into the lane of oncoming traffic, desperately calling for help.

"What can poetry do in times of war?" is a question I hear during almost every interview. Sometimes it's asked invoking the famous phrase of Theodor Adorno, who, undoubtedly, during the course of Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, must have turned in his grave more than once. Sometimes people ask about it trying to focus solely on culture, as if such a peculiar entity as the Russian Federation could be dismantled merely through noble cultural intentions; sometimes it's asked with a sincere attempt to understand whether poetry can truly achieve anything at all, or at least something. If we were to promptly answer this question, the response would be concise, direct, and rather unpleasant: poetry in war can achieve nothing. Poetry can't close the Ukrainian sky, kill the enemy, shoot down a Russian missile, rebuild a destroyed home, stop the bleeding, or perform a surgical operation to save a life. Poetry can never replace weapons or tactical medicine. And it's so obvious that repeating these statements out loud feels a bit awkward.

In war, poetry is definitely not a soldier. It's more like a shout instead of a gunshot. That's why Ukrainian poets often remind me of people who, after a car crash, are the first ones to rush into the lane of oncoming traffic, desperately calling for help. They stand there bewildered, shocked, with faces distorted in terror, clumsily waving their arms, and sometimes they just lie right in the middle of the road if another car refuses to stop. Poetry in war is a scream, a howl, a plea, a shriek, a clamor, a roar, a lament. It's a great collective mouth searching not for the most precise words in the best sequence but a way to make oneself present through sound, so that people who haven't experienced the Russian-Ukrainian war in their own lives can feel it the way we, Ukrainians, feel it.

But this experience varies, and the positions from which the war vomits itself out with a scream are also different. For many Ukrainian poets, whose verses would do honor to any European literary tradition, these positions, without any inappropriate comparisons, are fiery. After all, poems don't kill. That's why today these authors are not sitting at comfortable writing desks or on stages at international festivals but in trenches, mud, under constant enemy fire. And if they are seeking something now, it's not inspiration or publishers, but mainly equipment and money for the needs of the units where they serve.

However, do people beyond Ukraine's perimeter want to hear this scream? Well, that's a good question. Typically, people who shout don't look very appealing. They evoke a desire to step back, avoid interaction, limit contacts. So it's not surprising that a vast number of people worldwide manage to pretend as if the Russian-Ukrainian war doesn't concern them. Listening to a person who is shouting means taking on their problems as your own, urging them to act, ultimately taking away time from your own life. That's why this empathy test is a face-off with oneself every time. It's always easier to look at someone else's suffering when it has become history than trying to build a protective dam of values to slow down this stream of pain here and now. For some reason, the fact that the Russian-Ukrainian war is not just Ukraine's problem and touches on so many things — from the prospect of hunger in Global South countries to the architecture of the future world — doesn't resonate with everyone. The Russian-Ukrainian war is not just a war between two states, where the aggressor, Russia, wants to destroy Ukrainian identity as an idea and Ukrainian statehood as a concept. The Russian-Ukrainian war is an attempt to make the world as it was before 1945 "great again," normalizing dictatorship as a way of existence, conflicting with this world's longstanding efforts to promote negotiation, discussion, parity, openness, diversity, and sensitivity.

What can poetry achieve where politics seems powerless? It can become that politics, reaching out a temporal hand and, like guiding a little child, lead it into the future, cleansing words from the dirt of manipulation and propaganda, to once again remind us that evil is not a fairy tale invention but a very real thing: lethal, cynical, and ruthless. Because any respect for values always starts with respect for the words that represent these values. And any war always begins with a war of words (let's at least remember the Russian slogan "We can repeat") and later turns into a field of blood.

But what are we to do with all these words about war? Despite the fact that human history is a history of wars, and the history of literature is a history of stories about people's lives before, during, and after the war, sharing the experience of war with others is almost impossible. Like any existential experience, it is untranslatable. After all, everyone enters the war with their own background, their own physical and psychological characteristics, and they look at it from their own life, gender, geographic, or spatial perspective. Even when people sit in the same trench — or, if we are talking about civilians, live in the same city or even the same building — the same war for each person is a different war every time. From this perspective, all stories about war are a library of dictionaries where words mean the same and yet never coincide in meanings.

The war, meanwhile, continues its narrative. Once unleashed, it never falls silent, diligently constructing its own vocabulary, much like a first-grader meticulously assembling her first word list: "bledina," ^[1] "povnomasshtabka," ^[2] "Pushkinists," "bavovna," ^[3] "arta," ^[4] "yansur," ^[5] "chmobniks" ^[6]... War isn't just about combat. It's also about the words we use to describe it, how and what we talk about out loud and in our thoughts, on the streets and in our kitchens, on the front lines and in the rear, among adults and children, within the country and beyond its borders, with like-minded individuals and opponents... All wars eventually come to an end, but the words remain. In the struggle for victory, people contend not only for the geographical map shaped by the victors but also for their own narrative about the war, their version of events, history, and the boundaries of their future. Considering the history of the Ukrainian nation, the current Russian-Ukrainian war is also a battle for the right to speak and be heard. Subjugation by an empire forces not only the language of the aggressor (not just Russian as a dominant language but also the language of aggression itself, the normalization of aggression within narrative structures) but also silence. When victims and witnesses remain silent, the actions of the aggressor go unpunished. This is due not just to a lack of testimony but primarily to the absence of those details in the description of events that make reality real, white — white, black — black, and truth — truth.

Of course, in today's open and globalized world, news emerges almost instantly after events, making it easy to draw conclusions about what is happening in Ukraine today. Each Russian rocket that falls on Ukrainian soil, taking the lives of dozens, sometimes hundreds of people, speaks for itself, without words. It's enough to capture a photo or video and share it on social media. After all, Russia's full-scale war against Ukraine is the most extensively documented conflict in human history. But the relentless accounting of death and the statistics of destruction not only make the war visible but also blur its face, transforming its piercing voice into background noise, depopulating it, generalizing it, imposing a hellish rhythm of counting, as in a child's counting game or a game of hide and seek. Only when you open your eyes do you realize the war never intended to hide. Russians don't conceal their actions either. So-called Russian propaganda is an anti-mask net that doesn't withstand the first battle and unravels; most of the time it unravels before even reaching the battlefield because lies are always a sign of cowardice.

Poetry is never deceitful, at least if we are talking about true poetry. If poetry deceives, it's bad poetry. Poetry doesn't vie for power for itself like politicians, unburdened by inner moral codes and a sense of responsibility. Poetry competes for the power of language for everyone — unlike, say, Putin, obsessed with the idea of stopping and subduing time, turning it from linear to mythological, as if it were a bird that could be confined in a cage. Every poet knows for sure that mastering the language through which this time manifests itself is impossible, and that there is no complete, absolute, or final power over language. Like democracy, language needs to be mastered every day. As soon as someone becomes convinced that the language belongs to them, it shows them its tongue. As soon as the meaning of a word begins to waver, like a tooth about to fall out of its rightful place, poetry takes its instruments in hand and seeks metaphors that can preserve, restore, or replace this meaning. As soon as words start to fade, like from a sudden illness to which the language has no immunity yet, poetry retreats into the laboratory of senses and starts working on a vaccine. Of course, literature in general engages in this, but poetry has a special sensitivity to changes, alerting society to earthquakes where others still don't feel a tremor. It makes even less sense for poetry to lie during war. An experienced and information-saturated reality depletes people's emotional resources so quickly that fatigue engulfs every thought, just like weeds overtake the soil where colorful flowers once bloomed. So, if people have the strength left to read at all, the texts they read should touch them no less than the war itself. What role does poetry play in this context? At the very least, it becomes a training ground for sincerity. It's the kind of sincerity with which a child utters words aloud that adults would never dare to say. Sometimes, it does so painfully with its uncompromising nature, and sometimes, it brings relief. After all, the Russian-Ukrainian war is not just a slowly unfolding event in time and space (lasting since 2014 or 2022), but also a complex and painful conversation with oneself. This conversation will only intensify after the war ends. Ukrainians over many generations will need patience, honesty, and courage to engage in it, like stepping into the icy water and trying to toughen their spirit and body. The consequence of the Russian-Ukrainian war, which exhibits all signs of genocidal destruction through identity, will be a profound transgenerational trauma. This trauma will affect not only those Ukrainians who directly experienced the war but also those who, hopefully, will never have it as part of their lived experience. It will manifest in the daily practices of these people, in uncontrollable reactions, in narrative structures, in their imaginations, and in the horizons of their dreams.

Thinking about this, I recalled Mikołaj Grynberg's book, I Accuse Auschwitz. His interviewees, even though they were from the second generation who hadn't witnessed the war or the Holocaust firsthand, often emphasized that Hitler didn't lose in World War II. From their childhood, as far back as they could remember, their lives were distorted by war, ruined, mutilated, and poisoned. War becomes a slow-acting poison that we will pass on to our children through sperm, saliva, milk, and blood type, despite our sincere desire to shield them from it. But they will still see its imprints on our faces (will these marks ever wash away?) and hear its ugly voice even in our silence. It's bitter to admit, but the war will poison everything for us: Ukrainian soil, air, fields, forests, rivers, seas (the ecological consequences of this war merits a separate lengthy discussion), and first and foremost, our hearts, although you won't see that on any cardiogram.

Can poetry become an antidote? Claiming that would be a bit audacious. Too many things need to be part of such an antidote. However, poetry can certainly be its essential component. Trauma usually hides at first, then resurfaces... again and again, like a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime. By robbing people of their language, casting them into the darkness of silence and numbness, just like throwing them into prison, trauma takes away their voice. Words, on the other hand, offer hope for liberation. If not from the experience itself, then at least from the chains of pain and horror, which, through memory and recollection, bind people to events they would never willingly be a part of. In the end, trauma and poetry have much in common. Neither speaks directly; instead, they resort to allegories, allusions, and metaphors to avoid inflicting even greater pain. So what, if not poetry, should address the war traumas of Ukrainian society?

To endure the war and simply survive, people clench their emotions into a fist, plunging themselves into a state of forced numbness, like a river freezing under a thick layer of ice to last the winter. And it's understandable: existing in survival mode and going through such an ordeal is an immense strain on the psyche. As long as the war continues, Orpheus can't afford to look back at the path he has already traveled. Doing so would mean turning into stone. Moreover, the road ahead is long and uncertain. To keep paving this path toward victory and peace, Ukrainians need to feel alive, no matter how difficult it may be. After all, war is not just about deaths, injuries, assaults, destruction, and homelessness; it's primarily the loss of the basic sense of security and, consequently, confidence in one's own ability to influence a given situation. I certainly don't want to say that Ukrainians live in constant fear, not at all, but going through the experience of war is akin to walking through a burning forest blindfolded. Courage is needed to take even one step, and being unaware of the dangers is simply impossible. Moreover, there are no safe places in Ukraine today. There are only more dangerous and less dangerous areas, those closer to the front and the border with Russia and those farther away. However, no one can predict which populated area the Russians will shell tomorrow.

In 1958, Paul Celan wrote that poems were an attempt to resist reality, appropriate it, and make it visible. Transposing his words into today's Ukrainian realities, I believe that poetry during wartime creates a safe or, rather, permissible space for experiencing emotions. It's a space where you don't have to answer the question "How are you?" with "I'm fine;" a space where you don't have to pretend to be stronger than you are; a space where it's okay to cry, scream, and break all the dishes in the house, or conversely, just to stay silent without hiding the fragility and vulnerability behind the grand robes of words. Complaining during wartime in Ukraine is not the norm. The feelings of solidarity and the necessity of constant mutual help, on which the strength of Ukrainian resistance is based, are cemented by looking up to those who do more, risk more, suffer more, and are more threatened. The natural egoism that any person might have in a situation where survival is a communal matter takes a back seat, as war is a complex ecosystem of military, volunteer, and civilian movements working towards a common goal. And each individual in this system is a great force.

The continuous blurring of lines between ways of life and mere survival, however, erodes one's sense of self and depersonalizes their experiences. Poetry, on the other hand, restores to people the sense that they are still human, that their feelings, lives, and they themselves are still important, that life itself is still valuable. I don't particularly like discussions about the psychotherapeutic dimension of war poetry (such interpretation is quite a clumsy simplification), but there is still a certain analogy here: poetry also works not with social or material problems, which cannot be reduced to the life of any individual, but primarily with the soul, in its own sensitive and delicate way. This struck me the most in conversations with refugees when I volunteered at the Lviv train station in the spring of 2022: people simply wanted to feel human. Obviously, no one expressed this desire out loud in exactly those words. It was just evident that in those days of general confusion, people needed not only food, things, or specific information but also care, support, hugs, and smiles. Poetry, in essence, does just that — it helps restore sensitivity to life, much like physiotherapists help work out muscles after a severe fracture and a long period in a cast, forcing individuals, with the perseverance of Sisyphus, to repeat the same exercises every day. It's painful and reduces pain at the same time. But there are, of course, no guarantees that mobility will fully return. Poetry doesn't promise that pre-war life will eventually come back; poetry, essentially, never promises anything to its readers, except perhaps quick emotional relief or, on the contrary, long-term rehabilitation. But if I had to name just one thing that poetry does during the war, I would say its most crucial task is to defend humanity. The righteous, almost biblical Ukrainian anger not only helps us persevere through wartime but also eats away, scorches, and destroys us from within. I personally will never be able to forgive the fact that the Russians made the Ukrainian people wish them death from morning till night. This is perhaps the case where blessing one's enemies, as commanded in the Holy Scriptures doesn't work very well, to put it mildly. War, with its unique ethical perspective, has already placed too many things related to good and evil in parentheses. Ukrainians undoubtedly have the right to a full range of negative emotions toward the Russians. However, I still can't forgive them for turning our lives from plans for the future, carefree laughter, genuine joy, unquestionable happiness, and some birdlike lightness of being into rage for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The absolute majority of poems written by Ukrainian poets today are about war. This theme, like a crazed terrorist, has taken them hostage and refuses to set them free. However, I see these texts as declarations of love for the Ukrainian land, with all its people, animals, plants, birds, and insects. At the same time, the fact that many Ukrainian authors continue to speak about love amid the bloody storm of war and maintain a defense of love against Russian evil continues to impress and captivate me. It means that love exists even in hell; Ukrainians know this for sure now. However, when I talk about love, I don't mean poems about romantic love or love as one of the poetic motifs. Instead, I'm talking about the way poetry is being written in Ukraine today. In literary history, these poems will probably be classified as war poetry, and they will be labeled as grim, heavy, and depressing. Yet, when I read them, I think of something else: how much light, humanity, strength of spirit, love for life, and faith in one's people are present in these texts.

The most famous Ukrainian victory slogan ("We believe in the Armed Forces of Ukraine") is also about this belief. Believing in the Ukrainian military means believing in ourselves, as it includes university professors who lectured us just yesterday, doctors who treated us for years, taxi drivers we chatted with about life on the way home, baristas for whom we frequented the same café for years, actors whose brilliant performances added light to our lives... The level of horizontal ties in Ukrainian society during the war, when it seems like everyone in the country knows each other through a few handshakes, is also about this love. After all, what do we, Ukrainians, have besides love, trust, and faith in our neighbors and fellow human beings?

This is what poetry does during the war: diligently, like a court stenographer recording every testimony, it chronicles Ukrainian fury and love. I regret that poems can't serve as witnesses in military tribunals; they can only testify in the court of history. Poetry possesses an exceptionally long memory, and preserves it in its purest form. A long time ago, when the Russian-Ukrainian war in its modern iteration was just beginning, my friend from Kyiv asked me, "Why do you write poems about the war? No one will read them afterward." Today, he probably thinks differently because now he is a refugee, just like me. But back then, in 2016, there was still a considerable buffer zone between him and my occupied Donetsk in the form of free Ukrainian land, over which Iranian-supplied drones hadn't circled, and Russian missiles hadn't flown overhead.

But really, who will read all these war poems? Will each poem find its recipient, or will they remain unanswered letters that return to the sender? Since the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine, so many war poems have been written that it seems like it would take several lifetimes to read them all, not to mention trying to synchronize and empathize with every experience through the text.

Clearly, the societal demand for war poetry after its conclusion will not be as significant as while the war is ongoing. Alongside those who will repeatedly attempt to make sense of Ukrainians' war experiences, there will be people eager to quickly forget it all. Most likely, their reactions will echo sentiments like "How much longer can we talk about war? Let's move on already." To live or to remember; to remember in order to live; to live in order to remember; to forget in order to live — these and other questions surrounding individual memory practices and commemoration will become a distinct challenge for Ukrainian society and Ukrainian poetry.

Thinking about why we need so many war poems, I don't really have an answer. Poetry rarely arises from pragmatism. However, to me, all these poems are like medicine on the shelves of the nearest pharmacy. Usually, none of us buys the entire range of pharmacy supplies at once, but at least we know that we can always find there what we need at the right moment.

Footnotes

1. ^{^} Ukrainian slang for a Russian missile but it can be translated literally as "deadly ugly bitch."
2. ^{^} Full-scale war.
3. ^{^} Ukrainian word for "cotton" which is described to use attacks within Russian territory.
4. ^{^} Ukrainian artillery.
5. ^{^} “Anaboy yansur” = inversion of “Yobana rusnya” a.k.a. “Fucking Russians.”
6. ^{^} Mobilized Russians who look like schmucks

Iya Kiva
Poet, translator, journalist
Lviv, Ukraine
Member of the Ukrainian PEN. Born in 1984 in Donetsk, graduated from the Faculty of Philology of the Donetsk National University (2006). In 2014, after the Russian occupation of Donetsk and the beginning of the Russian-Ukrainian war, she moved to Kyiv.The author of the poetry collections "Further from Paradise" (2018; bilingual) and "The First Page of Winter" (2019).The winner of the II poetry tournament named after Nestora Litopystsia (2019), laureate of the special award "LitAccent" (2019), the translation award "Metaphor" (2020).

Translated by Yulia Lyubka and Kate Tsurkan.

The "War Is… Ukrainian Writers on Living Through Catastrophe" essay project is created with the support of Ukrainian Jewish Encounter (UJE), a Canadian charitable non-profit organization.