October 23, 2022 Serhii Zhadan

Flash essays from the collection “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” tell about the insights, experiences, and beliefs of Ukrainians, which ignited their society in 2022, when the full-scale russian invasion of Ukraine began.

The Cultural Hub community and curators carefully collected, translated, and illustrated these texts in order to capture the values ​​of Ukrainians — Freedoms, Bravery, Dignity, Responsibility, and Humour. 

A series of publications in partnership with Chytomo introduces this collection to the English-speaking audience. Volume 33 continues to present the series. You can get acquainted with the previous collection here.

Serhii Zhadan: Let it be the text about other things than war. October 23 

He’s got black overworked hands: the machine oil burnt into his skin, and hardened under the nails. People with such hands are usually hard-working and plodding. The type of work is a different question. He is short in height, quiet and busy. He is staying there, trying to explain things about the situation in the combat, about his brigade, about the vehicles he needs to drive as a driver in one of the detachments. Out of a sudden, he would make up his mind and say:

— You are the volunteers, so, buy us a fridge.

— Why do you need a fridge in the battlefield?

— We struggle to understand.

— If you need one, though, let’s go to the supermarket, you choose one, we buy it for you.

Not that one, he explains.

— You took it wrong: I need a truck with a huge cooler. The refrigerator truck. To transport the killed. We keep finding the bodies staying in the sun for over a month, and we are taking them away with a mini bus, you can hardly breath in there.

He talks about the killed like about his job routine, reserved and thoughtful, with no bravado, and chill. We exchange the contact details. A week later, we found a refrigerator vehicle in Lithuania; we brought it to Kharkiv. He came along with his team; they pick up the truck with all the honors, and take photos for our report. This time, the guy is carrying weapon, wearing clean clothes. His hands, though, if you take a closer look, are still black. He is doing his job every day, it’s heavy work, and the hands are the best illustration for it.

What would the war change in the first place? The feeling of time, the feeling of space. The contour of perspective changes fast, the contour of time continuum. A man within the space of the war is trying not to make any plans for the future; they are trying to avoid thinking about the world that might come tomorrow. What matters is what is happening to you here and now; what makes sense are things and people staying with you by next morning, at most, if you survive and ever wake up. The key task is to survive, to make it at least through another half-day. Afterwards, later, you will figure out how to go on, how to act, what to lean on in this life, and what to rely upon. It is largely about the military, and also about those who stay as “civilians” (i.e. unarmed) in a zone close to death.

This is the kind of feeling you have been carrying since day one of the big war: it is the feeling of the time rupture, disrupted continuity, the feeling of compressed air, when it gets hard to breath under the pressure of reality; when it tries to push you out of life, to the other side, to another side of things visible. Compression of events and emotions, dissolution in a thick bloody stream enveloping and carrying you along: the war reality is crucially different from the peace reality in that compression; it is the pressure that takes away your breath and makes it hard to speak. Nonetheless, speaking is important. Even during the war. Especially during the war.

Also, the war certainly changes the language, its architecture, and the field of its functioning. Similar to the stranger’s boot, like a hostile ranger, the war disrupts the anthill of speech. Right after, the ants (aka the speakers of the disrupted language) are trying to hectically recover the destroyed structure, to regain order to where they used to live, and to what they were accustomed to have. After all, everything resumes its old ways. But the inability to resort to the customary mechanisms, or rather the inability of the previous, peace-time, pre-war constructs to describe your condition, to explain your rage, your pain, and your hope — this kind of inability is painful and unbearable. Especially when you are accustomed to trust the language, when you used to rely on its capacity that seemed next to inexhaustible. And here it turns out that the language capacity is limited. It’s limited by new circumstances, by a new landscape.

It is the landscape that settles within the space of death, the space of the catastrophe. The job of each individual ant is to recover the general coherence of the collective speech, of the collective phonation, communication, and understanding. Who is a writer in that case? He is the same ant, frozen like everyone else.

From the start of the war, we have been reclaiming the disrupted ability — the ability of comprehensible speaking. We are all trying to explain ourselves, our truth, the boundaries of our dislocation and trauma. In that case, literature may seem to have some more chances to cope. For it is genetically related to all the prior language-based disasters and divides.

How shall we talk about the war? How shall we manage intonations that contain so much despair, anger, insult, but also strength and readiness not to abandon your own and never to give up? I think the problem with speaking out the most important things today is not only about us but also about the world listening to us, who are not always able to understand one simple thing: we are speaking and implying a different level of linguistic emotiveness, linguistic tension, and linguistic openness. Ukrainian people do not have to apologize for their emotions but it would be good to explain those emotions. Why? At least to release all that pain and all that rage. We will be able to explain ourselves; we will be able to speak through everything that has happened to us and is still coming. We just need to be prepared that the talk will not be easy. In any case, it shall be started today.

Here, it seems relevant to highlight the different loading and coloring of our vocabulary. It may be about a different lens, about a different perspective, but mostly about the language. It may seem sometimes that the world is watching the developments of the recent six months in Europe’s East and using the vocabulary and definitions that can no longer explain what is happening. For example, what does the world mean (I do realize the ephemeral and abstract nature of this wording but I will still be using it) when talking about the need for peace? It might seem they mean the cessation of the war, the completion of the armed aggression, the moment when the fire ceases and it gets quiet. This may seem to be the thing bringing us to understanding. In fact, what do we, Ukrainians, want the most? We certainly want this war to end. We certainly want peace.

We certainly want the cessation of shelling. As for me, as someone who lives on the eighteenth floor in the city center of Kharkiv, where you can observe from the top floors how russians launch their missiles from the nearby belgorod, I keenly and badly want the rocket strikes to stop, the war to end, to return to the normalcy, to the natural existence. So, what do Ukrainian people keep finding so concerning in the statements of European intellectuals or politicians about the need for peace? It is certainly not the denial for the need of peace. It is rather the awareness that peace will not come simply because the victims of aggression laid down arms. Civilians from Butcha, Hostomel, and Irpin have never had any weapons. Which failed to save those people from the horrible death. Kharkiv people who keep suffering the regular and chaotic rocket fire from russians do not have any weapons in their hands, either. According to supporters of quick peace at any cost, what should they do? Where shall they see the line between supporting peace and not supporting resistance?

It’s just that the matter is, in my view, that when one talks about peace today, in the context of this bloody dramatic russia-unleashed war, some people do not wish to see a simple fact: peace never comes without justice. There are various forms of frozen conflicts. There are occupied territories. There are delay-action bombs disguised under political compromises.

But when we mean peace, the real peace, the peace that gives you the feeling of safety and future prospects, it does not exist, unfortunately. When accusing Ukrainian resolve not to surrender of being almost a sign of militarism and radicalism, some Europeans (I must admit, the share is small, but still) are making an incredible thing when they try to stay in their comfort zone, they well go beyond the boundaries of ethics. And that is not the question for Ukrainian people, that is the question to the world, whether it is prepared (or not prepared) to swallow yet another indiscriminate uncontrolled evil to please the disputable mercenary-mindedness and fake pacifism. 

For some, it turned out to be a rather convenient form of shifting the responsibility to others. They appeal to people who are saving their lives, when victims are accused, when the focus is shifted, and the good and positive messages are tampered with. On the other hand, it is much simpler: we are helping our army not because we want war but rather because we badly want peace. However, the soft low-key capitulation they are trying to sell to us under the disguise of peace will never lead to peaceful life and rebuilding of our cities. Capitulation and surrender of Ukrainians might help Europeans save on energy resources. However, how will the Europeans feel when they realize (and that will never be possible to ignore) that the heat in their homes has been paid by the destroyed lives and houses of people who also wanted to live in a peaceful and comfortable country?  

It’s just about the language. It’s about how precise and relevant we are about using certain words; how thoughtful our intonation is when describing our being at the crevice between life and death. How sufficient is our previous vocabulary, the vocabulary we used to be quite happy about when verbalizing the entire world? How sufficient is it now to verbalize our pain or empower us? After all, we are all in a position of speech we have never been before. Therefore, we have a shifted system of judgements and perceptions; our coordinates of meaning have changed; the boundaries of relevance have transformed. What might look like the conversations about death to the outsider, is frequently a desperate attempt to get hold of life, of its possibility, and of its continuity. Overall, where in this new broken and shifted reality does the topic of war end, and where does the topic of peace start? Refrigerator truck with dead bodies — is it still about the peace or already about the war?

Women who you take to places with no shelling — what kind of support is that? Is it for the peaceful conflict resolution? The tourniquet you bought for a soldier to save his life — is it still the humanitarian aid or is it already the support to combatants? And generally, is it the support to combatants fighting for you, for civilians staying in the basements, for children in the subway – does it go beyond the boundaries of the decent talk about kindness and empathy? Shall we be reminding about our right for further existence in this world, or is that right evident and unalienable? 

It worked out that today many things, phenomena, and concepts require the explanation, or at least the reminding, the new verbalization, the new perception. The war usually shows what people tend not to notice for a long time. The war is the time for uncomfortable questions and difficult answers. The war unleashed by the russian army would suddenly highlight a series of questions that go far beyond the context of the russian-Ukrainian relations. This way or other, in the coming years, we will have to talk on the uncomfortable topics: the topics of populism and double standards, the topics of irresponsibility and political conformism, the topic of ethics that turned out to have long and hopelessly disappeared from the vocabulary of decision-makers in charge of fateful aspects in the modern world. We may say that these topics concern politics. That we would have to talk about this, about the politics.

However, in this case, politics is merely a screen, the cover, the possibility to avoid the sharp corners, and call things for what they are. And that is what things need — they need to be called their names. To have crimes labelled as crimes. To have the freedom called freedom. To have the villainy called villainy. During the war, the lexemes sound especially sharp and clear. It’s hard avoiding them without hurting yourself. After all, why avoiding them? We should not.

It is sad and indicative: we are talking about the peace prize at the time when the war is raging in Europe, again. It is raging not so far away from here. It has been going on for many years now, in fact. For all those years, while the war continued, the peace prize has been awarded. Certainly, it is not about the prize as such. It is about how prepared Europe is today to take this new reality, the reality that has destroyed cities (and until recently you could still do business with them); the reality that has mass graves (with the buried citizens of Ukraine who could be coming to German cities to do shopping or visit the museums still yesterday); the reality that has filtration camps for Ukrainian people who were caught in the occupation (camps, occupation, collaborators — these words are hardly ever used in the everyday speech of Europeans).

The matter is also about the fact how we shall continue living in that reality — with the destroyed cities, with the burnt down schools, and decimated books. And most of all, with thousands of the killed people, those who used to live their normal peaceful lives still yesterday, who used to make the plans for the future, who used to take care of their routines, those who used to rely on their memory. 

It is important to mention memory here, and here’s why. War is not simply about a different experience. When you say so, you only notice the superficial and shallow things, those that light on the surface; when you talk about the things that describe a lot but explain a little. In fact, the war changes our memory filling it with too painful the memories, too deep the traumas, and too bitter the conversations. You will never be able to get rid of those memories, you will never be able to mend the past. From now on, it will always be part of you. The process of stiffness and resuming your breath, the experience of going silent and searching for the new language — it is too painful for you to be able to continue and carelessly talk about the beautiful world behind the window. Post-Butcha and post-Izium poetry is certainly possible. What is more, it is necessary. However, the shadow of Butcha and Izium, their presence will matter too much in the post-war poetry, and largely define its meaningfulness and tone. It is a painful but necessary realization of the fact that from now on the context of poems composed in your country will be the mass graves and the bomb decimated neighbourhoods. It does not add much optimism but it offers certain understanding that language requires our daily effort, our ongoing attention, and our engagement. After all, what do we have in order to speak ourselves out and to explain ourselves? Our language and our memory. 

Since the end of February, or since the start of the massacre, we have vividly felt how time was losing its regular rhythm, its continuity. In fact, it started resembling the winter river bed that freezes down to the bottom and stops the course, paralyzing everyone caught amidst the frozen flow. We have been caught amidst the dense stiffness, amidst the cold timelessness. I can vividly remember the helplessness, when you feel no movement, when you get lost amidst silence, when you are unable to see what is coming ahead, in front of you, obscure and silent. Wartime is the time of disrupted panorama, of broken communications between the past and the future; the time of extremely sharp and bitter feeling of the present, immersing into the space around you, focusing on the flooding moment. This includes certain signs of fatalism, when you stop making plans and thinking about the future, and try to take root in the present, under this specific sky that unfolds above you and is the only thing that resembles that the time is actually passing, the days are followed by nights, and the spring will surely be replaced by summer. And regardless of the consternation of your feelings, despite all stiffness, life will continue. It never stops, even for a single moment, and contains all our joys and fears, all our despair and all our hope.

It’s just that the distance between you and the reality has changed. The reality is now closer. The reality is now more scary. We will have to live with it from now on.

Is there anything else, in addition to language and memory? What else has changed about us? What is going to make us different in any circle, in any crowd? Might be the eyes. They absorb the external flame; now they will always contain that glow. The look of a person who glanced beyond the visible, who peered into the darkness and was even able to distinguish something there — this glance will always be different since it reflects the things too meaningful.

Back in spring, around May, we came to perform in a military unit who rotated to for some break, to rest after the lengthy heavy fighting. We have known the unit for a while now: we would frequently visit them with our performances since 2014. The suburbs of Kharkiv, new vegetation, football pitch, a small convention room. We know many combatants in person. Many of them, the old friends, originating from Kharkiv, joined the combat this spring. It is uncommon to see them in military uniforms, with guns in their hands. Eyes are uncommon, either. They resemble the solidified metal, like the glass reflecting the fire. It was two months into the great war, they managed to have already been out there in the trenches, under the russian fire.

And now they are standing there, smiling. In those eyes, you can see the two months of hell. “I have already been, — tells one of them, — in the hospital. russians were shooting the phosphorus bombs, and I caught one. But it’s OK, I am still alive and kicking. I am going back to the battlefield soon.” This is the case when you feel hard of answering — the language betrays you, the language is scarce, the appropriate words are still under way. But they will certainly arrive.

What is our language going to be after the war? What will we need to explain to each other? In the first place, we will have to say out loud the names of all those perished. They shall be named. Otherwise, it is going to be a huge disruption in language, the void amidst the voices, the chasm in memory. We will need much strength and faith to be able to talk about our killed in action. Because our vocabularies will be compiled of their names. However, we shall need no less force, confidence, and love to talk about the future, to voice it, to verbalize and frame it. We will need to recover our feeling of time, this way or another, the feeling of perspective, and the feeling of continuity. We are destined to have the future. Moreover, we are responsible for it. Today, it is built of our visions, of our convictions, of our readiness to assume responsibility. We shall be reclaiming our feeling of the future for our memory still keeps too many things that will require our engagement tomorrow. We are all bound by the stream that carries us and does not let us go, the stream that connects are. We are all connected through our language. Even if at some point, its capacity might seem limited and insufficient, we will still have to return to that capacity offering to us hope that in the future we will not have any things left unsaid or not comprehended. Language may seem weak sometimes. However, it is the source of power in many cases. It may leave you for some time but it can never betray you. It is the key and most defining thing. As long as we have our language, we have at least the vague chance to explain ourselves, to verbalize our truth, to straighten up our memory.

That is why we need to keep talking, let us talk. Even when our words hurt the throat. Even when they make you feel lost and empty. The opportunity for truth is behind the voice. And we should take this opportunity. It may be by far the most important thing that could ever happen to us.

Text of Serhiy Zhadan’s address at the award ceremony of the Peace Prize from the German Book Trade. Translation and publication made with the consent of the author.

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The editorial “rule of small letters” or the “rule of disrespect for criminals” applies to all the words related to evil, like names and surnames of terrorists, war criminals, rapists, murderers, and torturers. They do not deserve being capitalized but shall be written in italics to stay in the focus of the readers’ attention. 

The programme “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” has been created by joint effort and with the financial support of the institution’s members of the Cultural Business Education Hub, the European Cultural Foundation, and BBK — the Regensburg Art and Culture Support Group from the Professional Association of Artists of Lower Bavaria/Upper Palatinate.

Author: Serhii Zhadan

Translator (from Ukrainian): Svitlana Bregman 

Illustrators: Victoria Boyko and plasticine panel by Olha Protasova

Copyeditors: Yuliia Moroz, Terra Friedman King

Proofreaders: Iryna Andrieieva, Terra Friedman King

Content Editors: Maryna Korchaka, Natalia Babalyk

Program Directors: Julia Ovcharenko and Demyan Om Dyakiv-Slavitski