‘The Language of War’ by Oleksandr Mykhed: But lead us not into the temptation of forgiveness

The drama of the events of the Russian-Ukrainian war has been driving writers, who are generally accustomed to portraying reality in a more artistic light, to become documentarians and reporters in order to create a narrative about the tragedy of the Ukrainian people and their resistance to the Russians, whose crimes have become innumerable.

Most of the documentary books I know on Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukrainian lands describe the first few months of this war. “The Language of War”* seems to be one of the first ones that reflects one whole year. Oleksandr Mykhed mixes plots, quotes, and narration methods.

* The original Ukrainian title, “Pozyvnyi dlya Yova,” translates as “The Call Sign of Job.”

Documenting “denazification”

The book contains a great deal of personal information because, unfortunately, the author and his relatives felt firsthand the impact of Russian “denazification” (as Putin’s propagandists refer to the process of Russification and eradication of Ukrainian culture). The walls of their apartments were also “denazified.” Therefore, the writer knows what it is like to be a refugee or live under occupation, and not just from mass media and social networks. He also knows a bit about the army from his own experience. Everything else discussed in the book is indirectly related to the author’s personal experience.

Some of the things discussed in the book include the atrocities committed by the Russians in Hostomel, a city near Kyiv where the author and his wife lived until February 24, 2022, and in Bucha, where his parents (also literature connoisseurs) had moved six months prior to the invasion. At a certain point, the Hostomel story turns out to be linked to that of Mariupol. The former coordinator of “titushky” (civilian groups organized by pro-Russian forces in Ukraine to attack demonstrators, activists, etc.) reaches a new milestone in his career in Hostomel: during the full-scale invasion, he would become one of the leaders of the Mariupol occupation administration…

The Bucha story relates how the writer’s parents survived under the occupation authorities for nearly three weeks. The story of the young artist Anya Mishchenko and her mother Tamila amplifies this plot. Following the story about their attempt to get out of Bucha, the author segues into the wider topic of the impact of Russian aggression on Ukrainian children.

“Blue Van – White Van. Anya and the Children of War” is the longest chapter in the book, one in which the writer alternates between the story’s various rhythms: a dynamic start of events, followed by several blocks of fading action and suspense in which the author presents the Bosnian War Childhood Museum and its Ukrainian branch, research on what it was like to be a child during the Holocaust, as well as fragments from materials collected by the novelist about the impact of war on children, and only after that, the long-awaited culmination and denouement of the interrupted plot and an essay-like conclusion.

“Escape to Death –Testament of Bucha” by AusserGewoehnlich Foundation in Berlin. The “white van”.

Structure and problems

The structure of the book is not overly complicated. The texts of Oleksandr Mykhed himself are occasionally interrupted either by the direct discourse of respondents or by fragments of the chronicle of war crimes recorded by lawyer Roksolyana Gera. The book contains interviews with the following four individuals: military officer Yevhen Tereshchenko, journalist Yevhen Spirin, artist Lara Yakovenko, and literary scholar and mother of the author Tetyana Mykhed.

The interviews are retrospective in nature, briefly touching upon the previous stages of the Russo-Ukrainian war: the war in Donbas, the situation in Luhansk in the early 2000s, and the emergence of the anti-Maidan (protests organized by pro-Russian forces) there during the Revolution of Dignity, the annexation of Crimea, the Holodomor of 1932-1933. Midway between the author’s text and the interview, there is a story about the author’s friend and film editor Viktor Onysko, who joined the military at the beginning of the full-scale invasion and died near Soledar in late 2022. The essay “Requiem for Tarantino” is written using numerous quotes from Onysko’s Facebook page and his correspondence with his wife.

In his new book, Oleksandr Mykhed touches upon numerous aspects of the Russo-Ukrainian war. Of course, this is not a book about warfare tactics, soldiers, or types of weapons.

The author of “The Language of War” reflects on the changes in Ukrainians’ worldviews during the course of the war, the psychology of the refugee, psychological trauma caused by life under occupation, the dictionary of war, rethinking of cultural and religious values ​​during the war, rethinking of the role of literature, a reassessment of literary phenomena, and the difficulties of finding a common viewpoint with the Western world.

A nation defending its land against an armed invasion cannot at the same time subscribe to the notions of pacifism, reconciliation, and forgiveness. Rules and models of behavior that might be suitable for peacetime do not apply to defense against war criminals. Especially when defending against those who, over the centuries, invade our lands while officially referring to their aggressive behavior with euphemisms like “liberation,” “special operation,” etc.

“The Language of War”, Ukrainian edition cover (The Old Lion Publishing House, 2023)

The imagery of war

“Russians use language as a camouflage net,” writes Mykhed with regard to the language of the enemy. Ukrainians, on the other hand, strive for clarity and unambiguity of expression, even where genre canons do not require it. Drawing from Halyna Kruk’s opening lecture at the Berlin Poetry Festival (Poesiefestival Berlin), Mykhed writes that the Russian invasion has deprived modern Ukrainian poetry of artistic quests and ingenuity, turning it into something more utilitarian and direct. In times of loss and threats, esthetic values ​​are not a priority, if they are even appropriate at all. As Lyuba Yakimchuk previously wrote in the author’s foreword to the collection “Apricots of Donbas,” “poems about war can only be naked, like bare wire: very simple but clearly detailed and without excessive fluff.”

In Oleksandr Mykhed’s reporting stylistics, artistic details are seldom used, and the author more than once warns against speculating on the artistic possibilities of language. “A bad poet might have tried to concoct a metaphor about the bridge on which the old life ended, the life before the arrival of the occupiers.” And when the healer of mental suffering mentions to him something about a “good symbol,” the writer’s patience cracks and he loses interest in such therapy. Times of loss and threats do not lend themselves to talk of positive symbols.

But everything that happens in war is like a surrealistic depiction of reality. In one of the Surrealist Manifestos, it was said that the simplest surrealist act is to go outside with a revolver in your hand and shoot as many random shots as you can into a crowd. The current machine for the destruction of the civilian population is an order of magnitude more refined.

And torture chambers in children’s camps are a surreal combination of location and function. And the inscription “For the children” on a Russian missile that kills these very children… The semantics of heaven and earth have been turned on their head: if in peacetime the earth was a resting place for the dead, then in war the earth is a refuge for the living; the sky, in which the gods have lived since time immortal, has become deadly ever since missiles have come to reign in its space. At the same time as a photo exhibit on the exhumation of victims of mass executions is on display in a church in Bucha, a baptism ceremony is underway in the same church’s basement.

The problem is that “What seemed surreal before becomes the only reality in the logic of war.”

Trauma and memory

In order not to allow ourselves to be consumed by the Russian invasion, we must remember how they treat us and realize that we are different. On the other hand, our memory is already overloaded with their crimes, and our subconscious is full of traumas and triggers that lead to uncontrollable psychological reactions.

So, should we remember or should we forget?

I want to forget it all.

I want to never forget.

The last lines in the book are both a paradox and a problem. How can we heal our injuries, but not forget? How can we document all the horrific experiences that Ukrainian society, personified in the image of Job, is going through, engrave this tragedy into our collective memory, and, in doing so, strengthen our national identity, all while maintaining a healthy psyche?

What also needs to be done is to convey the truth to the world, because otherwise it will be far more difficult for us to survive. Now is not the time for mercy, hope for common sense, or belief in higher powers.

The penultimate sentence of the Sermon on the Mount of our time reads exactly like the title of this article.

The publication is a part of the “Chytomo Picks: Classics and New Books from Ukraine” project. The materials have been prepared with the assistance of the Ukrainian Book Institute at the expense of the state budget. The author’s opinion may not coincide with the official position of the Ukrainian Book Institute.

Translation: David Joseph Soares

Copy editing: Aalap Trivedi, Drafted Editorial Services