This essay explores what kind of language we speak when war engulfs us, when we are awakened by chaos and “the noise of Russian helicopters.”[1] Personally, I have never endured such an experience; however, I have spent the past three years listening carefully to Ukrainians who have experienced and presently are experiencing this chaotic nightmare. As a hermeneutical philosopher, I believe that words can and do disclose truth and reality, including the painful, stark realities of war. I also believe that those like Oleksandr Mykhed, who have witnessed the hell of war and have provided a testimony of their experiences, deserve to be heard, and that in opening ourselves to the harsh truths that they voice, we can come to see ourselves in bonds of solidarity with them, both as fellow human beings and as those who share our democratic and humanistic values.
My essay’s principal dialogue partner is Oleksandr Mykhed’s book The Language of War, which offers a poignant, philosophically and ethically rich chronicle of the Russia’s full-scale war against Ukraine—or as he puts it, mere “fragments” of a chronicle since “no consciousness could endure all of it.” The “it” in view here includes the chaos and cruelty of Russian violence exploding day after day in the cities, schools, libraries, and civilian homes throughout Ukraine.[2] Lingering with and listening to the language of war that Mykhed’s text offers is not only an intrinsically worthwhile endeavor but is also an ethical act, a recognition of the dignity, value, and respect owed to Ukrainians as fellow human beings and as those who are putting their lives on the line for their families, their country, and for democratic values. Perhaps in listening we will hear and in hearing we will heed the truth-disclosing-words that Mykhed so powerfully delivers, such as the truth that war reveals the “crystal fragility”’ of our taken-for-granted, normal ways of being as well as the fragility and vulnerability of human beings and everything that lives and breathes in this world.[3]
In Mykhed’s first chapter, he recounts what he experienced in the opening days of Russia’s full-scale invasion. The word “chaos” permeates this chapter. For example, he speaks of “chaos feeding on chaos,” being awakened by chaos, by war, by the “noise of Russian helicopters.”[4] He describes Russia as a “country that sows chaos” and warns that “everybody should realize: this war concerns everyone. Because chaos can only spread, it knows no limits.”[5] The chaos of war seeks to bring about both destruction and a sense of groundlessness, a sense that there is no safe or solid place on which to stand or to find shelter.
And yet, even in this first chapter where chaos abounds, Mykhed finds a way in and through language to stand and call Russia to account for its atrocities and misuse of language, and likewise calls us to a proper, truth-telling use of language—one in which language discloses rather than distorts reality, showing us what is true, even when we don’t want to see it. For example, he writes: “Russia forbids their media to call war—a ‘war’ and invasion an ‘invasion’.[6] In contrast, what Ukrainians insist upon and seek to practice amidst the chaos of missiles and the chaos of words is, as Mykhed puts it: “A language in which everything is called by its name. A war is a war, not an operation.”[7] We regain our ground, when we begin to regain the truth of language.
About mid-way into the book, and chronologically about a year into the full-scale invasion, Mykhed recalls a conversation that he had with a friend a few months before the full-scale war began. Mykhed’s friend, Chekh, who was a war veteran, had been asked to write a piece for a British journal reflecting on whether there would be a war in Ukraine and how the country was preparing for war. Mykhed remembers responding to his friend that he couldn’t imagine rockets reigning down on Kyiv. However, that was then and by this time a year had passed, and rockets, missiles, and bombs were falling from the Ukrainian sky daily. Replaying and reflecting on that conversation, he writes: “ . . . I recall that conversation countless times and cannot forget the sticky feeling of helplessness and insecurity, the sensation of the ground slipping away from under my feet. Like when I start imagining something for which there are no words in my vocabulary. And with each new terror, new levels of horror and experiences open up, for which new descriptions and words must be found.”[8] What Mykhed describes in his attempt to find the right words to make his experience intelligible, communicable, and shareable finds resonance with Han-Georg Gadamer’s hermeneutical philosophy and understanding of language. That is, for Gadamer, language is not only world-disclosive and world-shaping, but it also plays an essential role in the ongoing process of self- and world-understanding. Language, for Gadamer, is, we might say, grounding—or as he puts it, “elemental”—but also excessive and always on-the-way (unterwegs). It discloses truth and makes claims upon us, but there is never a final, exhaustive word; nor can language fully capture our experiences—and especially so when it comes to such limit-experiences as war. And yet, words do disclose truths and provide us with greater clarity regarding what is actually the case, even if words do not exhaustively capture those realities. Finding the right words, like seeking clean air and water, is necessary for our well-being. This is the case not only on the individual level but also personally, collectively, and politically, as the right words help us process and share what we (and others) have seen, heard, witnessed, and experienced. Owing to our linguistic and social nature, even when we are at a loss for words or find our words inadequate to present the reality of our experiences, we, nonetheless, seek and struggle to find the the words that will disclose the truth and reality of our experiences. Finding the right words helps us to regain our footing, to stand, and live again individually and collectively. In, so to speak, wording our way back to solid ground, we simultaneously word our way back to others.
On this point, Paul Celan’s reflections from his famous Bremen Address provide helpful insights. In his speech, Celan explains, in part, what he hoped to achieve through writing his poetry: “I tried to write poems in order to speak, orient myself, explore where I was and where it wanted to go with me, in order to project [entwerfen] a reality for myself” (Celan 2000, GW7:186; my translation).[9] For Celan, the conscious choice to write poetry in German—the language of the aggressors—was the path that he felt was necessary to reorient himself vis-à-vis German language, history, and culture and to see, in light of the violence that had been carried out by the Nazis, what place, dwelling, and future might exist for him.[10] (Of course, not everyone will nor should take this path; in the context of Russia’s war against Ukraine, many Ukrainians, including scholars, have, and for good reason, foresworn speaking and writing in Russian.) The broader point of interest to me is that for both Celan and Mykhed, the act of writing is a reorienting, grounding, and reconnecting act. It is an ethical act. Writing provides the one who has lived through such violent and disorienting limit-experiences as war, torture, and the like, a way to call out the injustices of the aggressor and to bear witness to the atrocities that have been committed. Writing for both thinkers is not an escape from the harsh realities of the world but rather discloses those harsh realities and place a demand on us to respond to the truths that are revealed. As Carolyn Culbertson remarks, “for Celan, the demand to write issued from a distinctly interpersonal need that linguistic beings possess. This is the need to bear witness to loss, to find an empathetic other that will listen, and as part of this listening, engage in the process of interpretative understanding.”[11] With his decision to reclaim German language, and through it to make all its marks, stains, and abuses present and unforgotten, Celan, as it were, forced German language, culture, and people to see and remember what they (and those acting in their name) had done or failed to do. His poetry testifies to the humanity and individuality of thousands of murdered Jews (including his own parents) and simultaneously exposes both the misuse of language that prepared the way for genocide and the silence that refused to say what needed to be said. Whereas German propaganda’s objective was to de-humanize and turn individuals into an anonymous mass and finally to exterminate them, Celan deploys German to give witness and testimony to each individual breath crystal, each human life lost. His poetry communes with the dead; it calls every You willing to linger, listen, and enter this “landscape of death” to receive this testimony, this witness, this breath of the true poetic word. Here the work of Celan, Gadamer, and Mykhed come together in seeing poetry and what we might call writings birthed from limit-experiences as seeking an other to hear, receive, and respond to its testimony. As Celan poignantly states in his Meridian speech: “The poem is alone. It is alone and underway. . . . The poem wants to reach the Other, it needs this Other, it needs a vis-à-vis. It searches it out and addresses it” (Celan 2005, 181).[12]
Although Mykhed, as we have seen, acknowledges the struggle to find “new descriptions and new words” for “each new [act of] terror,” he, nonetheless, is adamant that these war crimes and atrocities must be put into words so that those who have suffered, died, and given their lives to protect others are not forgotten.[13] As he puts it, “war is a tally of tragedies that cannot be forgotten, […] it is a martyrology of destroyed cities and cultural monuments.”[14] Anyone who has followed this war closely understands what Mykhed has in view—namely, Russia’s targeted attacks on cultural objects such as libraries, theaters, churches, protected cultural sites and the list goes on. In other words, an objective of Russia’s war is to eradicate Ukrainian culture and identity. With this point in mind, Mykhed writes: “Publishing warehouses are being destroyed. Libraries are in flames. Russians are burning Ukrainian books and ‘purging’ libraries of ‘enemy’ literature. Sales are plunging. Bookshops are only just reopening now. Prices for paper and printing materials are on the rise. Hundreds of books ready to go into print this year will not see the light of day. A generation of authors will not make their mark in the world of literature.”[15]
Another thread that runs through the chapter is his discussion of the different ways in which the language of war manifests on both the Ukrainian and the Russian side. For example, he begins with reflections from the Ukrainian side and states that the language of war is condensed, non-ornate, to the point, and that concision is borne from necessity. Time, space, electricity, food, water, and other needed resources are scarce. One hour you have electricity, the next you don’t; today your flat exists, tomorrow it doesn’t. Thus, in day-to-day exchanges, one’s language must be curt and clear. Your life and the lives of others may depend upon getting a message across as clearly and quickly as possible. As he explains, “the language of war is direct, like an order that cannot have a double interpretation and needs no clarification. We speak more clearly, more simply, in chopped phrases, saving each other’s time. […] no rhetorical questions.”[16] His examples of how and why language must be simplified are chilling.
Parents write with marker pens on the backs of small children—names, addresses, phone numbers. In case they get lost. Parents or children. In case they get killed. Parents or children. This war is about homemade grave crosses and attempts to record at least some details. Like a handwritten letter from Mariupol seen on the news: “Please, tell him: Dima, mother died on 9 March 2022. She died quickly. Then the house burned down. Dima, I’m sorry I couldn’t save her. I buried mother near the kindergarten.” Next is a plan with directions to the grave. And below: “I love you.”[17]Terse and to the point, but even here, the language of war compressed by necessity reaches out to another, seeks to comfort, wants to make sure that the dead are honored and not forgotten.
Mykhed also highlights how the language of the military has impacted civilian social discourse. For example, the word “plus,” which is equivalent to the English “roger that” and connotes a confirmation of sorts is frequently heard in civilian conversations and texting—in the latter, one need only type one symbol, the plus symbol (+) to communicate to a loved one that you are still alive. However, this one symbol in all its simplicity brings with it a constellation of poignant associations and fields of meaning; it confirms that the one you love is still breathing, still fighting, still resisting, still alive, and thus there’s a chance that you will see them again. The plus symbol, in the language of war, is a sign of life, hope, return, future possibilities apart from war—one character, one symbol yet abounding with an excess of meaning.
From the Russian side, the language of war manifests and is employed quite differently. Here we see a calculated abuse of language, language deployed for the purpose of destroying, deceiving, and dehumanizing Ukrainians—in short, here the language of war is inherently violent, and the objective is to distort reality rather than disclose truth. To illustrate, Mykhed writes:
Orwell’s ‘war is peace’ becomes a reality in Russian propaganda. In a new spiral of history, Russians call the occupation, with their decimated cities and towns, ‘liberated strikes’ and ‘missiles of goodwill.’ Russians use language as a camouflage net, which they are pulling over their crimes, trying to hide the atrocities under the neutral definition of a ‘special military operation’. And, of course, the abbreviation ‘SMO’ (Special Military Operation) makes it even easier for their populace to swallow.The most important thing, though, is that Russians name ‘denazification’ as the strategic goal of their invasion, which should evoke associations with the consequences of Nazism in the older Soviet generation. But this is an old trick of Russian propaganda, which never wastes a chance to stigmatize anyone, declaring that one of the post-Soviet countries is imbued with the ideas of fascism.[18]
Here language is cynical—the goal is to confuse and sow doubt and skepticism as to whether the reality of a situation can ever be disclosed. The meanings of words are intentionally turned into their opposites—war is peace, occupation is liberation—and terms like “special military operation” instead of invasion and war are employed in order to hide the crimes and injustices carried out by the Russian Federation and its combatants. The use of the terms “denazification” and “Nazis” is particularly cynical, as it simultaneously attempts to erase and empty the historical meanings and references associated with these terms vis-à-vis Nazi Germany and to infuse (and con-fuse) them with false meanings and references—i.e., Ukrainians are the new “Nazis” that must undergo denazification, which, in truth, means de-ukrainification. But as Mykhed highlights, this is a move that Russian propaganda has been making for some time and is part of their mirroring approach. That is, the present Russian Federation, whose regime, actions toward and narratives about Ukraine and Ukrainians are themselves more accurately characterized as fascist, project these names and attributes onto Ukraine’s leaders, land, and people in order to justify their invasion and associate it in the minds of the Russian populace with the victory against Nazism in the so-called “Great Patriotic War.” However much Russia’s disinformation and abuse of language seem to be effecting a new reality based in falsehoods, the truth and reality of Russia’s heinous actions have a way of piercing through their propaganda narratives. As Mykhed observes, “the boundaries of historical eras are getting thinner and start cracking when, on the twenty-third day of the invasion, ninety-six-year-old Borys Romanchenko died in Kharkiv during Russian shelling. He had survived the Nazi death camps of Buchenwald, Dora, and Bergen Belsen. But he died from Russian ‘denazification’, which has only one goal: to kill us for being Ukrainians.”[19]
In contrast with Russia’s abuse of language to serve its imperial war aims, Ukrainians place a premium on frankness and have an astute understanding the ethical and political dimensions of language. Toward the end of the chapter, Mykhed describes this dimension of the language of war in a way reminiscent of Michel Foucault’s notion of parrhesia. For example, Mykhed explicitly describes the language of war as one of “exact definitions and conscious responsibility for every word spoken.”[20] This notion of being responsible for our words resonates with Foucault’s understanding of parrhesia as truth-telling.
In Foucault’s later works, particularly in his lectures at the Collège de France (1982–1984), he offers illuminating reflections on the Greek term parrhesia and examines how truth-telling operates in a wide-range of historical, social, and political contexts, from ancient Greek philosophy to modern political discourse. As Foucault explains, parrhesia is more than frankness or free speech, as the term is often translated in English. The one who practices parrhesia speaks openly and truthfully without embellishment, deception, or rhetorical manipulation. Importantly, there is an ethical duty to speak the truth, even when it is uncomfortable and may involve significant negative consequences to one’s reputation, career, and well-being. In fact, as Foucault points out, in the case of Socrates, truth-telling cost him his life, and one could point to numerous examples in the present war in which those willing to speak the truth about Russia’s war have been imprisoned, tortured, and murdered. The truth-teller is thus understood as an ethical subject who exhibits courage and integrity, and, as both Foucault and Mykhed emphasize—the truth-teller takes responsibility for her words. In addition to cultivating virtue, self-understanding, and self-transformation, parrhesia is often a political act that speaks truth to power with the aim of unmasking the violence, lies, and distortions of political propaganda. Hence, the practice of parrhesia by citizens is essential for a healthy democracy and is likewise a powerful weapon needed to expose and dismantle corrupt, authoritarian, and totalitarian regimes. Because of their long history of fighting against Russian imperialism and aggression, Ukrainians understand this better than most in the West; in light of our current political situation in the US under the Trump regime, we would do well to learn from their insights, courage, and actions.
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Bibliography
Celan, Paul. “Appendix: The Meridian.” Translated by Jerry Glenn. In Jacques Derrida, Sovereignties in Question: The Poetics of Paul Celan, edited by Thomas Dutoit and Outi Pasanen, 173–185. New York: Fordham University Press, 2005.
Culbertson, Carolyn. Words Underway. Continental Philosophy of Language. New York: Rowman & Littlefield International, 2019.
Mykhed, Oleksandr. The Language of War. Dublin: Penguin/Random House, UK, 2024.
[1] Oleksandr Mykhed, The Language of War, 1.
[2] Mykhed, Language of War, Preface, xi.
[3] Mykhed, Language of War, 276.
[4] Mykhed, Language of War, 1.
[5] Mykhed, Language of War, 5
[6] Mykhed, Language of War, 4.
[7] Mykhed, Language of War, 6.
[8] Mykhed, Language of War, 154.
[9] The (full) German text reads “In dieser Sprache habe ich, in jenen Jahren und in den Jahren nachher, Gedichte zu schreiben versucht: um zu sprechen, um mich zu orientieren, um zu erkunden, wo ich mich befand und wohin es mit mir wollte, um mir Wirklichkeit zu entwerfen” (Bremen Address, GW7:186). That Celan uses dieser [“this”] to modify Sprache [“language”] suggests that he had a particular language in mind—namely, German.
[10] See also Bruns’ comments on how Celan, in contrast with a Heideggerian idea of language overtaking us, might think of language itself undergoing an event. As Bruns explains, “language for Celan is something that can undergo an experience with history and be overwhelmed and transformed just in the sense that it can never go back to the way it was; it is always marked by the events it lives through. Celan helps to show the marks, and perhaps that is what poets are for in a destitute time” (Bruns 1997, “An Introduction to Gadamer’s Poetics,” 43).
[11] Culbertson, Words Underway, 55.
[12] See also, Remington’s discussion of the “relation between the merely memorial and the ethically immemorial”—the latter in the Levinasian sense. Celan’s poetry, Remington goes on to say, preserves the “excess of the Shoah” as “that which cannot be narrated, nor remembered,” and hence cannot be reduced to the merely memorial. “If we read Celan’s poetry as a gesture of commemoration of the dead, we must also acknowledge that Celan gives no relief to his readers. As Celan says, the poem ‘searches’ for and ‘addresses’ its Other in the hopes of an encounter. Such an encounter, as a shattering of the self, should offer no succor” (“Dialogical Memory,” 15).
[13] Mykhed, Language of War, 154.
[14] Mykhed, Language of War, 154.
[15] Mykhed, Language of War, 155.
[16] Mykhed, Language of War, 156.
[17] Mykhed, Language of War, 156–157.
[18] Mykhed, Language of War, 160.
[19] Mykhed, Language of War, 160–161.
[20] Mykhed, Language of War, 162.