Kateryna Kalytyko is a Ukrainian writer, author of poetry and prose books, translator, Shevchenko Prize laureate, and member of Pen Ukraine.
In this interview, we talk about the impact of war on writing and the author himself, the delicate balance between documentary and fiction, the romanticization of war, and the "heaviness" that befell Ukrainians.
How do you define the concepts of "unity," "freedom," and "victory?" The words we use so frequently now are what we strive for.
Unity, to me, means understanding each other and striving for that understanding; it is a journey and a process. We are a unitary and complex state, with numerous linguistic groups and sub ethnicities within Ukraine. It is important to want to listen to one another. When we take steps to explain ourselves and listen to others, unity begins at the intersection of these dimensions. Literature, in my opinion, can be used well here. It has a unique ability to explain even the most subtle of concepts. Something that can stand the test of time and be reread differently, deeper, with a greater understanding of the context. I'd like my literature to be about the pursuit of unity and the journey towards it.
Freedom is the fullness of one's rights. Of course, living in a legal society requires us to remember the social contract, which stipulates that our freedom ends where another's begins. Freedom is one way to describe the Ukrainian national idea. It is impossible without understanding the law as a relative phenomenon of human existence.
Victory is a rather volatile concept. What should we call victory, the victory we are so eagerly awaiting and for which we pray? Now, it is often transformed into some mythological concept alongside archetypal phenomena for Ukrainians. Undoubtedly, for me, it would be a victory to return to the borders of 1991 with as few losses as possible and for Ukraine to finally be recognized as a dignified member of the European nation-state family. So that we are not perceived as inferior and strangers, but as equals. A territory worth defending. So that in the end, through everything that has happened and continues to happen to us, we endure and become stronger and more resilient to future threats, with the assurance of future prospects. As of today, our planning horizon is minimal.
Many Ukrainian authors have spoken of going through an "incubation" period, contemplating the impending war, before returning to writing. How did the start of the full-scale invasion affect your writing?
For the first few months of the full-scale invasion, I was in a huge state of unconsciousness and couldn't understand why I should write. Artistry, it seemed, would be irrelevant. In contrast to concrete actions, it felt that writing would make no difference. I seriously thought that my skills, as well as my colleagues' literary skills, were useless. Instead, I needed to learn tactical medicine, volunteer, and join the territorial defense.
Then something strange happened: in the second half of March, despite my belief that I would not be writing anytime soon, I began writing. And it was a "beyond me" moment. I didn't consciously decide to do so. I didn't push myself, thinking I had lost my sense of self as a poet and thus needed to write something. It was a moment of enlightenment when you sit down and write poems in a conventional 10 minutes. Now, I mostly write like that.
I tried to figure out why, and I concluded that it was the work of language. Language works as an element, as an energy field in which we all exist. I felt as if this space of Ukrainian common language, which had taken on unprecedented significance for us, had simply picked me up and carried me away. The first texts I wrote after the war broke out were rhymed. It appeared that poetry written directly from the environment of war should be Celan-like. His poetry is characterized by a complex and cryptic style that deviates from poetic conventions. It is sharp, fractured, possibly verlibre, and as harsh as reality. However, these texts of mine were rhymed and rhythmically smooth.
I concluded that the magic of speaking Ukrainian, particularly Ukrainian poetry, is equal parts lullaby and march. The movement of war and the longing for lost peace.
I am opposed to the idea that someone dictates to us (authors), but there is always something inexplicable—irrational—about writing. I have always believed that it is, first and foremost, a person who writes, not, say, God. They write in the language they have developed based on their experience, including bodily experience. My poetry, as I am often told, is very bodily. It expresses the experience of the world through the body, and that feels completely natural to me.
Now I'm answering my own question, "Why is this necessary?" in this way: poetry, after all, functions as a documentary medium. It captures all of our current experiences, which is valuable because I look at the texts I wrote at the start of the full-scale war through the lens of today. These are different texts, a different reality, and making these linguistic and mental "screenshots" is important to me. So I remember what it was like and what I went through at the time. It's not even about conscious writing for the sake of the day, reacting to specific events, but rather about the fabric of common experience. How we emotionally convey these things.
Poetry functions as my memory, and my writing is a form of collective memory. Moreover, it is an attempt to listen to each other and articulate what others may want to say, but they simply have a different toolkit in this life.
After readings, people often come up to me and say, "You wrote what I always wanted to say but didn't know how; listening to these poems, I could finally cry because my experience resonates here, which I couldn't voice outwardly." As an author, you understand the weight of this collective memory and how it is more than just self-indulgence.
When you realize you're not just writing your "selfish" stories but that they resonate with others, it's probably the most deeply sensitizing experience for a writer.
Literature is always about not being alone. A writer writes to be heard by someone, even if they claim to be hermetic. And conversely, when a reader encounters something written by a stranger, and it deeply resonates with their own experiences, that, too, is a powerful connection.
There were several intense, private periods in my youth, and literature always pulled me through them. When you see that someone else can feel the same way you do, you realize that you are not alone—and that all of it has meaning.
Poetry in times of war is also a way of documentation. How do you strike a balance between artistry and facts without alienating the reader?
During my volunteer trips, I come across people who say things that defy understanding of humanity. They recount difficult events to be heard and make their stories resonate. Sometimes they ask for it directly—to tell others, to tell the world. It matters to them to remain not alone in this, to know that their voice will carry on somewhere beyond.
When transmitting these stories, one should never exaggerate with artistry. This "dark meat of reality" cannot be metaphorized in the usual sense; it is as concrete and bloody as it gets. When working with literary fiction, I leave documentary hooks that capture reality. However, there's a very fine line between simply presenting facts in a poem and using artistry to serve as a space for experimentation. It should be a way to appeal to the universal. So, for example, a foreigner who doesn't know the context or history, reading the text, could relate it to their own or a larger picture and understand what it's trying to convey. It's both difficult and responsible.
To what extent do you see the romanticization of war being used at present?
War romanticism is, at the very least, dangerous. Those who are most removed from it, in my opinion, are more likely to romanticize war. War involves blood, dirt, and terrifying experiences. And by entering the literature, they can serve as harsh triggers or opportunities for speculation and inappropriate exploitation. It's also about being honest and accurate.
Romanticizing war can occur on many levels: the excessive idealization of combatants, as the military is also a cross-section of society, with very different people. However, I say this with absolute respect for those who are fighting. Unfortunately, due to my health, I was unable to be mobilized, although I tried. And so, everything I say always begins with expressing respect for those who fight for Ukraine because they invest their destinies, health, lives, their future, and the future of their families, the collective substance of Ukraine's future. However, considering them ideal also poses a danger, as it creates a huge rift between the military and civilians. A civilian is not, from the start, a villain either. We are already witnessing a division of experiences. We will need decades to heal this.
In general, war seems to call for romanticizing it because it is the most massive, tragic experience that can happen in every human's life.
A lot depends on a person's ethical choices and their perception of this time; even if you don't know how to describe it properly, you have the impression that something very, very significant is happening to you, and there is a temptation to elevate it to an empirical level. However, it is always important to remember that war is something that should not be. Perhaps it is the most acute form of anthropological and social misunderstanding.
No one's life is meant to be spent in war. War must be viewed primarily as a great injustice and an act of inhumanity. And then there are individual human stories, truly worthy of admiration, which deserve to be spoken of, but this is not about romance. This admiration should be sober, grounded, and specific, with the understanding that these people remained human in something that should never have happened at all.
If we survive, we will be the old ones who constantly tell our children about the war. This is the axis of our being. It's completely natural to give this great meaning, but it's important not to turn this experience into a fairy tale, although we are accustomed to archetypal, mythical thinking, and that too is normal.
In the context of war, I always like to turn to The Lord of the Rings, even though Tolkien was writing about a different war. For example, when Sam tells Frodo that it feels as though they have found themselves in the middle of those frightening stories they used to listen to by the fire when they were little hobbits. Of course, reality wasn't as thrilling for them as the stories, but the knowledge of the past lifted them (the hobbits) and guided them forward. We too must have something that lifts us up because we don't have another time, and we won't have other biographies.
How has the Ukrainian reader changed since the start of the full-scale invasion?
With the start of full-scale invasion, readers' demand for literature has increased, as has their eagerness and engagement. They now see literature as less of an entertainment medium.
Instead, seriousness has emerged. Readers gravitate towards it, which was unexpected for me. I was accustomed to having my writing (which was considered rather dark poetry) perceived as more complex. People are now drawn to this "weightiness" because they feel it but are unsure how to articulate it. It's unprecedented for me that the book market is not only alive but also growing in terms of print runs and the number of significant books.
At my readings, people often approach me and say that my books inspired them to learn more about Ukrainian poetry. It's sad that the reason for this is war, but it's good that people have found this new continent to which they can be attached, in which they can take root. This is perhaps one of the deepest meanings of the existence of Ukrainian literature today.
Does the weight accumulate for the author while working with traumatic themes? How to deal with it?
The feeling of weight accumulates, both in the reader and the author. Sometimes it seems to me that the language we have now is insufficient. Right now, authors are still feeling their way toward a new language. We've been working on this since 2014, and even earlier, as the theme of war began to appear for many before the start of our 11-year-long war. Sometimes it seems that the current toolkit is poor for what we want to discuss. But I try to remind myself that it won't be developed any other way than through attempts to speak. Perhaps, over time, today's attempts at speaking will seem shallow. But what matters is that they exist. Ukrainian literature, language, the process of speaking in Ukrainian, our experiences will not stop there. This is also a document of the time. If it seems pale from some perspective, that is also a moment in the history of literature and history in general. On a human level, this is very difficult. Each time we all get tired, we are not invincible, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves otherwise. All this accumulates, and each time it becomes harder and harder to lift ourselves to a new conversation, a volunteer trip, and so on. But it's important to remember that this matters, not because it is some civic duty, although it is that too, but because it is work with meaning and work with the future.
This 'heaviness' I perceive as an irreversible process. I've already become heavier, as have the people who engage in similar public activities. It has even reflected in our faces. We have very warlike faces.
People who I consider closest to me help a lot. We can always talk about our strangest, most bizarre reactions. It's important to have someone to tell that you felt strange and uncomfortable, that you were triggered by something that you wouldn't talk about in the public sphere because it would be unethical. It's important to have a place to go with this and admit to yourself that sometimes it's uncomfortable.
Besides that, there are also simple things. For example, the sea heals me a lot. I often hide at my loved ones' place in Odesa. I love sitting by the sea and watching how it moves. It's also a very metaphorical story because the sea is an ecosystem that constantly renews itself. Thinking about this, I compare the Ukrainian community to the sea, which will ultimately cleanse itself.
Rivers, their tributaries, deltas, and those flowing into the sea are also about unity. It's also about people who settle by the water because water gives life, and at the same time, it's dynamic, and about how all of this connects, how it becomes paths, songs, and ways of speaking on the shore of a certain body of water. Water is healing because it flows. As long as we have a common flow, nothing is lost.
