‘Compared to Bakhmut, this is already a different war’ — novelist Myroslav Laiuk on his wartime reporting

As the full-scale war enters into its fourth year, novelist and poet Myroslav Laiuk has found himself drawn to front-line reporting. He has traveled everywhere, from Bakhmut to Pokrovsk and Kherson, documenting the war and those living through it.

His novel “The World Is Not Yet Made” is forthcoming in English translation from Harvard’s Ukrainian Research Institute, and his wartime reportage “Bakhmut” was published in English translation by Ukrainer earlier this year. (Kate Tsurkan, who conducted this interview, was involved in the English translation of “Bakhmut.”)

For the Ukrainian edition of “Bakhmut,” Laiuk was awarded the prestigious George Shevelov Prize in 2024 and shortlisted for BBC Ukraine’s Book of the Year award. The book was also shortlisted for the Peterson Literary Prize.

In this interview with the Kyiv Independent, Laiuk reflects on the moral and creative weight of bearing witness during wartime. He speaks about the limits of language in the face of horror, the writer’s duty to record what might otherwise vanish, and the cognitive dissonance of returning from the front to the safety of Kyiv or abroad.

Drawing on literature and his own encounters with soldiers and civilians, Laiuk talks about how this war is reshaping not only Ukraine but the very language through which humanity understands loss, love, and dignity.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

The Kyiv Independent: What compelled you, as a novelist, to travel to some of the most dangerous places on the front line and report from there?

Myroslav Laiuk: The past three years feel like one solid block — closed off and self-contained. Of course, I sometimes look back on how I used to work before the full-scale invasion, what I wrote about the start of the war in 2014, and the person I was then. But what’s happening now feels so completely different — it’s changed and transformed everything. Even within this period of the invasion itself, I can see so many shifts, so many layers of change.

I remember sitting in a basement in Pokrovsk earlier this spring. I was talking with one of the soldiers — they were from the 93rd Brigade, the same unit that had fought in Bakhmut in 2023 — and he said something that stayed with me: “Compared to Bakhmut, this is already a different war.”

And indeed, what I felt in Bakhmut and what I felt in Pokrovsk are completely different approaches to questions of safety and awareness, to what you pay attention to or don’t. When in Bakhmut, there were just arbitrary artillery shells — where you understood they were firing at some abstract Ukrainians — in Pokrovsk, it already felt like they were hunting you personally with drones. And, figuratively speaking, these are such concentrated, significant things, where everything has completely changed.

I could never have imagined that Ukraine would become a place where so many new meanings are created for the whole world, where reality, language itself, is reinterpreted, much like what Oleksandr Mykhed discusses in his book ‘The Language of War.’ Here in Ukraine, I feel that this language of concepts is truly being formed: a new way of speaking about the oldest things — about love, about home, about the land.

One man in Huliaipole asked me: “How could I renounce my (ancestor’s) graves?” Such a phrase — “to renounce one’s graves.”

And this can only be tested in extreme situations. There’s also a heavy shadow here — the native land as a place where countless traumas linger. Relatives lie buried here — those who died in World War II, during the Holodomor, and so on. Things that might seem simple at first glance are, in fact, far deeper and more complex.

What I’m getting to is this: a writer is someone who explores themselves, their society, and their time. Right now, for me, documentary work is the most relevant way to do that.

The state of the world is at its most extreme point. I want to document why people do not leave their homes even when they are shelled every day, why people are willing to risk their lives for others, why near Pokrovsk I met a mother with two children who had been evacuated recently, but returned — all these ‘whys’ that may be difficult to understand for a future researcher of our time.

The Kyiv Independent: Given the growing number of Ukrainian books translated into English, do you think the world has gained a deeper understanding of Ukraine and its people, or is there still a significant journey ahead in shaping that understanding?

Myroslav Laiuk: I think a lot has been done. Ukrainian authors and a select number of foreigners have been working selflessly on this, and they have accomplished a lot. But truly, we run into considerable barriers abroad because we don’t understand how those systems function.

It’s quite hard to trust the world. The world supports us and promises us weapons one day — and the next day we realize that no one is going to provide those weapons.

Again, it’s a question of distance and of understanding whether danger threatens you personally. I like a thought that was expressed recently — I don’t remember by whom — but that democracy is not something that is given. Freedom is not something that is given. It’s something you have to fight for. And indeed, the ancestors of many Europeans truly fought for it — they fought against (Adolf) Hitler, against other threats. They truly fought for this freedom.

But for the new generations, that was long ago. They no longer have that reflex to fight. As for how books are perceived abroad — five months ago my book “Bakhmut” was published in Polish. And there were a lot of reviews in Polish. I have to say, there were more of those reviews than there have been in Ukrainian since 2023.

Those reviews are very, very interesting, though. However, when it comes to social media one of the most common excerpts in those reviews is the question “Why should Poles read this?” The comments section is always pure hell. They write things like, “This isn’t our war” and all those familiar arguments we now hear in Poland.

Unfortunately, that’s a major reason why these books either aren’t translated or are translated too late. Ukrainian books serve as warnings.

The Kyiv Independent: What about Ukrainians? Do you think they understand each other better after nearly four years of full-scale war?

Myroslav Laiuk: When I recently went to Kherson, I honestly expected to enter a city where people could only move under camouflage nets, where everyone lived in basements.

And then you arrive — and there are 60,000 residents. They’re sitting in cafes, eating wonderful desserts.

We went into a cafe called Prostir. We decided to go there because I had been there back in 2023, when the Russians blew up the dam — and I was amazed then that they had really good coffee. Now, that cafe is very close to the kill zone. It has been hit several times. And as you walk through Kherson, you pass the central square, where beautiful roses are in bloom. And then you go a little farther — and you realize, here the ground is already strewn with debris, with mines.

Walk a bit more — and you see a burned-out minibus, because a few days ago it was hit. But to return to the beginning — when I was heading to Kherson, I couldn’t imagine there’d even be a minibus there. What kind of minibus in Kherson? It’s just two kilometers from the Russian positions.

And yet, there are minibuses running. There are trolleybuses. They’re constantly shelled.

I spoke with a trolleybus driver — she had already been wounded several times. She’s in the hospital now, and I don’t know what will happen to her next. Then you go into that cafe — it’s open at the end of the day. The barista recognizes you, makes excellent coffee, as always, and so on.

Then I ask the barista, “How many people came in today?” And he says, “You’re the fifth.”

That’s what I mean — I could never have imagined it.

(Editor’s Note: Prostir Kherson  paused operations indefinitely on Nov. 11, due to constant Russian shelling)

That’s why I’m doing documentary work now. One of my professors — I noticed this about him — when he needed to understand what had happened to Mykola Zerov (Ukrainian poet killed in 1937), he went directly to Sandarmokh, in northern Russia, to see it with his own eyes. Whenever he needed to know how something actually happened — he checked it himself.

We have this impression of total openness in today’s world — that we know everything, that everything is online, that we can just look it up. In part, yes. But... in reality, the principles of understanding are the same as in ancient times. If you want to understand something — you have to see it with your own eyes.

In Kherson, artillery was landing somewhere nearby, explosions going off — and a woman was selling figs. And she reacted to it so casually. She said, “To understand us, you have to live here.” That’s the only way.

So, I went there for a week — did I understand them? No. But I saw things from my own perspective. And that’s already much more than if I had only looked up the news or social media posts.

The Kyiv Independent: Do you struggle with cognitive dissonance when returning from front-line areas to Kyiv, or especially when you travel abroad for cultural diplomacy efforts?

Myroslav Laiuk: Well, as I was told at the Frankfurt Book Fair, there’s a very interesting debate in Germany about whether it’s even worth publishing Ukrainians. When Serhiy Zhadan was awarded a prize here in 2022 — some Peace Prize — there was a huge debate here about how it’s even possible to give a “peace prize” to an author who writes about war.

I think foreigners need things explained — but explained through their own frames of reference.

And when we talk about “foreigners,” we’re talking simultaneously about everyone from Nigerians, Mexicans, and Europeans — three entirely different ways of explaining what’s happening.

Where, for some, you can explain things through the lens of imperialism, others won’t understand you at all, or will misunderstand you, because they themselves are from former imperialist nations. And they won’t want to confront that.

Yes, I really do feel a huge dissonance. The first time I went abroad after the full-scale invasion was to Denmark. My constant impression was — I’d travel through Poland, see a beautiful pine forest with houses, and think: Oh, what nice houses! Were they rebuilt? Clearly, a flashback to places like Irpin.

I love mushroom picking — but now that’s limited, because so many forests in Ukraine are mined. I remember seeing a beautiful little forest somewhere in Europe and thinking: Oh, there must be good mushrooms there... but it’s probably all mined — better not go in. And this is me — in Europe.

And the worst thing, of course, was hearing fireworks in Copenhagen. Another time, after coming back from Bakhmut, I went to Trukhaniv Island in Kyiv, and there was a rope swing — when it whooshed through the air, it made a sound just like a mine does. When a mine goes off, you have a few seconds — too little time to find cover. You just have to drop to the ground. So I just fell flat on the ground. That was how it started.

One can only imagine how all this is unfolding for the people who are under daily shelling. But on the other hand, when you return from the front — from Yarova, where twenty people were killed, where the cemetery is full of freshly dug graves, and the people left behind are marginalized, and the children have speech disorders — because no one has worked with them for three years. No school, no kindergarten, no speech therapists, no doctors can get there. It’s total degradation.

And you see all that — and then you come back to Kyiv, and in some restaurants, or bars, you hear music playing several blocks away. Most soldiers generally don’t complain about Ukrainians wanting to relax, celebrate birthdays, and so on — everyone understands that normal life must go on.

But still — there should be some awareness of that other reality.

The Kyiv Independent: Have you ever had a moment during one of your reporting trips where you thought to yourself, God, how will I ever find the proper words to convey this horror?

Myroslav Laiuk: Quite often, language simply isn’t enough. In my book “Bakhmut,” there is an episode with a 19-year-old soldier who is about to go out to the positions. He is asked what he is thinking about at that moment, and he answers: “I don’t want to be in this moment.”

I also met two other soldiers at a gas station near the front line. They were getting hot dogs, we started talking, and they asked when my piece would be published. I replied, “Probably in May.” One of the men said, “I think I won’t be around in May.”’

Language often prepares traps for you: it can aestheticize, romanticize, and exaggerate. Your task is to convey everything as it is. Very often, I remind myself: you are only ears and eyes. That’s all.

The Kyiv Independent: You are an author by profession, so I want to ask if there is anything from the realm of fiction and poetry writing that aids you as a wartime correspondent?

Myroslav Laiuk: At the beginning of my new book, “The Lists,” which is about Ukrainian losses during the war, I devote a great deal of space to ancient literature. This gives rise to two paradoxical feelings. First, it feels as though so much has already happened — as if humanity is once again reliving the same experiences. Second, this war may bring new shades of meaning to our collective understanding of loss, and it is the task of documentary writers to capture those nuances.

The strongest stories in world literature are precisely those about loss. For me, the two most powerful scenes in world literature both come from “The Iliad.” The first is when Hector goes out to fight Achilles, knowing that he will lose and die. It is a story about dignity and about something greater than yourself. The second is when Achilles kills Hector, and his elderly father, King Priam, goes into the enemy camp, passes through all the checkpoints, risking everything, just to retrieve his son’s body. It is a story about love that is stronger than fear and humiliation.

One of my favorite quotes is from Horace: “Brave men lived before Agamemnon.”

I like to return to what I read in school and at university. Paradoxically, it gives a sense of reality. It grounds you and reminds you that things have always been this way. And at the same time, it suggests that every generation adds its own, previously unknown layers to this great history of loss.

The Kyiv Independent: Do you think Ukrainians are deeply drawn to these books about the war, or are they more for posterity?

Myroslav Laiuk: Recently, I walked into a bookstore of a Ukrainian publishing house and noticed that sixteen out of the top twenty bestsellers were fantasy. I don’t have access to nationwide sales rankings, so it’s difficult for me to say with certainty what Ukrainians are reading right now.

But I can say one thing: if we close our eyes, the world around us does not disappear. On the other hand, I believe the victims of the war must do everything necessary not to lose themselves. That’s why I wouldn’t say something to Ukrainians who don’t read books about the war. The only thing I’d like to remind them is this: Ukrainian books about the war serve as a warning to the world about what may very well happen if we don’t succeed in our fight.

Note from the author:

Hi, this is Kate Tsurkan, thanks for reading this interview.  When Myroslav started traveling to front-line territories, I was simultaneously worried for his safety but also really intrigued by what stories he would tell both Ukraine and the world. As one of Ukraine's most talented young novelists, I do believe that he approaches telling stories about this war in a unique way. I hope you become more interested in his work, and in the work of Ukrainian authors in general, after reading interviews like this.

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