In Times of War: Poetry Becomes an Existential Necessity

Al-Asma‘i Bashari
The poet experiences war as an ultimate existential trial—one that goes beyond the limits of a political or military event to become a profound test of the human self. At the heart of destruction, where buildings collapse and life is reduced to a daily struggle for survival, the poet confronts a fundamental question: how can a human being remain human amid all this ruin? The answer lies not in weapons or rhetoric, but in words—that seemingly fragile tool which holds an immense power to contain pain and transform it into meaning.

When war begins, the poet does not enter it as a spectator, but as a sensitive being who absorbs shocks with full awareness. The sound of shelling is not mere noise, but a terrifying rhythm that invades the inner self. The poet sees frightened faces, trembling children, and mothers who have lost their sons—images that become indelibly etched within. These images do not remain mere memories; they are transformed into poetic material, into a new language striving to express what cannot be directly said. In times of war, poetry becomes the language of necessity—the language of aftermath and trauma.

The poet documents moments of fear as if engraving them into the memory of time. He writes not only about bombardment, but about the silence that follows—that heavy silence carrying all that remains unspoken. He writes of nights that stretch unnaturally long, and of waiting for dawn as though it were a distant promise. He captures small details: a cup of water trembling in an old man’s hand, a broken window opening onto emptiness, or a child’s toy abandoned in a deserted street. These simple details carry immense emotional weight, as they represent remnants of life amid annihilation.

In this context, poetry is not merely aesthetic expression, but an act of resistance. When the poet writes, he refuses to be a silent witness to the erasure of humanity. Words become a form of defense of existence—a way to assert that what is happening is not just numbers in news reports, but lives being crushed and dreams extinguished. The poem becomes a human document, recording what collective memory might attempt to forget or ignore.

Through this process, the poet transforms pain into creative energy. Pain, which could otherwise lead to collapse, becomes material for rebuilding the self. Instead of destroying the poet, it reshapes him. This process can be described as a kind of “biological resilience,” where a living being adapts to harsh conditions to ensure survival. Through writing, the poet develops a unique mechanism of survival—not only physically, but psychologically and spiritually.

The language the poet uses in wartime differs from that of peacetime. It becomes more condensed, sharper, and sometimes simpler. Ornamental rhetoric fades in favor of direct, honest expression. War leaves no room for artifice; it imposes a harsh kind of truth. Yet there remains an aesthetic dimension—not in beautification, but in the ability to create inner harmony amid chaos. The poem becomes a space to reorder the world, even if only temporarily.

Poetry also grants the poet a sense of control over a reality that otherwise feels uncontrollable. In daily life during war, individuals feel powerless before forces that shape their fate. But in writing, the poet gains the ability to shape the world with words—retelling events, giving voice to victims, and creating meaning out of absurdity. This symbolic power offers a sense of agency essential for maintaining psychological balance.

At the same time, poetry becomes a means of connection with others. The poet’s work does not remain confined within the self; it reaches readers who may be living the same experience or trying to understand it from afar. In this sense, poetry becomes a bridge between individuals, linking personal suffering to collective experience. The reader does not merely understand what is happening—they feel it. And that feeling restores the humanity of the event.

Yet this process is neither easy nor free of contradictions. At times, the poet may feel guilty for writing about pain instead of stopping it. Questions arise: what is the value of words in the face of bullets? Can a poem save a life? These questions remain unresolved. Still, the poet continues to write—not because he has answers, but because he has no alternative. Silence, in this case, becomes a form of surrender.

Amid all this, the poet strives to preserve his humanity. War tends to strip people of their emotions, reducing them to functional beings focused solely on survival. Poetry restores the poet’s sensitivity, even if it is painful. It reminds him that he is still capable of love, sorrow, and hope. This capacity to feel—despite its burden—is what distinguishes humans from machines, and it is what the poet seeks to protect.

Poetry also opens a window toward the future. Despite the devastation, the poet carries seeds of hope within his words. That hope may be faint, but it persists. Even while depicting destruction, he hints at the possibility of rebuilding—a moment when fighting ceases and life resumes. This hope is not naive; it is an act of will, a conscious refusal to surrender to despair.

In the end, the poet in times of war does not experience it merely as an external event, but as a deep internal transformation. The pain he endures does not disappear—it changes form, becoming words, images, and rhythms. These words, in turn, become his means of survival—not only as a body, but as a human being with consciousness and memory. Through this creative act, the poet affirms that even in the darkest conditions, one can still say: “I am here. I am still alive. And I am still resisting.”

Thus, poetry becomes more than an art form—it becomes an existential necessity: a way to understand the world, defend the self, and preserve what remains of humanity in a time determined to erase it.