In contemporary times, when discussions of identity, nationhood, and citizenship are often marked by tension and contestation, literature offers a vital perspective through which to explore human suffering, moral conflicts, and the psychological impact of warfare. At a moment when questions of global citizenship and cultural openness are frequently viewed with caution, literature provides a broader understanding of “selfhood”—suggesting that identity is shaped not only through political freedom but also through cultural self-understanding. This entails a renewed engagement with diverse knowledge traditions, as well as with humanity’s artistic, aesthetic, and natural heritage.
War literature is a fascinating and enduring genre. War and literature have been deeply intertwined, serving as a lens through which humanity examines the brutality, morality, and psychological toll of conflict. Writers have long grappled with the devastating, dehumanising realities of war, and literary festivals across the globe have demonstrated that literature functions as an instrument of survival, a gesture of resistance, and a safe abode for the human spirit.
Wars may wreak havoc on material possessions and infrastructure—as seen in the Ukraine-Russia war, the U.S.-Israel conflict in Iran, or the ongoing wars in various African nations—but they cannot snuff out the creative spirit of the people. Ukrainians stand as living testimony to this truth. Recently, thousands of readers gathered at a literary festival, defying air raids, simply to listen to their writers-turned-soldiers and soldiers-turned-writers. These authors go beyond sharing battlefield experiences in theatres; they speak of life beyond war. Remarkably, the unending cycle of violence and brutality over the last four years has not destroyed their appetite for literature, whether in reading or writing. Their unflagging enthusiasm for new books has never dampened, even in the vortex of war. As The Guardian has observed, words do not stop when the bombing begins. Writers do not merely document the horrors of conflict; they speak to the future that must exist beyond it.
Wars try to destroy culture because culture sustains identity and collective memory. Literature is a victim of war, but at the same time, it is an instrument of survival, resistance, and a welcome refuge. For instance, when civil war broke out in Sudan in 2023, one resident of Nyala in Darfur decided that the best thing he could do for his suffering neighbours was to open his own library, replacing those that had been closed or destroyed, and offering them an escape from an unbearable oppressive reality.
In Myanmar, poets and writers have been among those who bore the brunt of brutal attacks by the ruling junta. Poetry has long played a crucial role in the country’s politics, including during the anti-colonial struggle against the British. When Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy won a landslide victory in the 2015 elections, eleven poets were among its lawmakers. The previously anti-war poet Maung Saungkha was one of many young writers who took up arms following the military coup in 2022. The book Front-line Poets: The Literary Rebels Taking on Myanmar’s Military has documented their writings.
Israeli strikes killed at least forty-five artists, writers, and cultural activists within the first four months of the war in Gaza, including the poets Saleem al-Naffar, Refaat Alareer, and Hibu Abu Nada. The Lebanese-American translator and academic Huda Fakhreddine has said,
“It is shameful that we only allow Palestinians space on the page when they are dead or being slaughtered.”
Before the war, Gaza had one of the highest literacy rates in the world, along with a rich literary heritage and eight universities.
On March 28, 2026, the Iran University of Science and Technology was hit by what local media described as targeted Israeli-U.S. strikes. It was widely viewed as an attack on reason, research, and freedom of thought. Attacking universities and research centres, argued the Iranian Minister of Culture, amounts to returning to the ‘Stone Age’. Mohammad Reza Aref, Iran’s first vice president, deplored the ‘bunker-buster’ bomb strike on the university, stating:
“The bunker-buster bomb attack on Sharif University is a symbol of Trump’s madness and ignorance. He fails to understand that Iran’s knowledge is not embedded in concrete to be destroyed by bombs; the true fortress is the will of our professors and elites.”
Literature—especially poems written by the hungry, the dispossessed, and the desperate in crumbling ruins—can reach readers thousands of miles away. Poetry bears witness to what cameras cannot capture and what numbers can never explain, as stated by Nazmi al-Masri, a professor of language at the Islamic University of Gaza.
War and conflict have become defining features of our times. Across continents, the rules and limits that should protect civilians in war are being stretched, ignored, or dismantled. Conflicts are spreading, lasting for years, and growing increasingly complex. Civilians—the very people international humanitarian law exists to protect—are those who suffer the most. Erosions of the rules of war are not confined to distant battlefields; they threaten the stability, security, and civilisational values that literature preserves. Wars are not experienced through headlines alone; they are out to shape the key poetics of living in the future. War without limits equates to suffering without end. The wars in Gaza, eastern Congo, Sudan, and Ukraine shake the very foundations of our shared humanity.
But the singing continues.
As Bertolt Brecht said.
In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing.
About the dark times.”
