Ramy Al-Asheq Ramy Al-Asheq

Ramy Al-Asheq is an award winning Palestinian-Syrian-German poet, journalist and cultural figure based in Berlin, Germany. The “son of two causes—Palestine and Syria”, he is known for his nuanced exploration of exile, identity and displacement. He has published five poetry collections in Arabic, which have been translated into several languages, including German, English and Polish, with his writing appearing in anthologies and magazines worldwide. His works have inspired performances, musical compositions and visual artworks. He spoke to Vineetha Mokkil about the pathology of war and the price of writing about it. Excerpts:

Q

How do you write about war and the human suffering it causes, which is a daunting subject with so many nuances?

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A

Writing is writing. For me, it is an act of resistance, an act of existence and an act of survival. It is a continuous process of excavation, exploration, giving, and critique. My narratives are predominantly poetic, and this type of writing is neither easy to create nor read. I believe choosing this path was not a bad decision, even though it has not been approached without tension. However, tension, insecurity and suffering in writing, or in dealing with it, are intrinsic to the nature of war and conflict. How can we write a comfortable, easy and safe text about a subject that is neither easy, comfortable, nor safe?

No matter how expansive literature and imagination may be, they sometimes stand powerless in the face of the enormity and obscenity of reality. “When your surgical priority for a beautiful 13-year-old girl is to reconstruct her eyelids so that she can have a prosthetic eye, a part of you dies.” This statement by Dr Ghassan Abu -Sittah, a plastic surgeon returning from Gaza, exemplifies it. What can literature do in the face of such a sentence?

Since I was born a refugee, war has been present as a member of my family—from the Gulf War to the Iraq War, through the ‘Arab Spring’ revolutions to the genocide in Gaza today. Therefore, questions of good and evil, justice and injustice, truth and falsehood, reality and fabrication, and similar dualities are important and human questions. Yet, they are not my poetic or artistic questions. Yes, they may appear here and there, evident in my texts, but I see pain and love as the most fundamental truths. This duality is my library—where I seek refuge, search, and write. From my perspective, they are the truest realities, and their struggle for dominance is my poetic inquiry.

The price of writing about such topics is exceedingly high…Sometimes, the pain of writing surpasses the pain of war, loss or exile because it is a compounded pain—one tied to reliving the suffering, revisiting memories and digging into the depths of wounds. This is an adventure with unpredictable outcomes. It may lead to a darkness from which there is no light or perhaps to a light that consoles us. It is like the adventure of crossing a sea, revolting against a brutal dictator, or resisting a colonialism that has occupied even the smallest details of our bodies. These adventures may cost us our lives, but they are worth the attempt.

Q

What does war do to women who may not be involved in active combat?

A

War is not only about fighting on the frontlines. I am particularly sensitive to the portrayal of women as powerless and passive figures. Women are active participants in war—on the frontlines and beyond. They play crucial roles in resistance movements, in leading communities to survival, and in managing societies, from the days of tribal life and even before.

Outside of literary writing, we witness wars that most people do not want, initiated by political, military and mafia-like elites, while their costs are borne by people who have no connection to them—men, women and children. In news broadcasts and discussions, I often hear about “women and children victims,” as if ignoring male victims or subtly justifying their deaths based on their gender. It is as if wars happen because men are men, which is untrue and a violation of our shared humanity, perpetuating deadly stereotypes. Most men are victims of war, not combatants—whether in Ukraine, Syria, Gaza or elsewhere. Moreover, today’s wars are waged with missiles, airplanes, chemical weapons, drones, and recently, artificial intelligence. We are approaching an era of wars where the only human element left is the victims.

Q

How does fighting a war change a soldier as a person?

A

This is a difficult question with no single answer. Killing someone can leave us traumatised, disturbed, and making us mentally ill. Conversely, we might kill, feel victorious and euphoric, and still become mentally ill. Surely, when we kill someone, we also kill something within ourselves—a part of our soul—and then, if we are able to move forward, we continue as mere shadows of life.

As much as I revere resistance as a sacred human act and see fear as pure instinct, I deeply despise soldiers and the military uniform. Once a person dons that uniform, they cease to be themselves and become the uniform—a helmet, a gear pouch and a killing machine. This is one of humanity’s most debased acts: the surrender of one’s humanity. Unlike resistance, soldiering is a bureaucratic act, transforming humans into bureaucratic entities that follow orders without thought. This echoes Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil”.

What is more accurate: that war changes people, that people change within war, or that war merely lifts the restraints on our savagery? There is a point of no return, an addictive state driven by adrenaline and the fleeting sense of victory, which compensates for feelings of shame, guilt and fear. War gives you the power to decide whether someone lives or dies, to steal someone’s home, or to assault someone without accountability. For that moment, you are an absolute god, acting outside the boundaries of your society or family, which would otherwise hold you morally accountable. And in that position, no one can stop you.

Q

Why is the world perpetually in fight mode?

A

Because there are those who want it war continue, who create it, fuel it and manipulate its balances because its continuation is politically and economically profitable. There are superpowers whose very existence is fundamentally based on the war industry. There are also those who want war to persist because it gives them a certain meaning or serves an interest—this does not necessarily include only the elites of power and wealth.

War is tempting for many, even poets; I sometimes feel that some poets have built their poetic identities around war, and its cessation would mean their disappearance. Thus, an implicit agreement seems to have been made, one that demands war’s continuation. Non-governmental organizations, neighbouring countries, banks, arms manufacturers, political lobbies, oil companies—who among them truly wants war to stop? 

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I believe the concept of war is more realistic and consistent than the notion of people living in peace, harmony, love, and goodwill. That is a naïve, idealistic idea that cannot be implemented. 

Q

Why has the world never known "everlasting peace"? Is it a pipe dream in your opinion? 

A

In my view, there is no such thing as true peace if we only define it as the absence of war. We talk about peace, but what we often mean is simply "no war." Peace should not be reduced to the mere absence of conflict. It is a dynamic, living, and active force that must stand on its own terms, not as the opposite of war. Things defined only by their opposites are inherently fragile. Goodness is not merely the absence of evil, and love is not merely the absence of hatred. 

As long as humanity continues to view peace as the absence of war, conflict will remain the dominant force. And as long as justice is absent, peace can never be lasting or genuine. Some people argue that living in humiliation but in peace is better than dying in war. Here, I am reminded of Martin Luther's quote: "Peace is more important than all forms of justice." This, in essence, reflects what often happens: peace is bartered for the absence of war, for food, for land, for medicine, for oil—essentially for survival. Such a mentality is inherently mafioso; it has nothing to do with true peace. It is an act of international thuggery, nothing more. 

On the other hand, there are those who believe that death is better than humiliation, and that freedom and dignity are as essential as life itself. This aligns with Ghassan Kanafani's sentiment: "To us, to liberate our country, to have dignity, to have respect, to have our mere human rightsswerteplay, is something as essential as life itself."