In the chaos of war, language itself becomes a battlefield. The full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022 did more than devastate cities and uproot families—it transformed the very words people use to communicate, both in everyday life and in art. Ukrainian poet and translator Ostap Srivanski describes the early years of the conflict as a period of profound linguistic simplification. “It became very simple,” he says. “It degraded to very basic levels of communication in order to transmit some very specific information. It degraded to the language of facts. It became almost incapable of expressing complex emotions.” In a society suddenly engulfed by fear, uncertainty, and danger, the nuanced expressions of daily life and literature were replaced by a bare-bones clarity designed for survival. This linguistic shift was not only a simplification but also an emotional release. Srivanski notes that even young Ukrainians resorted to slurs and vulgarities as a form of immediate emotional relief. “This is your ultimate instrument of self-defense,” he explains. “When you cannot defend yourself in any other way, when you feel endangered every moment, every second of your life, this layer of language becomes critical.” In this sense, language during war is not merely a tool of communication—it is a shield against isolation, fear, and helplessness. The danger of silence, Srivanski argues, becomes acute in conflict. He recalls a woman hiding in a bomb shelter during the first weeks of the invasion who begged those around her to speak. Having researched silence extensively, Srivanski highlights that those who cannot or will not speak are often excluded from dialogue. “In our modern world of pluralism, of global dialogue, the only one excluded is the one who keeps silent,” he says. “This person is very often exactly the one who experienced something horrible.” War’s imprint on language extends beyond individual emotional expression—it reshapes everyday communication. Military terms and expressions have infiltrated civilian life, blurring the line between the battlefield and the home. Soldiers, for instance, often use “plus” instead of “yes” or “I understand,” a practice now common in civilian conversation. Idioms that once had metaphorical or humorous meanings have taken on starkly literal interpretations. Srivanski recalls an expression used to ask someone to repeat themselves: “I’m in a tank.” Today, the phrase is far too literal, reflecting the immediacy of danger that Ukrainians face daily. The war has also fuelled a linguistic realignment between Russian and Ukrainian. Many citizens, Srivanski notes, are choosing Ukrainian over Russian to assert a cultural boundary and claim a sense of security in a language they consider safer. The linguistic phenomenon of "svoi", described by American historian Marcy Shore, encapsulates this shift. Translatable roughly as “our people,” "svoi" conveys a deeper sense of community and mutual protection. “When you are among "svoi", you feel secure”, highlighting the role of language in cultivating belonging amidst turmoil. The United Nations warned in early 2026 that the use of force to resolve international disputes has remained largely unchanged for over eighty years. While global policy debates stagnate, Srivanski’s observations reveal the intimate ways war transforms human experience. Language becomes a lifeline, a weapon, a form of solidarity—and, ultimately, a mirror of the collective trauma endured by those living under fire. In Ukraine, words are not just words. They are survival, resilience, and, perhaps most importantly, connection. In the face of violence, the ability to speak—and to be heard—may be the truest act of resistance.