Wojciech Tochman: "Behind every genocide, there are politicians and politics"

Two of your books have already been published in Ukrainian: Like Eating a Stone and Today We’re Going to Draw Death. A translation of another one of your books will be released soon, but when can we expect a book about Ukraine?

— That’s a very good question. When I first started coming to Ukraine, I had no intention of writing about the war in Ukraine. I believed that Ukraine has its own outstanding writers, and I wouldn’t be useful here. My translator into Ukrainian, Andriy Bondar, even joked that now every Polish writer has to write a book about Ukraine. I think he’s exaggerating: not everyone, only every other one. I believe that Ukraine has its own outstanding writers, well-known in Poland because they are translated into Polish, and they can describe this war better than writers or journalists, reporters from abroad. So I figured it was best for me to stay out of it. I would do my work in Poland, and for the first year and a half of the full-scale war, I, of course, followed it, was concerned about it, and was grateful that Ukrainians were fighting for our freedom and peace as well, but I didn’t plan to write books. However, when I was in Kyiv for the first time last year for the presentation of my book, I asked Andriy to take me to an animal shelter.

I often visit shelters in various places where I work because I love animals and care about their fate. And Andriy took me to the "Sirius" shelter in Fedorivka near Kyiv, where he himself once adopted a dog. There I met people who, during the occupation that lasted over thirty days, didn’t abandon the animals to die but risked their lives to save them every day. I know that different films have already been made, and there will probably be books about how animals in Ukraine have also become victims of the war, but I decided that I still want to do it in my own way. But not because every second or third writer from Poland has to describe the war in Ukraine, but because I feel immense gratitude to Ukrainians for what they are doing. For risking their lives and dying, including for us. I am deeply aware of this. And what can I do? I can only document and write, which is what I hope I do best. So yes, there will be such a book, and I’ve been gathering material for it since the beginning of this year. This will take more time. It’s a big topic about the great responsibility of people for non-human creatures.

This is very close to my heart, and I am deeply moved by it. Actually, I don’t know what came first, but my readers and friends in my social networks are raising money—in other words, I’m raising it, and together we’re helping the "Sirius" shelter in Fedorivka. We’ve also provided some small assistance to the shelter in Nikopol, which is run by the brave Olena, who is currently caring for 350 animals, and a small amount also went to The 12 Vartovykh Charitable Foundation (12 Guards). These are four angels who risk their lives to save animals, evacuating them from frontline areas. I believe that just writing in such circumstances is not enough. Real actions are also needed, so I do what I can. I can’t fight, I can’t shoot, but I can persuade people to donate because they trust me, and something has to be done. At least, that’s what I believe. You can't just stand by and do nothing.

We’ll revisit the topic of animals later, but for now, I’d like to discuss literary reportage and have two questions on this subject. First, how crucial is it to be immersed in the situation you’re writing about? Does being directly involved offer significant advantages, or is it sometimes more beneficial to maintain a degree of distance? How does the experience differ when writing about, for instance, a war occurring in your own country versus being an outsider observing from afar?

— From the perspective of an author, a reporter, I can't answer this question because I've never written about a war in my own country. But from the perspective of a reader of reportage, who consciously reads these reports, I think that both types of reportage are entirely valuable, but I also see the difference.

A reporter from the outside has the privilege of being able to leave, to finish the work. Usually, they have the privilege of ending their work at any moment.

It's crucial that an external reporter doesn’t try to pose as an insider.

Reporting from within is undoubtedly more authentic in some ways. However, an outsider might be able to observe those involved with a bit more detachment. It's not about being objective, because truly objective reporting doesn't exist. It's more about being less emotionally involved. This perspective allows the reporter to see the situation differently, though I can't pinpoint exactly how at the moment. But it’s definitely not about striving for objectivity. An inside reporter certainly has a better grasp of what’s happening on the inside.

But maybe an external reporter sees it in a broader context. This is just a supposition, a hypothesis, because it still very much depends on the authors themselves, their ability to observe, their sensitivity, and their skill in documenting. I have great respect for those who report from within a situation.

Personally, I think if I had to write about events in my own country while they were happening, I wouldn’t be able to. Fear would likely overwhelm me. Perhaps I could write about it later, after some time has passed, but I’m not sure. As Wisława Szymborska said, we know ourselves only as far as we’ve been tested.

You didn't have to document a war in your own country, but I talked about this with Mstyslav Chernov, the director of the film 20 Days in Mariupol. I asked him at what point he stops filming and begins to offer help or comfort. Writing is different; it’s not like a camera—you capture everything in words. But were there times when you had to pause your writing and step in to help?

— Oh yes, many times. I think it’s actually easier for me because I can put away the notebook, not take it out at all, and not note anything down, but rather take in everything around me fully. And I’ve often found myself getting involved in small things. In reportage, anything that isn’t forbidden... Maybe this isn’t the best quote for our time because it seems Gorbachev said it: “Everything which is not forbidden is allowed”.

When I was covering the post-war period in Bosnia and Herzegovina, I met a woman searching for the remains of her children—a daughter and a son. The daughter was my age, and the son was likely two years older. We called her Mother Mejra. This was in the early 2000s, at the very beginning of gathering material. I encountered her several times during the identification of clothing or body remains. After returning to Poland, I learned that Mother Mejra’s children had been identified, so I decided to attend the funeral—not as a reporter, but as a friend. During the funeral, I didn't document anything. I believe my presence meant a lot to Mejra because we had already become close by then. Later, I wrote about it in a book, but documenting my presence at that funeral wasn't the reason I went. I simply wanted to be there for this woman and her husband, the father of the children who were killed.

Sometimes, as a reporter, I take off those reporter’s shoes, and it only benefits the text of the book afterward.

Never the other way around. What led you to focus on writing about genocides? How do you see the connection between war and genocide? Are they always directly linked? Would you consider what's happening in Ukraine right now to be a genocide?

— No, they aren't always directly linked. Genocide is a legal term introduced by the Polish lawyer Raphael Lemkin in the late 1940s, with a specific legal definition. In simple terms, if the aggressor's aim is to completely eliminate a national group, that's considered genocide. For instance, imagine two individuals lying on bunks in an Auschwitz camp—one, a Jewish person, was a victim of genocide, while the other, a Polish person, was not. Although they both suffered the same fate, legally, the first was a victim of genocide, and the second was a victim of a war crime. Since I'm not a lawyer, I would leave this determination to legal experts and international courts. However, this doesn't change the fact that, from the victims' perspective, the suffering is immense, and the guilt of the aggressor is unquestionable.

What is the connection between war and genocide—does war lead to genocide, or does genocide lead to war?

— Genocide is typically a gradual process that unfolds over time. The longer it continues, the more effective it becomes for those perpetrating it—meaning, unfortunately, that more lives are lost.

Behind every genocide, there are politicians and politics. There is no genocide without politicians.

This process begins with the identification of a group. This could be, as it was in Rwanda, the Tutsi; it could be Ukrainians; it could be Poles; but it could also be LGBT people or even people with blue eyes. The next stage in this process is dehumanization, where the future victims are stripped of their humanity. The aim is to convince the future perpetrators—who must be numerous to carry out mass murder—that they are doing something righteous, that they are purifying the world. That's why the Hutu in Rwanda called the Tutsi cockroaches, and the Germans called Jews lice or rats that spread disease, like typhus. The goal is to make us stop seeing people in these future victims and start viewing them as pests. Pests are seen as carriers of disease, something unavoidable and insidious. When we feel surrounded by such a threat, our first thoughts turn to those we love the most—our children or grandchildren.

And then the question arises: what lengths would someone go to in order to protect their child? But dehumanization can also be done in a slightly different way, as Putin did with Ukrainians. In a society where the myth, tradition, or culture of the Great Patriotic War [The Eastern Front, Part of the European theatre of World War II - ed.]  is very strong and still alive, he began to call Ukrainians Nazis. And who is a Nazi in the eyes of the average Russian? A Nazi is not a person; it is a machine that produces death. It is not a human being; it is a machine that must be stopped, destroyed, eliminated.

When I heard about the well-known conversation intercepted by Ukrainian intelligence at the start of the full-scale invasion—a conversation between a Russian soldier and his wife where she said, "if necessary, rape, just use condoms"—I was struck by how unnatural such thinking is. A normal person could never think or say something like that. But for those whose minds have been so thoroughly brainwashed and who don't see rape as a war crime, this woman wasn’t talking about another human being. In her view, the victim was seen as a dehumanized entity, like a machine that can be used and abused without any moral or ethical considerations. They, as I understand it, both this woman on one end of the line and her husband on the other, both believed—maybe I'm wrong, but this is how I interpret it—that they were doing the right thing. They were making the world a better place. Cleansing it of Nazis. Putin convinced them that Nazis are in Ukraine and that the people there are ruled by Nazis. This belief makes it easier for those who commit genocide, as they carry out their actions with greater fervor.

Genocide perpetrators aim to obliterate the victims' existence, erasing all evidence that they ever lived. This is why the Nazis burned synagogues, why the Hutus in Rwanda destroyed victims' passports and records to erase them from memory, and why the Orthodox Serbs in Srebrenica demolished five mosques to eradicate any trace of the Bosnian Muslims who once lived there.

So, to summarize, we understand how genocide occurs. Genocides are somewhat similar to each other. When politicians in democratic countries begin to label an ethnic group as suspicious, as we recently saw in Poland with Kaczyński’s remarks about the Silesians being a covert version of Germans, it becomes a troubling sign. The core of democracy is that voters have the power to choose whether to grant a politician full authority, partial power, or reject them entirely. I hope that we are moving in the direction where such figures will soon be removed from power.

What is the role of literary reportage in the face of all this? Can reportage not only preserve the memory of these victims but also change the situation in a legal sense?

— A reporter might come across a story that the justice system has overlooked and bring it to light. In theory, this is possible. Reporters on the ground are certainly direct witnesses and participants in what is happening, and they can, for example, testify. But I see my role somewhat differently. Perhaps not differently, but it seems to me that the primary task of literary reportage that addresses these terrible events is, of course, to document that it simply happened.

That people did this to people. It happened to ordinary people, which means it could happen to any of us as well.

You might be a victim, a perpetrator, or merely an observer. However, it seems almost impossible to remain a completely impartial observer; eventually, you will have to choose a side.

I remember discussions and panels in Poland from 10-15 years ago where I voiced similar concerns, and people would dismiss them as crazy. Now, however, they’re terrified that if Ukraine falls, Putin might come for us next. It’s ironic how those who once dismissed my views are now the ones in fear. Regarding the second question, as I mentioned, it might happen, and I can imagine it. I feel I have such stories, but no International Criminal Tribunal has invited me as a witness. But to revisit the initial question, I firmly believe that objective reportage does not exist.

Literary reportage is an author-driven genre where only the facts hold true significance. In other words, a fact, or indisputable information, is that today is a certain day in June 2024. Or that last night in Kyiv there were two air raid sirens. If I wrote “one or three times,” I would be lying. And that is something one should not do. In reportage, facts serve as the foundation and framework for all subjective elements. These facts form the basis for my personal impressions. The selection of facts is inherently subjective, as a reporter must inevitably omit certain details to avoid making the reportage overly lengthy or unreadable.

We select facts subjectively, but my impressions, my emotions, and my reflections are also subjective. It seems to me that this is the essence of the artistry of reportage. This is my truth. I am convinced that everything I write is the truth. For example, I write: “That evening was cool.” But another reporter might write: “That evening was quite warm.” Who was right? Certainly, it's possible that I might report the temperature as 10 degrees Celsius that evening, while another reporter claims it was 15 degrees at the same time and place. In this case, either one of us is mistaken, or both of us are incorrect. Nonetheless, this discrepancy is a factual issue, as it concerns specific, measurable information.

In Poland, known for its rich tradition of literary reportage, there are numerous instances of this phenomenon. For example, during the 1979 Iranian Revolution in Tehran, two renowned Polish reporters, Wojciech Giełżyński and Ryszard Kapuściński, were there and later authored books on the subject. Despite sharing the two main facts that the Shah fled and Khomeini returned from exile, their books depicted entirely different settings and narratives. Essentially, their accounts were distinct stories, with only those central facts aligning.

Or picture two reporters coming to Kyiv to write a report about the city during the war. One might describe Kyiv as living under constant tension, with frequent alerts, regular funerals, and ongoing conscription into the army, portraying a harsh existence amid the shadow of war. The other reporter might note that while alerts do occur, they are largely ignored because the air defense system is effective. They might not observe many funerals and instead focus on the city's vibrant shopping malls, excellent restaurants, great coffee, and friendly, though perhaps not overly cheerful, people. They would describe a city that is functioning well, with people working and children studying. Both reports could be well-written or poorly executed, but do you agree that both perspectives could be accurate?

So, I understand that in reportage, the most important thing is the writing skill and how it’s written, rather than... the facts?

— The facts are also important. Both reporters would write that on such and such a day, there were a certain number of air raid alerts. That the air defense shot down a certain number of "Kinzhal" missiles. That they downed a certain number of "Shaheds." And that one did hit its target. Both would write the same thing. And on this, they would agree. These facts must be there.

The tone of their narratives could vary significantly. One might emphasize that the air defense is effective, people are studying and working, and the city is functioning—conveying a more hopeful outlook. Another might focus on the fact that while the air defense is operational, there are still casualties, funerals, ongoing mobilization, and the suffering of people and families.

My book about Rwanda, which was translated into Ukrainian by Andriy Bondar, explores the devastating aftermath of genocide 15 years after that tragic event. This is the book Today We’re Going to Draw Death. But when I was gathering material for it, there were discos, young people were studying, people were starting to smile, Tutsis and Hutus were beginning to trade with each other. True, there were still no mixed marriages as there had been before, but Rwanda was moving forward. They had a lot of money coming in from abroad, and one could write a very optimistic reportage: "We truly survived the genocide 15 years ago and remember it, but we’ve made significant progress." But I didn’t see it that way—I saw a country steeped in darkness and mounting misery. I wouldn't categorize it as better or worse; it's simply a different kind of message.

A report written in the midst of events might have a shorter shelf life, but it also serves as a document—a direct account of what occurred. I suspect, though I don't have concrete data to confirm it, that a more immediate reportage typically has a shorter lifespan. Later on, it might be referenced by researchers and historians as a valuable source of information, but it’s unlikely to capture the attention of a broad audience—assuming the general public reads books at all. Because today, reportage serves a different function than it did 30 or 40 years ago. And reportage has nothing to compete with when it comes to information.

To keep up with current events, we have the news. News texts can also be short or long. In the past, a reporter would travel to the farthest reaches of the world, vanish for a year, then spend another year writing a book, and another working with a publisher. When the book finally came out three years later, it was still relevant.

Today, however, reportage needs to offer more than just information; it must also be infused with the author’s personal insights and reflections. If a reportage is purely informational, it will inevitably be outpaced by real-time news that's instantly available.

A book-writing reporter is at a disadvantage in this regard, so they need to bring something extra to their story—something that not only sets it apart but also gives it lasting relevance. The aim is for the story to remain—if I may use the term—engaging for readers even 20 years down the line, ensuring it still offers something new and relevant.

Is reportage closer to journalism or literature? And is there a recipe for crafting good reportage, if such a formula even exists?

— Is reportage closer to literature or journalism? This question has been asked in Poland for about 50 years, but it doesn’t concern me. I gather material like a journalist, but I write using literary techniques. Let those who read us or make a living analyzing our work worry about that. Such reflections on whether reportage is literature or journalism can lead us astray. For instance, some people claimed that Ryszard Kapuściński’s reports had transcended traditional reportage and entered the realm of literature. According to these so-called experts, reportage was only considered reportage if it was of lower quality, and once it improved, it was deemed literature. That idea is absurd. But of course, not every reportage is literature, just as not all prose or any creative writing is literature. Sometimes it’s just bad writing.

Translated by Anna Petelina