THE VIOLENCE OF SPEECH: MISHA HONCHARENKO RESPONDS TO OKSANA KARPOVYCH’S INTERCEPTED

Intercepted is an essential work of Ukrainian cinema that brings the reality of war closer to people’s context. There’s no kindness, no linearity. There’s no point in trying to present things as linear when people are forced to withdraw from life. And there is no kindness, only severe rage. A hatred of any word spoken, of any attempt to engrave meaning into a life ravaged by ongoing war.

The film captures quiet moments that build up into an eerie unease — none of this is fabricated. It’s non-fiction, and life is much scarier than you imagine. It crawled under my skin, into my bones. True art should never make excuses in relation to reality. Never. The film's gaps and silences feel like black holes on a road.

This is the true face of a russian soldier. It is also a female image, intertwined with all of them. Everything is exposed on the surface, a creation dancing around the abyss. A creation that should never have existed. My mind wants people to wake up, to see this, to make our voices more visible.

Through starvation, they believe in the sacred. No ambiguity. After watching this, I feel a sense of relief that the film exists. It merges images of destruction with the voices of occupiers and their families, and the silences between these moments haunted me. It's a brutal yet effective way to depict time and sorrow. Oksana Karpovych is a gifted director.

It is a chain of reconstruction, spreading the bodies of ‘ordinary people’ to show that there is no justification for war crimes. Genocidal acts they are proud of. I feel rage when I hear their voices. It reminds me of hoarding, when there’s no space left to move in your room, your place, your life. It suffocates people. I saw a horror more real than I could have imagined. The collective voices of perpetrators, lingering, eager to kill.

These are menacing days. Years of oppression. Macabre scenes of evil and chilling conversations.

And yet, I find myself thinking of how I will remember the warmth of a halo of sunlight, how I will reevaluate the touch of my grandmother’s hands, and how she looked at me with hope for the future, while pain stirred in the body of a child. I can still hear the sounds of that childhood; the rubble will come later. I hear it in the food, in the clinking of homesickness. It is, above all, a return to words, smells, and sounds. What if it had all been taken away from me?

There’s a universality in this recall. But it won’t be as easy as it sounds. Because when images of peace appear, I don’t necessarily think of the past. I don’t know how people manage that. My mind is stuck in a time when the joy of life without russians seemed like a release from anxiety.

Brittle signals of air gave way to air raid sirens. My window always looked out onto the green light that flashed from the bases of trees, from the crowns that enveloped the glass when it was cold. From the sounds of cars passing by on the road.

Children, frantic to learn at the school nearby. Now hiding. Now bleeding.

Violence cannot be romanticised; yet it is immoral to ignore it. Everything is documented. There is no way to wash it away.

My love could not be contained. I still remember my mother, though she is no longer with us. My grandparents — also gone. I remind myself of abandonment when my mother was cremated, with ambient music playing in the background, in a beautiful but eerie place in Ireland. It felt both familiar and strange, as though a caressing presence lingered, as if she were telling me I wouldn’t be alone. The ceremony was streamed online for my remaining relatives. Ashes to ashes. When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I was her primary carer. Endless exhaustion takes over your body when you’re trying to heal someone so close to death. And still, war goes on. I wish I hadn’t lost my mother, my relatives. I fear being left behind. My feelings matter, and so do the feelings of every Ukrainian — those who have suffered, lost their families, homes, and everything the russian forces have taken from us.

I can’t get over the war and death. Because death is the process of war. But it never diminishes our resistance. We are eager to feel victory over this zombified structure. Their rotten brains. The contamination goes far back in time. It has soaked into their skin, their voices, a derivative loneliness and incapacity to understand — to give in, or to feel empathy.

Silences between low, loud voices. I feel violated just by listening to their pathetic, senseless conversations. How they truly believe their actions will be applauded. Praised by whom? Dictators? russia is an imperialistic rot that cannot stop spreading its germs. Their so-called culture proves this.

Images: broken windows, scattered perspectives, explosions, trauma, wounds, the negative side of existence. It drains goodness away, spits on the grave, sends you to hell. All they know is occupation, looting, rape, destruction, manipulation, crushing, cutting, stabbing. Animalistic. Torture, hate, censorship, propaganda. Homophobia, racism, xenophobia. The filth of colonisation and imperialism. All of it inhuman, a repeated invasion. The dying carcass of free speech.

I don’t care.

I care only about my country.

Cruel laughs, cruel murmurs. russia is a terrorist state. How easily they claim ‘protection’ when it is really harsh barbarism. They simply want to take over. To demolish our language, culture, homes, territory, dignity. Their torch burns only to keep their work of destruction going. To spill blood, so people won’t live to experience the beauty of the soul’s imprint; war crimes are their mark. To slaughter them, to remain calm as you witness justice. There is no room for pacifism — it’s all weakness. You must examine your flaws. Because it’s impossible to forget, to close your eyes, to be surrounded by ignorance.

Слава Україні! Героям Слава.
Слава Збройним Силам України.
Смерть ворогам.

GUEST CURATOR’S BIO

Misha Honcharenko is a queer Ukrainian artist and writer. He started diarising his experiences on his Instagram profile almost a decade ago, combining weird objects and landscapes with a photographic exploration of himself, all against the backdrop of the russian invasion.