Rage as Resistance: How Ukrainian Artists Transform Fury into Art

Rage as the Heartbeat of Ukrainian Art

When I first encountered the music of Verdi's Requiem performed by the Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra in London's St Paul's Cathedral, I was struck not just by its sonic grandeur, but by the raw emotional intensity that filled every note. The Dies irae, the 'day of anger,' was rendered with such visceral force that it felt less like a requiem and more like a battle cry—a testament to the fury of a people determined to survive.

"The anger of the Dies irae is a kind of world-fury produced when everything is disrupted, put out of order by human actions."

This wasn't an isolated experience. Twice, I've heard this powerful performance, once in Lviv, where it took on a more intimate but no less devastating tone, and again in London, under the soaring arches of St Paul's. In both places, the Requiem became a ritual of remembrance for those lost in war, a collective grief transformed into an urgent call to action.

It's this transformation that strikes me most deeply—the way rage, often seen as destructive, becomes a source of strength for Ukrainian artists. It's not just about pain; it's about resistance.

The Power of Homer: Rage and the Epic Tradition

In my ongoing exploration of how Ukrainians make sense of their fury, I turned to literature—specifically to the epic poems of Homer. The Iliad is fuelled by rage; it's not a book about love or honor alone, but a brutal testament to the human capacity for wrath. Achilles' anger is not merely personal—it becomes mythic, a force that shapes not just his own fate, but that of an entire world.

But let's be clear: Ukrainian rage does not aspire to the divine. It's grounded in the real—the horror of war, the brutality of invasion, and the loss of innocence. And yet, like Achilles, this rage has a structure, a rhythm, and a language that can be harnessed.

I found myself thinking about the way Ukrainian poets like Iryna Shuvalova capture that rage in verse. Her poem February, referring to the month of Russia's full-scale invasion in 2022, begins with an almost casual tone: 'we planned to get through February like any other month.' But then the violence erupts—'instead, the river roars and grabs us by the legs / this red slippery foaming / February-fury.'

"The translators used the phrase 'February-fury' to mimic the echo in Ukrainian between lyutyy, the word for February, and lyuta, raging."

This is no poetic flourish—it's a linguistic artifact that connects the personal with the national, the moment with the memory. It echoes Homer's Scamander River, choked in blood, where the fury of war becomes part of the landscape itself.

Rage as Resistance: From Poem to Power

It's not enough for rage to exist in silence or memory. For Ukrainian artists, rage must be channeled into action, into resistance, into art. Oleksandr Mykhed, an author now serving in the armed forces, wrote a wartime alphabet book for children in which L stands for lyut, rage. He describes it as a complex mixture: desire to defend, hatred of the enemy, and love for one's people.

This is not mere emotion—it's a philosophy of resistance. Mykhed explains that this kind of rage doesn't lead to chaos; it gives power through clarity. It is rage with purpose, directed toward resistance and action.

"Rage gives you words."

This idea resonates deeply with Audre Lorde's assertion that anger, when properly channeled, becomes energy—loaded with information and power. For Ukrainians, rage has become a kind of artistic currency, used to fuel books, songs, performances, and even the act of keeping alive the memory of their country's resilience.

Consider Sasha Dovzhyk, who tells me she misses rage now, not because it was easy, but because it gave her purpose. It allowed her to write her forthcoming book Apocalypse Baroque: Tales from Ukraine at War, which mixes documentary and fairy tale with the energy of fury.

The Cost of Sustaining Fury

But rage is not a constant flame—it burns itself out. In 2026, as I reflect on the ongoing war, I find that Ukrainian artists are experiencing a kind of emotional fatigue. The fire cannot be sustained; it would consume you in its overwhelming heat.

This is not weakness—it's a recognition of the human cost of resistance. Some artists, like Dovzhyk, feel a deep longing for rage, even as they acknowledge that it has become harder to find. The world around them continues to spiral into new forms of horror, and with each passing day, the intensity of their original fury dims.

"I feel like anything is possible – nuclear war, anything," Iakovlenko told me. "Everything that was written in books and in films is actually happening to us."

It's this paradox—of how deeply art can be shaped by trauma, yet also how fragile that connection becomes—that gives Ukrainian creativity its urgency. The poets, musicians, and writers must now grapple with a new kind of silence: not the absence of expression, but the struggle to find meaning in a world where horror has become normal.

Art as Both Requiem and Revolution

There is a profound duality at play here. The same rage that devastates can also heal. It is both requiem and resistance, mourning and rebellion. In Verdi's Requiem, the Dies irae does not simply condemn—it calls forth an awareness of the world's fragility, its capacity for destruction, and our collective responsibility to act.

In Ukraine, this duality is alive in every performance, every poem, every moment of defiance. The rage that was once raw and uncontrolled has become a form of cultural resistance—no longer just anger, but a structured force that builds understanding and solidarity.

Art, as I've learned through my conversations with Ukrainian creators, becomes a way to survive the war—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. It allows for both remembrance and resistance, making sense of the chaos while pushing forward into an uncertain future.

Conclusion: The Eternal Flame

Ukrainian artists have taught me that rage, when channeled properly, is not a burden but a tool. It is the engine behind resistance, the fuel for creativity, and the voice of a people determined to be remembered. In Homer's epics and in modern Ukrainian literature, we see how fury can be transformed from something destructive into something beautiful—something that endures.

The next time you hear Verdi's Dies irae performed, or read a poem written in the heat of war, remember that it is not just a reflection of pain—it is a declaration of will. And that, perhaps, is the most powerful act of all.