As my six weeks in Poland come to an end, I return to a country that has elected a convicted felon, misogynist, and xenophobe who lacks understanding of and allegiance to the U.S. Constitution. Sadly, Donald J. Trump “missed the lecture” on constitutional separation of powers while at Wharton. I return to a country — that my Polish family and friends remind me — has its own complicated history of genocide against Native Americans and enslavement of Black people. And now, we’ve, again, elected an authoritarian.
I leave my beloved “second home” with its deep, rich, and, yes, complex history in Central Europe. If only Poland had been gifted with a peaceful spot on the world’s stage, like an isolated island somewhere in the Pacific. If only Poland had been spared aggressive neighbors seeking to subsume its land, its culture, and its people. The impacts endure, shaping the collective psyche.
This has been a treasured time of observing, connecting, and sampling from a vast menu of human experiences. I offer a few reflections below.
Observing: My “Little Ones” this year were five, six and seven. What was different after two previous autumns of volunteering with Ukrainian children displaced to Poland by the Russian invasion? These children are now tri- or quadri-lingual, speaking Ukrainian, Russian (as was often spoken in Eastern Ukraine), Polish, and English. Beautiful Mia with the long brown hair and shy eyes found courage to speak up to help her classmates, translating for them in Ukrainian, when they didn’t understand a question in English. I will NEVER FORGET the little boy who remembered he was “from Ukraine” but has NO MEMORY of living there. This is what the war has taken from countless Ukrainian children whose fathers remain across the border, defending their homeland from Putin.
Connecting: I’m grateful to my cousin, Adam, for showing me our grandmother Ludwika’s Autograph Book, dating from World War I. This was a time when her Polish brothers were drafted to serve in the Austro-Hungarian Army in Serbia and Italy, while she and her mother were evacuated from Jaroslaw to Graz because of dangerous proximity to the Eastern Front. Reading entries with devotions to friendship in flowery script reminded me that my grandmother was once young and full of dreams. Elzbieta, writing on May 28, 1917, penned that my grandmother was a beloved friend possessing “countless dear hearts.” How could grandmother have foreseen that war would return in twenty years? WWII took her freedom, her safety, her home, her three eldest children to the Reich as forced laborers, and her infant son who died of starvation. And yet, these losses did not break her spirit — she maintained her signature feistiness.
Sampling: You might think this is about food. Spending time in Poland is more about sampling the culture and taking the political temperature to the extent my language skills allow. I attended a Rosh Hashanah celebration at Krakow’s Jewish Community Center where friends introduced me to Sarah, the rabbi’s wife. She and her family relocated to Poland from Israel. She said that people in Israel questioned their decision to move to Poland. She told me, “We feel safe here. There is a growing community here with so many families and children.” I also attended a Palestinian Film Festival to see Basel Adra’s No Other Land. The cinema was filled to capacity for the screening and post-film discussion. Watching documentary footage of West Bank Palestinian homes destroyed by bulldozers was a visual gut punch. Learning from past experience, I proactively purchased tickets to weekly Poetry Salons at Teatr Stary (The Old Theater). These sold-out poetry recitations by professional actors and/or theater students feature dramatic interpretations of Poland’s best bards. A phrase that will remain with me is from Jan Kochanowski’s (1530-1584) poem Na Lipę (The Linden Tree): “Gościu, siądź pod mym liściem, a odpoczni sobie.” “Traveler, come. Enter under my leaves for a rest.”
I arrived in Poland when leaves were just beginning their slow transformation to autumn hues. Greens shifted to deep reds of macintosh apples and shimmering golds of sunsets on the Vistula. This morning, bronze leaves crunched underfoot as I made my way from my flat to a favored writing space on Bracka Street. I leave tomorrow, my heart filled with gratitude for this time, these people, this place.
I am gathering my hopes like so many shells from Poland’s Jelitkowo Beach on the Baltic, mustering courage for what lies ahead. I pray for a just peace in Ukraine. I pray for a just peace in the Middle East. I pray for a just United States. I pray for a just world.
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