Notes from the Polish-Belarusian Border


What seemed unlikely a few weeks ago is slowly becoming routine today. Violence permeates everything, crawls out of the dark cells of memory hidden in the subconscious and covered with nationalism. It crawls out of the village barn where Poles burned their Jewish neighbours, it returns in the wilderness dotted with mass graves of executed civilians and insurgents. One does not cut down and burn what is, those who are. No one is at home here. Grandfather born in Baku, grandmother in a Belarusian family, great-grandfather from Prussia, changed his name. My father emigrated to the States. I moved away just after primary school. Here, where I am, someone was already here before. The whole collective works for where I will be.


Fragment of the text written in Polish and German, published in Czas Kultury and Neues Deutschland