I was
attending my first national pride day in Europe in Warsaw. At first I was
thinking harmlessly about it, as if these kinds of celebrations were a common
and essential part of any modern life, but then I shuddered when I thought
about the prospects of nationalism, and the brutality that it led to in Europe
in the early 20th century. Just one month ago I was walking between
the wooden German-style stables used at Auschwitz-Birkenau, gaping at the bloodstained
soulless mark left by ruthless European nationalism. Unlike most of the wars
against communism and religious extremism in the second half of the 20th century,
and the beginning of the 21st century, the two most brutal wars, and
the worst international atrocity in humankind were directly caused by
nationalism. So I cringed a little bit at the possibility of such a thing
rising again.
It’s quite
difficult to imagine such a meteoric rise of extreme nationalism happening again
in Europe, but somewhere in the back of my mind, with the resurgence of
ultra-nationalist parties like the Golden Dawn and Jobbik, contemporary Europe
and the Europe of a century ago violently mesh and coagulate into a
history-shunning unpredictable flying clump of earth.
With all of
this said, my aim was to experience modern European national pride. There were
two main marches that day, and I wanted to attend both. The first one was the
official government sanctioned “Presidential March” and the second was the
self-organized nationalist “Independence March.”
They go different routes, but at one point they intersect at the
Charles-de-Gaulle roundabout, where if it were not for the power of time, the
two would collide with such force that the surrounding buildings would crumble
to the ground from the aftershock. The
latter is historically known for its ruffianism, and last year they managed to
burn down one of Warsaw’s most modern and friendly monuments, the rainbow at
Zbawiciela Square. That is exactly where my bus dropped me off in the morning
and from there I walked towards Saski Park where the start of the official
march was taking place. Walking through the square I looked around to see
swarms of SWAT team circling the pedestrian ring around the monument. It was
undoubtedly the heaviest guarded place in Warsaw at the moment. Not even the
President would have this many armed guards near him. The well-guarded rainbow
is ostensibly associated with the LGBT movement, which is one reason the
nationalist felt the need to burn it down. I curiously looked at the SWAT
members in their complete American football style pads, and noticed that in the
square about 80% (an educated guess) of the SWAT team were women, and I thought
this was quite astonishing, but it was all a facade and I noticed as I left the
square that in the alleys of the surrounding streets small squadrons of
men-only SWAT were waiting to ambush any ultra-nationalist brazen enough to make
a move in the square. Is this some sort of strategy? Did the women volunteer to
be at the front? Were they the sympathetic face of the police? These are
questions I most dearly wanted to ask. I felt no fear among the SWAT of
Zbawiciela; there was no lingering energy getting ready to explode upon impact,
but this was only morning and the nationalist march didn’t begin until
mid-afternoon.
I made it
to Saski Park and saw a swarm of Poles headed through the trees towards the
open square of Plac Piłsudskiego, where Pope John Paul II triumphantly held Holy
Mass 35 years ago on his first visit as Pope to communist Poland. At first, I
tried not to meet other people’s eyes, because I felt disconnected and thought
to myself that this is not my day, it is their (the Poles) day, and I am only
an observer. But this soon gave way to the pageantry and festivity of the
event, and I found myself admiring the amount of traditional Polish bread that was
being sold around the giant fountain in the park. The stalls opened up around
me, and there was not only bread, but also fried highlander cheese with
cranberry sauce, and some sandwiches with pig fat and pickles on them. There
were bright neon colored ropes of sour liquorice for the kids, and strings of
the tasteless traditional Polish obwarzanki rings. The most intriguing for me
were caramelized rice balls as big as a softball, so I chipped a few złoty in
for one and munched on it on my way to the square.
Emerging
from the pockmarked trees I noticed a giant ring of people surrounding the
usually deserted square. There were some stands with official people sectioned
off by a fence, and in the square were standing ten companies of celebratory
soldiers. I milled around for a few minutes, and stood next to a pair of disgruntled
homeless men whispering to each other. I imagined that they were mumbling some
derogatory statements about the current government, and I wanted to ask them
what it is that they could have against them, but I couldn’t speak their
language. Soon I got bored and frustrated that I could not understand anything,
and made my way back towards the carnivalesque booths in the park.
I asked for
a sandwich with pickles and fat. “What is the name?” I asked.
“Marta,”
she answered.
“No, no the
name of the sandwich,” I responded, warily aware that I did not phrase my first
question correctly in a more international dialect of English. She laughed, but
did not tell me the name.
Then I was
keen to try some of the cream colored fried cheese, so I headed to a booth and
asked for one of the small football shaped portions that had cooked to an
inviting brown around the edges.
“This
cheese is from the mountains in Podhale,” the girl tells me. “Try it with the
sauce. It is delicious.” She says this with a smiling face, and it truly was.
It reminded me of the aromatic salty sulguni cheese of the Caucasus, but the cranberry
sauce added a plump delicacy you could only find in a northern country.
I slowly
made my way back to the square with the cheese in my hand and the half eaten
caramelized rice ball in my backpack when suddenly a large boom startled me and
I instinctively ducked as if we were under attack. Artillery fire was going off
at consistent intervals, and that first one shook me so bad that I almost spit
out the bite of cheese that was in my mouth. The sound was deafening, and the
feeling was pulverizing, and I was struck with awe when I thought about how it
was used in previous wars. I looked to the sky, and despite the initial fright
I became enamored by of the ceremonial commemoration. Poland has a lot to be
proud of today. Even though this Independence Day is based on Piłsudski’s
restoration of an independent Poland between the two world wars, they really
only gained political freedom and true sovereignty just 25 years ago, and since
then it has turned around to become a driving force in EU politics, and its
people and cities are now developing surprisingly fast. Warsaw is opening up a
second metro line this winter, and Wrocław will be one of the European
‘Capitals of Culture’ in 2016.
I looked
around in the square and thought that everyone looked elated and satisfied, and
noticed families taking pictures with convivial signs that said ‘long live
Poland.,’ and children were mounted on top of their fathers shoulders while he
was jostling for a better look at the multi-colored soldiers. The people there
looked family-oriented and soft. Their eyes were tightened with intelligence,
and the sense that if they work hard, and work together Poland could be the
great and tolerant melting pot of ideas that it once was in the distant past.
Just before
the official march started, president Komorowski entered the square and walked
along the line of soldiers. He symbolically inspected each company and gave his
approval to each one with a nod of the head. As soon as he walked off, the
march down Nowy Świat street towards Łazienki Park, and more specifically the
statue of Piłsudski, began.
I followed
them along the street, eventually coming to a good vantage point to watch the
different sections go by. The parade was a historical procession of military
units. Each era was represented, from WWI and on. There were young volunteers
representing the Poles who fought on both sides of the First World War with the
hope that they would gain independence, then, an actor playing Piłsudski rode
by in a vintage Cadillac waving to everybody through the tinted windows. I
watched as proud young adults dressed in shabby uniforms portrayed the brutally
suppressed Polish Home Army. More and more came by, and finally the official
companies that stood at the square brought an end to the marchers, but still I
followed them, all the way to Piłsudski’s statue. I was most interested to see
what would happen at the Russian embassy nearby, because last year the
ultra-nationalist made an attempt to storm the premises, burning down some of
the property. But I got lost in the back streets and couldn’t find my way to
the embassy. It was getting close to the beginning of the nationalist march,
and despite thinking that I might be satisfied with the cheerful and innocent
official march, I decided it was time to head towards Dmowskiego roundabout
where I expected to see far fewer people preparing for their menial riff-raff.
Read part 2 here
Read part 2 here
