In the Wake of War: The conflict in Ukraine as (not) seen from Warsaw

In the months since war first struck Ukraine, friends and family back in the UK have often asked me what the situation is like in Warsaw, where I am currently based. My one-word answer: surreal. Here’s why.

By the middle of March, the population of Poland’s capital city had grown by 17% over the course of just a few weeks. Under any circumstances, let alone a refugee crisis, such sudden change doesn’t go unnoticed, and the signs of upheaval — literally spelled-out in Cyrillic lettering and fluttering from flagpoles as a symbol of support — are impossible to ignore. Snippets of Ukrainian and Russian now permeate the local Polish, shops are noticeably busier, and this year the parks are filled with freshly planted flowers in one of only two colours. But most of the city bears few reminders of what is actually driving this dramatic transformation: full-blown, fatal war.?

In the absence of a tangible connection to the military activity just across the border, barely 200 miles away, you can easily overlook the full extent of the crisis. Steer clear of the long lines at train stations, help centres and embassies, and the changes on the streets of Warsaw can feel more like a cultural campaign to welcome the city’s new residents, rather than the effects of an exodus from eastern battles. With frequent road closures for VIP convoys, scattered information points directing suitcase-dragging travellers, and billboards promoting a busy programme of Ukraine-themed events, you could be forgiven for mistaking this as a national festival-in-the-making. Even the branding fits: in a country where flags are already commonplace, the blue-and-yellow standard of Ukraine blends in alongside the red-and-yellow of Warsaw, the white-and-blue of the Catholic Church, and of course the white-and-red of Poland. Primary colours abound and, as summer approaches, the city is the most visually-vibrant and culturally-active it has been since before the pandemic.??

But this is no festival, and these visitors are not well-heeled revellers; they are homeless, and the headline act is war. Still, the Ukrainians in Poland do not reflect the usual media depiction of either homelessness or refugees. They do not sit in doorways begging for our charity, nor do they stand out among their ethnically similar neighbours. Without visible cues to attract our attention, it is all too easy to forget their need for support.??

In any case, we in the West are already all-too-comfortably accustomed to images of everyday inequality. In a single neighbourhood, expensive cars parade levels of wealth incomprehensible to most, while people dressed in donated clothes portray a poverty which many of us find equally hard to understand. With familiarity, we are numbed by such contrasts, detaching from extremes which are beyond our powers of reflective processing, let alone practical response. That which is commonplace soon ceases to catch our eye; the greater the scale, the more readily we accept it as the backdrop to a new normal. Thus, we long ago became blind to the sight of people sleeping rough under bridges and now, similarly, weary refugee mothers carrying bewildered children and weathered bags of possessions no longer turn heads.?

Acceptance does not negate action, however, and humanity prevails. While the shock factor quickly fades, that does not mean we stop being aware. Some pretend not to notice and opt to ignore, but a huge proportion of the Polish population refuses to look the other way. As overwhelming as the humanitarian crisis itself was Poland’s awe-inspiring rush to help. Alongside the political solidarity and economic support offered by the government, a people’s army of voluntary aid workers had self-mobilised within days of the invasion. Existing NGOs were swamped with applications to volunteer, while new foundations sprung-up to provide further support. As trains and buses overflowed with desperate fleeing passengers, regular Polish citizens spontaneously took time off work and sped to the border, collecting as many people as would fit into their cars and delivering them to cities across the whole country. Those with space to share invited strangers into their homes, announcing their hospitality in Facebook groups and through networks of friends and friends-of-friends, and even those with stretched pockets and little to spare inundated reception centres with their donations of food, clothes and sanitary supplies.

Step inside one of those reception centres and you come face-to-face with the reality of life as a refugee: hundreds of camp beds pitched in a sports hall or conference centre, privacy a privilege of the past; thousands of people - mostly young mothers, children and grandmothers - looking lost, lonely or simply lacking purpose, scrolling on their phones or wandering aimlessly. Desks publicising social services in four languages are squeezed between makeshift medical points, and there is the strong smell of basic canteen food - fine for a few days, but far from nutritious. The universal sounds of crying babies and shouting children set the mood: anxiety, confusion and restlessness.

In the initial weeks, these centres were a hive of chaotic activity. An endless stream of weary new arrivals stumbled in, relieved but exhausted. Gradually, those with a further destination in mind filtered out and onto their next haven, no less exhausted but somewhat more hopeful. Local residents on their way home from work dropped off donations faster than they could be distributed. A handful of reservists stood guard, while charity workers in bright reflective jackets buzzed back-and-forth between the entrance and store rooms, sifting through innumerable bags and boxes.

Now, almost three months on, the picture is somewhat different. Those still?in the reception centres stay only because they have no other place to go. They have no family or friends in Poland or nearby countries. They have no job that can be worked remotely, and no savings to tide them over. They are not eligible for visas to a new destination and, for whatever reason, lack means or motivation to move on. Many of them believe - or cling to belief against the odds - that the war will end soon, and are holding out until they can return home. Some left literally everything - not just possessions, but their entire life - behind in Ukraine. Others had nothing to take with them in the first place. Mostly, they exist without a plan.?

This reality is stark, but it is concentrated inside the help centres. Hang up your hi-vis jacket at the end of a shift volunteering and you re-emerge into relative normality. Turn a corner and that softer world of flowers, flags and fresh spring air resumes once more, the weather sunnier than the day before. There are no tanks or soldiers in the streets, no planes or smoke in the skies, no bombs, no bodies, no sirens, no destruction… It doesn’t smell like war, it doesn’t sound like war, it doesn’t feel like war — because here, in Poland, it isn’t (yet) war. But turn on the news when you return home, and the fighting continues. War is so close and still it is intangible. Beyond the horizon of our daily life, it remains unseen, witnessed only as pictures on a screen and stories re-told.

One evening I hand over the keys for my apartment to a young Ukrainian woman and her teenage sister, passing through Warsaw to complete paperwork for Canadian visas — like so many of the English-speaking, educated refugees I’ve met. I am interested to know their story, but the women just want to sleep, so I quickly leave and head to my girlfriend’s place for the weekend. We drink in bars with friends, relax by the river - a typical weekend in Warsaw, no different from before the war. The backdrop might be new, but my own life remains (almost) unchanged.?

Three days later my guests have gone. The bed is made, the apartment exactly as I left it. There is no evidence of the event which caused our paths to cross, no lingering explanation for their brief presence here, no trace of their traumatic experience. A half-finished bottle of wine in the fridge is the only indication they were ever here at all. I may never see them again but shall forever feel their wake.

All views expressed in this article are my own. The details and description are an honest reflection of my personal experiences and conversations with others, but are not intended as factual reporting.