Looking In
At Luton airport on a flight heading to Warsaw, members of this insolent and impudent nation of finaglers and comers (qualities which purportedly have assured the people’s survival during the hardships and near starvation of communist rule) were returning to their homeland. I, having been born “under the commune” but having grown up in freedom and democracy of the West, speaking and clearly understanding the Polish language, feeling incredibly estranged from my own genotype, was being outmaneuvered in the deeply ingrained race towards shorter lines, better seats, quicker exits. It escaped the general attention that Warsaw was our final destination and we all sat together on the same aircraft, arriving at our destination at exactly the same time, walking out through mainly symbolic (within the EU) passport check within minutes of each other.
I thought of the importance and validity of “homeland” in today’s globalized world of instant communication and widely accessible travel. The people whom I silently recognized in the streets as compatriots, the frequent yet scattered appearances standing out from the ecumenical sample of humanity which is London, have a convergence point of 312 000 km2 nestled these days between Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania and the Russian exclave . While boarding the flight which was managed by English crew of EasyJet, the travelers, almost entirely Poles, progressively relaxed, jubilant loud conversations sprang up. I thought - homeland is good, it is a physical space which allows for the display of characteristics shaped by specific history and a distinct language with the approval and acceptance of members sharing the same eccentricities.
During my childhood in Warsaw, foreigners, especially darker skinned and non caucasian featured, were a rare and strange sight. One was a step father of my childhood friend, a tall dark man from a distant land of Mexico, a musician who slept in late and took his tea with milk. I don’t remember having heard him speak, ever the less speak Polish. Nowadays, a charming, pretty young girl waits an assortment of teas, coffees and fresh squeezed juices at a dessert shop a minute walk away from my Warsaw apartment. I can barely contain myself from asking: where are you from and how wonderfully you speak Polish. The cheerful string of words and flawless Polish accent come from a girl with Asian features. I second guess myself and pause realizing it may be inappropriate, she may very well have been born and raised here. I, on the other hand, having lived abroad for most of my life, am the one with awkward phrasing, hesitant grammar and noticeably foreign inflection. I imagine a situation where conceivably the tables were turned, and the young waitress would appropriately ask me: where are you from and how wonderfully you speak Polish. More encounters of this type take place at which only I am inclined to marvel. None of the Varsovians seem to notice it anymore: a Syrian man selling kebab along side typically Polish long, toasted halves of mini- baguettes with cheese. He snaps photos with his phone saying that he loves candid street photography, those are the most beautiful he says in Polish which bears only a slight hint of the world beyond; and a Japanese woman with a generous smile, inviting me to a meeting of a world peace organization. Perhaps more than the yearly seven percent economic growth, this is the reminder of a new era for Poland, one that I know many still 30 years ago did not dare to dream of.