The border
An eyewitness report from the Polish-Belarussian border inferno by Rut Kurkiewicz-Grocholska of Strajk.eu.
Hajnówka1 was at dusk when I arrived. I notice a passing police car convoy. One, two, three, four vans, and then a massive military truck with a plastic sheeting after a while. Silently, the lights of the cop vans flash blue.
I pull into a run-down gas station in search of cigarettes and a cup of coffee. At this hour, the lady behind the counter does not anticipate a large crowd. She and her friend are absorbed in their phones, oblivious even to the fact that I am actually trying to pay. I inquire as to how far away the state-of-emergency area begins and what their thoughts are on the situation.
“Although it’s a dozen kilometers away, they [migrants — ed.] are also present here. Here in Hajnówka, despite being far from the border. I live near the woods, and I often see people walking through it. These individuals can be found all over the place. My son showed me a TikTok video which I think was made by an Afghan boy. And I believe it was recorded here, in Hajnówka. After he made it through, he appears to have been picked up by someone.”
“Am I afraid?” she asks herself, and replies,
“I am afraid, but more of the atmosphere rather than the refugees. You know, there is a large army presence here, helicopters are flying overhead, and there is so much noise. I feel sorry for the children, our children I mean, because they have no idea what is going on, they are terrified, and we must explain it to them. They ask if a war is going on. For a long time, you can sense that something is going on here. And these individuals [migrants — ed.]? They, too, are people. Nobody stopped Poles from going to Germany to work. They don't want to be with us anyway, so why can't we let them pass? This entire state of emergency is absurd. Everything is now closed in Białowieża2 [because of it — ed.], people lost their jobs, they have to travel further to look for something, and not everyone will succeed. They will no longer be able to earn money once the tourist season is over.”
She shows me her phone, which is full of pictures.
“Look, it's right here in Hajnówka. Like in the movie Apocalypse Now, the sun is setting and two military helicopters are hovering over the field.”
I am without a place to stay. I arrived on the spur of the moment, trusting in my own good fortune and the kindness of strangers. I'm bouncing off one door, and the other is prohibitively expensive. The third time — bingo, cheap lodging from Booking.com! I'm on the verge of crying because it's dark, I'm alone, and I'm tired. I passed more police patrols, military trucks, and a convoy along the way. Two cars are being checked in the middle of town, on the main street. This is clearly not a routine inspection, but rather a whisking rampage, which has long been the norm on the outskirts of the state of emergency. My cottage's windows are dark, and no one answers the doorbell. I'm not a big fan of sleeping in the car. After a moment I can hear the key buzzing in the lock; I'm saved. Cheap, simple, but clean room with a friendly owner. Panels, sofas, and fake flowers; the emergency state is just around the corner.
“I'm just scared, you know. Do I have any idea what sort of people they are? I was in this situation yesterday; my husband was not at home, and I was on my own. And four of them suddenly approached, dark-skinned ones who speak no Polish. Two of them said something to me in German. They claim they want to stay the night, that two more will join them, that they will go looking for someone at night, and that they will return. I said: Oh no, no way! They pick up the phone and begin calling someone, and this woman [on the phone — ed.] advises me to let them in because I own a hotel. But this isn't a hotel! So don't expect to stay here! This is a personal residence. I was terrified, to tell you the truth.”
“But isn't this Lukashenko a devil? A lunatic, behaving like Hitler? What exactly is he up to? Let's hope this doesn't turn into a war. The border guards from Belarus have just opened fire on our compound. What if our guards had responded? What would have happened?”
“But I'll tell you that our people have flaws of their own, and they can also be provocative. My husband and I are Orthodox Christians, and something began to happen here after the Orthodox holidays. There is a lot of army, and there are some maneuvers. You can be certain that Poles also provoke. It irritates us tremendously, absurdity after absurdity.”
“My husband works as a construction worker and commutes to work privately. They wouldn't let him pass through. And he had a job in Teremiski. He returned home after being stopped several times on his way to work. It's because it's so close to the zone, you know. I always lock myself in now, so here are the keys.”
“There is action, you can come with us,” says a message I get in the morning.
M and K are at the assembly point, waiting for me. They advise me to store my cap in the trunk because it glows red from a distance. They're each carrying a 20-kilogram backpack. They were told about a group of five people who were in need.
We've got their location and we’re en route! There are two bottles of water per person, a thermos of coffee, a thermos of tea, and a packet with socks, gloves, NRC foil, energy bars, and power banks for each person. The guys also have a few pairs of shoes, jackets, T-shirts to change into, and hats with them. We trudge through bushes, go through fallen trees, and the backpacks are heavy, and we sometimes outweigh them. I used to think activism was a lighthearted pastime, but I've since changed my mind.
M's sweat is pouring down his brow in streams as he makes his way through the nettle hollows and clearings. K walks more slowly, conserving his strength. When we come to a halt and take a short break, he removes his completely soaked T-shirt.
[In such circumstances — ed.] “Only wool makes sense! Any other type of fabric is inadequate. Cotton, for example, does not work because it dries for hours” he explains this as he hangs his wet rags from a branch.
We continue on dry terrain for the remainder of the way, walking over fallen trees or crawling beneath them. When we are dangerously close to the road, K commands: “Get down!” We crouch to avoid being seen. As in a war situation. It makes me smile slightly, and the entire experience feels so surreal to me. Why do we have to conceal ourselves?! We are not engaging in any illegal activity.
Activists who have been on the ground for several weeks must dynamically adapt to their surroundings, learn lessons, and draw conclusions. Because their primary goal is to avoid causing harm, to assist others, and to avoid causing trouble for themselves. Initially, different approaches to providing relief and assistance to migrants were proposed. The Border Guard was notified of each group of foreigners encountered. The plan was to gather all necessary documents, hand them over to the Border Guard, and submit asylum applications in front of witnesses in order to begin the asylum procedure in Poland. This strategy failed miserably.
Activists claim that border police routinely reject applications, misplace documents, and transport people back to the Belarusian border forest. It is nearly impossible to ensure that asylum applications are accepted and initial procedures are completed if the media is not present. People's applications can be rejected easily, and they can be thrown back into a green military truck and driven somewhere unknown. Those we met in the woods mention a dozen or more 'push-backs.' There are a lot of stories like this out there. For weeks, people are pushed from one border to the next. Dead bodies are said to be strewn about on the Belarussian side. Possibly also on our side, in the emergency zone.
We arrived at the pin after an hour and a half. Something is wrong; no one is here. Despite the fact that they were supposed to wait, they have clearly relocated. Another pin arrives, hopefully more up-to-date this time.
We know they can't be far away. Hopefully, we'll be able to contact them and aid them. We are fortunate to receive a short ride from a stranger and continue our journey. My shoes are soaked, I'm freezing, and I can't believe what's happening; for several hours now, I've been participating in something completely surreal. After a while, one of my companions raises his hands in the air — they're here, we've found them!
They've taken to sitting on the ground. They greet us with a handshake and a hug. The guys quickly take items to eat and change into from their backpacks. We are happy to meet, and we exchange glances. I smile broadly at everyone, as if I were a war nurse, and tears well up in my eyes. I'm embarrassed and ashamed that we're meeting in this manner. There are a total of five of them. Mustafa is the oldest, and he is the only one whose name I recall. Others may be my age, or even younger. They were forced to flee Iraq and Syria. They don't speak English well.
The activists explain what and how to the refugees. They inform them that they are in Poland, that the army and police will not assist them, that they must cope on their own, and that they must hug and keep their hands and faces warm during the cold night. They explain that these forests are free of dangerous animals, that a deer's roar is harmless, and that no spider will bite them fatally. They must ask for asylum in Poland if they encounter the Border Guard; otherwise, they will be deported.
As I pour my tea, I'm struck by how strange this situation is. I should've met these guys on Tinder rather than here! Maybe I'd like it, or maybe I'd reject their lukewarm, obnoxious hookup. I wish things were different, that I could complain that when that Iraqi guy fries onions, the entire stairwell stinks. I wish I could meet them at a party and share an Uber with them, or stand in line with them at the grocery store. I wish the lovely Iraqi man who just received a woolen hat would straighten it out for himself because it is horribly crooked. I'm nervous about doing it for him, but I keep my cool and offer him a cigarette instead. I'm carrying a can of coffee from the gas station. For a brief moment, the guys share this one small can, and it's even amusing — sweet coffee, cigarettes, and we're sitting in the sun. One of the 'gifts' is a warm earflap. "You look great," I tell the new owner. For a brief respite from reality, we laugh.
I try to ask them questions using the Google Translate app, but it doesn't work very well. They want to write something as well, but they don't know the Latin alphabet, so I end up typing "all the best" and the automated voice says it aloud in Arabic. This phrase was understood by everyone, and it was another second snatched away from the horror and mess we're in.
I'm looking at them. At five beautiful guys who represent everything that many people despise. Because women and children still can elicit empathy in some people. However, they do not, oh no. Typical, young, strong, illegal, unwelcome, hicks, savages. Send them back home! And they have those cool clothes that everyone lusts after.
Only when you sit next to them do you notice how worn out these beautiful, supposedly expensive clothes are. Dirty from sleeping in the woods, torn from trudging through brushwood, and worn down from repeated ‘push-backs’ and days in the woods.
They have unloaded power banks that they give to activists so that they can help the next person in need. Before they warm up with tea their hands are shaking; their fingernails are dirty. They're wearing wet socks and don't have a sleeping bag. I'd like to take them to dinner and a party, but I will have to leave them here in the woods. We say our goodbyes and make hearts with our hands for each other; “Stay warm, be safe, and good luck!” Mustafa responds, “Thank you. You're good men. And you’re a good woman.”
We know they've been apprehended and pushed back to the border several times. What is their fate going to be? What will they do? How will they cope? Activists don't know and, to be honest, don't want to know. They are ‘only’ concerned with providing emergency assistance, saving lives, and helping the migrants survive in the forest. They are, as photographer, journalist, and activist Karol Grygoruk put it, "like a band-aid applied to an open fracture." They are afraid, despite the fact that they are not doing anything illegal. They avoid the police and border guards when delivering humanitarian aid because the institutions have long betrayed their trust. According to activists, illegal deportation and refusal of asylum are commonplace. That is why one must travel through the forest quietly and avoid the trails. When I look at it from the side, I see complete paranoia and fear. However, people I trust believe it is a reasonable strategy. It is legal and the safest option for everyone.
Many people appear to become hysterical when the words “Belarus” or “police” are mentioned. They've been transported, beaten, and robbed so many times that they've gone insane.
“Genocide is taking place here. There really is no law in this area. In Poland, a fox has more rights than these people. It is protected to some extent, you know. And for the police or the military they are nothing more than meat” K says.
I park in front of the local supermarket on my way back. I'm dazed in the car for half an hour. I'm still trying to make sense of what just happened. The weather is lovely in Podlasie, with a “golden” Polish early fall. It's Sunday, and everyone is dressed up for the occasion. Massive peregrinations occur, from the church to the supermarket to the cemetery.
The kids are riding their bikes, and not far away, five men are hiding in the woods and will be fighting for their lives soon. The nights are already bitterly cold. The weather forecast predicts a temperature of 1 degree Celsius in the morning.
Sunday hasn't passed. It's nearly 6 p.m. Thousands of people are now gathering across Poland to demonstrate in support of the European Union. On a cold evening, they come out with flags at the request of Donald Tusk. “I felt compelled to sound the alarm at this critical, critical juncture," the former prime minister said at a rally in Warsaw's Castle Square. Who is it critical for?
I just got word that a family with children is in the woods a few dozen kilometers away. They need assistance. Activists from Grupa Granica (English: border group) are dispatched, and an ambulance from Medycy na Granicy (English: medics at the border), is also dispatched to the location. They request that the media attend so that someone can report on the Border Guard's actions, because only then will people in need be able to obtain asylum rather than being detained in the forest. The message is dramatic, and the children are said to be in poor health.
I set off after entering the coordinates into the GPS. I overlook the charger and the headlamp. I have a few dozen kilometers to go, and I'll be riding for an hour, possibly faster if I push it. I ignored the map and simply followed the pin. After a while, the first police patrol comes up behind me and stops me. "Please, your documents!" "Could you please turn the engine off and open the trunk?" "Are you on your own? "Where are you going?" "Could you tell me where you have your official residency registered?" "Will you be staying somewhere?" "Are you transporting anyone?" they inquire. I'm at a loss for words and don't know what to say. Finally, they let me go. The clock is ticking, the road is dark and winding, and I only have 20 minutes to get to my destination. The Border Guard stops me as I enter the village. The road turned out to be in an emergency zone.
"Documents!" as well as "Where are you from and where are you going?" "Would you kindly switch off the engine?" I'm perplexed yet again; I'm not sure where I'm going. In reality, I have no idea where I'm going and can't name the location. I've got a pin. That's really all I have.
The border guards notice my perplexity. They instructed me to turn around right away and take another route. There is no state of emergency marked on my map, I have no idea where I am, and I'm not sure if I'll even make it there. I figure out the route and take a detour with the help of a friend who assists me over the phone and sends me links to points on the map. The journey takes 40 minutes. I drive past the police officers who previously checked me and announce through the window that I'm returning to Hajnówka. I finally arrived where I should have been a long time ago.
An ambulance and a border patrol car are parked on the side of the road. I put on my press credentials and try to project authority. "Good evening, I'm a journalist," I say as I pass them. Grupa Granica and the family they are assisting are situated only a few hundred meters away. I can't see them because it's pitch black and the trees are rustling. I'm literally terrified. I request that someone come and get me.
"No way, you'll have to figure it out on your own. I'm here for the first time as well! We're on the left side of the road; just get into those bushes and you'll find us" — K says. I know they're nearby, and I can see the location, but I'm afraid to use the flashlight on my phone. Maybe the Border Guard has already found the group?
After a while, I notice a sliver of light in the forest's darkness. I'm making my way through the bushes. They're right around the corner. Under the light of journalist Maciej Piasecki's camera lamp, I can see four children, two men, and a woman. The smallest baby is only a few months old, and his diaper is completely wet. A Grupa Granica lawyer is rummaging through a stack of rags. She searches for hats, scarves, and warm jackets for the children. A boy and two young preschool-aged girls. It's a mess. The baby is crying because it is so cold, and he or she needs to be changed.
The men speak in hushed tones and in broken English, and K engages in conversation with them. They are Iraqis. They've been wandering in the forest for a month, and they've been here for four days. They've all been checked out by medics and are all fine. The children were given sweets and fruit mousse. While dressing the children, the lawyer cracks jokes.
The medics brought fleece blankets from the Red Cross. We use them to wrap the babies in. They were dressed in large white towels, as if they'd just gotten out of the tub. M appears. He is calm and knows what he needs to do. He starts playing with the kids. Izmail, the family's father, requests to be recorded because he wants to say something. Because his English isn't good enough, he'll speak in Arabic. I'll record it on video. Izmail speaks quickly and with nervous gestures. His wife stands beside him, holding a baby. She's dressed in a large pink hat and has a lovely face, but she's completely lost. Then another man approaches the camera. Because of the cold, my phone is not working properly.
Someone is approaching. We see light from flashlights. It turned out to be the Border Guard. Three officers and one Territorial Defense Force soldier in full uniform. I take a look at the border patrolman. I see his helmet, masked face, uniform, and gleaming rifle slung across his chest. He's a tall man who just stares at us. Izmail, who is sitting next to me on the ground, whispers to me in a panic: “Police? Belarus? No!I want to stay in Poland.” I try to calm him down, but I'm not sure what will happen.
K has a conversation with the border guards. The atmosphere becomes tense, the guards become agitated, and K raises his voice. One of the guards' phones begins to ring. His ringtone is Nirvana's The man who sold the world. Hundreds of people are watching as Maciej broadcasts live. In front of the cameras, the family requests asylum in Poland and international protection. They sign powers of attorney for the Grupa Granica's solicitors. The guards must identify themselves, as well as the location to which the Iraqis will be transported. The lawyer makes an attempt to de-escalate the situation.
“We're just cogs in the machine; not everything is up to us,” the border patrol officer says.
“Havoc-inflicting cogs!” K replies.
“Sir, not only, not only. We are also attempting to assist. Let's get in the car; how much longer will these kids be frozen here?” — says the guard.
They'll go to the Mielnik post, where we've been told they'll be able to apply for international protection while accompanied by an interpreter. This will be the first night in a month that they will be able to sleep comfortably.
When the children are packed into the border guards' van with their parents, the rallies in Warsaw in defense of the European Union's rule of law and humanism are long over.
I'm ready to leave right now. On my way back, I run into Małgorzata, who lives in the zone and works at a gas station 800 meters from the border.
Is there any razor wire around? She has no idea because she was too afraid to approach. She'd already heard a few gunshots and dogs barking. Soldiers and guards with long guns march past her house, and police patrols drive by with a barker and an eerie emergency message. She hasn't been able to invite guests since the state of emergency was declared, and the forest that was once her home has been taken away from her because she is afraid to walk through it freely. She is willing to help if it is needed. She is self-assured and not afraid to take risks. The gas station attendant, on the other hand, has a different point of view. She immediately begins to express her thoughts.
“There are a few oddballs wandering around. Today, two of them arrived. You know, elegant with documents, with everything. But I was still terrified because I was alone at the station. Do you know why they've arrived? They'd come to assist their people. A mouse can't get through here without a residence card or citizenship, so those who have them must have them. Residents in the neighborhood, you know, complain about these inspections. It terrifies me. I don't want them [migrants — ed.] because I have no idea who they are. Break-ins have already occurred; at my neighbor's house, two people entered the yard, sat down, and demanded food. Another neighbor's house was broken into as well, this time into the summer kitchen. They only took what they needed and left the rest. I wouldn't let them in because I wouldn't let anyone in, but what if they came to me hungry? My mother taught me the value of feeding the hungry.”
The government approved a 60-day extension of the state of emergency. With votes from the ‘democratic opposition,’ the Senate rubber-stamped the ‘push-backs’ against migrants. Demonstrations against human rights violations are shrinking rather than growing.
Winter is approaching. Nobody knows how to put an end to the border death games that are taking place between Poland and Belarus.
Every day, the Grupa Granica team receives at least a dozen reports of people in need along the border.
The author is a journalist with Strajk.eu in Poland; she is a socialist and a feminist.
A small town in Poland's Podlasie region with slightly more than 20,000 inhabitants, located near the Belarusian border.
A village in the Podlasie region, close to the border with Belarus; a popular tourist destination prior to the emergency state's declaration.