REPORT: Xenophobia in Polish schools

February 24, 2022. 4:33 AM. Mom rushed into the room. Her eyes reflected despair and anxiety, so I immediately realized that something terrible had happened. Bitter words came out of her mouth, forever etched in my memory: “Kids, pack up, the war has started.” That day became a turning point in my life, as the invasion of Ukraine by Russian troops took place. It was the moment when I looked at family photos for the last time, gazed at the walls of my room, and ate breakfast in the place I called home back then. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I did not realize at the time that this was my last meal with my family in the place I had always considered the safest. Watching this madness, I forgot what time and stability were, because in such a critical moment, those values of a peaceful life lost all meaning. Instead, they were replaced by rush, an urge to flee swiftly, or to sink deep underground. It was bewildering and staggering that a single night could instantly become the boundary between childhood and growing up, between family bliss and endless separation. In fact, this invasion, this madness, became the reason I moved to Poland.

It was by no means an easy move, especially while I was still dazed and unaware of how thorny life’s path could become in a foreign country. Nostalgia for the carefree life that had been brazenly stolen from us was eating me up inside. Furthermore, we were informed that we would start attending a Polish primary school in March, which became a real cause for concern for my younger sister Sasha and me, since our Polish language skills, honestly speaking, were only slightly better than a two-year-old child’s vocabulary.

Have you ever tried to start a conversation with a lamppost? Or a wall? Or maybe an alien? No? Well… I can state with certainty that I have some experience with this, although the whole truth and irony of fate lies in the fact that the alien to my schoolmates was none other than myself. It seemed to me that the entire secret and the reason for the distaste of my new classmates was simply that I did not command the Polish language well enough. So I threw myself quite fiercely into learning, picking up new words and general linguistic rules fairly quickly. After some time, I felt as if some higher power had pulled the earplugs out of my ears, because I could understand the foreign language so much better! It was a moment of happiness and… an instant crash back to reality, a harsh descent from the clouds to the ground… I felt like a sluggish, lethargic turtle slowly waking up, step by step, from hibernation. That was when I heard the prejudiced and mocking comments about our appearance, bluntly referencing our Ukrainian origins:
“Look, those two homeless Ukrainian girls are wearing actual rags.”
“Their little house is probably in ruins by now, so they came over here and brought Ukrainian HIV with them while they were at it.”
(The girls were apparently accustomed to the fact that Ukrainians often cannot hold a conversation in Polish, which was why they felt comfortable having such shameless conversations right in front of the people they were mocking).

That was actually the moment I realized Sasha and I had already been the targets of the most vicious mockery for a long time. I can also state with certainty that this situation marked the starting point of irreversible psychological blows caused by xenophobia in Polish schools. This concept is closely linked to hostility, avoidance, and discrimination against people of different nationalities. After the outbreak of the war in Ukraine, the influx of refugees into Poland multiplied, and as a result, some Poles, most often individuals aged 12 to 19, inflict drastic harm on Ukrainians every day, mainly by criticizing them through the lens of their origin. As I mentioned before, I experienced manifestations of national discrimination firsthand. Teachers reacted in a very trivial and unfortunately fairly common way, waving a finger in front of the perpetrators while telling me that these were harmless jokes and that I was probably just the crush of the boys mocking me. Absurd. These paradoxical, failed attempts to resolve my problem, combined with impunity, caused the abuse to accumulate day by day until it reached its climax: physical harm. Unfortunately, I did not have the courage to report it to an adult, and I feared that doing so would make matters worse or that I would once again be seen as someone exaggerating a petty issue, so I chose to remain silent.

Following the pressure directed at my sister and me, our lives took completely different paths. Sasha broke under the weight; this nightmare utterly shattered her positive perception of Poland, ultimately forcing her to leave the country. To this day, my sister continues to grapple with the trauma that left a deep mark on her psyche. In my case, however, changing schools and rigorous language learning allowed me to find a community that does everything in its power to mitigate the consequences of abuse. Together, we make at least modest efforts to educate the public on issues related to harassment and bullying.

In schools, xenophobia is often downplayed and dismissed as friendly, playful banter, which in turn leads to the normalization and silencing of such unacceptable behavior. This story is an appeal to anyone who is a victim of xenophobia as well as to the perpetrators of violence. It is a serious subject that we must continually address in order to prevent abuse, raise awareness about how destructive nationality-based discrimination truly is, and highlight the importance of condemning xenophobia in its infancy.
The reportage was published as part of the „School of Reportage” series, which showcases reporting work by high school students.

This piece was published as part of the “School of Reportage” series, showcasing the non-fiction writing of high school students.