The Best of Crises

We’re riding in a car back from the university to work. Me and a couple near-strangers that I agreed to teach a course with. We’re passing the Wisla river as a Coldplay song starts to play on the radio. A song I like, a song that somehow seems significant. Is it one of those songs that helped me move through some difficult shit at some point in the past? But I never really listened to Coldplay. Oh, I remember. I got a link to this song once in an e-mail from her.

It’s weird I only remember it after a while.


The notion of identity as something shared as opposed to personal is relatively new. In his 2016 BBC Reith Lectures, Kwame Anthony Appiah have the example of Rosamond in George Eliot’s Middlemarch “almost losing the sense of her identity” on discovering that the man she loves is devoted to someone else. Such identity is utterly personal, Appiah argues, while what we think of as identity today – nationality, race, religion, sexuality – is composed of characteristics shared with many others: it is social. [1]

I have a problem with this understanding of identity as social. Yes, I am a social being. I have a nationality written into my ID, I share what some people call ‘race’ with so many others; I share a lack of religion with some people, and a pattern of sexual attraction with others. Is this me, though? Does any of these things really describe my identity? Do all of them combined make me who I am?

I have a problem with this way of thinking because such identity doesn’t feel personal at all. The characteristics I listed are parts of my life, but I fail to be attached to them. I fail at the need to defend them. To be honest, some of them even feel accidental at times.

An identity, for me, is a personal sense of who you are. I need it to be personal to be able to get attached to it. To take pride in it, or to feel strongly about it in any other way.

I’m thinking about identity because I’ve found myself in a strange place in my life; a place of shifting identity. I’ve been shedding my old skin for a few years. Slowly letting go of my habitual depression, and of the longing for someone who would handle it on my behalf. Of some thoughts that made me miserable. Of things I thought I liked about myself that were actually things I thought others liked about me. I’ve been shedding this skin, and fidgeting uncomfortably at the thought, “but I’ll be naked once I’m done.”

I have this sort of fear that, once I let go of my old habits and my old state of mind, there’ll be nothing left of me. I’ll be a walking piece of meat. No spirit, no beliefs, no special characteristics.

It’s true, I’m late with growing a sense of my own identity. I’m terribly late.

But I need a sense of it. And on better days, I’m certain that I will be able to grow it. I’ve already told myself that I’m not my depression. I’m not a fear of being alone. I’m not just someone who makes me miserable. I’m not what somebody else may want me to be, and not what I think they want me to be. So… at least I know what I’m not.

The thing with growing a sense of identity, though, is that you cannot just get rid of everything that troubled you, everything that you disliked, and which made you feel unhappy. You need to outgrow these things, but at the same time replace them with something new. Something valuable. Something you want to be there. Something you want to be.

My fear of being left with no sense of personal identity goes quieter when I remind myself about that. Indeed, how could I stay skin-less if I already know the tissue needs replacement? I will be there once I’m done shedding the old skin, and I will help myself regrow it. The new one will be more comfortable, I’m sure.

I know this may all sound rather terrifying. But honestly? It’s the best crisis I’ve ever had. Even if it’s scary, it holds a promise of letting me become more of myself. More of the person I want to be. It feels like life in its very essence, the way Anton Czekhov put it: terrible and marvellous [2].


[1] Michael Amherst “Go The Way Your Blood Beats. On Truth, Bisexuality and Desire”

[2] Anton Czekhov “The Steppe. The Story of a Journey”


Selfie. How the Perfect Self Became an Obsession

So, I went into that bookstore in Edinburgh to buy a specific book I knew they had. I took it from a shelf and decided to walk around the store and browse some more. Not that I wanted to buy any more books… But then, one title caught my eye: Selfie. How the West Became Self-Obsessed. 

The book had one of the ugliest covers I ever saw: a design that was somewhere between symmetrical and asymmetrical, no focal point, letter sizes that were different but not different enough to achieve contrast, and quotes. Quotes everywhere: ‘Electrifying – Financial Times’; ‘Brilliant – Independent’; ‘So interesting I literally couldn’t put it down – Sunday Times’. Wait a minute, who couldn’t put it down – Sunday Times? And what does that tell me about a book: ‘Brilliant’? 

But I picked it up anyway, and I’m glad I did. Because the inside is not only much better designed and typeset, it’s also one of the most eye-opening books about the Western culture, and culture in general, that I’ve read so far. 

It starts with a discussion of recent rises of suicide rates, and of their causes. The author Will Storr inquisitively searches for answers as to why so many people take their lives. A recurring cause that many researchers notice is feeling like a failure. Not being able to stand up to other people’s expectations. 

To be honest, that beginning did it for me. If someone gave me a book about perfectionism and how it’s a product of our culture, I’d probably shrug it off saying, ‘Yeah, perfectionism. That annoying personality trait. I know a thing or two about it, I don’t need that book’. But Selfie is a book that digs deeper into that, linking perfectionism to suicidality, and then uncovering the historical, scientific and economical turns of events that have made us prone to a fatal kind of perfectionism, and encouraging readers to give some thought to their own feelings of not being good enough, to notice and question the cultural forces that make us feel like that.  

So yeah, after that first chapter, I was in for putting my other activities aside, and coming back from work just to spend evenings reading, for a few weeks. Much like the mysterious, anonymous ‘I’ from Sunday Times quoted on the cover. Did I mention I hate these kinds of quotes?… 

Anyway, since we’re talking about ‘I’… this book does a good job of explaining how it came about that the Western cultures are so centred on the ‘I’, so individualistic when compared to more collective Eastern cultures. Using John Pridmore, the gangster-turned-Christian preacher as a vivid example, it explores the tribal mechanisms that still function within contemporary societies, defining what makes a person a valuable member of a group, how to get along in a group, and how to get ahead of its other members to improve one’s status. Then it jumps right into a discussion of the origins of individualism – the ancient Greek idea that a person is distinct from other objects in the world and, more importantly, that every person is perfectible. 

And so it goes on through centuries, shedding light on various cultural, religious, and economical factors that influenced the contemporary conception of the ‘I’. I am good if I am free. I am good if I am devout. I am good if I am authentic. I am good if I am self-reliant. The author makes a point of keeping in mind that the self is a construct, a story people tell themselves. In itself, it’s never stable or easy to define; even our own feelings aren’t so: 

Since I’d learned about confabulation, it had become almost second nature to watch my feelings as I was experiencing them with a kind of alienated squint. I was aware, and increasingly suspicious, of the separation between the things I felt and the voice that interpreted those feelings. We really are, as people sometimes glibly say, a mystery to ourselves. I’d wake up, every now and then, feeling unaccountably happy and whereas once I’d have confabulated a reason why, I no longer bothered. It was the same when I’d wake feeling down. What’s the matter with me? Why am I in this mood? I have no idea. So I’d just sit in it, gormlessly, like a dog in a puddle. [1]

So we confabulate. We make up stories to help ourselves make sense of what happens and… we compare our stories to the perfect one; the one where the hero always wins, be it by appearing cooler than the other guy, going to heaven, or succeeding financially. We find it hard to believe that life isn’t necessarily a story, or that we’re not heroes. 

And that’s fine, I guess. But… ever since I learned about confabulation, I’m not so confident in my beliefs about myself either. I mean, I still believe certain things to be true about myself, but I’m also aware that these are… just beliefs. I may think of myself as a good friend, but that’s because most of the time, I just don’t think about those few things I did that were anything but friendly towards my friends. You know what I mean? I guess I just construct a sort of cosy idea of myself to feel better about myself, sometimes. 

Back to the book, though. What I appreciated most was the thorough research carried on by the author, the many telephone calls and consultations he had with psychologists, sociologists and other people involved in building and/or analysing the contemporary idea of self, the hours he spent in libraries trying to track down events that have led the Western society to internalize its particular idea of a perfect self. And another thing: that all those people, their lives and ideas, and even places they inhabited, really come to life on the pages of this book. Here are some excerpts describing the Pluscarden Abbey and Father Martin, which I found especially memorable because Scotland: 

It was an early evening in April when my taxi halted outside Pluscarden Abbey, its engine cutting out to silence. My search for the self had had me out of bed before dawn and now, hours later, I’d ended up in a remote Scottish valley, tired and lost. We’d first pulled up outside a low building just off the road that meandered through the landscape, but that had turned out to be the women’s quarters. I was shooed away by a flustered lady in a woolly green jumper. My taxi drove on, at a respectful pace, past ploughed fields that ran with pheasants and rows of simple wooden grave markers, to the main abbey building, where it dropped me off before zooming back to twenty-first-century Elgin. I found myself in the quiet, utterly alone. (…) 

I’d chosen Pluscarden to look for answers because the connection these monks had to this period in our history [Antiquity – note from myself] was extraordinarily direct. There’d been a monastery here since 1290. (…)

Wandering around the abbey grounds, I saw empty benches, beehives along a distant hedge and a pile of torn guts in the grass, presumably left by a cat. Eventually I found a door at a side building that said it was for visitors on retreat. I knocked and stood back, looking up at it. Wondering about calling someone, I pulled out my phone. No reception. The wind barrelled down from pine forests in the hills above me and, huddling into my coat, I decided to approach the abbey itself. It was vast: pale stone with soaring arched windows, the structure itself the shape of a gigantic crucifix, shadows casting long across the grounds. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned. And there it was, a vision from seven hundred years ago, a hurrying wraith, a phantom from the medieval, in a rough habit and sandals. He was a portly man, perhaps in his sixties, in off-white robes, large cuffs flapping around his arms, a rope around his middle, mud stains on his hem, pale-faced and slightly out of breath. (…)

My eyes flicked back to the crucifix above my bed … there he was, dying Jesus, looking just as he did in the churches of my youth, with his nearly naked perfect body – pecs, abs, pelvic v-line, his thighs and biceps straining with sexy agony. This ‘son of God’ might have been born in the Middle East, but in his nudity, appearance and spectacular display of kalokagathia, he was also as Greek as Hercules. (…)

‘So you’re singing the same psalms again and again and you’re growing veg for fourteen years and you’re never bored?’

Martin looked into the corner of the room, apparently searching for an answer that might prove helpful to me. ‘You … um … you can become distracted,’ he offered. ‘You can get so into something that you lose who it’s for. Unfortunately that can go for even the worship. I sometimes get intrigued by the mechanics of singing. That often distracts me from the praise aspect. It might even, but hopefully doesn’t, nullify it totally. One of the main dangers for those who really get their teeth into the mass and the asceticism and all that is that the Devil has a go at the vanity and vainglory aspect.’

‘So you’re thinking, “I’m the best monk”?’

‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘“I fast more than anybody else.” And when it’s my turn to cook and someone says, “That was really good,” I think, “Oh!”’

‘And that’s the Devil?’

‘Yes! Yes! He’s nullifying the whole thing!’ (…)

If the job of the self is to give us a feeling of control over our unpredictable selves and our chaotic environment, it sounded as if there was something in Father Martin’s character that needed this feeling especially badly. He seemed like a person who was unusually fearful of change. I wondered it that was why he’d been so powerfully drawn to this life of maximum predictability.

I wondered, too, about the ultimate point of his lifetime of self-obsession. During my week at the abbey, I’d detected the presence of the Greeks in Christianity’s inherent belief in reason and progress, in its struggle towards personal perfection and in its near-naked, kalokagathia-filled images of its top celebrity, Jesus Christ. But I also had a growing suspicion that Christianity and the monastic life might be more badly, Greekly individualistic than even that. For thinkers like Aristotle, the ultimate point of self-pursuit was that a person would be of more value to their community. But didn’t these monks essentially believe that by doing the right thing they’d earn a fabulous future reward for themselves? Could it really be true that beneath all the outward humility and subservience there was a cold, steel heart of self-interest?

‘Are your activities here a kind of attempt to prepare for the afterlife?’ I asked, before I left.

‘Yes, indeed.’ He pointed upwards. ‘It’s a school for there.’

‘So you struggle and sacrifice here in order to obtain a better life in the future?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ [2]

The book also touches on the issue of improving oneself through therapy, which I think is important for anyone who, like me, sought to address their imperfections in this way. Having read and interviewed psychologists from the field of personality studies, the author learned that personality traits, to some extent, are stable, but that doesn’t mean we can’t change anything about ourselves. On the contrary, there are ways of improving our relationships with ourselves and with others, learning healthier behaviours and putting in effort to achieve reasonable dreams. But some dreams just aren’t reasonable. Says behavioural scientist Daniel Nettle: 

’We have this culture in which you beat yourself up if you’re not perfect (…) We endorse the supposed effectiveness of therapy. Everyone thinks they can sort themselves out. But I think there is a naivety about that. If you’re a more introverted person, or more neurotic, let yourself off the hook. Give yourself a break. It’s bad enough, all this shit we have to take responsibility for, without also taking responsibility for being screwed up. I’m not advocating the kind of fatalism of, “I find it difficult getting to work on time so I’m not going to try.” It’s worth getting to work on time. But imagining you’re going to be the kind of person who’s going to get up three hours before work and bake wholemeal bread is kind of senseless.’ [3]

So yeah. Overall, lots to chew on. Go read this book. But before you do, I’ll leave you with two final quotes that say it all, this time from the author: 

One of the dictums that defines our culture is that we can be anything we want to be – to win the neoliberal game we just have to dream, to put our minds to it, to want it badly enough. This message leaks out to us from seemingly everywhere in our environment: at the cinema, in heart-warming and inspiring stories we read in the news and social media, in advertising, in self-help books, in the classroom, on television. We internalize it, incorporating it into our sense of self. But it’s not true. It is, in fact, the dark lie at the heart of the age of perfectionism. It’s the cause, I believe, of an incalculable quotient of misery. Here’s the truth that no million-selling self-help book, famous motivational speaker, happiness guru or blockbusting Hollywood screenwriter seems to want you to know. You’re limited. Imperfect. And there’s nothing you can do about it. [4]

This isn’t a message of hopelessness. On the contrary, what it actually leads us towards is a better way of finding happiness. The first step is to stop believing the tribal propaganda. Once you realize that it’s all just an act of coercion, that it’s your culture trying to turn you into someone you can’t really be, you can begin to free yourself from its demands. Since I learned that low agreeableness and high neuroticism are relatively stable facets of my personality, rather than signs of some shameful psychological impurity, I’ve stopped berating myself so frequently. My head is now a much calmer place to be. I’ve even, perhaps ironically, become happier. [5]


Will Storr is a longform journalist and novelist. His features have appeared in various publications, including Guardian Weekend, The Times Magazine, Observer Magazine, GQ, Marie Claire and the Sydney Morning Herald. He is a contributing editor at Esquire magazine. He has been named New Journalist of the Year and Feature Writer of the Year, and has won a National Press Club award for excellence. In 2012 he was presented with the One World Press award and the Amnesty International award for his work on sexual violence against men. In 2013, his BBC radio series ‘An Unspeakable Act’ won the AIB award for best investigative documentary. [6]


[1] Will Storr, Selfie. How the West Became Self-Obsessed. Picador, 2018. Pages 89-90.
[2] Op. cit. Chapter “The Bad Self”, pages 87-109.
[3] Op. cit. Page 326.
[4] Op. cit. Page 317.
[5] Op. cit. Page 332.
[6] Op. cit. The author’s bio.

Overcoming Self-Abandonment

I so much wanted to get lost on the way
~ myself a few years back

I found a guy on the internet who accurately explains some of the ways in which I respond to difficult emotions. Pete Walker works/worked as a psychologist with PTSD patients, and has written extensively on the subject of recovery from the effects of traumatic experiences. In “Managing Abandonment Depression in Complex PTSD”*, he explains why and how people push away emotions they would rather not feel, how this affects them and what they can do to help themselves.

I suppose this can be useful for many people, even for those who don’t think they were abandoned or otherwise traumatized. People may react to difficult experiences in different ways. Some of us accept them and take care of ourselves to minimize the damage. Some of us criticize and punish ourselves for feeling a certain way. Some of us overwork to assuage an accompanying feeling of guilt. Some of us overeat or desperately look for someone to have sex with to make ourselves feel better. Some of us escape from the reality of our experience into imaginary worlds. For some of us, any kind of escape is much easier than staying present to our emotions.

I wrote a little summary of the points I found interesting in Walker’s article, and added some insights from my own experience with “making friends” with depression:

  • An unwanted emotion, for example depression, may trigger any of these four typical reactions:

becoming irritable, controlling and pushy;
busy productivity driven by negative, perfectionistic and catastrophic thinking;
becoming dissociated, spaced out and sleepy;
focusing on solving someone’s else’s problem and becoming servile, self-abnegating and ingratiating.**

  • The above described reactions are usually immediate and sufferers don’t realize them.
    For me, they seemed so natural that I just thought of them as my way of being.
  • Instead of learning how to handle their experiences, sufferers dissociate from them.
    This self-abandonment does not make the difficult emotions go away – they repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat because they want to be “listened to”.
  • What can be done is, first, learning that all emotions are okay to feel.
    They are not right, they are not wrong. They can’t be fought or thrown out. They’re just… there.
  • For some, practicing mindful “listening” to their emotions is a good idea.
    This is because experiencing emotions is not that easy if you’re used to rejecting them.
  • Another good idea is to seek support from a friend, partner, or professional.
    Having someone supportive at your side while you’re going through a difficult time is invaluable. Some people are not patient enough for that – it doesn’t mean they are bad friends or partners, but if you ask me, it’s a good reason to look for professional help instead.
  • Learning to stay present to our emotions without judging ourselves and without running away is not easy. It takes a lot of practice.
    A loooot of practice.
  • It can be tricky, too, because some of our emotions may mimic physiological sensations, such as tiredness or hunger, which are easy to dismiss.
    It’s good to remember that, and pay attention to these sensations. They may guide us to the emotions we wanted to leave behind – and that’s where we can start learning to respond to our experiences in ways that don’t hurt us.
  • However difficult it is to stay present to your experiences, it’s totally worth it!
    It’s a great way to learn to be more compassionate and supportive towards ourselves. It also gradually reduces feelings of fear associated with the difficult emotions.

* Pete Walker, M.A. “Managing Abandonment Depression in Complex PTSD.” See
** Adapted from the above.


A Non-Constructive, Life-Saving Coping Mechanism

A while ago, I listened to this short talk from therapist Gilbert Renaud where he talks about depression as a coping mechanism that helps us protect ourselves from harm:

Gilbert Renaud on Depression

To say the least, this is questionable because clinical depression is an illness that often takes lives. However, if we’re talking about a depressive mood that is handled with support from friends and/or professionals, Renaud nails it. A depressive mood handled with care lets us go through the difficult emotions of grief, sadness and hopelessness, without inflicting too much harm on ourselves. It gets us preserved throughout the bad times — like a pickle in a jar.

Difficult emotions need acknowledgement. We need to take the time to listen to them, and see what they can teach us. They may be telling us that we lost something important, remind us about something that happened in the past, or simply indicate that our present life is just difficult.

I was surprised to find out that letting myself be depressed and listening to myself may help me in any way. Before I first tried it, it just seemed so counterintuitive. But now, I agree with Renauld that depressive moods may protect our lives and, with time, deliver us to a better place — where we can grow. A place where we can learn new coping mechanisms that are more conducive to our well-being, where we can accept and appreciate ourselves, and experience an array of emotions — good and bad — that we have kept frozen.

Some time after watching Renauld’s talk, I met with a similar approach to coping in an article by Alicja Senejko:

Senejko Alicja (2017). Szczypta optymizmu, czyli różne wyjścia z sytuacji bez wyjścia. In: Gdzie się podziało moje dzieciństwo. O dorosłych dzieciach alkoholików (pp. 85—94). Kielce: Charaktery.  In Polish, pp. 53-57 at

Senejko divided coping mechanisms into constructive and non-constructive ones. The former are reactions to stress that actually help relieve the stress, such as discussing the possible ways of resolving a problem. The latter are seemingly irrational reactions that help us adapt to the stressful situation without really getting out of it. Examples that Senejko gave were avoidance of situations and people that we associate with the stress, and engaging in activities that help us temporarily dissociate from it.

Arguably, a depressive mood is one of the non-constructive methods of coping with difficult emotions. Without promoting progress, it allows us to adapt, and preserve ourselves until the time we feel strong enough to confront the stressful situation. According to Senejko’s research, people who use both constructive and non-constructive methods of coping, cope with stressful situations more effectively.

That’s a reason not to beat ourselves up for feeling low and apathetic, but to accept this state, and employ some constructive coping mechanisms as well, such as seeking support from other people and/or professional help.

I’m living proof that this combination works — after a long time of going through depression and staying in therapy, I’m in a place where I can grow, learning and trying out new things, trying to reconcile my past with the more self-aware person I’m becoming. Placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here… Carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there… Yes, spring is coming, and I had the urge to finish this post by quoting e. e. cummings.

Sociability Isn’t About Partying

Hey, fellow introverts! The internet says staying at home is a sociable thing to do. So… it must be right, right?

Why Truly Sociable People Hate Parties

Well, I think it’s about right.


A piece from the collection Over Land, Over Sea, written by Kathleen Bell, that I translated as part of the Journeys in Translation project (which is still open to contributors!):


In English:


When morning came, she knew that the people outside were not ghosts. Cautious, she stood, walked to the window, and looked. There were more than she thought. Their silence had deceived her. They were careful too. Grown-up hands steered infants away from her flower-beds. Next year’s vegetable harvest was safe. A man looked up and the bundle close to his chest stirred. How unwise to bring a baby here. The man’s glance caught hers, and beneath his patience she perceived a dreadful urgency. They were not ghosts – not yet. She drew the curtain across, returned to her chair, and waited.


In Polish:


Kiedy nastał ranek, wiedziała, że ludzie na zewnątrz nie są duchami. Ostrożnie wstała, podeszła do okna i wyjrzała. Było ich więcej, niż myślała. Cisza za oknem ją zmyliła. Byli ostrożni tak jak ona. Dorosłe ręce zawracały dzieci z drogi, kiedy szły w stronę jej grządek. Przyszłoroczne plony były bezpieczne. Jeden z mężczyzn podniósł głowę i zawiniątko, które trzymał przy piersi, poruszyło się. Jak niemądrze wziąć tu ze sobą niemowlę. Spojrzenie mężczyzny schwyciło jej spojrzenie i pod pozorem cierpliwości dostrzegła przerażenie, i naglącą potrzebę. Nie są duchami – jeszcze nie. Zaciągnęła zasłony, usiadła z powrotem na krześle i czekała.

Stories from ‘The Jungle’

Here’s another poem I translated for the Journeys in Translation project. In this one, Emma Lee retells the stories of six people from the Calais camp and their families. It was a challenge to render the already long lines in Polish, a language that tends to stretch sentences even more, but I was determined to translate this one. “Stories from ‘The Jungle'”, each one very personal and moving, really stuck with me.

Oh, and I forgot to mention in my previous post: by buying the original collection of poems, you support the foundations Doctors Without Borders, Leicester City of Sanctuary and Nottingham Refugee Forum.


The poem in English:

Stories from ‘The Jungle’

Everything Abdel sees is smeared, despite his glasses.
With the sleeve of a dusty shirt, he pushes grime
From the middle to the edges of his lenses.
They’ve witnessed family fall victim to war crimes.
He could shower for a fortnight and never feel clean.
English is an official language in Sudan.
At sixteen he wants to join relatives already in england.

To dodge military conscription, Sayid, 20, fled from Syria.
Inspired by the story of one of his heroes, William Gibson,
Sayid got to Egypt, then packed on a small boat to Lampedusa,
Through Italy to France, from where he can only move on.
On a borrowed laptop he listens to Syrian pop music.
He’d love to cook. He still has to pay a trafficker
weekly for the right to chase lorries to his brother in England.

With a bandaged hand Abdul, 21, tells of imprisonment
And gestures to describe the electric shocks he received
After his arrest by the Sudanese government.
His tribe also harassed by rebel militia. He feels deceived
By traffickers. Despite his razor-wire injury,
he’ll try again. Sudan was an English colony.
He wants to stop looking over his shoulder.

When a tiger stalks, play dead. But it’s hard not to run.
When his friends were arrested in Eritrea, Hayat fled
and moved from Ethiopia to Libya and across the Mediterranean.
He became tiger, his prey an England-bound train. His hunt failed.
His broken arm cast, he hunkers in a makeshift, tented cave.
A tiger fails nine of ten hunts. He’s five down, four more to brave.
English is the only European language he speaks.

At Baath University in Homs, his English Literature studies
were interrupted by conscription. Firas drew and followed an isopleth.
Three family members were killed by Syrian government forces,
he couldn’t bear to see or be responsible for any more death.
Skin torn by razor-wire, he still dreams of Oxford spires.
Relatives live in several English towns, all with universities.
He wants to use the language he’s immersed himself in.

Ziad was a respected lawyer in Daara. Now he fidgets,
grubby and injured from climbing fences, dodging
security and avoiding dogs. The pack of cigarettes
crinkles as he weaves it in his fingers, emptying
a last curl of tobacco. He didn’t smoke them but can’t finish
with the packet. He translates legal arguments into English.
He wants to join relatives and practice law again.

These stories are based on newspaper reports. Names have been changed.


The poem in Polish:

Historie z „dżungli”

Przed oczami Abdela wszystko zamazane, mimo że ma okulary.
Rękawem brudnawej koszuli rozciera sadzę
Na szkłach – ze środka na brzegi.
Widzieli, jak cała rodzina pada ofiarą zbrodni wojennych.
Mógłby myć się co chwilę i ciągle czuć się brudny.
Angielski jest jednym z języków urzędowych Sudanu.
Szesnastoletni Abdel chce dołączyć do krewnych, który są już w Anglii.

Aby uniknąć poboru, dwudziestoletni Sayid uciekł z Syrii.
Zainspirowany historią jednego ze swych idoli, Williama Gibsona,
Sayid dostał się do Egiptu, wsiadł do łodzi w kierunku Lampeduzy,
Przez Włochy dotarł do Francji – stamtąd może tylko ruszyć dalej.
Na pożyczonym laptopie słucha syryjskiego popu.
Chciałby być kucharzem. Na razie co tydzień musi płacić przemytnikowi,
By gonić za ciężarówkami do Anglii, do swojego brata.

Dwudziestojednoletni Abdul opowiada o swoim uwięzieniu
I gestem – jedna dłoń w bandażu – pokazuje elektrowstrząsy,
Które dostał po aresztowaniu przez rząd Sudanu.
Rebelianci również nie dają spokoju jego plemieniu. Czuje się oszukany
Przez przemytników. Pomimo rany od drutu kolczastego
Spróbuje jeszcze raz. Sudan był kiedyś kolonią brytyjską.
Abdul chce przestać oglądać się za siebie.

Kiedy tygrys się skrada, stój w miejscu. Ale instynkt każe uciekać.
Gdy aresztowano jego przyjaciół w Erytrei, Hayat uciekł z kraju,
Przebył Etiopię i Libię, a potem Morze Śródziemne.
Stał się tygrysem, a celem – pociąg do Anglii. Polowanie się nie udało.
Z ręką w gipsie przykucnął w prowizorycznym namiocie-jaskini.
Tygrys wraca głodny dziewięć na dziesięć razy. Stawił czoło pięciu,
Zostało więc cztery. Angielski to jedyny europejski język, jaki Hayat zna.

Jego studia z literatury angielskiej na uniwersytecie Al-Baath w Homs
Przerwał pobór do wojska. Firas narysował na mapie linię i podążył za nią.
Troje z jego rodziny zostało zabitych przez wojsko rządu syryjskiego.
Czuł, że nie mógł być świadkiem lub sprawcą ani jednej śmierci więcej.
Ze skórą zszarpaną drutem wciąż marzy o studiach w Oksfordzie.
Jego krewni mieszkają w różnych miastach w Anglii, w każdym – uniwersytet.
Firas chce mówić językiem, który tak go zafascynował.

Ziad był w Darze uznanym prawnikiem. Teraz kręci się,
Brudny, pokaleczony od wchodzenia na siatki, ukrywając się
przed strażą i unikając psów. Paczka papierosów
Szemrze, kiedy skręca ją w palcach, wyciągając ostatni
Zwitek tytoniu. Wcześniej nie palił, ale teraz
Jedna paczka nie wystarcza. Tłumaczy teksty prawne na angielski.
Chce dołączyć do krewnych i znowu być prawnikiem.

Powyższe historie zostały oparte na wiadomościach prasowych. Imiona bohaterów zostały zmienione.