Decades on, some Poles still yearn for lands 鈥� and songs 鈥� of lost 'Kresy'
During World War II, thousands were driven out of their homes in Polish lands that are now Ukraine, Belarus, and Lithuania. But they, and their descendants, still sing of what was lost.
During World War II, thousands were driven out of their homes in Polish lands that are now Ukraine, Belarus, and Lithuania. But they, and their descendants, still sing of what was lost.
Agnieszka W膮tr贸bska, a teacher who sings in a band in her free time, has often thought about leaving the place where she grew up.
But the folk songs of the 鈥淜resy鈥� that she croons with her band 鈥淭a Joj鈥� keep her in聽this pretty Polish town on the border with Ukraine.
Kresy, or eastern borderlands in Polish, refers to parts of present-day Ukraine, Lithuania, and Belarus that once belonged to Poland. But it is far more than a technical term. The word conjures loss and trauma for the families forcibly displaced from the area, deep and sometimes still raging resentments, and a nostalgia 鈥� real and sometimes imagined 鈥� for a place of peaceful co-existence before the homogeneity enforced in post-World War II settlements.
The former residents of the lands were mostly sent by the Soviet Union to western Poland, in what was formerly German territory. But they weren鈥檛 allowed to refer to now-Ukrainian Lviv, where so many of them came, as a former Polish city 鈥� or the deportations at all, for that matter.
But they kept their music, European folk songs typically backed by an accordion and stringed instruments like guitars or basses. Some of the music was modified to meet the Soviet and Polish communist rules 鈥� the lyrics of the very popular song of the聽Kresy called 鈥淥nly in Lviv鈥� became 鈥淥nly in Przemy艣l.鈥�
With Poland鈥檚 transition to democracy, a current of writing, literature, photography, and song was unleashed and communities and associations sprang to life. But now, as the ranks of those who remember the聽Kresy dwindle, the music they鈥檝e passed on is threatened as well 鈥� and with this passage of time a sense of responsibility in Poland to keep the genre alive has grown.
For Ms.聽W膮tr贸bska 鈥� whose band Ta Joj, which means 鈥渄on鈥檛 whine鈥� in the urban dialect of Lviv called 鈥淏alak鈥� 鈥� her purpose is clear.聽鈥淪ometimes I do really feel exhausted, Przemy艣l is a dying city, people are running away from here. Sometimes I would like to do the same and leave everything behind, but the band makes me stay,鈥� she says.聽鈥淚'm afraid this music will die out over time.鈥�
Aging connections
In 2012, the Center for Public Opinion Research carried out a survey asking Poles about their ties to the Kresy. Nearly 15 percent of the population said they either were born in the Kresy, or have a parent or a grandparent who comes from the region.
Still, Stanis艂aw 艁ukasiewicz, president of Association of Lovers of Lviv and Southeastern Kresy in Pozna艅, says that at age 74 he feels like the teenager of the group. He鈥檚 one of the youngest.
The man who created Ta Joj, Kazimierz Galikowski, died in 2002 at age 89. At 43,聽W膮tr贸bska聽was long the youngest member of the band, before a 20-something joined last year, a small sign of hope.
New interest
Olga聽Linkiewicz, an assistant professor at the聽Institute of History of the Polish Academy of Sciences, says that the gatherings of the communities of the聽Kresy have dwindled with a declining population.
But in another sense the history has been fortified, she says. 鈥淔rom the younger generation what you see now is there are some with roots in the territory, and others who do not belong in any literal sense, who are just interested in it,鈥� she says.
There are new Facebook pages or popular exhibitions being mounted that explore everything from the way of life to the massacres of Poles or forced deportations to Siberia and other parts of the Soviet Union that occurred in the 20th century.
Some of the renewed interest has been appropriated by the far-right and taken on a nationalist tone, but most Poles are simply interested in being part of the nation鈥檚 collective memory, says Ms. Linkiewicz.
W膮tr贸bska鈥檚 grandparents were from a village near Lviv. Unlike most of those forced out who ended up in the west, they moved to聽Przemy艣l near the border because they believed it was only temporary and soon they would return home. They never did.聽
She says the songs for her are driven by a longing rooted deeply inside her. 鈥淚 sing about the city my grandparents and parents lost forever,鈥� she says. But the music is lively and often the lyrics show an irreverent sense of humor of the times.
艁ukasiewicz聽always keeps a cassette with聽Kresy songs in it in his car. 鈥淔or me these song are very happy, they remind me of happy days,鈥� he says. 鈥淓very time when I have a bad day I listen to them, and all sorrows go away.鈥�