The day began with my decision to take a city walk without using any other means of transport. The slow pace allowed me to absorb more details of the scenery. Bright daylight, a harbinger of a very hot day, accompanied me as I made my way to my first stop: Warsaw Central Station. This late communist-era station, embedded in a postmodern environment, marked the beginning of my exploration. Instead of the classic communist buildings I had expected, the area was dominated by high-tech structures. The architect and construction company seemed intent on creating an impression of splendour and magnificence, which, later in the day, made sense to me.

Amidst all this wealth, I noticed a significant amount of poverty. People under the influence of drugs and alcohol wandered aimlessly, some begging, others rummaging through garbage cans. It left me feeling both embarrassed and powerless. Poverty always affects me deeply, and once again, I found myself counting my blessings, grateful that I have never had to survive under such conditions.

I continued walking, heading in the direction I imagined would lead to the city centre. The city, much like parts of Rotterdam, seemed to have been largely destroyed during World War II. Along the way, I came across the towering 'Palace of Culture and Science,' a Stalin-era building surrounded by green spaces. This art deco structure, complete with a large concert hall, stood in stark contrast to the modern skyscrapers and older buildings on the streets nearby. I couldn’t help but wonder how the Polish people felt about this building, whether they viewed it with indifference or reluctance.

As I made my way toward the centre, near the Wisla River, I stumbled upon a commemorative plaque marking where the Warsaw Ghetto’s border once ran. A small ledge in the ground served as a stark reminder of what had once stood there. The physical existence of the Ghetto had been completely erased from the earth. It felt surreal, even frightening. I thought, ‘This is just the tip of the iceberg,’ a glimpse of Warsaw’s darker historical layers.

My walk continued, and I found myself at a commemoration event for a famous partisan leader near the high-rise ‘PAST-a’ building, which had been destroyed and rebuilt. Although I didn’t understand the speeches, I grasped the significance of the occasion. High-ranking Polish military officers and officials were present, adding a solemn weight to the moment.

I moved through a beautiful park and ended up in one of the city’s main shopping areas. In front of the centre, I saw part of an old palace, which, as far as I understood, contained the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Soldiers marched around it, honouring it throughout the day. It was an impressive sight.

Eventually, I arrived at a boulevard and decided to visit two museums. One focused on Polish citizens who aided Jews during the war, while the other highlighted Polish diplomats who forged documents on a large scale to help Jewish people escape. It was astounding to see how lives were saved with nothing more than paper, pen, and stamp. I took my time to carefully examine both exhibitions, which are part of an ongoing research project.

The exhibition on Polish citizens who aided their Jewish neighbours displayed detailed maps of Warsaw’s districts, showcasing the well-organised structures of the German police and secret services. Survivor and descendant narratives brought to life the cold-blooded manner in which the Germans hunted down these Polish collaborators. Hans Frank, the General-Governor, had ordered the death penalty for anyone helping the Jewish population—the harshest penalty in Europe for such aid. Despite this terrifying threat, many Poles displayed immense courage. When caught, they were tortured and executed, a horrifying reminder of the occupying forces’ desire to crush any form of resistance through mortal agony.

I struck up a conversation with a staff member about the exhibition.

Our conversation shifted to the present, and I asked him,

He thought for a moment before replying, “The entire city centre was destroyed. Only this building and a nearby church survived.” He added, “The Polish people are only now starting to come to terms with the war’s traumas, inflicted first by the Germans and Russians, and then exacerbated by the Jewish trauma and the subsequent Russian occupation.” He suggested I read a book on Polish trauma, though, unfortunately, it hasn’t been translated into English.

I slowly continued walking toward the oldest part of the city, understanding that this area had been completely rebuilt after the war. The restoration was beautifully done. Down at the Royal Castle Gardens, I caught a glimpse of the riverbanks of the Wisla. Though I didn’t have time to visit the gardens, they’re now on my list for future visits. I strolled back to my hotel, later heading to a traditional restaurant where I enjoyed a delicious seafood meal.

As I reflected on the day, I couldn’t help but marvel at the contrasts in Warsaw’s urban architecture, which seem to form a new identity for the city. It’s a well-designed architectural fusion of the past, present, and future. Warsaw is a city of resilience, resistance, contradictions, hope, and connection. In its own subtle way, it made me feel at home.

Warsaw and its people are still healing from the wounds of the past. Reconciliation is key to this healing process, and while progress has been made between Poland and Germany over the decades, reconciliation with Russia has never truly begun. The ongoing war in Ukraine only reinforces the Polish people’s gut feeling that Russia can’t be trusted. With Putin’s plans to assault Ukraine dating back to 2008 and his eventual actions, I believe reconciliation between Poland and Russia is unlikely to ever happen. This troubled historical relationship is a major reason why Poland wants Ukraine to win, and I completely understand that sentiment.

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Before the departure, I spent the weekend with my wife and daughter in Borger, Drenthe. We attended Boerenrock, a festival celebrating the lives of farmers and country folk. It was a cheerful day, filled with laughter, music, and the earthy spirit of the people around us. Yet, as the day came to a close, a fistfight erupted in the crowd, a somewhat chaotic end to an otherwise joyful outing. Back at the holiday park, we settled down for a final family barbecue, savouring the moments before my departure.

The next morning, at 7:00 a.m., I set off with my close Dutch friend R., who drove me to the Zwolle train station under a steel-blue sky. As we approached the station, his voice carried the weight of concern. "Be careful over there," he warned. "You never know what might happen. They could lock you up at the border without reason." I appreciated his concern, offering a reassuring reply: "You know, I’m always careful. Thank you for thinking of my safety." With that, we hugged, and I headed toward the station to catch my first train to Hengelo.

The journey began on the Blauwnet train, a quiet ride that gave me time to reflect. Arriving in Hengelo ahead of schedule, I noticed that no train to Berlin was listed on the board. A cigarette seemed like a good idea, and as I lit one, a young man in his early twenties approached me, asking for one as well. Our conversation was spontaneous, sparked by the shared moment. He told me he had just come from his girlfriend’s place, where he had spent the night.

The train to Berlin arrived on time, pulling into platform five. I found my seat in the first-class compartment, though it was far from luxurious. Squeezing into my seat was a challenge, the wide table in the middle leaving little room to manoeuvre. Next to me, a man was trying to sleep, leaving no room for a friendly "good morning." The other passengers, engrossed in their tablets and phones, gave only vague nods of acknowledgment. I resigned myself to a solitary, quiet journey, far removed from the chatter often promised in train commercials.

It didn’t take long to realise that my fellow passengers were a family, parents and their two adult daughters. Eventually, a few words escaped from the father, revealing that they had travelled from Verona and were headed to Berlin for a family trip. Yet, the conversation was brief, and the silence soon returned.

Feeling restless, I walked the length of the train, too tired to read and too uninterested to immerse myself in my phone. Soon, we arrived at Berlin Central Station, a stunning, overwhelming structure of glass, steel, and movement. The flashing screens, advertisements, and throngs of hurried people surrounded me as I made my way to the exit. A neglected-looking young man approached me for a cigarette, speaking English with a German accent. Despite answering him in German, he continued in English, a humorous twist on an otherwise routine encounter. Moments later, a homeless man selling a joint edition of the Amsterdam and Berlin street newspapers caught my attention. His story was a familiar one: he had fled Syria and was now struggling in Germany as a refugee, homeless and adrift. His pain was palpable, but words seemed unnecessary. We parted ways silently, each retreating into our own world

After a quick meal and a cash withdrawal, I headed back to the train platform, ready for the next part of the journey. Four passengers were already seated in my compartment, nodding in acknowledgment as I joined them. The only interaction came from a woman who politely asked me to lift her suitcase onto the rack. Once again, everyone was absorbed in their phones, no conversation, no connection.

Opposite me sat a young woman dressed in an expensive suit, her legs crossed and her luggage equally luxurious. She spoke only in Russian, texting and making calls the entire trip. She barely ate or drank, only sipping from a tiny bottle of orange juice. The rest of my fellow travellers followed her lead, silent and detached.

Deciding I needed a change of scenery, I wandered to the dining car, an old but functional space. The staff spoke only Polish, but with the help of some improvised sign language, I managed to order a beer. It was a welcome break, the drink tasting like nectar after the stillness of the journey.

The Polish conductor had an unforgettable appearance, white hair swept back into a crest, a too-tight jacket, pants too short, and shoes paired with low white socks. At one of the transit stations, I noticed him step out of the train and allow a Roma family, five adults and three children, to hitchhike between stops without tickets. It was a small act of kindness, one that touched me deeply.

The train finally pulled into Warsaw Central, where I stepped out for a cigarette. An older man with plastic bags approached, asking for a smoke in fluent English. His name was Michael, and it didn’t take long for me to realise he was well-educated. He offered to help me find an affordable hotel, and as the rain poured down, we took a tram together. He helped me buy a ticket, laughing that he travelled for free.

At the hotel, Michael inquired about the price, and I decided to take the room. We headed to a nearby bar, where his plastic bags travelled with him. Over a couple of beers, Michael shared his story, he had lost everything and had been homeless ever since. "How do you cope with life on the streets?" I asked. His response was incomplete, fragmented. "It’s complicated," he said. "I have a problem with alcohol, not drugs. I live day by day, trying to manage." His physical condition mirrored his emotional state; he visited the bathroom four times in an hour. I thought to myself, Tomorrow, I’ll advise him to see a doctor.

As the bar closed, we exchanged phone numbers, though his phone wasn’t working, out of charge, out of credit. He gave me a handshake, thanking me for treating him like a "normal person." I handed him fifteen euros, knowing he needed it for food. As he left, I climbed into bed, utterly exhausted, hoping for sleep to come swiftly.

This was just the beginning of a journey that would take me deeper into unknown lands, into the heart of Ukraine and into the stories of the people I would meet along the way.

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This piece was also edited by my friend and brilliant journalist, Vudi Xhymshiti. 

COVER Photo: An ordinary evening in Kyiv, where life carries on amidst the backdrop of conflict. The resilience of the people is evident in every corner of the city. (Photo © Borderlines, Fried Didden)

In the afternoon, around four, we entered the parking lot. I still thought, “Will I be able to do it?” I felt very supported by Vudi’s presence, who was also struggling. We got out of the car and looked for the entrance to the state museum. Somehow, it felt strange to call a former death camp a museum. Even now, drafting this story, I am unsure if “museum” is the right term.

We joined other visitors, both old and young, and entered after a lady signed us in. From the entry of the museum, we passed through a white concrete corridor, open to the sky. The corridor felt like a passage to the past, a transition into history. We walked down a slope, turned a corner, walked straight, turned another corner, and slowly ascended again. A monotonous voice echoed through the space, listing the names of Jews who perished. I only remember one name Polak. The silence among the visitors was thick. No one spoke a word. I felt a wave of impotence and anger wash over me, and I shut down emotionally a defence mechanism I’ve developed over time to avoid overwhelming distress.

We took pictures on the way down and up. It helped me distance myself emotionally and brought me back to the present moment. Outside the corridor, we moved toward the actual entrance of the doomed camp. This was it. One of the places where the Germans industrialised the murder of human beings, Jews, Roma, Sinti, and other so-called enemies of the state.

At the main gate, the infamous words “Arbeit macht Frei” stood as a grotesque lie, masking the camp’s true purpose. Barbed wire, watchtowers, and barriers surrounded us. The architecture of the camp was cold, efficient, and entirely devoid of humanity, designed precisely for its dark function. It was exactly what I had expected from the Germans.

We walked slowly through the barracks, each with its own grim function. A heavy wave of past suffering overwhelmed me. I could only grasp fragments of it, like shards of pain and agony too vast to fully absorb. After an hour, we looked at each other and said, “Let’s get away from this place.”

We headed for the exit and found ourselves at an intact gas chamber. We decided to go in. As we approached, my first thought was, “They knew they were going to be killed.” I took a photo of the peephole in the door. It reminded me of a picture I’d seen, an SS soldier looking through a similar peephole, checking the progress of the gassing. To me, this was the ultimate example of a human being deformed into a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

I felt a sense of relief as we walked back to the parking lot in silence. We decided to leave the town quickly. I made up my mind to write about and reflect on the topics that surfaced during this harrowing experience, and to connect them to the present course of the world we live in.

As I continue to document the critical stories of human rights, political health, and collective trauma, I would deeply appreciate your support. If you find value in the work I’m doing, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Borderlines. Your contribution will not only help sustain this important journey but also ensure that these stories, which so often go untold, can reach those who need to hear them. Thank you for standing with me, and for sharing this mission to bring attention to the human impact of fractured politics and ongoing conflict.