Roots
Before I started to write my blog,
I had already written many things, a long time ago. My dear friend M., actually
published something and gave it to me before my birthday in 2000. I didn’t
expect this. Some things that I wrote, I would never want anybody to read. Some
things I shared, other things are open to be read, like this. Many things that
I have written, I continue to write towards. I hope this makes sense. Other
things I consider for my blog, others are my notes, reflections or records of
my reality, as I experience it. The reason I am saying this, is that my dad,
every year, year after year, would fill his calendar diary's with many entries,
sometimes randomly. Some reflections, but mainly what he did, whom with, who he
met, what he did, how he felt. He shared this with me. His thing is that in his
family (my family) dementia is one of the most prevalent illnesses. Having seen
his ancestors forgetting things, and getting disintegrated with their sense of
self, he figured out that if he writes things down, even small entries, it
would always keep him to the present time, when he reads it. He deeply believes
that even if he can't remember what has happened in the past, he would always
be able to read and write. A few months ago, he celebrated his 70th
birthday, and still his brain is as sharp as a blade. I, too, worry that
dementia will knock on my door sometime…
I think, we carry our roots with us, wherever we go, whether we want to or not.
What are 'roots' in psychological terms?
Whatever source you look at, it tells you that roots are embedded in family origins, the place you come from, your culture, your language, your ways of relating to the world, your experience, all that is somehow known, or unknown, suspected but believed and practiced. And illnesses, especially in modern days, like cancer, depression or addictions. Roots, in biology, connect a plant, bush, vegetable, tree, all of fauna to the nutrients offered by the Mother Earth beneath her surface. Roots keep them alive. Without roots – all in the fauna kingdom dies. It obviously doesn’t work literally the same way with people. Some people happened to be re-rooted by adoption for example or other events.
My roots come from the East of Poland. I was born there, during a snowy winter when all roots of everything have been frozen in the ground close to death. My family moved after my birth for 11 years to Hel Peninsula at the Baltic Sea to follow the roots of the uniforms that run in my family. From serving at the east border, my dad was moved to serve at the Baltic Sea border, and if you look at the map, you will see there are quite a few borders around the Baltic Sea. Some of them are friendly, some of them are deadly. Living there, we rooted into other roots, which my mom has always said are very unfriendly. No nutrients coming from them. Except for a crowd, who like us, was sent to serve there or live there. Despite this experience that ended with the system that sent us there, I consider myself ‘Sledzik Bialostocki’, except I speak with a Northern Polish accent that I never lost. I dare to say the East of Poland is my home and the most amazing place you can grow up in.
The East is in me. I carry the East in me, in many ways. The east of Poland is multicultural. It has always been the meeting place for many nations and religions: Catholics, Orthodox, Jews, Muslims, and more, whatever their ethnicity were. I am not about to write a history or anthropology lesson now. My main point is: Things, and people who met there, often created new things, or people. Like me. The multicultural family, the borders, the history, family traditions, nature and mile stones that mark it, and link with my family. Inseparable. Like the roots of the trees in the forest. The wind brings new seeds from faraway which get accepted by the Mother Earth. And grow together. We are all one. This is how I have always felt about people. My father’s family comes from there, and have been there for many generations, despite wars and changing borders. My mom’s family’s origin were the seeds blown by the wind of history and got rooted there.
Literally and metaphorically, roots at times get too tangled or compete for better sunlight, nutrition and space. It causes many fractures, damage, loss and unimaginable suffering. Think of the blackberry bush. The strength it has to conquer and persevere. The damage it causes to anybody who tries to trim it or get rid of it… Lolita, my dog, never tried to lick the dew from the leaves of a blackberry bush, never tried the berry or touched a fly that was sitting on it. Survival instinct or inner wisdom?
For generations, my father’s family lived there at the Eastern border, as we call it now. Since the end of World War II the border was moved, ‘rescheduled’ by a dull man, who I honestly think had no clue. Neither did he have empathy for people, whose lives he had messed up to an unmanageable degree. My father’s family got caught in it big time. The homeland, suddenly closed for them, a few kilometres away. Instantly, they found themselves living in another country, a dangerous one. When they got this news, they made a decision quick: run away. Run away they did, with few possessions they could carry (children can only carry a tiny bit), leaving the house, the land and so on behind. Fear of the new rule filled them. They were shot at by the new rule guards. They made it to their cousins who lived a few kilometres away, still in the homeland. They were embraced and helped with everything until they established themselves back physically and financially, and regained their dignity. Since then, most of those in my father’s family are or were uniform people. They wear uniforms to protect their place. In the ways of the army, immigration officers, customs officers, railway supervisors and operators (European railway tracks are skinnier than Russian ones, so the railway had to be adjusted, in order for a train to enter Belarus, Ukraine or countries further away, Russia and its satellites), doctors and nurses and carers. They are/were serving at the border, where their roots come from. Poland in recent years had controversial politics regarding other people who needed to escape oppression and poverty. Members of my family who are still in some service at the border were affected by losing jobs or losing faith in justice and ethical decision making.
My grandfather Ferdynad Garkowski,
who along with 2 friends, used to smuggle people coming "back home"
through the ‘Green Ocean’ after the 2nd World War, when the border was established
(cutting their place away, like a piece of a cake). It is worth to mention that
Poland hundreds of years ago and for hundreds of years has been surrounded by
the woods, kind of never-ending woods. Other neighbouring countries had lots of
woods too. I read once that Romans decided not to conquer East as there was
nothing there but woods. Unsure if this was the reason, but they didn’t
proceed. In my grandfather and his friends case – you needed to know where to
go in order to not get lost, injured or die. Many thousands of trees has been
cut since then, still the woods on the eastern border are mighty (check out
Bialowieza National Park)
He was a partisan, a child soldier
(16-17) then. His family and families of others supported the refugees (sounds
so ironic given the polish context re: refuges at the present). The tragedy of
this is that, when the man, who set up the border after the 2nd
World War, obviously didn’t acknowledge the ethnicity and roots or maybe did,
but in the same time didn’t care because of other political reasons. He cut
them from their country. My grandfather told me this story many times. He has
always deeply hurt because of that event. Even when, about 20-25 years ago
dementia began to claim his mind, he spoke about different people and
circumstances he assisted. I feel he has been deeply impacted by it. From the
first event, assisting his parents, a pregnant mother and younger siblings to
escape and then helping others to do the same. There was a time when he got
recognition, along with his friends. It is funny, how history plays tricks,
isn’t it? From a criminal to a hero… The English Queen died just a few days
before he did. Same age. I also dare to say they shared some values related to
their early age.
What happens when you don't have
roots or lose them?
Trauma. It has many features.
There are many features of trauma
of losing your roots: your identity, your connections, language, tradition,
your cognitive givens like concentration and focus, your memories…
It can lead to anxiety,
depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, suicide, adjustment difficulties,
sleeping and lifestyle disruption, many physical symptoms leading to illnesses,
prolonged grief including sadness, numbness, denial, anger, amongst many other
emotions that impact life to a different degree of functioning.
Roots always connect us to the
past, despite our branches stretching us to the future. Often, roots give
people strength to grow the branches of resilience towards what is happening.
Mother Earth is full of roots belonging to different levels of existence:
flora, fauna and people. We are all one under her surface.
The history of that time has affected my ancestors, many of them, in fact. Lots of loss, unimaginable loss. Deep trauma carried through generations. Recently, my dear 1st cousin E., asked me about family history on our father's side. She is 13 years younger and missed lots of stories, that are not available anymore from the very source - people who lived through it. Dementia and death took the stories away along with our dear grandparents passing away in 2018 (age 89) and 2022 (age 96). She wondered about the patterns, the transgenerational trauma, and other, mysterious occurrences. She unfortunately, discovered and experienced herself something that could have only been related to the past, no other explanation. We spoke thousands of words on this. I was happy to share what I had heard; she was happy to embrace what she didn't know. Our fathers who are brothers don't talk about the past. And when they do, it’s only about funny events.
Where do the roots of people in
the East of Poland originate from? History books state that my nation or my
ethnicity has taken its beginnings in India. Thousands of years ago people
migrated from one, far away side of the world to another. Their physical
features changed, from dark complexion and skin to a European look. It
certainly has left some mysterious genes in my cousin E. and I, who stand out,
from the family looks and maybe generally too. E. has a non-identical, twin
sister, who has blond hair, blue eyes and pale pink skin. The perception might
be that we both look 'from a different family ' or country, with many
connotations to mixed race. Many people in our side of homeland do not fit 'the
frame' of Slavic looks. I wonder about this. How do the genes travel and when
do they come out?
Has the mixing happened in times
relatively not long ago? E. and I, be both wonder how that would be like to
enter our genetic material to the super advanced search systems available these
days, that connect us, with others long ago or not so much. What could have
been found? Mamy people have done it and found missing relatives or got
information that was needed, shocking at times, or comforting at other times.
Recently I read a story of a man in the USA, who was found by the DNA search after being missing for 70 years – Louis Armando Albino. At the age of 6 he was abducted and ‘given’ to a childless family in another part of the USA. His niece recently decided to do a DNA test. Her findings were enormously shocking. The test and her discovery reunited the family, who long ago lost their hopes to find him. He was safe, having a good life far away, not aware of his family of origin or their existence. The roots claimed him back. It took time, but he was reunited.
This brings me to other stories I have heard as a child and thereafter. The stories of missing people.
Since my early childhood I always have heard from my grandmother (RIP 2018) and her older sister (RIP 2007) about their 2 brothers who were taken to an army of predators and never found afterwards. Both brothers: Mieczyslaw and Bronislaw Iwanowski left home, age 21 and 18 years old and never returned. They sent letters and 2 army photos and after this nothing ever happened. They were never seen or heard from after. My granny and her sister, my beloved auntie Stan always missed them. They always spoke about them, the older brothers, the super heroes as if they were alive. I was so confused about this. They were gone, long ago and never found.
Bernarda, my grandmother and her
older sister Stanislawa also had an older sister, Hygina, who had special needs
and never spoke. Being an adult, lived her life as a 2-year-old. Granny and
Stan said it a thousand times, when their home, or second or third home was
taken or bombarded, older brothers (and parents) always prioritised to
take Hygina out and away. She didn’t
understand danger, for as long as she lived.
How many families around the world act exactly the same way? Rescuing the old or vulnerable, who do not comprehend danger or can't deal with it?
Mieczyslaw and Bronislaw never came back. They disappeared from the face of Mother Earth. The roots got wounded and never healed. No letter about their whereabouts were sent to their family or anybody else. That time and after the 2nd World War, The Red Cross (an agency that provided information about people, who were somehow in their care during the 2nd World War or after) had been contacted dozens of times in relation to Mieczyslaw and Bronislaw. They have never ever come up with any information except for a suggestion that perhaps they are in mass graves somewhere in Russia. No directions given.
Both brothers, Mieczyslaw and
Bronislaw, have their graves at the family/local cemetery along with others who
have never been found after being forced to join the army of the predators. My
father’s family was not the only one, sadly one of many who lost their sons and
daughters to oppression and annihilation.
Their empty graves in the cemetery
are next to their parents and other relatives, who actually died in front of
others and their bodies were seen and touched, mourned and taken care of. The
graves of Mieczyslaw and Bronislaw, had the dates of their births, but no death
dates, just a line: lost in war, bodies never found. Their roots connected
elsewhere, with other, kind of forgotten roots. Recently, I and my loved ones
(I can only speak for me) arrived during a hike to a famine graveyard. What
shocked me, and believe me, I am not easily shocked, is that there were no
graves in the graveyard. Instead, we met an elderly lady, who told us that she
nominated herself to look after the graveyard. She said her children and
grandchildren were involved in looking after this place, too. She explained
that during the famine, the bodies of the poor who died of starvation or
illness were, literally, dumped, in that place. No names, no kind of
identifying information about the people, or who was ‘buried’ there. She said
the place was a graveyard for over 8000 people!!!!!! I only wish, that for
Mieczyslaw and Bronislaw and many others, that somewhere, there is someone who
cares about what happened to them and keeps the memory of it.
What I said above, has always troubled me. In many ways. Since childhood, I heard stories which most of were highly inappropriate for a child to hear. Obviously, I didn’t understand it then, along with the nightmares I dreamt, and sleepwalking that followed the nightmares. From the adult point of view, I understand that the cortisol levels were pumped really high. Since childhood, I was told the stories of my ancestors, over and over again. From my professional point of view, I understand now, how talking about trauma helps people who speak it out. Back then, listening to them, after time it has become a tapestry of my life with many roots tanged up with the history and other events beyond one’s control. In childhood, I think, from the adult perspective, I employed a protective mechanism, which are happy endings. The magical thinking that has a power to change the history or reality. Simply, a protective mechanism kicks in to protect the mind, in order not to lose it. There is a flip side, despite the potential damage – being able to listen to the unspeakable. And being good at it, holding the unspeakable.
It's worth to mention that at times, people chose to disappear.
There has been more loss in my
family that I was born into.
My other grandmother’s mother has lost everybody in the Russian revolution except for her older brother. They have never known what exactly happened to their parents and other members of the family, except that they were annihilated and buried in mass graves.
Why? Perhaps because they were the enemies to the revolutions. I am unable to explain or give any details about this. My great-grandmother’s older brother, who survived atrocities and homicides of their family, looked after my great-grandmother for some time. It was a very important period in her teens, he was her guardian and her only alive member of the family. They were separated accidentally by another war, uprising, and she has never seen him again or heard about what has happened to him. Antonina Sokolowa was left with a small chest of belongings, including a few embroidered serviettes, her dowry, which a few of them I still have and treasure. I have never met her. She died on my mother, when my mom was in her early teens. Antonina’s whole family, absolutely everyone was murdered. Wiped out. No proper graves were ever given to them, or proper burial. There is no information about their lives or death recorded. The only evidence of their existence are a few photos of her and her brother, family, a few pairs of earrings, brooches, a table cloth and serviettes that I was given by my grandmother and my mother. I looked at the embroidered serviettes at times, hardy ever used. They were passed onto me from my grandmother. I keep them in care. I do. Still, uncreased, ironed about 120 years ago, untouched. Still, at times, I do touch and smell and hope, they are a medium that can take me somehow to the end of this mystery. To find the answers. Magical, childish thinking or maybe faith into modern technologies (like finding Louis?). Research says many people, feel that way.
Contacts get lost. Belongings form
the evidence. A link between the worlds of living and missing people.
My granny, the very same, a
daughter of Antonina Sokolowa, the only one of 6 daughters, the youngest one of
the 3 who survived the war, who survived the loss of 3 older sisters (I
mentioned this in the crossroads) resumed the search of her uncle, through the
Red Cross, after her mom passed away in 1970. Antonina, somehow accepted the
loss and didn't believe anything could be found. Maybe she knew, or she never
ever wanted to speak about it. My grandmother respected it, but after her
mother died in my mother's arms, she decided to look for the answers. Where is
her uncle?
She found shocking information. Her uncle, who changed his name, was safe and sound. He lived happily in one of the countries in the middle east and had no desire to connect with his niece and her 2 older sisters. Granny Natalia often wondered why her uncle Nikolai changed his name, surname and didn't want any contact with a scarce number of his close relatives through blood. I don’t think she ever got an answer to her dilemma.
I think, I made some sort of peace with the stories in my family. Still, I often look at announcements about missing people. It upsets me, but I have this belief, I have to do it. To make sure, that the energy I put into it, somehow helps them to be found. Nothing upsets me as much, as stories of missing children. Since I have been living in Ireland I heard a few of them. The whole lot. In a way, once again, a protective mechanism kicks in, I wish I didn’t hear them. But you can’t unhear what you hear. Or unsee what you see. My heart goes out to the parents of Anna K and Noah D and also the family of Kyran D. With anguish, anger, sadness, frustration. A mixed bag. A heavy one.
Before I finish this very personal and emotional entry, I would like to divert to the story of Frederick Fleet. The sources agree that he has been cut from his roots at the very beginning and had a very difficult life, in general. He was a watchman of Titanic and one of very few members of the crew, who survived the atrocity. The sources agree that he has not failed his duty before the catastrophe. He was also hired times and times thereafter. He took his life at the age of 77 and was buried in an unmarked, mass grave. Only a year later did the Titanic society put efforts into finding his grave and marking it
There are so many stories of roots
that are or aren’t there to be recovered and spoken about. Regrettably. Roots
are mostly invested in the dark. Roots are strong. They keep us alive, keep us
keen in many ways, even when they’re dead. Let’s keep in mind that there is as
much light out there to shine upon them and dig them out.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_6IjeprfEs
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