The Grief of Politics

Sunday was the funeral of Polish President Lech Kaczynski and his wife, Maria, in Krakow. The ceremonies, all 20 or so hours of them, were full of fitting pomp and circumstance.

On one hand, the bordering-on-festive air about the funeral seemed to celebrate, as well as mourn. Celebrate that Poland can overcome any adversity. And rightfully so. The country is to be commended for the stride in which it has dealt with this tragedy. As Roger Cohen pointed out in his op-ed piece for the New York Times, "Poland's democracy has barely skipped a beat." And considering how young this democracy is, that's a true accomplishment. After losing not only the President, but many officials and cultural contributors, the nation moves on with grace and strength, proving that it's fully capable of handling such a blow while maintaining its calm. It has refused to be a victim.

On the other hand, the institutions responsible for these 20 or so hours of decorated ceremony for the President seemed to take mourning to the next level: heroic worship and martyrdom. As another op-ed expressed several days later (Wiktor Osiatynski), "Mr. Kaczynski became a hero, because in Poland, any death in or near Katyn sounds heroic — a reaction that does disservice both to Mr. Kaczynski himself and the memory of those murdered by the Soviets." Beginning with the announcement that the first couple would be buried in Wawel Castle- a place where the greatest of Polish kings, romantic poets and great military heroes are buried, but no politicians- and continuing through several full days of mass and ceremony, the air was also filled with a sense of self-righteous victimization.

The President was not a popular leader. His approval ratings were below 30 percent and his disapproval ratings were double that. His conservative party was thought by many to have actually hurt Poland's progress in recent years, and this is in what could arguably be the most religious country in Europe. He was not a hero. He was not assassinated for his ideals (though some are calling the incident "Poland's JFK"). His death, like the 95 others with him on the plane, was undeniably tragic. But it was careless, and in the end, political. A poor decision to attempt to land the plane in bad weather conditions, despite clear instructions from air traffic controllers not to, was made under the pressure of a political event. The President was not invited to the commemoration ceremony that had taken place days earlier with Polish and Russian Prime Ministers, so he arranged another one on his own. He invited families of Katyn victims and other political officials, and with thousands waiting for his arrival, the desire to make an appearance outweighed the risk.

It could be for this reason that there were no tears in Krakow. In the most Catholic part of the country (where his slim approval ratings were highest), at a funeral attended by about 150,000 people, I spotted not one tear. Pride perhaps, collective grief, but no intense emotion. I can't say why, nor can I say how the Polish people will fare as they ride out the larger impacts of this loss. I think it will be seeking that never-ending fine balance between remembrance and moving on...

Poland refuses to be a victim.

Poland continues to be a victim.

The two seem like opposing realities, but in my experience, they are both very much true.