Pray for Poland.

The news hit me hard, just like it did to any other Pole. Last time I was this emotional was when the Pope passed away in 2005. But back then, it was a bit different - the Pope was ailing and it was a matter of time. This time, it hit from just utterly nowhere.

There were so many things that went through my mind over the past couple of days. However, there are a couple of moments during this turbulence that engraved themselves very deeply into my consciousness.

1. The irony and cruelty of history. I take the liberty to quote a friend of mine, Karol Malik.

"Trzy rozbiory. Dwie wojny światowe. Dwie masakry w lesie Katyńskim.

Polska, czyli kraina wielokrotnie powtarzanych tragedii."

Cf. Milan Kundera -- Nieznośna lekkość bytu, rozdział pierwszy, część pierwsza.

And his English translation:

"Three partitions. Two World Wars. Two massacres in the Katyn' Forest.

Poland, i.e. the land of repeated tragedies."

Cf. Milan Kundera -- The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Chapter 1, Part 1.

May I also add to the list: Nazism, Holocaust and then Soviet totalitarianism.

2. The hope.

Here, I cite the most beautiful and moving pieces I have read in a long time. An op-ed in New York Times, titled "The Glory of Poland".

It is too early to say where Warsaw-Moscow relations are headed but not too early to say that 96 lost souls would be dishonored if Polish and Russian leaders do not make of this tragedy a solemn bond. As Tusk told Putin, “A word of truth can mobilize two peoples looking for the road to reconciliation. Are we capable of transforming a lie into reconciliation? We must believe we can.

(...)

It is this Poland that is now at peace with its neighbors and stable. It is this Poland that has joined Germany in the European Union. It is this Poland that has just seen the very symbols of its tumultuous history (including the Gdansk dock worker Anna Walentynowicz and former president-in-exile Ryszard Kaczorowski) go down in a Soviet-made jet and responded with dignity, according to the rule of law.

So do not tell me that cruel history cannot be overcome. Do not tell me that Israelis and Palestinians can never make peace. Do not tell me that the people in the streets of Bangkok and Bishkek and Tehran dream in vain of freedom and democracy. Do not tell me that lies can stand forever.

Ask the Poles. They know.

3. The activism of my Polish friends at Harvard.

Harvard Polish Society has produced a wonderful summary of meaning of this tragedy to inform and educate the Harvard, MIT, broader Cambridge-Boston community and anyone unfamiliar with Polish history.

4. My own visit.

I was very lost for the first few hours after the news hit the media - all by myself, in the far-away Japan, knowing hardly any Poles around me. But as soon as I saw the emails flooding my inbox from my Harvard friends, encouraged, I decided I just want to honour the the Dead by myself. I made my quick visit to the Polish Embassy in Tokyo to give my prayers and sign in the book of condolence, but what I witnessed there was so overwhelming, I had a hard time withholding my tears. The black-and-white pictures of the dead displayed everywhere, the overflowing sight and smell of white flowers, Chopin in the background and solemn-faced people dressed in white kimono or black suits.

I felt exhausted and unable to do anything for the rest of the day.

I just wonder what it was that perturbed me so deeply? I wasn't a fan of the President when he was alive. I didn't know much about the other victims apart of their roles in the government. I never met any of the dead. So why was I in tears the moment I stepped into that room?, I kept asking myself on the way back.

Maybe because I identify myself with this nation, so mercilessly afflicted by history with suffering. Because I admire and am proud of Poland's heroism and bravery. Because my loved ones are Polish. Maybe, because I am Polish so anything that touches Poland, touches me as well?

Sakura Tales.

Long before I came to Japan, I had already heard of the legendary cherry-blossoms (sakura). To me, Japanese sakura, were as integral to and iconic of Japan's traditional culture as the images of Geisha, Kabuki Theater, Sumo Games or the Tea Ceremony. However, only after having come to Japan and experiencing sakura for myself, did I discover this absolutely unique trait about them – something other elements of this beautiful culture do not have – and that is the recurring seasonal ardor. Japanese cherry-blossoms start out suddenly, bloom violently and passionately, and vanish just as abruptly as they came. And they do it every single year, annum after annum, eternally.

The intensity, almost vehemency of this however ephemeral life, juxtaposed against the graceful delicacy of flowers and the royalty to the season, has irreversibly captured my heart for good.

I wonder, when was the first time I ever drew a tree. I definitely cannot recall it. But I can bet, the first time I did it, the color I chose was green. Later, after I moved to Poland, my tree portraitures started to include red, brow, yellow or orange – all shades of warm colors that have been added into my color spectrum after my first autumn experiences. But it had never crossed my mind to ever color a tree pink. Leaves don't turn pink, I learned. Pink is for flowers.
Now, how about a tree without leaves but full of flowers?

If I had grown up in Japan, I would have been able to draw pink trees. Delightfully and stunningly pink trees. But these trees turn pink only once a year, for only as short as two weeks. They are like Japanese nature Cinderellas. In the winter, they are unsightly, dressed in gray branches, devoid of any color or attention. But in almost overnight, as if under a stroke of magic, they suddenly turn into the most splendid and charming things on earth capturing everyone's eye – from a busy office-worker on his hurried way to work,who just can't help but halt for a second to quickly snap a shot with his mobile phone, to professional photographers, pointing and shooting with their high-tech Japanese cameras for hours. Yes, sakuras are like Cinderella during the ball – everyone is watching them, everyone's in awe. And then, in a blink of eye, they're gone.

But that was all just my own imagination.

Historically actually, Japan has regarded sakura as a symbol of Samurai. “Sakura, these delicate flowers? Symbol of a belligerent warrior, who dies in violent battles? Where's the connection?” was my ignorant question, to which Ms. Kazuko Narui patiently answered: “It is because they are the symbol of loyalty and immutability. They come back every year, always at the same time. The Samurai, to whom nothing was more important than honor and loyalty, regarded the incessant return of sakura as symbolic of their own return to the Master whenever called upon. And the hope was, that they, the warriors, would also return from the war, just like sakura returns the next year, even if it fades away in less than 2 weeks. That was their prayer for survival. And that is why you see so many sakura in the temples and shrines.”

In my everyday life, I appear as a rather down-to-earth, occasionally sarcastic person, very much a realist and pragmatist.Then why, I wonder, is it that, just as soon as these pink flowers started blooming, my hopeless romanticism resurfaced and all I wanted was to sit or lay there and stare, endlessly, at these flowers against the blue sky, imagining all the stories I have recounted above. If there is a time most suitable for one to be a romantic, I think it is the sakura time.