Refried Neurons

I’m lying in bed, knackered, sleepless, and trying to piece together the chaos of last night — or actually, the last few weeks. I’ve got that weird post-party, post-election, post-bleaching-maggots-from-your-floor hangover. So let’s rewind.

It Started So Well

It was the 1st of June — sunny, full of promise. It was also the second round of the presidential elections in Poland. So, like the good citizen I try to be (despite living in the UK), I marched off to the polling station first thing in the morning. Civic duty done, I rewarded myself with a quick snack at Gail’s before heading home to prep for a neighbourhood BBQ.

Now, let me paint you a picture. I live in a small block of 18 flats in London, and, miraculously, every single one is actually inhabited. I know that sounds unremarkable — but this is London, a city where half the housing stock seems to be glorified bank vaults for overseas investors. It’s rare and wonderful to live in a building where people actually live. Even more shockingly, I know most of my neighbours. I say “most” because there are two flats where I only recognise faces but don’t stop to chat in the lobby. Give it time.

Out the back, we have a garden. And not just a tiny slab of concrete pretending to be a garden — a proper green patch, complete with veg boxes and enough space for communal BBQs. Which was the plan for the day. Glorious.

And Then Came the Maggots

Just as we were about to head to the gym before shopping for BBQ supplies, we decided to take the bin out. Big mistake.

We opened the bin and were greeted by… maggots. Fucking maggots. They were writhing out of the bag, falling onto the floor, crawling under the planter. It was like a low-budget horror film, except it was my kitchen. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the smell? Think decomposing flesh. Lovely.

We barely cook meat at home, and if we do, we take the scraps out immediately. So where these little bastards came from is beyond me. The cleaner was in just four days ago, and the bin had been emptied. But here they were — under the bin, under the rug. Even the skirting boards weren’t safe.

So we skipped the gym and had a hardcore domestic workout instead. Bleach, scrub, repeat. And it made me realise: our new cleaner is… not great. Once I started wiping surfaces, I saw just how much grime had been glossed over. Fucking hell. Cue full-blown home detox.

Thank god it wasn’t cockroaches. I’d have moved out on the spot.

BBQ Redemption

By 4pm, armed with Polish sausages, mojo rojo and halloumi, we made it down to the garden — traumatised but determined. Our 80-something Irish neighbour was already there, BBQ set up, tables arranged, like the absolute legend he is. Last year, he even built a custom TV stand so we could watch the football outside. That kind of man.

Slowly but surely, people started arriving. The Irish couple. Us, the Poles. The Australian-English couple from downstairs. The lovely Iranian family. Two wonderful, widowed ladies — one Indian, one Jewish — from the second floor. And my god, the Iranians came prepared. It was less a BBQ, more a Persian culinary masterclass. Shish kebabs of every kind, and enough food to feed half of Tehran.

We followed with our Polish sausages. Then came homemade Indian biryani. Charcoaled halloumi. Roasted chicken from the Irish side. Guinness, beers, wine, non-alcoholic G&Ts… and more food, brought by the adorable Hong Kong couple from the first floor — tofu, dumplings, the lot.

Honestly, for a block of 18 flats, the diversity is astonishing. We’re from every continent, every background. And we don’t just coexist — we live together. We eat, laugh, argue, celebrate. We have our occasional drama, sure. But name one building — even a homogenous one — where people don’t squabble.

It was a reminder of how beautiful, messy, and fundamentally human community can be.

And Then the Election Results Came In

We headed upstairs, hearts full, bellies even fuller — only to find out that Poland had just elected a far-right candidate as president. And just like that, the joy evaporated.

It hit me harder than I expected. Maybe it was the contrast — having just enjoyed an international buffet of friendship and solidarity — then watching my home country take a step backward into fear and division.

The Politics of Fear

The weeks leading up to the vote had been intense. Poland’s history is complex — a country erased from the map, resurrected, thrown from occupation to communism to a fragile democracy. I never cared much about it as a kid, but now I do. Because I see how easily it can slip away.

After communism, EU membership was the dream. We voted overwhelmingly to join. The West was a beacon of hope — jobs, travel, freedom. And for the most parts, it delivered. Poland received over €150 billion from the EU. Standards rose. Institutions got a much-needed shake-up. Corruption became harder. It wasn’t perfect — nothing ever is — but we were moving forward.

That progress allowed people like me to study abroad, move freely, and build a life outside Poland. I didn’t leave because I had to. I had a good job, working on an airport. But a friend called about a London job and I thought, “Why not?”

That was 11 years ago. Now I live in a multicultural block of flats, in a multicultural city. Europe made that possible.

How Did We End Up Here?

In 2015, Poland elected the PiS party — Law and Justice. They installed one of their own as president, and over the next two terms, they dismantled the judiciary, suffocated the free press, and turned state media into a 24/7 propaganda machine. Everything wrong in the country? Blame Tusk. Want to distract from corruption? Blame immigrants.

They spied on opposition figures using Pegasus software — actual spyware. To the point that Israel revoked their licence. The fear-mongering was industrial. And like every authoritarian regime in history, they made people believe: if you’re not with us, you’re the enemy.

It poisoned everything. Families stopped speaking. Conversations became shouting matches. When I mentioned an overpriced government project to my uncle, he accused me of being brainwashed. A carpenter told me I was selling Poland to the Germans. It became surreal.

Still, people voted for them — because they gave money to families, stoked nationalism, and sold fairy tales about returning to “true Catholic values”. Then came the backlash: higher taxes, rising prices, and slowly, disillusionment.

In the last parliamentary elections, the opposition finally won. A glimmer of hope. But PiS still held the presidency — and in Poland, that means they can veto pretty much anything. And they did. Repeatedly.

People grew impatient. Promises weren’t kept fast enough. And yesterday, faced with a choice between the ruling party’s candidate and a far-right populist, many chose… the pimp. Literally. The guy has been linked to criminal gangs, violent hooliganism, shady property deals — but hey, he doesn’t speak French, so he must be “one of us.”

I’m gutted.

The Problem Isn’t Just the Politics — It’s the Fear

In the run-up to the vote, I spoke to friends who planned to vote far-right. Their reasons? “I don’t like migrants. I don’t want the Euro. I want Poland to stay Catholic.”

Cheers mate, I am a migrant. My family includes five religions. And last I checked, Poland is a secular state — not the Vatican’s backyard.

What scares me most isn’t the political party. It’s how easily people are manipulated. By Facebook videos. By memes. By simplistic answers to complicated problems. By fear.

And the kicker? The same people terrified of immigrants are perfectly fine with selling thousands of black market visas. Build a wall at the Belarus border while pocketing bribes from those you claim to fear. Genius.

My cousin told me I’m just being emotional — a typical woman. That economic policy is what really matters. This, from the guy who has disrespected his family for years, got all his money as an inheritance, slept his way across Warsaw, and now claims to have found a girlfriend who shares his “traditional Catholic values.” Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

I know this post is messy. I’m angry, sad, confused, disappointed. I don’t think the people who voted for him are evil. I think they’re scared. But fear doesn’t make good decisions — and I’m not sure how to keep having hope in a country that just voted for a thug over a French-speaking moderate.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll have more strength. But for now, I’m just going to lie here, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell we fix this.