A Black Writer in an All-White Country
By Christian Kobluk — a Polish-Burundian essayist, public speaker, and author of “A Zone of Nonbeing” (Daraja Press, 2025).
It is a bizarre thing to be a Black writer in an all-white country. Here, where I was born, being Black is in itself a strange experience. Since there’s not a lot of Afro-Poles, nobody has expected that I can speak Polish, leaving aside being a citizen. The questions asked all the time by legions of my compatriots were, ‘Where are you from?’; ‘How did you learn Polish?’; and so forth. When your primary tool is the written word, these kinds of questions became a reminder that, in a sense, you do not have a native language: you remain a Stranger, an Alien, someone who is from abroad, from a far country. But this far country doesn’t really exist; it is a creation in the mind of those who want to believe that Polishness and Whiteness are the same damn thing.
When one begins to write, being a black Pole, one must decide which path one will choose as an author.
One can forget about one’s Blackness and leave behind the baggage of experiences that one carries because of the color of one’s skin. A possibility to neglect the racial struggle in Poland—as well as in the entirety of entire Europe—enables you to go out there, and to avoid, at least partially, all the questions that have been asked by the vast majority of your nation. Yet, however tempting this might be, it comes with a price: denying your own identity.
The second path seems—and probably is—harder. Nevertheless, I find it more comforting than the first one. It recognizes the experience of Black people in Poland, has enough courage to face racism of one's folks, and is committed to justice. The decision to not turn back on your fellow humans and—what's the most important thing—on yourself. But it comes with a price, too.
Once you’ve chosen the second path, you have to be prepared to become a Black—Negro— writer. That means your experience will be reviewed, discussed, evaluated, criticized, and undermined. You become a weirdo, an Alien—not only in your private but also in your very public life. You're ignored or watched cautiously by those who believe in all-white Poland. You face accusations that have roots in stereotypes. You become more vulnerable than you could ever imagine.
The other problem that is faced by a Pole of African descent, who decides to speak up, is, as Jimmy Baldwin once said, “a moral dilemma”: “What your role is in this country and what your future is in it? How precisely you’re going to reconcile yourself to your situation here and how you’re going to communicate to the vast, heedless, unthinking white majority that you are here?” The people of this nation—and of all the West—would rather not acknowledge our existence. And if you're brave or desperatedespaired enough, you better prepare for that.
Nowadays, in Poland, the racist agenda is used not only by the far-right or even conservatives, but also by liberals. In these times, being a Black person—leaving aside being a Black writer or artist—is dangerous. That’s why a writer of color becomes a disturbance to a nation’s well being. They have an obligation to criticize, question, and turn all-white narrativesnarrations upside down.
There’s also, obviously, a question of language: how should you spill the tea about your experience and racism in a language that has never even thought about you? It requires, long story short, the creation of a new inclusive language that will be considered weird, unnecessary, and perhaps even offensive to the white majority. When five years ago, a young Black girl went out with a sign, “Don’t call me Murzyn!”, it began a national debate whether this word is derogatory or not. All my life, I was called “Murzyn,” even if I rooted against it. And now I am asked why I dislike the word. Well, we have miles to go.
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Lately, I hosted a dinner for two of my younger friends—a Black girl and a white boy. We discussed, among others, an issue of Polish racism. She and I were sharing our experiences, and we quickly noticed that we had the same stories to tell. He, on the other hand, read a few days before my first book on racism. “I’m very grateful that you wrote it,” he said. “It's important, and our nation should hear about it.”
That evening, when I sat and spoke with them, I saw two people, white and Black, on the threshold of adulthood who refused to accept the racist agenda and rooted for justice and equality. And this gave me hope and strength to remain a Black voice of the white country— even if that means that I’ll be the voice of crying in the wildness.
