PESEL*. A blonde with a list
Part 1
On how I became an organizer of obtaining Polish pesel
Three weeks after arriving in Warsaw, I finally had to accept the fact that it was time to register and get registered as a temporary resident.
One of the key advantages of the PESEL for me was that it would allow our Polish family to receive compensation from the government for helping Ukrainian refugees. For that, we needed to register and enter the system.
I had been convincing myself for a long time that I first needed to recover from the journey. Then I used the excuse that I was busy enrolling my kids in school. Later, my younger son had a nervous breakdown (I’ll write about this separately).
Among all this, I tried to remain at least halfway productive at work.
In short, there were plenty of reasons NOT to face reality. But I was living in Poland, my children were already attending school, and it was time to officially register — finally admitting that, although temporarily, I was now a resident of another country.
That was tough.
After Googling the nearest Urząd (the Office for Foreigners), I decided to arrive early, having heard stories about enormous lines and the impossibility of obtaining a PESEL even within a week.
At 6 a.m., with passports in hand, I was already at the location. The office opened at 8 a.m.
By the entrance, about 80 people had already gathered. I tried to find the end of the line and asked who was last. They told me that somewhere in the crowd, there was a woman with a list, but it was pointless to try to get on it at this stage.
"What do you mean pointless?" I thought. At that moment, something stirred in me — perhaps my professional instincts, which, I must admit, often save me these days.
In front of the Urząd were several large, flat stones. I suppose they were meant to be seating or decorative elements; their exact purpose wasn’t clear.
I climbed onto one of them and called out loudly to the crowd:
- Good morning! Where is the woman with the line list? I’d like to sign up!
My facilitator identity and nostalgia for offline events were instantly satisfied — all 80 people were now looking at me. Among them, naturally, was one aggressively inclined participant.
He was the one with the list.
- There’s no room left on it! - he told me.
"Olya, stop showing off and get down from the rock," I told myself, stepping down modestly.
What now?
I don’t know what drove me, but I happened to have my laptop with me (learning to work from anywhere is an ongoing process), a pen, and a few sheets of paper.
Since they didn’t want to add me to the existing list, I decided to start my own.
I have no idea what came over me. Was it inspiration? Crisis thinking? Diagnose me, please.
Picture this: among exhausted, nervous people — mostly women worn out by fear, a long journey, and uncertainty, seeing everyone else as competitors — I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a pen and said:
- Let’s make a second list!
Immediately, about 50 people rushed toward me, all asking to be added first.
At one point, I feared they’d tear me apart along with my piece of paper and, as it turned out, my brilliant idea of starting a second list. Despite immediate dismissals like “This is pointless,” I personally liked my idea. In a situation with no logistics or rules, some semblance of order was better than nothing.
I deeply disliked the thought of storming the office doors, defending them with our bodies, and arguing with everyone who approached. From within the crowd, I could hear arguments and shouting. These people had already endured so much. They were fighting for their place in line, even shoving each other a couple of times.
One woman kept yelling that “lists are a load of crap” and that we should form a live queue. To this, I quietly replied, “The only crap in the world right now is the one we fled from to come here. And it’s clear we can’t organize a live queue.”
This made me profoundly sad, and I briefly considered going to a smaller town to get my PESEL, where I’d heard the lines were shorter. But then I thought, I don’t want to fight with anyone over a document that every Ukrainian will eventually get. I didn’t flee the war to end up quarrelling with my compatriots.
I recalled myself behind the wheel at the border, driving in the wrong lane at night, when my sense of decency and consciousness had momentarily disappeared. I just wanted to get ahead because spending another night in the car with my kids and mother seemed unbearable.
I remembered how ashamed I felt when the police officer asked me, “Do you think what you just did was right?”
I also remembered a recent post by a Ukrainian philosopher Andriy Baumeister, who reminded us that
when fighting a dragon, the most important thing is not to become a dragon yourself.
Otherwise, that’s not a victory — it’s the path to defeat.
I thought about how each action and word we choose today becomes part of a larger picture of the trial we’re all enduring together. Whether that picture will have more dark or bright colors depends on us.
These small life lessons, as per all the rules of adult learning, quickly found application in my life. I reminded myself that I wouldn’t lose my composure and that I wanted to help as much as I could. Even if it meant standing in line for several days.
What did it matter to me after spending six days in a line at the border?
Over the next five hours, I became “The Blonde with the List,” “The Line Organizer,” and “The Girl in Bright Sneakers” (thank you for “girl”). Somehow, I became the de facto responsible person ensuring order in this temporary group of desperate people.
I wrote down everyone's names who wanted to sign up. It turned out to be so important for people to simply be on some list, to feel that there was some semblance of control, that “someone was in charge,” and to believe their turn would eventually come.
People asked me about the conditions for getting a PESEL, the registration process, and how long it would take. I didn’t always have answers, but I responded confidently, using common sense and logic: yesterday, 40 people were processed; today, maybe more. Yesterday, the photo booth was broken; today, it’s working, and so on.
After two hours, I had 250 people on my list. How could I even think of going elsewhere for my PESEL at that point?
My family was under the number 123.
At 8 a.m., the office opened, and the first 40 people from the original list entered. Thankfully, people didn’t rush in chaotically but followed the list.
The Urząd workers announced that they wouldn’t process anyone else that day. The rest would have to come tomorrow.
People surrounded me, asking what to do next (as if I knew, honestly).
I had one answer: “I’ll be here tomorrow with the list at 5 a.m.”
— What if new people come tomorrow and make their own list?
— Then we’ll photocopy this one and tape it to the door, - I said, and we quickly implemented the idea.
After taping the list to the inside of the transparent doors — so “newcomers wouldn’t tear it down”— "my" line breathed a sigh of relief.
Many took my number to stay in touch.
The continuation of this strange event would unfold tomorrow.
These lists, I think, really are a bit absurd, but they bring at least some sense of control and order.
For me, it gave a sense that I was helpful to these people. That I wasn’t just here to receive help from the Poles but could also contribute something myself, right here and now.
Let’s see if it works tomorrow…
To be continued.
*PESEL is a unique 11-digit national identification number used in Poland to track citizens and residents for administrative, tax, and social security purposes.
March 22, 2022.