Fear The
Subject
The meeting was
set and ready to take place, all that I needed to do was observe the
events, follow them and film them. There were to be no mistakes this
time round, the plan was set in stone, all I needed to do was follow the
rules and make sure that nobody subjected me to any intense questioning.
I had been told that these people were not easy to get along with and I
may even suffer at the face of my work, but having found myself in all
too many awkward predicaments in the past, I was sure that nothing could
be too intense. I was wrong, dead wrong.
It was one week
ago that I met with the RM Bochnia group in a strange building near the
centre of town; it was one week ago that I endured several sessions of
prayer and it was one week ago I witnessed an intense lecture on the
negative aspects of Liberalism. I turned up to the meeting place a few
minutes early in an attempt to compose myself and have a smoke before
the transport arrived. I stood under the abandoned Hotel Florian just
outside Bochnia town centre and waited for a signal from Big Ron as to
where we were going to board the bus to Krakow. I got no call but I
caught sight of a group of old ladies with brollies boarding a blue bus
across the street, the bus was about the size of a builders van, with
enough space in the back to illegally seat around ten people. I
curiously lurked around one of the cracked exterior pillars outside the
hotel before spotting the John Goodman character helping the women
inside. I stubbed my fag out on the floor and warily walked over to the
bus, JG saw me and extended his hand. I had previously stabbed my right
palm earlier while washing a knife and the cut felt like it was gushing
under the ruined soggy plaster. I offered JG my left hand to shake and
he gripped my forearm warmly, nodding and smiling as he did so. He
helped me on board as if I were one of the elderly ladies, the back end
was already cramped full of festively plump women who looked up at me
harmlessly as I intruded their social space. I was asked to sit between
the two podgiest members of the group so that everybody could squeeze
in, it did not feel good.
Within moments the
bus was full of old women, and when I say full I mean that there would
not have even been enough room for one of Santa’s little helpers to
jam themselves into any corner should they have wanted to do so. There
were four rows of people in the back end of the bus, one of which
consisted of a sodden wood bench that was placed in the middle to aid
the unfortunate soles who had to sit on the laps of frightened looking
old ladies. As soon as the doors closed, the lights were turned off as
not to attract the police, the windows on the inside filled with
condensation and we began our journey to a large church in Krakow to
take part in an all night prayer session.
Almost every eye
in the back of that buss was focussed on me, I could not so much as move
my arm from my knee without somebody either twitching violently or
having a tutting fit. I considered my options, pondering as to whether
or not I should remove the video camera from my bag, it would make for
an excellent piece of footage. Just as I reached into my shoulder
satchel just as it started, one of the bulky women in the next row along
started chanting, at first it was difficult to make out what was going
on, it sounded like a mating call to God. When the rest of the busload
began joining her in synchronism I realised what was happening, the full
recitation of the Rosary was about to commence. I was able to pick out a
few words I understood while watching the hot air streaming down the
windows. My heart deflated as the chanting proceeded to drown my every
inner thought and suck every breath from my lungs like a sinister
sagging squadron of succubae. After ten minutes the initiator lady
stopped for air, she passed her thick wooden rosary to the next lady in
line who began reciting solo, her prayers where then joined in chorus by
the rest of the folk inside the bus. With sweat dripping from my brow
and blood curdling in my veins, I new that the Rosary was heading my
way, the only way I would be excepted into the clan and be able to film
was if I recited something Holy, but by doing so I would be interfering
in a clearly passionate ritual of the Catholic faith. The air was tight
and I had to pinch myself as a reminder to try and draw breath from the
clouded air, just before inhaling I was handed the thick wooden necklace
of Christ. I took hold of it sincerely and prayed out loud to be set
free from this bus, without thinking I subjected my conservative
audience to a reel of blasphemous gibberish at a feeble attempt to win
the right to film.
I stopped half way
through my truly genuine attempt to connect with the mercy of the
Heavens and realised that once again, every pair of eyes in the bus was
fixated on me, even the eyes of the bus driver. The bus slowly pulled
over to the side of the motorway and my entire body felt slippery,
slippery like a slug. One of the ladies opposite me turned her head and
recited a verse of the Rosary fluently in Spanish, Polish and then again
in English, I looked at her blankly, utterly gobsmacked. I deserved it
and everyone in the van knew it. The lady that initiated the praying
then snatched the rosary from my grasp and instructed the driver to
proceed, Big Ron looked at me in utter disgust, we still had another
forty minutes to go to get to Krakow.
The rest of the
journey proved to be of little ease, during the remaining three quarters
of an hour I was forced to learn three verses of the rosary in Polish,
from start to finish and then recite them to the rest of the group, the
fact that I was involved in the journey meant that it was one hundred
percent necessary for me to take part in prayer as to not curse the
processions due to follow.
Although my
situation may sound a placid and self-righteous reflection, I have never
felt so condemned or outcast as I did on that journey. The situation I
placed myself in was way out of my depth and although I am continuing
with the documentary project, the decision has been made to eliminate
all Catholic practice and worship from the filming stages. A definite
separation needs to be made between the Religion that the Radio Maryja
Family practice and the sweeping web of rumours, stories and charges
that the seemingly majority of Polish people circulate. However, I plan
to learn from my mistakes regarding the project so far and continue down
a different path of documentation. The Radio Maryja Family are indeed a
worldwide organisation and they are dedicated to following their faith
as a Catholic organisation. So why is it then that the Polish section
have such a fierce reputation?...
Copyright
Daniel Emmerson 2007-2008 All Rights Reserved