Tag Archives: social security

In Defence of The Fence

Every time a bird locks my new neighbour’s chimney as its poo-goo target, the house’s newfangled alarm system makes me rise to arms. And feet. Construction work in progress, the neighbour has not yet inhabited the building – the system boos and hoots for a few minutes and then gets silent by itself. Nothing to write home about.

Every time a larger fly – or was it a backlash of rain – would happen through any of my car’s windows open for some nightly freshness, the alarm would be set off. In order not to wake up the locals, I would have had to leave the vehicle’s alarm off. But in doing so I would have shown recklessness – no dog of violent breed watched my sleep.

Yes, no dogs. Dogs poo and bark. They’re worse than cats. Cats like my car. My car doesn’t like cats – mainly their urine. Neither does my car like my neighbour’s car. Cars like parking spots they hate to share. Hardly anyone likes mail carriers. Mail carriers don’t like dogs. They like mailboxes. We don’t like mailboxes. Mailboxes, filled up with unclaimed leaflets, are liked by thieves. We don’t like thieves. Cops don’t like thieves. Cops like undisturbed peace. Thieves don’t like dogs. Nobody likes noises. Nobody likes birds. They poo and portend rainy weather. Birds like everyone, and so do mosquitoes. We live fenced, alarmed and stiff–aired (car windows up tight). Whenever I see a fence felled, I know it is going to go up, renovated and possibly stronger.

I read once: “The higher your fence needs be – the further you’re away from fellow humans”. That’s absurd. Were you a recluse in an uninhabited area, would your walls climb highest?

Who are the ‘fellow humans’ anyway? An anonymous crowd of high-rise dwellers? Some dog-in-home-owning rabble? Miscreants who block your parking lot? Certainly not. (BTDT.) Did we notice lists of occupants at our entryphones go blanker, blessed be the Personal Data Protection Act? Of course we did. Some experts will stress the word “community” then. It is not enough, they will insist, to have a neighbour. You’ve got to know your neighbour.

Experts are wrong. Knowledge means nothing, you need to love your neighbour – and be requited. A neighbour who hates your birds, brats, cats, cars, dogs, gods or guts – will not watch over your property, mailbox included.

Taken in by “trust thy neighbour” slogans, I did not invest in proper fencing – and guess what. (The photo shows but the tip of the trashberg, yet I can’t reveal more – ‘more’ could feature my neighbours happy face, one probably protected by the Personal Data Protection Act, a thousand blessings.) I can muse whether those who shared the fruit of their bins with me were charitable passers-by unperturbed by my benevolent neighbours, or were there the neighbours who did the dumping and the bystanders who did the watching?

Anynow on, whenever wherever I own anything, I shall enrich it with fences. They shall stand with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, they shall stand on my beaches, they shall stand on my hunting grounds, they shall stand in the fields, and at the streets, they shall stand high as hills, they shall never surrender. Bold and in observance of the law. Which says: You do not need a building permission to erect an enclosure lower than 2.20m. [Good!] Enclosures +1.80m tall can be embelllished with broken glass, barbed wire and other proper deterrents. [Goooood!]

And then let’s put balconies behind bars.
And turn our tailpipes against someone’s beloved flowers.
And buy more mohair berettas.

And a dog.
[I know – a dog. Some sacrifice is required.]

My heart crater rejoices every time I see new ideas for residential dwellings – that include barriers, moats, surroundings, shields to mean “back off! back off! yes, you too!”. It’s comforting to know that even when the designer can’t think of enclosures, life eliminates that engineering flaw and erects many a lock, stop and barrier. It’s reassuring to hum: “old villas do it, new villas do it, even educated folks do it, let’s do it: the fencing-off”. And may our only worry be – what to choose:

– Classic standard fairness…

– Modernity in style…

– A touch of elegant luxury

Or something more aggressive?

And don’t let some Polish sources confuse you. Don’t let some foreigners pervert your mind with de-fenced visions. They don’t have fences but they do secure their homes (that are their castles) in other ways.

Always bear in mind the nobler patterns the West bestowed upon us. Remember the ancient wisdom. Renounce the native errors.

Oh, by the way, whenever you see an unlocked car in the West, think of its owner “He / she is so lazy.” — Or “He / she is naive (read: dumb)”. — Or “He / she earns 4-8 times more than I do, so can afford any loss of a car”. — Or “His / her nanny state pays for his / her car theft insurance.”

Or simply: “He / she could be my neighbour”.

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Why Polish people don’t smile – explanation 1


Many foreigners asked about their first impressions of life in Poland note the fact that people in the street don’t smile. I even read that American English teachers are warned before coming to this country, that “people don’t show emotions”.

Even though I was born in Poland, and therefore I am supposed to know this country inside-out, I could never actually get to the bottom of this.

That might be due to the fact I never had to deal with state institutions.

Until two weeks ago, that is. During that time I was given the chance to embrace on a new set of feelings: helplessness, confusion, humiliation and despair. Smiling in the street would be the very last thing on my mind. And most people have to deal with bureaucracy on a regular basis. This experience made me realise the whole system, the whole working of things is in a desperate need of a major reform.

I should also add, I cannot describe here all aspects of the matter, however reading this you should get the general idea.

This is the story:

My grandmother got very ill and was taken to a hospital. (As she was alone at her house at that time, and could barely talk in the moment when she called 112, it was a miracle the ambulance arrived on time). These things can happen suddenly, especially when you’re 85, and you have a list of diseases covering a whole page of fancy latin text.

It turned out, among many other things, that she won’t walk, and that the urinary tract won’t work properly, any more. You would think hospital would have adult nappies for their patients – but no. The procedure for obtaining nappies includes
1. Visit at her health centre to which she is registered, in the hours 7am – 3pm, and waiting 20 minutes at the registration desk
2. Going to a doctor, who needs to write a piece of paper, put his stamp on it (1 hour waiting time)
3. Taking the piece of paper to the state health insurer (NFZ) where they need to put their stamp proving that she indeed is insured (although as a pensioner she automatically is!)
4. Going to the pharmacy and buying the nappies for 30% of the price for the uninsured
5. Bringing them to the hospital

Completing this takes 2-3 days, and if you have any commitments connected with work, studying, family, relationships, or, let’s say fitness, you better forget about them. And this, of course is just one of the things you need to do.
You are also, for instance, required to pick the sick person’s shirt(s) everyday for washing, which you are expected to do at home. The fact that you have your own life to run as well, is of no importance, and no one will ever spare a silly thought that the hospital could actually deal with this.

Washing patients, or changing their nappies, is a delicate matter. But it is something that has to be done. Generally hospital staff will wait for patient’s family to perform these tasks. And only do it when having absolutely no other option. My grandmother, however, didn’t want my mum or any other family member to do it. She has always been a little reserved, courteous, and she’s just probably desperate to hold to the last piece of dignity by the skin of her teeth. Nurses would wash her only before the doctors examination in the morning. Which means patients could just lie out there in their own excrement without anyone to bother. And you can’t even complain, because (1) you’re expected to do it by yourself, and (2) complaining at the hospital is not the best thing to do.
Since, as it was recognised, grandmother’s state will not get any better, she decided she wanted to go to a care home, where she would have assistance at all times and medical help whenever needed. She asked us to arrange for that.

Getting a comprehensive and reliable information on the procedure for making such an arrangement has proven almost impossible. Each institution gave us contradicting and confusing advice. The doctor, who’s available at the hospital in the early hours only, sent us to the chief nurse. The chief nurse sent us to hospital’s social nurse. Who said hospital cannot help in this situation, as they participate in finding care homes only for those who are in a coma, have a cancer or have no family. It’s not like they cared or anything. And she sent us to the health centre where grandma was registered.

On the next morning, getting another day off work, my mum was told at grandma’s health centre that they don’t have the proper forms, but she will find them at a care home. At the care home, they said it wasn’t them, and that she should go to the social services.
One thing they told us. The price. It turns out regulations changed and a person is no longer admitted to a communal care home in exchange for their pension, like it used to be. Now there’s a fixed price of 2000 zł per month. Grandma’s pension is 800. She’s a homeowner and pays monthly bills of 400. Someone would have to take another full time job to cover for it, when you add medications and other stuff. A cheaper option is a private care home run by grumpy Catholic nuns. 1100 zł. Fair enough.

Another day passes, and I go to the social services (Miejski Ośrodek Pomocy Rodzinie – literally ‘communal institution for helping families’) which surprisingly happens to be placed in the city outskirts (how convenient for the poor!). Walking there I felt like going back in time to a communist relic. As there was no receptionist, or reception for that matter, I wondered where to turn with my inquiry as all departments listed on the wall had very similar names. Inside it quickly turned out it was not them who are to help me, but it is me who is supposed to know exactly what, where and how I was supposed to do. I met the officer who was extremely rude, gave me no information whatsoever, and referred me to the hospital’s social nurse “who will arrange everything for you”. I couldn’t believe this was actually happening and that my taxes go for this. Did they ever help a family here? It was obvious he had no interest in talking with me, so I left promising myself I’ll file a complaint or talk about this on city mayor’s next public meeting (which of course I didn’t).

A hint from a friend suggested that care home could be arranged by health centre’s social nurse. But not the health centre grndma used. The health centre in the catchment area of which she lived. It couldn’t surprise anyone that the social nurse there is available only from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.

Finally we obtained the forms. The forms however needed to be filled by her GP and few other people so it’s the merry-go-round again. Her GP however – you see – has no record of her hospital treatment. The doctor at the hospital refused to produce a paper for the GP. And by then I almost exploded.

The doctor at the hospital was certain we wouldn’t be able to find a place at a care home and was ready to release grandma home after a week and a half. In a terrible hurry we bought a special bed, set of medical blankets, etc. as it seemed we’d be taking care of her for at least some time.

However we managed to secure a place in a superb hospice nearby using an “unofficial” way (please let me keep the details to myself).

The hospital doctor didn’t expect that. With a very surprised face he asked “how did you do that” and hurried to do some additional tests, blood transfusions, and stuff, and kept her few days longer in the hospital. Which made everyone wonder: how come she was “ready” to be signed off home – and not ready to be signed off to a place where other doctors work… Was he signing her so that she died home and not ruin hospital statistics?

When you’re in bad health you might want to settle your earthy matters. Write a testament, transfer property ownership etc. In Poland to do that you need a notary public, called notariusz. I thought there will be no problem: you pay and they serve. Oh how was I wrong! I can’t find one, who would be ready to come to the hospice and perform their duties. Notariusz is a strictly licensed profession, numbers of new people getting access to this profession is very limited. Imagine: a guarantee of monopoly and massive income. Each property sale needs to be done before a notary public who receives somewhat 2% of the transaction. They have many clients, and don’t give a damn. Most of the ones I talked to weren’t even trying to be polite. That was yet another surprise for me. They are educated lawyers, they should be the leaders of a positive change. Yet their power corrupted them.

This whole story really made me think… Is there is absolutely no one who will help you in Poland when you really have a problem? How many people face things like that daily, and why doesn’t anything change? Is it because most of them are powerless and have no idea about their rights, like most of the social services clients? Or are they simply used to it?

Why do state institutions care only about having papers fine when another state institution comes to control; about appearing to be doing work, not about really doing it?

Is this only me thinking that it can’t be like that anymore? Is this only me thinking the state is for helping citizens, not for obstructing their daily business with endless paperwork, and “necessary” things, signatures, stamps… to obtain from a number of offices. Is this IMPOSSIBLE to keep the country running without the tsarist-like administration?

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