In this region of lakes and forests in northern Poland, life goes on uneventfully. An idyll of peace and serenity. A fairy tale. Or, depending on how you look at it, a horror story.
“No. Not at all. No, no,” laughs Krystyna Kotwica, a resident of a village of wooden houses near Belarus, when asked if she feels afraid. “Here I feel like the safest person in the world.”
The sound and fury of today seem remote on these deserted roads between giant conifers and these canals where tourists kayak. The impression is deceptive. For several days now, this strip on Poland's border with Belarus and Ukraine has been the scene of the most intense moment between NATO and Russia since Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022.
In less than a week, NATO has denounced the incursion of some twenty Russian drones into Polish skies and shot down some. It will also strengthen the defense of the eastern front. Russia and its ally, Belarus, have launched military exercises across the border. Poland has responded by closing the Polish-Belarusian border and has announced the deployment of 40,000 troops in the area.
Today, this is a hypermilitarized zone, the 21st-century equivalent of what the Danzig Corridor and the Fulda Corridor were during the Cold War in the 1930s. A hotspot on the continent. NATO's last war front. The place where, if a war with Russia broke out, the spark could fly.
And it would be a curious place to start a war, a mix of beautiful natural landscapes and intimidating military infrastructure. The Augustów Forest. The metal fence—a veritable wall built to prevent the entry of immigrants—that divides the forest between the Polish and Belarusian parts. To the north, the city of Suwałki, which gives its name to the Suwałki Corridor, the strip around the border between Poland and Lithuania that Vladimir Putin might want to use to connect the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad with Belarus. Barbed wire, no-entry signs, a radar on top of a hill surrounded by pastures.
If Putin, by launching his drones toward Poland, wanted to test that country, NATO, and US President Donald Trump, he also tested the reaction of ordinary Poles, especially those living near the border.
Some people downplay the issue: drones aren't that big a deal... Outside a movie theater in a Suwałki shopping center on Friday night, three friends were debating the origin of these devices. Iwona and Krystian expressed doubts about their Russian origin and echoed the theory that Ukraine had sent them to force Poland and NATO to become more involved in the war. The third, Michał, pointed out the danger of disinformation campaigns. The three were settling in to watch a horror movie.
A common complaint in these towns and cities: that headlines about war or expressions like the Suwałki Corridor scare away tourists. Locally, for some, this problem is more serious than a possible Russian invasion. Yes, those interviewed agree, we must prepare for any possibility. But no, no one believes we are on the eve of World War III, or a direct clash with Russia. Not yet.
On the highway connecting the capital, Warsaw, with the city of Augustów, and further north with the Lithuanian city of Kaunas, illuminated signs announced that the border with Belarus had been closed. Public radio broadcast a speech by Prime Minister Donald Tusk, who was visiting a munitions factory that day, and reported on Russian and Belarusian military exercises. The conservative Catholic station Radio Maria criticized the EU for forestry regulations.
After Augustów, heading towards Belarus, along increasingly lonely roads and through increasingly dense forests, you reach Płaska, the district seat. The mayor, Michał Piotr Skubis, is waiting at the town hall.
“I try to stay calm,” says Skubis, 32. He says there's no reason to panic: tanks don't circulate through his villages, nor are there thousands of migrants from Belarus (the fence has been preventing them from passing for years). For him, in his daily work, there's a bigger problem than the Russian threat: the damage that the war (and also the migration crisis) have caused to the district's image.
“Many people here make their living from tourism,” he says. “In ten years, it's fallen by between 20 and 40%. It's a hard blow.”
“Of course, the threat of a full-scale invasion exists,” the mayor continues, “but it's minimal, because today an attack on Poland would mean nothing less than the activation of NATO's Article 5: an attack on Poland would be considered an attack on everyone. I don't think that's possible in the coming years.”
When asked if he has plans to evacuate the population in the event of a Russian attack, he replies:"I'm not authorized to say exactly what they are, but I will tell you that we're constantly working on it. In fact, just before you arrived, we were talking about it. We're thinking about it."
The discussion about the scope of the threat is even more intense in the capitals. And it is crucial when it comes to financing rearmament policies. No NATO country, in proportion to its economy, spends as much as Poland: it is already approaching 5% of GDP on military spending (Spain has just surpassed 2%). The new National Strategic Review, a key document of the French government, states:"Over the coming years, and between now and 2030, the main threat to France and Europeans is the risk of open war against the heart of Europe."
A dirt road alongside the canal connecting to Belarus leads to a 19th-century lock. Alicja and Sławomir, a married couple, manage it. Alicja recalls a strange incident that occurred near the canal and the lock some time ago. She saw a man taking photographs, approached him, asked to see his camera, and saw that he had taken pictures of the lock, Płaska Town Hall, and a border police building. She noticed he spoke with a Russian accent. A spy? In the event of war, the lock and the canal could be strategic targets.
Fear of war? “Yes, it could happen,” Alicja replies, and Sławomir adds half-jokingly: “Anyway, if something happens, we’ll pack our bags and go to Spain.”
Older people, both say, fear war more than younger people. The wounds of Russian imperialism run deep in this part of Europe. Following the forest paths toward the border fence with Belarus, a wooden cross rises with a plaque: “Here lie two Poles who died at the hands of the Bolsheviks. September 1939.”
So close to the border, the phones pick up the signal from Belarus. A straight path leads to the fence, incongruous amidst the breathtaking landscape. A camera watches the visitors.
“With the army and the border guards,” Kotwica celebrates, “there are so many agents that it's as if we have one for every inhabitant.” When she heard the news of the drone incursion, she was initially worried, but quickly realized that “it wasn't war.” “You can't spend all your time scared,” she says. “You have to think clearly.”
