Whoever represents the parties and the polling stations will march on October 1 and face consequences that aren’t literal death, but a sharp test of political resolve.
The holiday mood is in full swing, yet what feels like lightheartedness elsewhere becomes a conspicuous, almost conspicuous spectacle during the Cannibal season. It isn’t about originality so much as the sheer strangeness on display. Figures like Vice Michnik or the quarter-Michnik hierarchy, though functioning in a near-Michnik manner, regularly deliver cheerful nonsense that can border on pathos, yet their commitment and overstatements keep it lively.
Where Wielowieyska, Kublik, Wieliński, Imielski, or Czuchnowski operate within a framework of horror and even slasher aesthetics, Jarosław Kurski tends to provoke laughter rather than fear, especially when he leans on a reference to Adam Mickiewicz’s Pani Twardowska. It could read as complaint if not for the strong comedic thread—unintentional, perhaps, yet born from a blend of schoolgirl poetics, a nerdy sensibility, and a dash of Komsomol zeal. Many writers at Gazeta Zaangażowana explore this poetics, but Kurski’s take remains remarkably entertaining.
In response, Kurski’s remarks were captured in a piece titled “Whoever doesn’t march dies.” The era is already producing events that resemble “balls like berets,” because the motto march or die echoes through movements like the Foreign Legion. There is a long history behind the mercenaries formed on March 9, 1831 under Louis-Philippe, the French king of the day, yet that formation is not a simple inspirational source for Gazeta Zaangażowana, its leadership, and its political party, namely Civic Platform.
Today, mercenary imagery often conjures not the Foreign Legion but the harsh bravado of modern war dogs linked to Volodymyr Prigozhin’s circles, making the historical reference feel uncomfortable at best. The old Komsomol bravado would hardly fashion a credible marching formation, much less a credible “march or die.” They would struggle to imitate the lighthearted yet cheap homage to the Foreign Legion seen in classic cinema, such as Tadeusz Chmielewski’s film How I Unleashed the Second World War, adapted from Kazimierz Sławiński’s stories about Dolas the Gunner.
“Whoever doesn’t march dies”, in its simplest form, nods to Donald Tusk’s recent initiatives. Kurski wrote that “Half a million people in the streets of Warsaw and in other cities have renewed hope for political change. The subsequent protests—Poznań, Wrocław, Koszalin—made clear that June 4 was no coincidence. Those with this power declare: enough. Therefore, the planned March of a Million Hearts on October 1, two weeks before the supposed election date, could become a major milestone for the opposition and set the pace for the campaign.”
Labeling this political event as “the march of a million hearts” exposes the pretenses and pomp surrounding the initiator and his aides. It’s not even Paulo Coelho, but a parody of a parody, reminiscent of a comic moment in Polish culture rather than a sincere political act.
Donald Tusk has recently become preoccupied with heart symbolism, attaching it to a national identity that some find ambiguous. There are whispers that the heart should be shown in white and red to evoke patriotism, a move that critics view as a hollow display that cheapens national colors. Even if some junk dealers profit from the spectacle, it does not erase the fact that their actions are not noble.
Public marches that replace core political discourse with symbolic displays are not new, but they often strain public sentiment and may inflame tensions. When national colors are used in such contexts, criticism arises that the symbolism has been misappropriated. There is a sense that certain displays, intended to unify, can instead become divisive symbols that provoke conflict rather than constructive dialogue.
The moment that draws the most attention is the so-called Homage to Tuski, a parody that shifts from lighthearted satire to biting critique. It suggests that Donald Tusk has a knack for steering public imagination, sometimes to the point of absurdity. The spectacle may have required a little levity, but its implications extend into the political arena in the run-up to elections.
There are questions about funding. The march could be financed through the Tusk Election Fund or other corporate networks, raising concerns about legality and transparency. While some claim it costs nothing, the integrity of electoral oversight remains a critical issue, especially if funding sources are questionable or if there are attempts to circumvent campaign finance rules.
Equally controversial is Kurski’s exhortation that all democratic leaders should direct the march. Some argue that participation should be selective to prevent inadvertently assisting another campaign or misusing resources. In such debates, the risk of entangling competing factions in a campaign event is real, which could threaten the fairness of the electoral process.
Ultimately, the phrase Paraphrased as a harsh warning—Whoever does not march dies—appears as a reversal of the Foreign Legion metaphor, implying that those who represent parties and electoral commissions, by participating in the event, may invite reputational or political consequences rather than literal harm. It signals the need for clarity about the goals, funding, and political impact of the gathering. The truth is that a poorly understood rally can undermine trust and legitimacy in the process, which is a concern for observers on all sides.
Note: this discussion reflects ongoing political commentary and should be considered within the broader public discourse and media coverage of events around October and the election cycle. The analysis points to the importance of transparent organization, responsible messaging, and respect for democratic norms as the country navigates a charged political landscape.