As Russian forces bludgeoned their way across the Ukrainian border, a rush of civilians pushed west into neighbouring Poland. They had very few possessions and no way of knowing how long their exile would last.
This is how the writer Arnold Zable found them. Newly minted refugees, but stamped from a centuries-old mould — displaced, dispossessed and discordant.
A veteran human rights activist, Zable did what he does: He offered them an ear and a hand, but not hope. Never hope.
