Tim Smith
In the aftermath of the Second World War over 160,000 Polish people displaced by the conflict made the difficult decision not to return to Poland and to live in Britain. Many of them were Sybiraks, former residents of the Kresy (Poland’s Eastern Borderlands) who were imprisoned or deported to forced labour camps in the Soviet Union during 1940 and 1941.
At the end of the Second World War Europe was awash with displaced people. Over a million were Poles, including members of Anders’ Army in northern Italy. Beyond Europe many Sybiraks had spent the War in the Middle East as well as civilians who, having been evacuated from conflict zones, were scattered throughout the British Empire.
Poles who had escaped the Soviet Union and survived the War found themselves unable to return to their homelands. Poland was unrepresented at the conferences of Teheran and Yalta, where the Americans and British bowed to Stalin’s demands. Post-war agreements meant virtually all the Kresy had been absorbed by the Soviet Union, whilst Poland itself was ruled over by a Communist regime controlled by Moscow.
Almost all displaced Poles decided that a return to life under the rule of Stalin was both unacceptable and dangerous. They justifiably feared that they would be treated as enemies of the Communist regime should they return. Just 105,000 went back to Poland. Although the decision was a difficult and painful one, particularly for those whose families were still in Poland, the rest settled in the West.
They went mainly to the USA and Canada, but many made Britain their home, despite the initial efforts of the British Government to persuade them to go back to Poland. They included Sybiraks who were shipped to Britain in a massive naval operation spanning three years. Initially this brought military personnel (mainly men) from Italy and the Middle East, and then civilians and Army dependents (mainly women and children) from East Africa, India, Mexico, New Zealand and the Middle East. Their lives in exile had begun.
They arrived in a country badly in need of reconstruction with an acute labour shortage. The British Government then recognised that Poles, alongside other European refugees, could represent a vital labour force.
The Polish Resettlement Corps (PRC) was created in 1946 to provide accommodation, to teach English and to retrain people. After their enrolment new arrivals were sent to one of over 150 sites owned by the PRC. These were recently vacated army, air force or Prisoner of War camps, austere and often in isolated locations. Accommodation was usually in rows of mass produced units called Nissen Huts. These long buildings with rounded corrugated roofs were ironically known as beczki śmiechu (barrels of laughter) by their new residents. Facilities such as bathrooms, laundries, kitchen and dining areas were communal, alongside a building converted into a Catholic church.
After two years of ordered camp life among fellow nationals people were expected to move into the civilian world, although many stayed for far longer. Conditions were spartan but life felt more safe and familiar here than outside. Once discharged people were limited to working in agriculture, coal mining, textiles, hospitality, construction, and the steel industry. To add to the problems of a new language and culture, most people – especially those from rural backgrounds – found themselves in jobs completely alien to them. Leaflets called ‘To help you settle in England’ were produced by the Ministry of Labour, and included advice on queuing, using the word ‘Sorry,’ and dissuaded men from kissing a lady’s hand. However most Poles relied on each other’s support to see them through the first difficult years of their new lives in exile.
In the 1951 UK Census 162,239 people listed Poland as their birthplace, up from 44,642 in 1931. It’s estimated that 99,000 of them were Sybiraks. These recent arrivals comprised the largest group of political exiles ever to settle in Britain. If work was available many of them settled in areas surrounding the PRC camps where they first lived. Large numbers also moved to industrial towns and cities where work may not have been well paid or desirable but it was plentiful.
Although the British authorities were keen to see the Poles integrate fully into the British way of life, the community saw their Polishness as something to be preserved. This was felt to be important on a personal level, as well as providing an authentic voice and culture for a Poland ruled by Soviet-backed governments. To support these aims a national network of clubs and organisations was set up. Some were popular with the older generation, such as the Polish Ex-Combatants’ Association (SPK). Others were aimed at the younger generations, such as the Polish Scouts. The Saturday school movement was also a vital way of instilling in children Polish history, language and traditions and a sense of pride in their roots.
The textiles mills of northern England were one of the largest employers of European workers, in places such as Leeds, Manchester, Halifax, Huddersfield and Bradford. Whilst the political and cultural elites tended to gather in and around London, where the Polish Government-in-Exile still operated, these northern industrial powerhouses provided a home to, and work for, the majority of those who had arrived via Siberia and the Middle East.
One of the biggest Polish communities established itself in Bradford in West Yorkshire, coming to work in what was once the global capital of wool textiles. Most settled in the inner city where housing was cheap and close to their jobs. I arrived here in 1986, as a young photographer interested in documenting the lives of those who had come from all over the world to work in textiles. I soon found myself on Edmund Street near the city centre. Just 160 metres long it housed the Polish Parish Church, the Parish Community Centre, a Polish Club, a Polish Saturday School and a residential unit for elderly Poles. Nearby was the SPK and another Saturday School.
My first visit here was to photograph a Corpus Christi celebration, visiting shrines built around the church and along the street. It was interesting to me as a photographer but I found the focus on a procession led by lots of men in uniforms carrying standards somewhat militaristic. “Not my cup of tea”, I thought. After all, the War had finished over forty years ago. Why were they so obsessed with it?
It was only later that I came to realise that my knowledge of the history of this community was that of a typical English person. Despite their ongoing presence as one of the largest minority groups in post-war Britain little was known outside of their closely knit communities about how and why they had come here. A wealth of publications had been produced by the community but virtually all were in Polish. I knew that the Second World War started when Hitler invaded Poland, but not of the Soviet invasion that followed. The legendary Polish pilots who had played such a heroic role in the Battle of Britain were part of British folk lore, but I’d never heard of Anders’ Army. I’d certainly never heard the word Sybirak.
It was only after I had returned from a visit to Ukraine during the run up to its independence from the Soviet Union that I really understood why the Second World War remained so important to the Poles in Bradford. When in Lviv I learnt that it was once Lwow; that in 1939 it was a city similar in size to modern day Bradford; and that although all its residents were citizens of Poland roughly a third identified themselves as Polish, a third Jewish and a third Ukrainian. Signs of its Polish heritage were common, from old signs saying “Piwo” (beer) outside long established bars to the huge Adam Mickiewicz Monument in the old town. Again my grasp of history proved very partial. I knew what had happened to the Jewish population during the War, but not the Catholic Polish one. When I asked local Ukrainians where the Poles had gone they said they didn’t know. I resolved to find out on my return home.
Much to my surprise they were the very people who were my Bradford neighbours, and whom I’d encountered all over northern England. The more I found out the more I wanted to know. With little available to read (and in a time before the internet) I worked with colleagues at Bradford Museums, using photography and oral history to record the stories of the old émigré community.
I began to understand that the War changed absolutely everything for them, and how and why it was so important to them to maintain their Polish identity and culture through the networks of churches, clubs and Saturday schools they had created. To step inside this “Little Poland” was a step back in time, but I learnt to appreciate how a huge sense of nostalgia for a lost homeland encouraged the creation of a world steeped in the language and values of a pre-War, truly independent Poland. As one of our second generation interviewees told us: “Coming here was seen like a safe place, but it wasn’t really home, and it never would be home as such. Their home is in their heart, and their heart carries with them the past and what happened before”.
All this is different now. Only a handful of the first generation British Polonia remain alive, and younger generations have successfully integrated into British life. Some do maintain loyalties to their Polish culture, and there are many ways in which people can consider themselves Polish. They have also been joined by large numbers of Poles who arrived once Poland had joined the EU. Nowadays it is the attractions of modern European states – be they Britain or Poland – that are more relevant to their lives than the traditional concerns of organised community life in Britain.
Tim Smith is a freelance photojournalist, film-maker and community historian based in Yorkshire who produces exhibition, publishing and mixed media projects. These include collaborations with theatre companies, writers, artists and filmmakers. Having lived in Bradford for nearly forty years the city and its cosmopolitan communities have provided the inspiration for much of his work, and acted as a springboard for many national and international projects. During the 1980s he was Co-ordinator of the Bradford Heritage Recording Unit, part of Bradford Museums. Exploring the history of Bradford people the Unit established a collection of over 300,000 photographs and created northern England’s most significant oral history archive. Throughout the 1990s he worked as a photo-journalist primarily for The Observer. Since 2001 he has concentrated on long-term projects, showcased in twelve books as well as dozens of exhibitions toured nationally and internationally. Many explore the links between Britain and people in other parts of the world, such as Ukraine, Poland, Yemen, east Africa, the Asian sub-continent and the Caribbean. In 2001 his book Keeping the Faith – The Polish Community in Britain won the Arts Council of England’s Community Publishing Prize. During 2025 he co-produced the exhibition Tu i Tam with Marta Szymańska of Łódź Fotofestiwal. Commissioned by Bradford 2025 UK City of Culture and supported by the British Council the Tu i Tam exhibition was shown in both Bradford and Łódź.