Uspokojenie kolibra, tak aby przestał trzepotać skrzydłami (robi to około 80 razy na sekundę), i zmuszenie go do lądowania na twojej dłoni to jak posiadanie supermocy.
What unfolded in Iran during the Second World War is one of the least remembered humanitarian chapters of the conflict, often referred to simply as the Polish experience in Iran.
Between 1942 and 1944, over 100,000 Polish civilians and soldiers arrived in Iran after surviving Soviet deportations, forced labor camps, starvation, and mass death. They came from Siberia, Kazakhstan, and the Arctic north, many barefoot, skeletal, carrying children who had already seen more graves than classrooms. For most, Iran was the first place where death loosened its grip.
Iran itself was under enormous strain. Occupied by Allied forces and facing food shortages and political pressure, it nevertheless opened its ports, cities, and villages to the Poles. Under the Shah’s government, refugees were not treated as enemies, burdens, or pawns, but as human beings who had endured catastrophe.
Polish civilians were housed in camps at Bandar Anzali, Tehran, Ahvaz, and Isfahan. Isfahan, in particular, became known as the city of Polish children. Thousands of orphaned Polish boys and girls were fed, clothed, educated, and medically treated. Iranian doctors, nurses, shopkeepers, and families routinely provided help beyond what was required, often sharing scarce food with strangers who spoke another language but carried unmistakable suffering in their faces.
This was not charity as spectacle. There was no propaganda campaign, no demand for gratitude, and no effort to reshape Polish identity. The refugees were allowed to retain their culture, religion, language, and dignity. Polish schools, churches, newspapers, and theaters operated openly. Graves of Polish dead were respected and maintained. To many Poles, Iran felt less like exile and more like a temporary moral homeland, a place where they were seen again as people, not numbers.
The contrast with what had preceded Iran could not have been starker. These Poles had survived systematic Soviet dehumanization, not rescue. Iran represented a pause in history where cruelty was not the default response. That pause mattered. Thousands who would have otherwise died recovered enough to continue on to India, Africa, the Middle East, or to join Polish military units fighting alongside the Allies.
Importantly, Iran asked for nothing in return.
There were no demands of political loyalty, no attempts to weaponize memory, and no retroactive moral claims. What Iran offered was hospitality under conditions where hospitality was costly, a rare moral act in a war defined by indifference.
Today, this episode unsettles simplified narratives. It reminds us that the Second World War was not only a story of perpetrators and victims but also of choices made under pressure. Iran’s choice to receive, shelter, and respect a broken people stands as a quiet rebuke to the idea that cruelty is inevitable in times of crisis.
For Poles, the memory endures not as myth but as gratitude. For Iranians, it remains an understated chapter of national decency. For history, it is proof that even amid total war, humanity was still possible and sometimes practiced without applause.