PAULA HANASZ.Fot.K.Kozek.

"The Pope was Polish, wasn't he?" asks a friend in an email the day of his funeral. How do I begin to explain...

The day is lovely; one of the first of a gorgeous, warm, sunny spring after a prolonged winter. Sunday, April 3, 2005. Warsaw, Poland. All the streets are blocked, partly officially with barricades, partly through sheer number of pedestrians – mourners. Perhaps I had subconsciously expected emptiness; silence; eerie stillness. But no. There is life everywhere.

The mood isn't an entirely somber one; more peaceful, contemplative, than anything else. Spontaneous, continuous masses are being held in all the churches. Red and white Polish flags, and yellow and white papal ones flap now on every building, from almost every window, on the front of every bus and back of every taxi; each topped with two black ribbons.

An extraordinary sight – even not considering the sheer logistics of promptly acquiring a huge stockpile of such flags and ribbons. Where did they all come from?!

All the pubs, clubs, cafes and cinemas are closed. All the TV channels have rendered their once colourful logos to black ones; black banners slide across the bottom of their screens, giving latest updates; entertainment channels have ceased transmission, broadcasting only a black screen with a few white words to the effect of condolence and respect for the Pope's death.

Even the 24 hour infomercial channel has stopped, and when MTV Polska resumes transmission a few days later, it is only with mournful, sad, lingering sop.

At 10pm on Saturday night, as the death is announced, churchbells ring the country over, and air raid sirens wail in Warsaw, long and disconcertingly. On Sunday on every corner stands a pallid, pasty faced person (ok, so they're all pallid and pasty faced in Poland, but this time the effect is poignant rather than amusing) handing out special free commemorative editions of all the newspapers (which, throughout the week of national mourning had also changed their logos to black).

It seems these disappear faster than it would have been humanly possibly for anyone (especially that pasty and pallid) to distribute them with their own (pasty and pallid) hands. But it is a day electric with the hope and promise of miracle. All the adults walk around with their (pallid and pasty) noses in these papers; all their children with their noses in fairy floss (fairy floss and ice cream vendors must have made a killing second only to the sellers of flags, black ribbons, and candles).

It’s like suddenly every single citizen in the country has lost a parent. As for me, well, it was like the Pope is the father that was never around when I was a kid and now that I’m in contact with him again in adulthood I KNOW he's my father and I KNOW how I SHOULD feel towards him, but…

I had arranged to meet with an Australian friend and bitch about there being nowhere to get drunk. But he was running late (hungover) but I didn't mind. It was pleasant to stroll through the throng, and I amused myself by composing what I would say to a CNN camera crew if stopped and asked for commentary:

"Me? Oh, see, having been born into but quickly removed from this cult of John Paul II, I never really understood it. I mean, I understood intellectually – all that he symbolised for Poland, all that he did for the country – but I could never truly comprehend, sympathise. But to be here now, I’m suddenly beginning to very quickly learn; the emotion is infectious, and it's a phenomenally humbling and touching experience; I feel so privileged to be able to share in and be part of this momentous occasion, this incredible – in the sense that it's almost literally unbelievable – outpouring of national grief, this awesome, moving, bonding throughout the country.

I could not envisage such a spontaneous rising in Australia. The only parallel I can draw is the death of cricketing legend Don Bradman; and the only thing that even comes close to stopping the nation is the Melbourne Cup, a bloody horse race!! But what would I know..."

Overnight, it seems, billboards are plastered with huge posters of the late Pope’s face and His words of reassurance. Bus shelters everywhere are adorned with the same. Private individuals and many businesses, small or large, have been sticking taping pictures of ‘our Pope’ in their windows with a black band or candles.

In the old town a large screen is erected projecting non stop archival footage of Karol Wojtyla; people stroll by, sit down beneath the statue of King Sigismund and watch. Their faces pensive, tired. Even the iconic Palace of Culture, a loathsome Soviet structure bearing an uncanny resemblance to a huge, dirty, ostentatious wedding cake, has had its eastern side draped with a 6 storey banner of the pontiff’s visage, and its northern side with the yellow and white papal flag.

The irony and symbolism does not escape many; the emblem of communist repression, including suppression of religious rights, now displaying the image of not just the Holy Father, but also the man many claim gave the Solidarity movement the inspiration and impetus to ultimately topple the communist regime.

There is an open air mass on Tuesday. Hundreds of thousands assemble at the large square surrounding the tomb of the unknown soldier (it’s named after a great Polish military hero, but there’s already talk of renaming is JPII Square). They stream through the town for hours beforehand, converging on the centre.

The ‘harcerze’, Polish Scouts with a distinctly military/nationalistic character walk around distributing water and first aid. Shuttle buses have been arranged for elderly and less mobile people to get to the site. I arrive early but can only get a spot on the outer edges of the congregation. All I can hear is the tsk-tsk-tsks of those around me, complaining (in that very Polish way completely lacking any self-irony) that everyone is just talking and not listening – and at mass too!

How rude! All I can see is the pimply necks in front of me, but the whole experience is nonetheless extremely uplifting and profound.

Sirens wail and churchbells ring every day at midday. Emails are circulated with a GIF image of a little flickering candle; something about hope and love and togetherness. I don’t know. Things like that always elude me.

On Wednesday sms-es go around; all of Warsaw is to be turning off its lights at 21:37 that night. The sincere is beginning to slide into the silly.

The following night everyone goes out to John Paul II Drive, one of the city’s main arteries, to light candles along its curb at 21:37. I try not to think about who the hell is going to clean all that up afterwards, and hasn’t this country heard of fire restrictions?

Friday is quiet. Deathly quiet. Perhaps appropriate for a funeral, but not when I realise I have no food in the house and all the shops are closed.

Everyone is in church or in front of the other alter, the television, watching the live coverage from Vatican City. I take a bus trip through town, and it’s the quietest, quickest – eeriest – bus trip I have ever taken.

The most surprising thing for me has been the outpouring of grief and emotion from young people, the type I would least suspect of harbouring any religious sentiment. But suddenly trendy young things in mini skirts are crying in churches, aspiring hip hop artists are hitchhiking to Rome, and virile young men are refusing hanky panky on the grounds that it seems inappropriate (or so I’ve heard, ahem).

There’s a specific breed of Polish yobbo (genus: Hooliganus Polonius; characteristic behaviour: spitting on sidewalks and vacating tram seats for pensioners) and even they seem to have started drinking in public spaces to the memory of the deceased pope rather than the obliteration of their own.

Poles are hard, bitter, cynical, but with the hugest capacity for outpourings of emotion, grand gestures and symbolism. They're also highly melodramatic, hypocritical and bombastic. Suddenly they’re crossing themselves whenever they pass a church, and slowing down at pedestrian crossings (except, of course, at pedestrian crossing outside churches, because in Poland it’s impossible to do even one thing efficiently, let alone two at once).

But it won’t last long. Soccer matches begun with a minute’s silence in respect for John Paul II already end in riots. And even my ultra Catholic grandfather is skeptical:

“Sure it’s costly to buy and light candles; or flowers to place by the church, but ultimately it’s so much cheaper than altering your lifestyle in accordance with the pope’s preachings”.