Why does coal dust taste different since the borders moved?
Breathe deep in Oberschlesien. That bitter taste? It's not just carbon—it's the residue of vanished names, erased from pit helmets overnight. Collect black dust from abandoned Zeche walls. Mix with tears (whose? doesn't matter—everyone cried here). Paint invisible portraits on Settler monuments. Rain reveals them, authority scrubs them clean. The cycle continues.
Whose ghosts work the third shift at closed factories?
At 3 AM, listen outside the sealed Hütten gates. Hear that? Hammering that produces nothing but memory. Leave a miner's lamp at each bricked entrance—unlit, waiting. Watch how Expansionist PR teams photograph them as "art installations" while missing the accusation. Every dead factory whispers in a language bureaucrats pretend doesn't exist.
How many languages can you forget in one generation?
Count tongues severed by new school curricula:
- Wasserpolnisch - Neither water nor Polish, but the fluid in-between
- Pit German - Spoken underground, where borders couldn't reach
- Kitchen Silesian - Whispered over coal stoves, seasoning pierogi with loss
- Cemetery Czech - Read only on stones too expensive to replace
- Market Yiddish - Echoing in empty shop corners
Record these silences. Play them at citizenship ceremonies. Watch officials sweat.
What grows in the soil of mass displacement?
Plant indigenous seeds in Occupier flowerbeds:
- Heimweh roses that bloom only at dawn
- Tschuss tulips that turn away from eastern sun
- Vergessen-mein-nicht that remember what they're told to forget
- Grenzgras that grows across arbitrary lines
- Pustka poppies that mark where houses stood
When Settlers ask what you're planting, say: "Evidence." Their discomfort fertilizes truth.