MEDYKA BORDER CROSSING, Poland — Legally, the two ambulances should be allowed to cross into Ukraine unhindered, but the Polish farmers standing sentry on the border take the law into their own hands and motion for the drivers to stop.
They open the doors and peer inside, scanning for contraband, suspecting the vehicles are carrying unregistered cargo. They find nothing and wave the ambulances through.
The farmers have taken it upon themselves to check all commercial traffic on the four-lane border crossing at Medyka. There are a dozen of them, clad in fluorescent vests and carrying Polish flags, braving a biting wind that brings sleet, then snow.
It may seem like a lonely picket on a bleak winter’s day, but these border protests have helped generate an important political dynamic in a country that was once seen as Ukraine’s most resolute ally against the common enemy: Russia. After three years of war, the public mood is souring over economic sacrifices made for Kyiv, and sympathy for the farmers is playing a significant role in that shift.
At the most fundamental level, the farmers are pushing back against a European Union system of “solidarity lanes” that allowed agricultural heavyweight Ukraine to pour its massive exports of grain and other foodstuffs over the land border into the EU because they could no longer be shipped out via the Black Sea.
The economic argument that Poland’s support for Kyiv carries too high a price — that Ukraine’s goods don’t meet EU standards and that Polish produce is being undercut — has resonated. At a peak last year, a survey by the Public Opinion Research Center, a leading pollster, found that 81 percent of Poles supported the farmers’ protests.
But the grievances in Poland cut deeper, and the farmers’ protests are feeding into broader national debates about history and identity looking back to World War II and earlier — topics that loom large in the run-up to the presidential election on May 18.
“The story we were sold was that we had to help Ukraine, that we had to take their food so they’d have money for the war … that was a lie,” complains Jan Wardęga, a farmer from nearby Żurawica, gripping a fishing pole repurposed as a flagstaff. “This fight isn’t for the poor Ukrainians — it’s for big corporations and Western capital.”
From front line to farmland
Around Medyka and beyond, Polish farmers have blocked border crossings and organized noisy rallies over the past two years. They describe their struggle as a fight to defend not just their own livelihoods but Poland’s sovereignty and its national interests.
“This isn’t just the Polish border. It’s the Schengen border. It’s up to us to defend it,” says Wardęga, his yellow vest stretched over puffer jackets that engulf his slight frame.
Yet the complexity of farmers’ struggles has been reduced in media and political narratives to the simplistic notion that Ukraine is to blame for everything. In reality, the increased flow of goods across the border has exposed long-existing cracks in Polish agriculture.
After joining the EU in 2004, Poland’s farmers faced pressure to modernize and compete on international markets. But while sectors like poultry, dairy and fruit became regional powerhouses, many farms remain small, family-run plots vulnerable to price swings and external competition.
That disparity intensifies perceptions of inequality. Polish farmers see themselves as bound by strict EU regulations on pesticides, environmental protections and labor standards — hoops they have jumped through to produce zdrowa żywność, or healthy food. Ukrainian imports, they say, aren’t.
“We’re not against the Ukrainian people. We helped them at the start, housed them, fed them. But we can’t be victims of oligarchs who profit off the chaos,” says Roman Kondrów, a stocky man with a Colonel Sanders-like beard who leads the Medyka protest.
The tension in Poland isn’t about whether to support Ukraine in its fight against Russia — next to no one in Poland wants Vladimir Putin’s troops to triumph. But the farmers’ rhetoric, cloaked in seemingly pragmatic economic complaints, has normalized a view of Ukraine as too corrupt, too backward and too wild to be trusted.
Old wounds reopened
Historical fault lines have also resurfaced, amplified by right-wing groups and fueling a powerful narrative of imbalance.
During World War II, Ukrainian nationalists killed tens of thousands of Polish civilians in Volhynia in what is now western Ukraine — atrocities widely known in Poland as the Wołyń massacres. Earlier still, in 1918, Polish youths known as the Orlęta Lwowskie (Lwów Eaglets) fought bitter battles over the city of Lviv, now part of Ukraine. Even though the conflicts took place generations ago, they remain potent symbols of sacrifice and suffering in Polish historical memory.
“Our children died for Lwów (Lviv), for Wołyń, and now they come here and just want to take, take, take,” one farmer says. He declines to give his name but insists that Poles have already paid too steep a price.
Such raw sentiments have helped shape the presidential election campaign. Politicians of all colors have seized on Volhynia, using the tragedy to question Ukraine’s moral standing or to demand concessions from Kyiv. Amid the rancor, however, there has been one small breakthrough: Ukrainian authorities recently agreed to begin exhumations at three sites — a step many Poles see as crucial for acknowledging wartime atrocities.
Meanwhile, voter dissatisfaction with Donald Tusk’s brief tenure as prime minister is growing. With only a fraction of his centrist coalition’s 100 electoral promises fulfilled — stymied by legislative roadblocks left by its Law and Justice (PiS) party predecessors and infighting among allies — the Polish leader is under mounting pressure.
His ally, Warsaw Mayor Rafał Trzaskowski, is running for the presidency — and if he wins in May, they could finally navigate a way out of the political minefield left by PiS. But the two face the challenge of supporting Ukraine without alienating voters, walking a thin line that risks satisfying no one.
Warsaw’s interests lie in a strong, independent Ukraine — a strategic buffer against Russian aggression and a potential partner within the EU and NATO. Yet with Donald Trump now in the White House, diminished United States support for Kyiv could put even more pressure on Tusk and Trzaskowski to shore up domestic unity while ensuring Ukraine’s security.
Against this backdrop, the unresolved dispute over Volhynia poses a test of trust between the two neighbors. Bartłomiej Gajos, a historian at the Mieroszewski Centre for Dialogue, a research institute monitoring Polish-Ukrainian relations, warns that delays in addressing these historical wounds risk fracturing the fragile solidarity.
For Poles, Volhynia is a deeply symbolic issue, Gajos told POLITICO: “It ties historical justice to a broader sense of moral obligation. Resolving it would signal mutual respect — ignoring it does the opposite.”
Toward a new reality
It would be too easy, however, to say Polish society is “turning against” Ukraine. The overwhelming support Poles displayed at the outset of the war was never guaranteed to remain sky-high. Over time, war fatigue has set in, inflation soared and the initial surge of solidarity has ebbed.
Today, sentiment is more nuanced. A report from the Mieroszewski Centre, published in January, found that only one in four Poles has a positive opinion of Ukrainians, while nearly a third hold a negative view.
Most Poles continue to support Ukraine’s sovereignty and its struggle against Russia. But they increasingly weigh this support against economic costs and practical concerns.
Farmers, through their protests and vocal demands, have become a visible driver of this shift, though Gajos believes they aren’t alone.
“What we experienced right after the war was an anomaly — calling each other brothers and sisters and so on,” he says. “That was a moment of genuine emotion, but in the long run, it’s not sustainable.”
Even so, the strain is undeniable. What began as a trade dispute is now entwined with broader and historical issues, all magnified by the spread of rumors and misinformation that risk deepening the divide between Poland and Ukraine.
Russia has actively sought to exploit these tensions, launching propaganda campaigns aimed at Polish and European farmers. Yet there is little evidence to suggest these efforts have gained substantial traction. More often, the narratives seem to originate organically.
Coordinating their actions through messaging apps and Facebook groups, Polish farmers share stories of murky dealings at the border. Rumors of contraband shipments, dubious humanitarian aid and lax inspections are common. Amid this information fog, it becomes easier for misinformation — some possibly amplified by Moscow’s channels — to take hold.
Farmers like Kondrów and Wardęga rattle off stories of shady enterprises and disguised shipments.
“I’ve seen trucks supposedly carrying ‘humanitarian aid’ — tulip bulbs bound for Ukraine! What war needs tulips?” Kondrów scoffs.
The contrast fuels a perception of inequity even as Poland makes huge economic and political gains from closer ties. Ukrainian labor has helped fill gaps in construction, retail and services, boosting Poland’s gross domestic product and easing workforce shortages. At the same time, Polish exports to Ukraine — from machinery to processed foods — are at record highs.
Trust at a crossroads
The standoff in Medyka at the end of last year pales in comparison to earlier protests, when farmers, joined by truckers, blocked the entire border with Ukraine. It wasn’t even ostensibly about Ukraine — this time, the farmers were using the narrow choke point of the border to pressure Warsaw over an EU trade deal with Latin American countries. But the echoes reverberate far beyond this corner of Europe.
Warsaw’s stance on Ukrainian imports has shaped an EU debate on whether to maintain — or even tighten — Kyiv’s access to the single market and could affect the country’s long-term membership prospects. Controversy over security guarantees and military aid underscores the complex challenges of assisting Ukraine in wartime.
By co-opting some of the farmers’ grievances, Tusk has sought to undercut the narrative of PiS and far-right nationalists — Poland’s third political force — who claim he is blind to rural struggles. It’s a gamble that’s worked before, but one that could backfire ahead of May’s presidential vote by normalizing falsehoods and negative perceptions of Ukraine.
Brussels is keeping a wary eye on Tusk’s tightrope act. With a new proposal on EU-Ukrainian trade due in the first half of the year, the European Commission needs Poland to cooperate in projecting a united front. Yet each time farmers protest, it underscores the fragility of an alliance forged in wartime and tested by economic and social realities.
As dusk settles on the border in Medyka, the taillights of diverted trucks fade into the distance. Farmers gather around a burning barrel, sipping tea laced with hooch, their faces lit by the flickering flames.
On the surface, their demands seem straightforward: transparency, fairness, stability. But beneath these calls lies a deeper truth: Poland’s support for Ukraine is no longer driven purely by emotional solidarity or moral duty.
“We’re not done fighting,” Kondrów says, silhouetted against the glow of the fire. “If need be, we’ll come back to this border again and again.”
Giovanna Coi contributed reporting.