There is a place in Warsaw where rainbows abound: pins everywhere, flyers stacked high, in a corner rolled flags lean, and in the window hangs a hand-sewn banner from 2009. The space is new, yet it makes visible: queer life in Poland has a long history. On December 6, 2024, the QueerMuzeum Warszawa opened in Warsaw—the country’s first queer museum—midtown, on a major thoroughfare, just steps from the Palace of Culture and Science. “We wanted to create a central and visible place for queer life,” explains museum director Krzysztof Kliszczyński.
The idea for such a house had existed for a long time. Lambda, Poland’s oldest LGBTQ+ organization, has preserved since around 1945 more than 100,000 items in cardboard boxes: love letters, diaries, flyers, magazines. A team from the University of Warsaw selected about 150 pieces from this trove to tell the story of queer people—from the early Middle Ages to the 2000s. For Kliszczyński, the opening is a dream come true: although Poland still lacks civil partnerships, there is at least now a place where queer life is visible, explored, and valued.
Information in Polish and English
The museum currently consists of a single large room. A timeline on the wall traces the arc from the Middle Ages to the early 2000s. For each exhibit there are Polish and English descriptions. Alongside personal stories, many stops also document the political context: in 1932 the first decriminalization of homosexuality, brutal persecution during the Nazi era, the taboos under communism, the first Pride Parade in 2001, “LGBT-free zones” under the Law and Justice government from 2015. For the most recent past, there is still no wall space—and, as Kliszczyński notes, no historical distance. A narrow spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where unopened boxes wait and two desks stand ready for the small staff.
All work is voluntary—as is the director. The museum opens three days a week, and admission is free. Kliszczyński regularly conducts tours in Polish, while for international visitors, volunteer Emilian Mucha has recently begun offering English-language tours.
Mucha, who has lived in Warsaw since 2019 and teaches Polish to foreigners, stumbled upon the museum in January with a friend. On a second visit he decided to join—in the beginning as a guide, then also as a translator. He quickly realized how deeply the stories hidden in the exhibits moved him. He is especially drawn to documents from “ordinary” people, showing that queerness was not limited to nobles or outsiders.
Counterweight to decades of invisibility
His favorite piece is Exhibit No. 25: a photograph of Warsaw masseuse Maria Jadwiga-Strumff. In her letters from the first half of the 19th century it becomes clear that she loved women as well—a frank trace from a time when such feelings could hardly be spoken aloud. Mucha says he only learned of her through the museum. Her story, he says, disproves the deep-seated notion that queerness is merely an eccentricity. “She was a normal woman who worked, who lived, who loved. To be able to hear her voice today means a great deal to me.”
For Mucha, the museum is thus far more than an exhibit. It is a counterweight to decades of invisibility, especially during the Communist era when homosexuality was legal but taboo and monitored by state authorities. “Here you see that queer identities are not a modern phenomenon but have always been part of our society.”
The museum has established itself
Recently Mucha bought a pink guestbook. In it, visitors thank the museum and the tours. A woman wrote about her student days in Poland in the 1990s — “a terrible time for queer people.” Now she has returned from Berlin and is delighted by the changes. But not everyone views the museum positively.
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On Google Maps the rating sits at 3.7 stars — almost exclusively 5- or 1-star reviews. Critics fault the short opening hours. Others snidely note that the museum “stinks.” One user fumed: “Trzaskowski has spent 150,000 zlotys on this. SHAME!” In fact, the Warsaw mayor provided a one-time seed grant, and the city also leases the space at a discounted rate. Otherwise, the project runs on donations—and its finances remain precarious. Kliszczyński would like to hire staff, but there isn’t enough money.
For the opening, international press teams came; in the first months, several thousand visitors poured into the small museum. Since then, the rush has ebbed—on a Sunday without a guided tour there are usually 20 to 30 visitors. Nevertheless, the museum has established itself: every second Wednesday there is a “Lesbian Evening” upstairs. It has grown into a kind of safe haven for queer life in Eastern Europe. Activists from Belarus have, for example, contributed items to the collection, hoping to build their own archive as well.
For Mucha, one moment remains unforgettable: a young man from Pakistan who had recently come to terms with his own sexuality visited the museum. Here he realized he was not alone. “I want people to understand: we have always existed,” Mucha says.
