Hi everyone, welcome to my blog where I share my personal stories and reflections. Today I want to talk about the Romanian Revolution in 1989, which started exactly 34 years ago and changed my life and my country forever. This post is to commemorate that event.
I was only 9 years old when it started, but I still remember the communist period very vividly. There is a clear separation in my feelings and memories from that age between Romania after the revolution and communist Romania before. Also, there was a clear delimitation in those communist times between my life and my sister’s in the big town where I was living with my parents and the smaller one, at 25 km, where I used to spend my holidays and school vacations with my grandfathers.
From the big town, I remember the constant pollution from the monstrous industrial complexes, especially the ammonia fog that was a constant presence in autumn and winter. I am still amazed that I don’t have asthma. Also, I remember the constant electricity cuts, how we used candles to do our homework during the evenings, the cold in the apartment in winter, the fact that we only had hot water on Saturdays for only two hours, and the fact that we had to spend countless hours queuing for food, facing the weather moods. But not everything was black, as everything in life is more gray than white or black. I have good memories about my friends, the luck that I had to be born in a block of apartments with nice people, and the fact that I had friends of different upbringings and ethnicities, but this post is not about that, maybe I will talk about this in another one. Also, the nice sports base close to us, the big slopes we used to go skiing or with our sleds in winter, the big parks, concerts, spectacles, the big lake, and everything that made my childhood nice and full of joy, despite all adversities. Now I see these adversities as things that shaped our characters and destiny.
The days I spent in the smaller town with my grandparents were also nice, and there I felt fewer of the problems that people were facing in the bigger city. Here, the apartment was always hot in winter, it was a facility offered by a nearby big factory, I don’t remember food or electricity shortages, and life appeared to be much easier for everybody.
But everything changed in December 1989, when the revolution started. I remember the 25 km trip in my grandfather’s car from my parent’s to his house. It was 18th December, the weather was cold, but with very little snow. The Sun was casting shadows through the trees we were passing by, it was almost quiet, my little sister was asleep next to me in the back seat, and I was listening to the pleasant roaring of the car’s engine. My grandfather was looking pensive, serious, not worried, just deeply thinking of something. I got a sudden feeling that something was off. I asked him if he felt alright, and he didn’t even reply to me. I didn’t repeat the question, and when we arrived at the house, my grandmother expected us with hot pancakes and I forgot about the feeling I had in the car. We tend to forget fast when we are in the fourth grade, right? But I remember now this incident, because that night, I went to sleep in my grandfather’s room, and my sister went to another one, with my grandmother. I heard through the cracked doors her voice reading a story to my sister, and I felt somewhat superior because I was sitting in the dark with my grandfather searching Radio Free Europe and Voice of America on his Selena Radio. When we finally got the right frequency, someone was talking about unrest in a town called Timisoara. I asked where that was and my grandfather told me it was in the western part of the country. My father told me, unusually, that I should go to sleep. It was our custom to talk before sleep, he would answer some questions I had about history heroes or some book I read, or he would tell me stories from his childhood during WW2. But not that night: he just took one headphone set from a drawer, inserted it in the radio, and started to listen very attentively. I fell asleep soon afterward. The next days I don’t remember doing anything special, but, one day, on the 22nd of December, when I woke up, my grandmother was singing a happy tune in the kitchen. When I entered the kitchen, she had prepared breakfast, boiled eggs, and toast. I asked her why is she so happy and she replied in a cheerful tone: ”Ceaușescu has fled. Do you know what this means? We could soon be free!” I failed to grasp the meaning. Free? We weren’t before? And free of what? Of course, I knew who Ceaușescu was, but I didn’t care much about him. It only bothered me that we had to watch, each evening, his long nonsense discourses, before being able to see a movie on television in those only two hours of daily broadcast we had. And that one time when I said something derogative about that my mother told me, with a pale face, to never repeat something similar, especially to someone outside of our family.
Later that day my grandfather came home from work. He was working at the local hospital and he told something to my grandmother in a hushed voice in the kitchen. I was planning to go outside and play with my friends, but they told me that we were not allowed to go out because it was dangerous. He opened the television, a black and white one, and we watched the protests in Timisoara, Bucharest, and other cities. I remember my dad called and told us they participated in a marsh from their workplace to the city center shouting slogans against the regime, and that militia men watched them with eyes full of hatred. But nothing really happened and most people dispersed and went home. During the night they heard gunshots outside, in town, but they stayed put, fearing they would die and we, the little children, would be left orphans. Later, I admired even more those who did go to protests, fearing for their children’s future, but they went anyway. If you ever saw an image of a communist orphanage in Romania you will understand what courage one needed to even think that because of their actions, their children might end up there.
I remember being scared and confused. I remember my parents telling me to stay inside and not to talk to strangers. I remember seeing people waving flags with holes in them, shouting “Down with Ceausescu!” and “We want freedom!”. I remember seeing tanks and soldiers on the streets. I remember seeing blood and bodies on the ground. I remember seeing Ceausescu’s face on TV for the last time before he was executed. I remember feeling a mix of relief and sadness.
Days went by fast. The revolution was over, or at least that was what we thought in January. For the first time in my childhood, we didn’t spent the New Years Eve together, with friends and family. Some families were mourning someone they lost, and everybody was afraid and unsure of what comes next.
But the perpetrators of the genocide were well organized and knew how to handle things. They started to work on covering their bloody hands, they destroyed evidence, they fabricated fake stories to explain what happened and who fired against the people. Soon, they hijacked the first ”free” election, they stole funds, dilapidated everything that could be dilapidated, and when people understood and tried to fight them again, they manipulated and crushed them again in June 1990, during the first Miner Intervention, a violent crackdown on the democratic movement in Romania, which resulted in the deaths of dozens of people.
These two events are closely related. During the Revolution the security apparatus of Ceaușescu tried unsuccesfully to keep him and its members in power, and when they lost it, they cleverly put the blame on some fictitious external intervention. Using the best psychological and technological warfare capabilities of the time, and with access to Ceaușescu’s regime funds, they stole the elections and promoted to power their puppets. When those who were still hopping in a democratic victory understood what was going on, the terrorists used again money and manipulation to destroy any chance that Romania will ever be democratic, and that someone will dare to put them to justice, during their lifetimes.
And so begin our 34 year long battle for democracy, and we are not there yet, despite being and living in the best times of Romania’s history.
I don’t want to make this post too long or too political, so I will stop here for now. But I hope you enjoyed reading a bit of my story and learning more about the Romanian Revolution in 1989. It was a pivotal moment in history that shaped me as a person and Romania as a nation. I will end it with a poem I wrote about this some time ago. Thank you for your attention and stay tuned for more posts from me!
Black and White
In shades of black and white, a nation’s spirit soared,
A revolution’s flame forevermore adored.
A child’s eyes watched, as history took its stand,
The echoes of freedom, across the Romanian land.
Through bullets spray and tear gas’ stings,
A people’s cry, for justice to spring.
The colors of freedom, starkly defined,
As hope and resilience, intertwined.
Black silhouettes of fallen souls,
A nation’s blood, a story untold.
The flag, once bright, now bears a scar,
A symbol of struggle, a timeless star.
In black and white, the victors’ gaze,
A promise of freedom, on that fateful day.
Their faces etched, with youthful glee,
A vision of liberty, set free.
But amidst the triumph, darkness crept,
As thieves and liars, their plans did seep.
Terrorists disguised, with venomous intent,
To sow discord, where hope was meant.
The innocent fell, their dreams shattered,
A betrayal of freedom forever scattered.
The terrorists won, for now it seems,
Postponing our future, in a twisted scheme.
Our freedom hijacked, a cruel mirage,
A bright future deferred, a nation’s rage.
Those responsible, still roam the land,
A cancer of corruption, in this barren sand.
In black and white, the revolution’s plight,
A battle for freedom, a never-ending fight.
For those who fell, and those who still strive,
In the pursuit of justice, our hearts shall revive.
May one-day justice find its way,
To bury those killers, in an unmarked grave.
The colors of freedom shall once again shine,
Eradicated darkness, a brighter design.
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Ink And Reason 