it was translated into French by a family friend and published
1990 in Belgium, translated into English by a friend of mine and
We should never forget history!
The story of a 22 year old eye witness
Bucharest - December 21-24, 1989
 |
| METAMORPHOSIS |
Snow
has fallen over the dead bodies of our parents, children, youth,
friends and acquaintances. Snow has fallen over those I saw dying next
to me. Snow has fallen over their youth. It is no longer snowing now,
and only the wind is blowing, a strong wind that probably wishes to blow
away those still holding guns, those still shooting people. Snow has
fallen over tanks and soldiers, over machine guns and snipers, over the
bullet-rigged pavement, over the smoke-darkened buildings. Snow has
fallen over graves, it has fearfully fallen on those blood-drenched
streets. It has fallen over the University Square - that I should better
call the Square of Freedom, of the Youth or of the Victims, over the
(Royal) Palace Square, on the transmission tower at the Romanian TV
Station. It has fallen over the memories and the soul of those living to
tell. Why now and not before?
Nature and weather were
on our side, giving us the warmth of springtime, even though the nights
of late were - or rather appeared to us due to fatigue - chilly. We gave
up even on the illusion of warming our frozen hands and bodies against
bonfires when we were told that mercenaries had mined the whole building
of the former Central Committee (n. the Central Committee of the
Communist Party, referred to as the C.C. from here on). We all turned
off those smoky fires and went on shouting: 'We are not going to leave!'
and 'The Army is with us!'. Many such lines were created and we, armed
only with clenched fists and a fierce will not to give up, with an
unbelievable brotherhood and care for those around us, went on shouting
so as to encourage the young soldiers in their tanks, so as to boost up
their and our morale, as we were all so unprepared for something like
this.
For who would have
thought that history would turn that way? Who would have thought that we
had been paying so many thousands of terrorists for so many years? God,
I haven’t got words enough to describe everything that went on,
everything that still does. Why had it to be Romania - again - that
horrendous u-n-i-q-u-e place in the whole world, for no other nation saw
so many deaths, no other people saw so much destruction and material,
spiritual loss, no other former leader was less dignified, had less
logic and common sense or caring for his people as the one I saw on TV
yesterday. Two Middle Age boors (n. Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu), the
son and daughter of a Nero, Caligula or Hitler displaying an
extraordinary effrontery and madness. Pity they met their death so
easily and quickly, pity they did not live to know humiliation,
shortages, pity they did not live for once what a whole nation lived for
decades. Pity we all accepted being so cyclically terrorized by these
two madmen for so many years, for it was plain clear that especially he
did not realize what was actually happening. They were the two main sick
characters, but I wonder how many other sick characters lived around
them and among ourselves…
Thursday, December 21, 1989
Only
10 days to go till the end of this so bad a year. When will Romanians
wake up, when will these 22-23 million people come to realize the power
lying in their number? It is a beautiful, rather warm and springish day.
In fact, it has been like that for a few days already and I am dressed
rather lightly, wearing shoes, light trousers, a shirt and a sweater, a
coat. I do not have the handbag with me. Lately I have been disgusted by
everything, I have no longer cared about the way I look, so I am
carrying this small red backpack. I am still at work (n. in the building
of the Law School, West of the centre) and I should go straight back
home, mother is waiting for me, we have some errands to do together. For
some reason I am not aware of, we are all stranded in the building,
nobody is allowed in, so I go down, the official paper in my hand for
the lady there. Even before the Congress (n. the 14th Congress of the
Communist Party, November 20-24, 1989) we got used to this new
regulation, with this useless guard spending one's energy upon entering
the Rectorate. It was maybe that the events in Banat (n. referring to
the city of Timișoara in SW Romania, where the first anti-Ceaușescu
riots burst on December 16, 1989) have not cooled down and the
government keeps things under a close scrutiny, so that the capital city
does not get the riot bug. All of a sudden, a rather weak thought comes
to my mind: what about a stroll across town, just for a look? It
appears more like a foolish thing; what is there to see but the same
filth, the same meagre, grim faces, the same eyes dying out of this
hopeless existence? There is however something drawing me, so that I
start walking towards Izvor subway station, wishing to go to the Civic
Centre and the shops there; there I might find what I want for my
mountain hiking trips: solid fuel.
I
go out of the building, everything appears normal, so quiet that I
almost hate it. I am terribly hungry, but there is something keeping me
from going home. I do not know what it is, what it was, even now, as I
write these lines days later, but I am sure that many young people
followed the same thought, the same weak line of smoke, to the place
where they were needed, where they had to be. Passing by the great
marble-covered building (n. the House of the People, currently known as
the Palace of the Parliament), I start walking up the shop-lined avenue.
Suddenly, there is this helicopter passing. It does not stir my
interest much. I then see it, but to no great interest either. It is
weird, but I do not find it out of place over Bucharest. I take it as
part of the precautions taken by the administration to prevent
Bucharestians from walking in groups. It is a war helicopter flying at a
low altitude. It is for the first time that I see a helicopter, but
there is no doubt it belongs to the army: it is painted in khaki and
bears a red-yellow-blue target-shape logo. During the next 15 minutes I
see 5-6 of them. I go on towards the Piața Unirii, without any thought. I
feel a little restless and anxious, as if an unseen magnet is drawing
me. I am intrigued. All shops are already closed and their attendants
are walking in the opposite direction and chatting while doing so.
Schedules in shop windows are simply covered with a white paper reading
'closed'. I do not understand why it is so, as they should be open until
5:30 PM. What has happened? Is there something going on? But there is
no time to think about it, as I approach the Piața Unirii and I see ever
more people.
Three
soldiers and their superior stand by a corner; they all hold guns. I
feel this urge to spit on them, right at their feet, but I instead keep
going. It is rather weird to see so many people standing together. For
there are people filling all of the Piața Unirii. Then there are the
whistles. What has happened? Have they arrested someone? A helicopter.
Now I can clearly hear it from the front: whistling and booing. I hurry
up and, totally unusual for me, I go towards the crowd. People in 4-5
groups of 30-50 persons threateningly raise their fists as a helicopter
passes by. I then get it, I hear what people are talking about. I am… I
do not know, it feels like a coma or a bewildered, still, shy joy.
People say they do not care if those in helicopters film them and there
are going to be be consequences as there were in 1987 in Brașov (n.
riots that took place on November 14-15, 1987, originating in Brașov's
Steagul Roșu truck plant and reprimanded by the regime). This woman, a
young brunette, talks about the last news that went through Radio Voice
of America, about the current events in Timișoara. She came here on
purpose, as she saw from her window people gathering around. There is
talk about ever more cities where people took it to the streets in
protest: Arad, Satu Mare, Sibiu, Cluj, Iași, Constanța… I then find
myself talking, very odd for myself. Then this man says we should stay
up all night, for only this way we can make things happen. Many people
leave, they think about their families, children. They come and go. They
are afraid, for we shall never forget we have lived through the Empire
of Fear, Fear has become an inner part of us. I am determined to stay.
There is a lot of people. Helicopters come and go. It is almost 5 PM and
the twilight is near.
Someone
says we should go to the Palace (n. the former Royal Palace, hosting
the National Art Gallery at the time), in front of the C.C.: 'let us
have our voice heard there!'. And so we all start, even though
scattered, towards the Intercontinental (n. Intercontinental Hotel,
located off University Square, from where many foreign correspondents
were to follow the events in December 1989 and up to June 1990). More
and more people follow suit. Those walking opposite us are advised to
join us: 'Join us!', we in the front rows start shouting. It is all an
act of despair, for if the others do not join us, if we do not get a big
number of people, we do not stand a chance. Without exaggeration,
starting with that moment, I no longer feel fear; I feel fear dying in
me, as the courage of my young age takes control and the presence of all
those around me gives fear a final, lethal blow. We all become aware
that each and every one of us has a vital importance for the group. We
are mostly young, under 30 years old. As we pass by the Bărăție (n.
Bărăția Church), we see thick lines of people of all ages standing on
the sidewalk, frantically clapping their hands. 'Join us!', we look at
them, grab some by the hand or collar and we pull them towards the
middle of the road. There is a boundless enthusiasm. Upon reaching the
wide University Square, I am shocked by what I see: this huge compact
crowd, thousands upon thousands of people stretching all the way to
Dalles Hall (n. past the Northern tip of the square). I haven't expected
this. I started down at the Nation Square not thinking there were,
there could ever be groups of people in Bucharest (n. in December 1989
it was forbidden for people to walk in groups at night), and upon seeing
this heterogeneous crowd of people I get the shivers. The step has been
made! Here in the capital city, we have eventually awakened. And we are
all aware now that the whole world knows of our solidarity, understands
and will help us. The time has come for Romania to explode, the time
when people, shaken by the bloody retaliation of the riots in Timișoara,
unbutton their shirts and are ready to die if that is the only way of
getting their Freedom.
That
day and night, of December 21, 1989 is to be the most frightening,
beautiful, dramatic, the most everything of them all, as we do not know
what is going to happen. We have gone out in the streets committed not
to give in, with bare hands, without even stones or sticks. Our purpose
is to have a peaceful meeting, without any trace of violence, without
blood or victims. But it isn't to be so. For Romanians living in Romania
have once again to be unique, for nowhere else so many people are to
die, nowhere else children are to be shot at, nowhere else and never.
The man the resignation of which we are all asking for has been unique
in his cynicism, bestiality, madness, cruelty, and we are - in our turn -
unique, too. I have never thought that such a solidarity can ever grow
in this country, among these people. Someone has got some white candles
and spreads them around, someone else has got bread and salami, a piece
of pastry. People living nearby come carrying jugs of water, hot tea. We
all ask those around us whether they want a sip of water or some bread.
Foreign guests up in the Intercontinental look at us and take pictures
of us, so that we are sure that people the world over will know about
us. I look around me, not a single person I know. I get to the front of
the crowd. Not much farther, facing us, I see something terrible: this
line of children, young men right out of the compulsory military
service, wearing white Miliția helmets, holding white shields and rubber
sticks, form a white fence in front of a great crowd of khaki uniforms.
Hundreds and thousands of soldiers and officers. There we are, two
enemy armies: the government army and the people army. We cannot go on
towards the Piața Palatului (n. the Royal Palace Square, referred to as
the Palace Square from here on). There are many, so many of us, there is
not a single free spot. People take out a table and place it in front
of the Dunărea confectionery shop and this young woman goes on top, then
more people join her, standing, then shouting. There is no way for us
to hear what they say. A form of communication is then created: pieces
of paper with notes are passed on from the front: 'We are not going
home!', 'Those leaving are cowards!', 'Those leaving are not Romanian!',
'Strike tomorrow!'. Of what they say up there we can only get fragments
we try to put together in a logical form. We need to put together a
list of claims because, in the end of the day, everyone knows what they
want, but as everything is so spontaneous, we are all somehow dazzled,
confused, shaken. I suddenly remember to look for a public phone and
call home. Mother is despaired and she scolds me. I hang up and get back
to the crowd. I do not care what mother says, caring would mean going
straight home and if everyone else listened to their families' calls and
threats, nothing would happen. To die fighting for survival or to die
letting a crazy regime kill you while having you starve in all possible
ways???
We
then proceed by sitting down or kneeling down on the pavement. This way,
the army forces can clearly appreciate the number of people it is all
about. But slowly people can no longer keep their temper, so every time a
helicopter passes over, we all stand up and shout, among a chorus of
booing and whistling: 'We're not leaving, we're not leaving!'. It is
getting dark. A first amphibious armoured fighting vehicle runs in quite
high speed across the compact crowd. I can hear shouts and groans. Many
people and children have been crushed. Two more such vehicles follow
suit in even higher speed, cutting through the crowd and making more
victims. They are coming from the Nation Square, people are standing all
over, so that we, those located in front of the National Theatre and
the Intercontinental cannot see and can hardly assess the direction of
these vehicles. It is only that quite late, right before it strikes we
notice it and start running away from it. Those not able to run or those
caught in between crowds fall under the wheels. Two armored Tatra
vehicles follow in full, crazy speed. We keep on running. One of the
latter slows down for some reason and the one following it takes a
sudden left turn, crushing even more people. Protesters quickly re-group
and start running wildly towards the white fence created by the shield
bearers.
It
is 05:45 PM when the first gunshots are heard; I know for sure because,
while shouting, I try to write down the flow, keeping track of time.
They then start firing the sinister tank cannons; even though the
cannons are pointed upwards, they are still sinister an image. Flares go
up towards the stars, profaning the sky above. We all back up, crawl,
look for shelter behind cars and trees. A young woman is hit by a bullet
in her neck. A few people get her. It is unbelievable, but they have
started shooting! And they are not shooting only upwards! People die,
people get wounded. I can see them carried away probably towards the
Colțea Hospital nearby. Two ambulances then show up. Finally, the
shooting comes to a halt. The army has meanwhile considerably advanced.
The crowd regroups again. Our number is ever greater. People shout:
'Down with Ceaușescu', 'Ceaușescu, be a gentleman, do like Honecker!'.
The decision not to give in is overwhelming. 'We fight, we die, but we
shall be free!', 'Down with the murderer!', 'Timișoara!'. People are
startled, we are all intrigued, but we still try to act peacefully. At
about 6 PM they start the water cannons. I run away, we are all
terrified, but there is no fear of death, as a certain stubbornness can
be seen on everyone's faces. I might be wrong, words betray me every now
and then, I don't know, but there is this sense of satisfaction in the
air, a certain satisfaction of the crowd facing the retaliation forces.
How come? Satisfaction because we are all one, because we have come in
such great a number, because the idea not to give in has got into our
bones, because we can regroup with an unthought of speed, because we
behave like small children that do not have the faintest idea what fear
stands for. We have just been shot at and we should be afraid for our
lives, but most of us - so many of us, firmly standing there - had
rather die than go back to the situation hours and days before, than
live again the way we have done until now. Even though many of us do not
think about it or do not know it now, Tacit's words have come back to
life: 'It is better to die standing than live kneeling'.
So I
go running towards the National Theatre. Water coming from the cannons
has not reached me. Two-three vehicles with just as many canons pointed
in three different directions like long cancer-stricken arms, manage to
fill up with water and entirely clear Magheru Avenue (n. Nicolae
Bălcescu Avenue). What an unforgettable image, like so many others! But
the vehicles go on. The foam-filled street remains deserted for a few
minutes. There is just too much water and foam. But people start
shouting ever more frantically: 'Step down! The people doesn't want
you!'. We slowly gather in the middle of the square with ever fewer
people standing on the sides. There are candles burning in our hands. We
go shouting like an answer, like a free reply to what we, the people,
were accused of the night before: 'We are not Fascists!'. We draw near
the soldiers and, looking them in the eyes, go on: 'Soldiers, do not
forget we are brothers!', 'We are the people!' and, pointing to them:
'And you are the people!', 'Olé, Olé, Olé! Where is Ceaușescu?', 'Olé,
Olé, Olé! Ceaușescu is gone!'. It suffices that someone comes with a new
line and it spreads around, being carried away by thousands of chests
that join in a single voice raising itself to the clear, star-filled
sky; the cannon flares have died out and now there are only the stars up
there, those fire-flies looking down at us and encouraging us, but not
being able to help us. However it is them that stand there as our
witnesses as virtual eyes of the Universe. We are committed to stand
there until we get what we want. 'Ceaușescu and his clique, enemies of
the people!'.
At
about 6:30 PM a bed sheet is tied up to a light pole. There is written
on it, in red paint: 'Down with the tyrants! Down with Ceaușescu!'. We
go squatting and go on ceaselessly shouting. Timișoara had us started,
the very thought at the inhuman retaliation gives us the creeps, but
also the kick to go on. Most of us have probably listened on the Voice
of America Radio the recording from that city, with that thrilling
'noise'. I listened to that recording three times and cried just as many
times. 'Yesterday in Timișoara, today all over the country!'. New calls
are made: 'Do not work tomorrow!', 'General strike!', words written on
sheets and on the walls of the Intercontinental. 'Ceaușescu, do not
forget, your doom day has come!' or 'We revenge Brașov!'. I get near the
white shield fence to the right, towards the USA Embassy. I get a close
look at those children in uniforms, none of them is over 20-22! They
are ashamed to look at us and when one of them actually does, you feel
pity for him, it is as if they are crying; but, on the other hand, their
passivity is intriguing. We go on trying to explain and convince them,
but to no avail that evening and night. Everything has to start with
their superiors, they are afraid. They just look at each other with
impotent eyes. One of them asks for a cigarette and someone gives him an
already lit one. People ask them: 'We are the people! Who are you?',
talk to them: 'You are starving too!', 'We too were soldiers, but never
shot at our brothers!'. At a certain moment, a second line of
uniform-wearing military is formed and stands behind the white
shield-bearers, challenging the latter, guns in their hands, not to give
in to the protesters; I no longer remember the colour of their
uniforms. There are horrible moments, I do not know what the soldiers
feel, but we all know that without the army on our side we do not stand a
chance. We go on cheering each other, encouraging each other, shouting
as loudly as we can, up to the heavens and the army: 'You do not have
enough bullets for us all!', 'We shall not forget the bloodshed!'.
I
go walking through the crowd, I would so much like to meet someone I
know. I am searching for someone, but it is that only later on I realize
that I am actually looking for someone to talk to. I am stunned, I look
all over, seeing those smiling, young girls ready to die if needed. It
is obvious we are not going to give in at all costs. At a certain moment
I get this idea to write down what people are shouting. Three times
people stop and ask me about the reason behind my doing so. However I
have no fear of those boys that, with their firm, suspecting faces, ask
me why I do this and want to see what I write. And I do believe that it
is strange to see, in the middle of that stirred and preoccupied crowd, a
young woman carrying a small backpack walking around and writing
something. I get their suspicion and want to know in my turn what they
are thinking, what harm I can do with my notes. I do not know what is
about to happen, the way the events are to unfold, I simply have to
think about what can go wrong, of a retaliation of our protests. Yes, I
have got used for the last 20 years to consider the worst scenario
first, that is why I want to write it all down, so that these notes and
the truth in them can be spread and known by all my friends in Europe
and farther on. I have no idea how I can actually pass on the message if
we get defeated; due to a letter of 'inadequate contents' that was
found out by the authorities, I have already had the chance to get in
direct contact with 'their' mentality and to feel like a chess piece one
moves at will. But this is another story and as far as that matter is
concerned, I can only hope to get back to my original job.
Back
in the square, calls come and go incessantly, unbelievable words and
rhymes go towards the heavens. 'The people does not want you! Neither
you, nor her!' (n. Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu), 'You criminal!', 'Child
murderer!', 'At the 14th Congress we did not vote for you!' or
'Ceaușescu is to die, Romania is to flourish!', 'Christmas without
him!'. I do not know, it is all extraordinary! We sometimes turn our
eyes and voices towards the balconies and windows of the hotel (n. the
Intercontinental) that rules over the dark square; we know that we are
looked at, listened to, shot pictures and films at from over there, so
we shout with a mixture of enthusiasm and despair: 'Europe is with us!',
'We are not leaving, we are not leaving, there are more of us coming!',
'The Army is with us!' - even though it still fails to do so. People
ask for free elections, keep on insisting that nobody leaves and that a
general strike is set for the following day. The news spreads that 2000
workers at the 23 August Plant are coming to join us and we immediately
cheer with a big 'Hurray!!!'. Some of those in the first row try to
approach a few soldiers, there is an impressive and peaceful effort of
showing them we are right with our demands. We all go on: 'You do not
have bullets enough for us all!', 'Whom do you support? Stand on our
side!', 'The army in Timișoara joined the people's will!'.
I do not know and I am
sorry if I repeat myself, if I say the same thing over and over again,
if I take too much of the reader's time without saying anything new. But
what I write here is not a novel, at that moment down in the square
everything looked and felt still, we were all standing still, well, we
were in a continuous movement, but we were actually standing still.
There were thousands of us, so stubborn and decided to win and, for the
moment, for the beginning, our presence in such a large number, our
panting, our candles and everything we kept on shouting, our dialogues -
or rather monologues - with the shield-bearers, all these made for the
only form of showing our revolt, for we did not know, we did not think,
we did not anticipate what would follow one, two or more days later on.
It is obvious we could not, for everything was overwhelming…
In
the square, we go on shouting: 'The bloodshed will not be forgotten!',
'We want Ceaușescu and his wife out of Romania!', 'Romania, do not
forget: today is your birthday!', 'We ask for a new government!', 'Down
with the dynasty, it has ruined the country!', 'Down with the
shoemaker!' (n. reference to Nicolae Ceaușescu, which came from a
shoemaker's family), 'Down with the illiterate!' (n. reference to Elena
Ceaușescu, a self-entitled academician of very weak educational
background), 'We are not leaving until we see them in court!', 'We
fight, we fight and here we stay!', 'The new year without the tyrant!'.
This is not a mere line-up of things people call and shout to heavens,
but these are rather words born out of hatred, hope, despair, desire.
Who would have thought we were going to live the day to call things like
that in a loud voice?! It is almost unbelievable. 'Now or never!',
'Bucharest, Bucharest, you love freedom!'. Ceaușescu's arrest is loudly
demanded. 'Ceaușescu, export merchandise!'. At about 7:30 PM people
start a hora dance. They join hands and dance on (n. Vasile)
Alecsandri's lyrics. The most moving moment occurs when we sing aloud
(n. Andrei) Mureșanu's revolutionary march, 'Deșteaptă-te, române!' (En.
'Awaken, Romanian!'), with lyrics fitting well some 141 years before,
but also at this very moment! There are more shouts: 'We're waiting for
the resignation!', as our courage and self-possessed actions get ever
stronger, to astonishing levels. 'Even if you shoot us, you cannot take
our freedom!', 'Let us fight tonight and save our future!', 'Timișoara
in blood, Romania in tears!', 'Ceaușescu and his wife, we no longer want
them in Romania!'. Timișoara is getting back on our lips every now and
then, in a persistent and thrilling manner. We again and again approach
the army: 'You are defending a dog!', we beg the soldiers: 'Soldiers,
join us!', we ask: 'Let the fire squad leave!'.
At
08:15 PM they start shooting again. It is terrifying. The water canons
are again pointed at us. The water is ice cold, exactly like the one we
get down the hot water pipes in the middle of winter. I run away - well,
this is just a matter of speech, as there is nowhere to run, there is a
real crisis of space. I go together with the crowd to the sides of the
square. I am pushed in the big windows of the Société Générale offices.
But even if it was chilly and our wet clothes turned to ice, we would
not go away. We want to have 'The New Year without the ox!', we want him
'In court!', 'Back to Doftana!' (n. a prison where Nicolae Ceaușescu
was allegedly imprisoned during his youth). By 08:30 PM a group of
protesters join us, coming from the USA Embassy, there were the soldiers
used to be. I have not noticed them retreating, as I went down in the
subway station to make a phone call. Those having one, share a coin with
those in the need; calls are rather short, some call their friends and
colleagues to ask them to come to the University Square, others call
their parents to reassure them by saying they will stay overnight with
some friends. It is all so moving. Finally, a really popular gathering.
As I come out of the subway station, someone has brought a loudspeaker
and a list of claims is presented. A man from Timișoara shares his
experience with the protest there. Then a series of announcements are
made, to be proven fake afterwards. For instance, a woman's voice
announces that it has been officially stated that the Romanian Army
joined the protest. As a consequence, when not much later a few more
tanks show up in the square, people rush to them and try to get on top
of them, to be rejected at gunpoint. Another fake announcement is then
made: the Ceaușescus have left the country on board of a helicopter,
destination France. Something terrible happens then and people suddenly
panic: several people form the crowd have been arrested and pushed in
Securitate (n. the Communist secret service) vans. Then the names of
several personalities are chanted: Doina Cornea, Dan Petrescu, Mircea
Dinescu, King Mihai I. Then: 'Down with the red fascist!'. By 09:45 PM a
former political inmate at Aiud talks to the crowd. Candles burn on.
'On and on / Ceaușescu will be down!'.
At
around 10:15 PM there is brought an empty truck with the purpose of
creating a barricade. A barricade was attempted before, at about 5 - 6
PM, by employing the tables and chairs on the terrace of Dunărea
confectionery shop, but it was aborted as there were many demonstrators
caught up between the barricade and the army. A man gets on top of the
truck and starts talking through the loudspeaker. A father asks help for
his three boys that were snatched by Securitate officers earlier; a
young man says the same thing about his father, arrested at more or less
the same time. Another truck comes around. A woman picks up the
loudspeaker and addresses the army, kneeling and crying, begging the
soldiers to join the population; her son was killed in the streets of
Timișoara during the protest there. People then rush to a supply truck
parked in front of Pescarul Restaurant, hungry and thirsty. We are all
hungry and thirsty, but this is not the reason for our spending the
night here.
At
11:00 PM there is a call to silence to everyone around, so that an army
representative can have an important statement. There is no silence
however and the statement cannot be made. By 11:10 PM, bullets and tank
canons can be heard once again. Then the first teargas grenades are
employed. I am next to this flower shop and I find it next to impossible
to run. The effect is immediate, as I am very close to the place where
the grenades fell. With great difficulty I try to walk away from the
spot that unbearable, burning mist and that carbide stench come from. I
can no longer see due to the tears in my eyes, my throat aches down to
the lungs, I am walking like a robot. I do not know how I get next to
the Faculty of Architecture, but I do. Someone takes me by the hand and
helps me sit down, someone else gives me a wet handkerchief. I am
eventually relieved, as the effect is rather short-lived, I believe
around 5 minutes. It is a bit more difficult with the eyes, but I can
eventually see again and I get back to the avenue. They throw tear gas
grenades again, but this time I am farther from where they fall. There
is a thick mist, an opaque layer, so that one can no longer see the
Intercontinental from across the street.
People
stubbornly regroup. 'Bucharest, Bucharest, you love freedom!'. I can
now see the messages written on the walls of the University and of the
confectionery shop. I light a few extinguished candles. It is terrible
there already are victims in this University Square. There is intense
shooting, the pavement under our feet and the sky above shake as they go
on shooting. The barricade truck catches fire, then a small mail van is
pushed into the fire by a few men, probably not some of us. The fire is
shedding a sinister campfire glow, with black smoke clouds going up,
with thousands of sparks breaking away and filling the air. I once again
get to the middle of the avenue, but we cannot regroup as before. They
are continuously shooting at us. The firing goes on for a long time, the
barricade fire spreads on; I run towards the National Theatre. People
are running. There is more shooting at us. The earth is trembling. More
shooting. The avenue is clear of people now. Defiant and cynic, tanks
and fire squad trucks are now moving back and forth across the square.
They go on shooting at us. The crowd is dispersed, we can no longer hope
to form a compact crowd like before. I am not familiar with either
warfare or weaponry, but I can hear some terrifying blasts and I feel
the urge to cover my ears. God, what an apocalyptical noise!
I
do not know, I am maybe wrong, but I think that night was the most
horrible of them all, worse than those that were to follow: we did not
know what attitude the army would adopt, we were unarmed, we only relied
on the assumption that they could not arrest or kill us all, as well as
on the fact that the international community was aware of what was
going on in Romania… I obviously did not know what the others thought,
but I think our thoughts defied all barriers and joined in an impulse
that explained our being there. There.
There
are ever fewer people around me. Then I am alone. I do not know where
to go, there is no reason to stay. The Intercontinental is surrounded by
the army. In the dark I can see this group of soldiers with rubber
sticks running towards the (National) theatre. Together with others I
run and we get to the Operetta (n. hosted at the time in a building now
part of the National Theatre). There is only a handful of us. A shot
young man is carried away past us. We can see no other groups. Down some
narrow streets to the back we meet another, larger group. We are at a
crossroads, next to the Batiștei Polyclinic and the Cultural Centre of
the Democratic Republic of Germany. We all then get in front of the USA
Embassy, there are some 50-80 of us, most of us young. We call the name
of President Bush and ask for help. There is an act of despair, a call
that cannot realistically have an immediate effect in the direction
desired by us at that very moment. A row of shield-bearers has already
formed to our left. From inside the embassy, from a window, a man waves
at us, then a woman follows suit. They light a candle, then they wave
again from the next window. All of a sudden some in our group start
running to the right, shouting something. I automatically follow them,
convinced that the others will come after us. What is going on? I go on
and, turning my head, I can see those remaining there caught up between
two rows of soldiers, the one to the left and a new one created right
after my leaving the spot; the new row is double, with some soldiers
facing the remaining group and others facing the 10 of us. What is to
happen to the about 50 or more persons caught up in front of the
embassy? I am yet to learn that arrests were conducted and 8 young men
were shot in the head. I escaped the genocide ....
There
are 10 of us left, three girls and seven boys. We go on, walking those
already deserted streets, we get to the Embassy of Hungary, where the
guards want to find out what has happened downtown. We all stay for
about 20 minutes in a small park and then we decide to go home. As I
live in Militari (n. a remote district from the centre in W Bucharest)
and the others are in groups of friends, I do not know what to do. Five
go, five remain and then, at a crossroads, two boys go to the right and I
stay with the other two girls. So it happens that I step into someone's
house at about 2 AM, I sit down and rest, without being able to sleep
until morning comes.
Friday, December 22, 1989
Friday
morning: I go to work. I stay only for a few hours, four or five for
all I know. Shots can again be heard from the University and helicopters
go once again across the sky. I do not know what the army is going to
do, especially as, coming to the Law School this morning, I could see
the whole avenue 'decorated' with tanks and army forces. In front of
Unic Store there were trucks loaded with ammunition and the whole area
was heavily guarded. All streets providing access to the Palace Square
were blocked with shield-bearing soldiers. All through and around
University Square they were working - and obviously have been working
round the clock - on cleaning: the streets and sidewalks had been washed
clean of blood and all other traces of the previous day, the meeting
claims written on walls had been equally erased and, where this had not
been possible, they had painted the whole wall in green or grey. The
wall of the Intercontinental where we had written 'Do do not work
tomorrow!', 'General strike!' was clean and all grey in the morning. But
our movement is to go on, our claims are to be rewritten all over the
place and even years later the grey wall of the Intercontinental will
still bear the 'Down with Communism!' and 'Throw away your cards!' (n.
the Communist Party membership cards), in geometric, red letters.
So,
there are no traces to be seen on the morning of December 22, 1989 of
what there happened the night before. Mother calls at the office, she
calls some 5 times in 2 hours. She talks to one of my colleagues, asking
her not to let me go downtown again. She is despaired, crying. She
calls and let me listen over the phone to the tumult outside, telling me
that thousands of people have lined up the streets, going towards
Lujerului (n. city limit in NW Bucharest), towards the dairy factory,
towards the ICTB (n. a research institute), telling me that helicopters
fly really low and they are firing at people protesting. I am so sorry
that she too has to see what I have lived through. I cannot promise I am
going home; she however asks me to join my colleague that lives in
Crângași (n. neighborhood in W Bucharest). At about 11 AM or noon I
leave the office and start walking by River Dâmbvița towards Crângași
District. Big groups of people with flags - with the Socialist Republic
of Romania coat of arms removed - are coming out of their institutions -
ICECHIM, Hidrotehnica, Energetica - and walking towards the city
centre. When we reach Semănătoarea (n. a big agricultural machinery
plant) there is nobody around. It is impressive. There is this corpse on
the river shore: a worker covered with a table cloth. I feel so tempted
to join the crowds and get back to the centre, but my colleague has
promised my mother she will take me home with her and I shall call home
from her place. Anyway, we get to her place, I reassure mother and
listen dumbfounded to that Decree enforcing the General State of
Necessity, forbidding anyone from being in the streets past 11 PM (Ha!),
as well as people from gathering in groups of more than 5 (Ha-ha!).
Later on, while walking to get some bread, I see this shining, all white
helicopter dropping some leaflets typed in big fonts, with a very
unexpected text: there are Ceaușescu manifests. I read one of them,
where we are told we have been betrayed, that the enemies of the country
want to get Transylvania from us and that the road we have picked leads
nowhere.
Down
at a bookstore somewhat opposite Crângași Market people take out all
works reminding one of the man belonging to the past. Three tanks go
past down the road and soldiers wave at us, then make the sign of
victory to us. People clap their hands at them. They are going to Ciurel
Dam, to the dairy factory. Then the first broadcast of the Free
Romanian TV gets me at home, watching. At 2 PM I leave, going towards
the TV station that is already in the hands of the protesters, joining
the crowds of enthusiastic people. Those having one keep a portable
radio receiver next to their ears, surrounded by others wanting to learn
the latest news. There are various calls being shouted, some of which I
know: 'Ceaușescu, have a New Year in a coffin!', 'A new year without a
Hero!' (n. Nicolae Ceaușescu was self-proclaimed as Socialist Work
Hero). There are announcements that he intends to flee, but the
protesters call upon him ironically: 'Ceaușescu, not yet, don't forget
to get your ration!' (n. food was rationalized in the 1980s and the main
foodstuffs were subject to set rations). I reach the Arch of Triumph
and the crowd passes under it, as the army used to do after winning a
battle; I go down on my knees, keeping a moment of collectedness for
those that are no longer there, those that died fighting, not knowing if
they made it or not. We go on and people keep joining us all the time.
Someone lifts a stick with a rubber shoe at its top, which paradoxically
means that 'The Shoemaker's down!'. There are a lot of people at the TV
station, a heterogeneous crowd impossibly to get a comprehensive sight
of just as it was yesterday in the University Square. I can but hardly
reach the main entrance. There is this Miliția man: a rather fat, pale
complexion and black mustache man, so scared that he agrees to be nearly
strip-undressed: people take off his belt, the coat of arms on his cap,
his cap, his gun. The whole thing is funny and embarrassing, as the man
holds his pants and fearfully looks around - just like chased game -,
trying to nevertheless smile. I find it a grotesque act, but this is the
way people have found to show that their will prevails, that the
Miliția too has joined their will.
I
cannot not stay there more than a couple of hours, there are too many
people, there is too much pressure, so I struggle to leave that swarm,
heading towards the city centre. The way towards the Piața Romană is
thrilling. There are big barricades being put together in Dorobanți
Square, as people move around frantically making do of cars and trucks
to reinforce real fortifications; there is word going around of the
terrorists that are coming towards the TV station with 3 tanks. We are
all told to walk around in small groups. Dozens of TV sets with the
sound up at maximum have been turned towards the street, so that people
walking around can learn of the latest news. While passing by Lumina
Bookstore, I hear for the first time the rumor that tap water was
poisoned. 'God, how could they?…' - this is my first thought as I recall
the old Middle Age war strategy of throwing poison in wells and setting
the crops on fire.
I
reach Perla Building. Many, many people out there. Truck loads of merry
people, waving the flag with the coat of arms cut off, cars going
towards the TV station or in the opposite direction, towards the Palace
(n. the Royal Palace). I get to Dorobanți Hotel in the evening and I go
to the house I spent the previous night in, to find the lady with only
one of her daughters, as the other one, Dacia, has been arrested. The
lady is now waiting, quite optimistically, for news. It is about 7 PM -
it is dark already - and I start towards Izvor subway station, on my way
home, to reassure mother. There are many people in front of the C.C.
building. The first free newspaper is being distributed from the balcony
of the Universul Building; they've called it 'Libertatea' (En.
Freedom).
I
have merely been home for half an hour, but I feel I can no longer
passively sit watching the TV. There are desperate calls for people to
go out in the streets, to gather in ever bigger numbers around strategic
points such as the TV station, the Palace Square, the radio station. So
I leave home and head downtown. I get off the subway at Izvor, wishing
to get to the Palace Square. It is about 9:30 PM and I reach the
Brezoianu crossing. Everyone going in the same direction with me has for
some reason stopped here. Then I see why: a few tanks are stationed
farther up the Gheorghe-Gheorghiu Dej (n. currently the Regina
Elisabeta), at the crossing with the Calea Victoriei, in the square
between the Romarta Copiilor (n. a store at the time, currently a BRD
branch) and the Army House (n. currently the Army Club); their canons
up, they are firing towards the Phone Company Building (n. strategic
satellite transmitters were located on top of it at the time). Sinister
shooting can be heard from Cișmigiu Gardens as well, and firing flares
alit the sky above. At a certain moment, the tanks by the Romarta
Copiilor turn around and came down towards us, firing right along the
avenue we were standing on. We run away and find shelter behind
buildings. Most of us then start towards the radio station, up the
Nuferilor (n. currently the General Berthelot), as there have been calls
for people to go there and defend that point. It is dark, I go on
together with the other ones and I cannot say for sure on which side of
the building I am. More and more tanks show up, I count 15 of them. Word
is spread that they (n. it needs be stated that the impersonal ruled
such announcements and rumors many of which later proved to be fake or
even purposely fabricated: 'they' were the terrorists, foreign secret
service agents, Securitate agents or simply those against the
revolution) are shooting at the students down in the Grozăvești campus
and many of us start in that direction. Upon the Calea Plevnei - Știrbei
Vodă crossing, cars are being searched. I reach the Grozăvești, but it
is all quiet, nothing has happened here. I get on this truck, a tipper
to be more precise, and it takes us up the river, in front of the
student dorms at Regie and all the way to Ciurel Dam, at the very
entrance to Dâmbovița water park; there are more trucks here. The whole
area is deserted and quiet. So, on top of the same truck we head back
downtown, getting off right next to the tanks by the Army House. This
small van comes around, supplying the soldiers with bread and yoghurt. I
go on and reach the Palace Square.
A
terrible night follows. I see the Central University Library (n.
formerly the Carol Foundation) burning down, in two stages. Terrorists
shoot from the most unexpected locations, usually from the upper floors:
from the University Library building, from the Royal Palace, from the
apartment building opposite Muzica Store, where I can see fire coming
out of the windows, from everywhere, so that we get the feeling we are
surrounded. But the protesters never leave the place, incessantly
shouting: 'The army is with us!', 'We are not leaving!', 'We are not
going home, the dead do not allow it!'. It is all fantastic. All of a
sudden, out of a semi-basement window to my right, five men come out and
start shooting around them. I do not know what happens to them, I
cannot see. I can however see as the cold blood-shot wounded and dead
are being carried away, loaded on vans and taken to hospitals. There is a
lot of shooting that night - that night also - in the Palace Square; it
goes on almost continuously. The Art Museum (n. the National Art
Galleries, hosted in the Royal Palace) burns down too, with a lot of
black smoke coming out and seeming to perform a mystical, sinister,
sepulchral dance on its way to the sky. During a break - if I may call
it so - I notice this young man filming and curiously looking around, a
sort of astonished satisfaction on his face. He looks like a child that,
reading say Andersen's stories, points his hand to the pictures there
with the naive desire of stepping in that fairytale scene and he all of a
sudden finds himself in there, among those characters, looking around
him with an inner, yet controlled happiness, ready at every moment to
scream of joy, but not doing so for fear the scream might spoil the
reality in his mind. That blond young man's words touch me deeply: he
has come from London today with the only purpose of seeing it all with
his own eyes. It is his first time in Romania, he is staying at the
Intercontinental and will go home only when the fighting ends. A great
gesture from this anonymous young Londoner that might very well get
killed here, just like many other foreign tourists or reporters.
Saturday, December 23, 1989
It
is a hectic night and the dawn comes as a salvation. We encourage
ourselves while shouting after the voice of the unseen man calling from
inside the TV car: 'Two hours to go!', then 'One hour to go!', then
'Dawn is coming / We're winning!'. Indeed, ours was victory, as we have
survived, we are all here and the weak daylight has revived us. I am so
cold. I have got neither gloves, nor boots. At around 9:00 AM three
white planes go over us; two go first and then, shortly behind them,
there follows the third one. I spend the rest of the day in the square. I
do not feel like eating, even though trucks bring us hot bread,
hundreds of boxes of juice and mineral water. I am not sure if all this
time I have had more than half a loaf of bread. I sit down in front of
Athénée Palace Hotel (n. currently the Hilton), but I then have to
quickly stand up so as not to fall asleep and to embarrass myself in
front of the others; thinking of those soldiers, I would be so ashamed
to sit here and snooze. Someone notices then that terrorists are
shooting from the hotel windows above me. A terror-filled day follows
all across town: one can spot someone in a shooting position, firing or
ready to fire from the top of various buildings. We once again feel
surrounded. The streets look deserted, people find refuge wherever they
can, but the military, those uniformed children, remain in position.
I
go to Bogdan's place; I need to sit down, nothing else. There is nobody
home, so that I sit on the stairs and close my eyes. I can still hear
the shooting, as I am close to Dorobanți Hotel. This young woman comes
and wakes me up; a beautiful girl, a slice of bread and a cup of hot tea
in her hands. She has seen me from her window. It is a gesture that
needs no further comment. She takes me upstairs, to her place. Her
father is ill, her mother is suffering and only her younger sister, a
seventh grade pupil, is more alert. Her name is Cremona and she is a
Polytechnic student. They then give me a cup of coffee and let me sit in
an armchair and watch the TV. Before 5 PM I leave their place; night is
coming. I haven't been able to sleep, but I feel so much better now. At
the same time I feel bad I have left the streets for this time, it
feels like deserting. I believe I spent 2-3 hours at Cremona's. The
block is deserted and when I reach the big crossing I get this feeling
snipers are picking up precise targets down the street below and
shooting at them from up in Dorobanți Hotel. I run and once again reach
the Palace Square. Just as many people, tanks and soldiers. The Royal
Palace looks dreadfully, a sinister and painful skeleton is all that
remains of the Central University Library; after all, I have witnessed
its burning down… Pity! Such a pity! I take it that we Romanians have
been punished, maybe even cursed, for otherwise why all this bloodshed?
What have we paid for with all these victims, with all these youth
brought to a sudden end? Freedom is precious, but why this price in the
end of the 20th century?
At a
certain moment the crowd get their hands on a terrorist, he has come
out of the building across the street from Muzica Store; the rage of the
people is boundless, they simply cannot hold themselves. They however
try to self-impose a more dignified attitude by joining hands and
shouting: 'No violence!', 'We are civilized people!', before going on
with: 'Let us see him!', 'Let us see him!'. The man is brought on the
balcony and everyone looks with hatred and dander in their eyes at this
disfigured head and disheveled hair, at this blood-ridden face. He is
scared. He looks horrible. He too is a human being unfortunately, a
two-legged being resembling us; physically, he is no different from any
of those down the streets and for years and years he walked freely among
his menfolk, he worked in this society… An unspeakable work however,
once he got the profession of killing, his eyes open, no regrets, no
scruples about it. There is something I cannot understand and probably
many of us will never understand, a proof that at the beginning we
really thought that 'They won't shoot at us! They can't shoot at us!'.
What can I say? One can write a lot on it, one can make countless
comments on this matter - if it can be called that at all.
Evening
comes and I do not know what it is to bring: the recommencement of
firing upon us. People notice they are firing from Kretzulescu Church
(n. located next to the Royal Palace) and tank cannons are pointed
towards the religious building. I shall never forget the hoarse voice of
the man in the TV car which begs the soldiers to try hard and aim
carefully, so as not to destroy the red brick building. The church is
not to be destroyed, but it is to be damaged.
Shortly
after 6:00 PM something extraordinary is announced, something we all
have been waiting to hear: the illiterate couple which planned all this
destruction and for which those two-legged creatures are still out there
fighting, oh well, the two former 'honorable children of the people'
have been caught up and detained. Where? We do not know. How? We do not
know either, but what really matters is that they have not managed to
run loose. Should I describe what reaction people have upon learning the
news? Some are crying, some are hugging each other, some are simply
dumbfounded… Night has fallen. Another shipping of hot bread is made but
I am not hungry. I get near the TV car. I am sick and cold. My eyes are
closing and I think I can fall asleep while standing. I get on top of
this plastic box. To my left, on another plastic box, a young man is
standing too. An ambush occurs and we are both pushed off our boxes.
That young man helps me get up and from that moment we stay together for
the next 18-19 hours. I think I am a bit lucky to meet him, as I feel
so sick and I get the shivers. I have no idea what his name is, I only
get it he has come straight from his work in or near Ploiești and that
he knows nobody in Bucharest. I know nobody around us either, so that
his unexpected company is welcome for me. Once this is all over, I
unfortunately am not to get any news from him or to learn whether he is
still alive or not.
There
follows a full night, complete with a lot of shooting. They are
shooting from the windows of the Palace, then from the blocks up the
Onești (n. currently the Dem I. Dobrescu) that will end like the Central
University Library. Terrorists manage to enter the former C.C.
building, by using the basement, there is fighting inside, then there is
shooting at us again. We find shelter by the entrance to the apartment
building across the street, one of the terrorist strongholds, where many
apartments burnt the night before. At first there are only the two of
us, me and that young man, sitting on the stairs. From above, from the
first floor two elder ladies come down: one of them is very old, around
80 and the other one is probably her daughter, around 60. They stay for a
while. The older lady then goes up, there is a draught and too much
humidity down the hallway. I cannot imagine how they can stay in that
apartment, as other apartments in the building are burning, so that the
whole first floor is virtually filled with thick smoke. Such a sinister
and horrible sight!
Down
in the basement water is flowing from the broken pipes. I cannot stay
there, I am very cold and I am almost sleeping. So that I once again go
in the square, among the others. It is then announced that the
terrorists have sent helicopters that are about to arrive and shoot at
us. We are urged to enter the building. I feel so bad that I accept, so
as to be able to sit down, but I cannot stay for long. I get to this
small room, where we are all crammed, without light or fresh air. We can
still hear the inferno outside. I do not know why, but the shooting
feels much worse when you hear it from inside the building; it all feels
more dangerous, more terrible, more frightening, while when you are out
and actually see what goes on, it is different, somewhat more appeasing
if I may say so. Some 10 minutes later I ask to go out as I feel like
fainting. I remain down the hallway together with the young man and we
can both see the wounded being carried inside. I however prefer going
out in the fresh air. The terrorist helicopters are not but another
unconfirmed rumor. But there still is a ceaseless firing upon us. Then
there is this old woman, alone in all that stirred crowd; she says she
cannot stay inside listening to all those desperate calls on the TV.
There is continuous shooting; they are shooting at each other above our
very unarmed selves (stubbornness has turned into our only weapon).
Sunday, December 24, 1989
Time
passes slowly, we all wait for the dawn, the same dawn that gives us
courage. While it is still dark, during a moment of relative calm, we
are told to turn off the bonfires, as it seems that the terrorists have
set mines about the building. I am shivering, I am so cold. I have not
drawn near the bonfire as I cannot stand the thick smoke coming out of
it. But I look at those people hurrying to extinguish those pale flames,
giving up any hope, any illusion of warming up. I look at them just
like a newly born opening up his eyes for the first time and looking at
the world, just like the 'Small prince', with naiveté and innocence in
his eyes.
I
don't know what time it is, maybe it is around 6:00 AM, when the C.C.
building is all of a sudden invaded by terrorists. They stand by the
windows on the ground and lower floors and point their metal
machine-guns towards us. In an extremely short time the whole area is
deserted, as we all run behind the tanks. There follows a terrifying
pressure, at least as far as I am concerned. There is a tough moment,
just like for other people it was tough when hearing about the terrorist
helicopters or mined building. Two-three vans come and evacuate the
wounded that have been brought out of the building. A sort of bus with
broken windows comes next and two young women in white robes get off,
offering painkillers. I ask for one and it helps. I am going through a
moment of maximum pressure, I do not know what keeps me from bursting
into tears, it is maybe my harsh nature keeping me alert and making me
feel ashamed about producing such noise like crying. I can see no way
out. All that I know next is that I have somehow got to Union Hotel (n.
nowadays Union Centre, upon the crossing with the Ion Câmpineanu and not
far from the C.C. building). There are not too many of us inside; we
sit down or wherever and we all listen to the radio, as well as to the
ongoing events outside, for the firing continues. They then start
shooting at the entrance to the hotel too, so that we look for a break
and run out of the building that has turned insecure. I do not know for
how long I have been inside: two hours, four hours, I do not know.
Anyway, it is now broad daylight; I run to the C.C. building, as it
looks like the safest area, even though it is in the open. The armored
window, white building one could not even shoot pictures of before, is
once again controlled by the protesters. I am sorry I do not know how
they managed to get it back, for the last time I saw it was filled with
terrorists. There is less firing now. People are calmer, more relaxed
and a few walk down the street leading towards the University Square
where candles are ceaselessly being lit. The shooting slowly dies out.
The young man I spent the night with says he is going home, as his
family knows nothing about him. I feel sorry he is leaving. We part by
the entrance to the Faculty of Geography and Geology; I do not have the
courage to ask his name. I believe it is around noon, 1:00 PM, 2:00 PM. I
am finished. I stay a little longer, looking at people lighting
candles, but I do not see anyone crying or sobbing. I once again go
towards the Palace Square.
Two
terrorists have been caught and people react violently. The two, under
25 years old, neatly dressed, one fair-haired, the other dark-haired,
are crouched on a tank, guarded by two-three soldiers. People throw
broken glass, sticks, pieces of bread at them. A man takes advantage of
soldiers' looking elsewhere and gets up on the tank, hitting hard the
blond young man. I look at him and cannot believe this is the way
terrorists look like: killing machines, trained human beings, human
appearance beings that have chosen the qualified murder of men and women
as their profession. I cannot get it… I would so much want to
understand how these beings reason, I would like to talk to them, to see
how they talk, what they say, how they react, how they gesture etc.
etc. etc. I am deeply shaken by this scene and I consent to the furious
crowd, but I am intrigued by the condition of such beings, by the fact
that such a circumstance ever exists, that such a social category is
real, I am intrigued by what the two Molochs together with their species
have managed to create… People from all sides shoot pictures of the
two. They are eventually led inside the building and, despite the
demands of those outside, are not brought out on the 'open stage',
meaning on the balcony, again, being first subjected to an
interrogation. Shortly afterwards it is announced that four other
terrorists have found shelter in Kretzulescu Church and army forces
start in that direction. We all wait to see what happens; I stay half an
hour more and then I feel about to collapse. It is clear: I cannot keep
on. The next thing I know is that I am home, I do not know how this has
happened. It is already dark. I do not know what my mother thought when
seeing me again in the doorway; it is Sunday night and the last time
she heard from me was on Friday. I get undressed and automatically go to
bed, almost falling off my feet. I feel sick, but physically I am still
in one piece and I think this is all that mattered to my mother. I
think that a lot, a hell lot of the survivors of this real war will for a
long time be in shock of what they have lived through, will get scared
upon hearing a vacuum cleaner and thinking it is a helicopter, hearing
someone knocking on the door and thinking they are still shooting etc.
etc…
There
will be a lot of writing on what happened in Romania during the almost
25 years of progressive terror, as well as between December 14-26, 1989
or afterwards; and I think there should be as much writing about it as
there can possibly be.
Anca Moraru, 22 years old
P.S. 21st of December, 2011
Even
now, 22 years later, I think there still are unanswered questions.
There still are misery, despair, butchered ideals.
Now, 22 years later,
we ask ourselves whether this was all worth it.
Now, 22 years later I
know I was not but a dumpling in the great soup of cannon fodder, that
people died in vain in that December, that we dreamt and hoped in vain. Romania is degraded and degrading, it has been thrown in misery and povery, it has been indebted, trivialized, it has been painted in grey and black. The country has been brought down to a boor, animal state, lacking proper education or medical care, with pensioners and children being mocked at. A highly corrupted, false, humiliation-ridden place where lying has turned into state policy and life style in private relationships, where useless and illiterate officials live by bantering and abusing the ones they should serve. A place of misty justice, prostituted journalism (for the most part), of extreme dullness and frustration.
And the sad news are coming: Romania has no better (soon) future. Not for my generation and not for the next one either, I bet my life on this!
(December 22, 2011)
