The Freedom to Be Myself

At 16, I fought in the Romanian Revolution

Life without liberty is like a body without spirit.— Kahlil Gibran

Huddled over our old radio — its antenna half-broken — with my father, words echoed and bounced off sound waves as if the reporters talked to us and their guests from opposite ends of a cave. With freedom of speech being censored, Radio Free Europe Station filled our hunger for true information — not the one formulated by the Romanian communist party full of lies and deceit.

The Romanian revolution unfolds

Freedom lies in being bold.— Robert Frost

A few days before Christmas of 1989, I was at home on winter break with my parents in Lugoj, the town where nothing happened, as I liked to joke.

As always, my father and I snuggled under the warm blanket on the queen-size sofa bed and turned on the radio. Words, such as a revolution, protests, demonstrators, and Timisoara floated around like darts whose main targets were our hearts.

My dad and I learned a revolution had started in Timisoara, the town where I had studied and lived in the dormitories together with four other girls since I was 14.

As we both realized the magnitude of the situation, I jumped up and down, shouting: “freedom, freedom.”

Within days, the protests spread across the country spread like wildfire. Although the Romanian army used water canons, fired at crowds, and clubbed many to death, no brutal force could contain the wrath of the Romanian people. We all wanted better lives!

The TV stations were shut off, but the only news I needed were the voices of the people. Against my mother’s pleas to stay safe inside our apartment, I convinced my father to accompany me to downtown Lugoj.

We didn’t have a car, so we walked from home to the center of town, where we joined the crowds. We shouted at the top of our lungs: “down with communism,” “down with the dictator,” “down with Ceausescu,” and “death to the criminal.”

While chanting those liberating words together with thousands of protesters, tears cascaded down my face as freely as the Timis River crossing our town. This indelible moment in time was bigger than all my wildest dreams about freedom. Yet, I was there with my dad, sharing this historical event that none of us thought would ever come.

Communist symbols and documents were burnt down.

At first, being one of the thousands in the protesting crowd felt like being a grain of sand at the bottom of the ocean. Yet, as hours passed, my father and I understood that we were part of history. We were fighting in the Romanian revolution, and I did not mind giving my life away for freedom if the army chose to shoot at us. Luckily, our small town only had one or two people who had lost their lives fighting for freedom — unlike bigger towns, where about 689 civilians had died.

I cried for the liberation of our country — tears of gratitude that we the people had spoken against oppression and had chosen freedom of speech, religion, and press after so many years of being under the heavy boot of the communist regime and its dictator.

For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others. — Nelson Mandela

My father and I kept going back and forth from our apartment to the town’s center. We would quickly eat whatever we found in the refrigerator, after which we returned to the revolution. We shouted anti-communist slogans with hoarse voices to regain freedom for our country and reenter the free world, such as Western Germany and United States, which we all admired from afar.

For a while, we didn’t know how democracy would be established in Romania, but soon the TV stations began showing us all the events as they were happening. Cities filled with feisty and fed-up citizens like us who were on the frontline of the revolution — their voices amplified as loudly as a rock concert that needs all the spectators to participate and join in the songs of freedom.

The Romanian revolution happened over the Christmas holidays, which the communists used to forbid us to properly celebrate in any religious way, of 1989. That was the year we became a free country for the first time in 42 years. We felt the true blessing and meaning of Christmas. We didn’t need to go to church surreptitiously— faith was free to all.

Back to school in a new, democratic Romania

The lesson of history is clear: democracy always wins in the end. — Marjorie Kelly

There was no email, cell phone, or social media in those times, so the best way to see my friends was at school.

Re-entering school following the holiday break and after living and fighting in the revolution felt exhilarating and uncanny at the same time, as we didn’t know what to expect from our high school’s new democratic rules. All we knew was that we could finally wear blue jeans to school, and that the dreadful, uncomfortable uniforms were gone!

Yeah! The freedom of blue jeans!

Returning to school felt like visiting a mystery house, since there were areas of our high school that we were not allowed to access. We explored every nook and cranny of our high school, as if afraid we would find old communist skeletons scattered around.

My classmates and I noticed right away that all our teachers were kinder, more polite, and not yelling commands at us anymore. Furthermore, the previously mandated “multi-laterally developed society” teaching, which basically meant that we had to be good in all subjects, including sports, arts, you name it, was gone from the curriculum.

Additionally, the white marble Victorian staircase was open to all of us. During communism, only the teachers were allowed to use these lavish, shiny stairs, while students were relegated to the dingy dark stairs.

Little by little, we understood that although conditions had improved, our democracy was as frail and unstable as a new puppy learning to run on wobbly feet. Corruption still survived and was hard to eradicate.

Soon after the excitement of wearing blue jeans, going to more Western-like dance parties, and having more choices wore off, I realized that the biggest freedom I had was to continue working hard towards making my dreams a reality.

Freedom was the art exhibit to which I was given multiple reentry tickets. And different colors and choices were good.

Meanwhile, I felt the stable ground underneath my feet.