It must have been sometime after November 24, 1989. The head of class XII C, comrade Elisaveta Khurezyanu (a member of the party even before birth), conducted a political education lesson with us and, breathing heavily, told us about her impressions of the XIV Congress of the PKR. She was transported as she told us what Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu had “reported” to the delegates; then she allowed herself her own interpretation to “bring us down to earth,” as she put it, and “wake us up to reality.” As far as I remember, he said this: “And Tovarashu said clearly, with subject and predicate, that he is waiting for young people in the field of work! Did you hear that? In the field of work! In other words, you are not going somewhere, but wherever your motherland asks you to go!”

“Into the mine!” Alin’s voice was then heard. It was a total shock. Alin was the quietest classmate, moreover, probably the quietest man of my generation. During the four years we were colleagues, almost no one heard him say a word. He spoke only when he was brought to the blackboard, but even then he spoke telegraphically, as they learned, and the teachers left him alone, because they were more sorry to hear him (they were not used to such a system). speaking, Romanians are generally very talkative creatures). The female conductor remained speechless, but, I confess, we, Alin’s colleagues, were also: stunned. Alin spoke! And he didn’t just talk, he said… what? He said that the supreme head of the party, the state and the republic is a bastard! And that his modest dog, Elizabeth’s companion, was also a bitch!

The story is no longer interesting. The communist did his number, sharply reduced the wear mark (but after December 22, he crossed out the seven from the catalog and put a ten in its place. This is how history is written!), the revolution came, I met Alina on the street. the streets of Bucharest, we were silent together for a while, and then we did the Revolution separately; we graduated from high school in June 1990, and the entire teaching staff said “Goodbye”, when they saw that they got rid of us, then life swallowed us all. Alin opened one of the first accounting firms, earned and earns very well, remained as quiet and unchanged, in fact. He has nothing to say, at least to me. When he had something to say, he said it. Then in 1989 in the class of political education.

For the youth: high school graduates who failed the entrance exam were drafted into the army. And the instructions of Congress were clear: the main duty of the army was to work, not to teach. Soldiers, therefore, were used as a labor force, or rather as a force free jobs: during military training, my cousin worked day and night on the construction of the Turchen thermal power station, and he could consider himself a little lucky, because most of them were sent to the fields and the mine. He dug corn with a hoe, loaded carts with a shovel. This would have been waiting for me as well, if the revolution had not come. Slaughterhouse!

In the debate that degenerated, the writer Ion Plesha claimed that his generation had made a revolution. I argued that my generation did (leaving aside the awkward aspects of the discussion where everyone “inflates” their own contribution as much as they can!).

Here is the question: who made the revolution? Take your time with the answer. Think!

I can say with my hand on my heart who is NOT: a village and a small town. People there watched TV and got drunk. Who did NOT do this before: the nomenclature, the army, and bureaucrats (officials of all ranks). Others who did NOT revolutionize: a very large part of the working class (Valea Giului, a living example).

After I thought a little more and argued (mentally, because he hung up on my nose) with Ion Plesha, I ventured to give the following answer (temporary anyway): The revolution was made by the desperate and oppressed, plus a small part of the intelligentsia and workers. I was in despair, because my shepherds were me. Ion Monoran, the hero from Timisoara, was demoted; Dan Marcian, a former resident of Bucharest, was also demoted (but in a different way). There were many intellectuals, I will dwell only on Horia Roman Patapiyevich and Florin Yar (not out of the kindness of my heart, but because these two names evoke blind hatred in many people, which brings me great pleasure. I adore dogs that bark until they drown in their own foam!). There were again many workers, actually those who resisted in Timisoara for so many days, but as always, it is difficult to find them by name and surname. With workers… the story is always a whore. – Read the rest of the article at contributors.ro