Abstract
As we approach the 25th anniversary of the Berlin Wall’s demolition, Index talks with Generation Wall, young people who have grown up in countries that were behind that division between east and west
Above: A woman chips away at the Berlin Wall, November 1989
Photo credit: Justin Leighton / Alamy
Tymoteusz Chajdas discusses Poland past and present, and what freedom means to him and his country
The unpacking was always an occasion. But my parents have a particularly strong memory of the first time a package was delivered. When the postman arrived, Joanna opened the box and immediately started playing with the contents. “Balls. I’ve got so many! Come play with me!” It was the first time my sister had seen oranges.
“Balls. I’ve got so many! Come play with me!” It was the first time my two-year-old sister had seen oranges
This was the reality of that time. Poland became isolated from the rest of Europe when the Soviets erected the Berlin Wall in 1961. The ideals of liberty, freedom and democracy remained unattainable for an average Pole for the next 28 years. Some only experienced these ideals remotely by having family in the West, and occasionally receiving “samples” of what Western life was like.
Over on the eastern side of the wall, Poles couldn’t buy basic material goods easily, such as food or hygiene products. Large chunks of everyday life consisted of tedious searches and hours standing in long lines to buy essentials. Store shelves were frequently empty, and it seemed the only item always in stock was vinegar. Even if a product was available, it could only be purchased upon presentation of a ration card.
“Jerzy was devastated by this,” says my mother, Jadwiga, talking about her brother. In 1979, my uncle was invited by a friend for a three-week holiday in the Netherlands. After two weeks, Jerzy decided to stay on the other side of the wall. He applied for political asylum and never came back.
“He could stay there under one condition: he had to reject Polish citizenship,” she tells me. “So he did. Within two years he started sending us food and clothing.”
A few years later, another relative of ours emigrated to the United States. While the Berlin Wall divided Europe into two worlds, Poles could not reveal any connections they had with the West. It was around this time my father started his career at the Silesian Police Department.
“We started to fear our own shadows,” says my mother, remembering that having family in the West was both a blessing and curse. Any association with capitalist Europe posed a threat to the authorities of communist Poland and was seen as political espionage and violation of the communist ideology. “[Your father] had to renounce family members living in the West if he wanted to stay employed,” says my mother. “Our phone was tapped so we had little contact with them.”
Despite this, my family still received packages. Only those who worked two jobs or were communist party members could afford to live comfortably, so my mother had to lie about her income to cover up for the extra goods we received from relatives abroad.
Less privileged Poles had little or no understanding of what life looked like on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Jolanta Sudy, a high school teacher and family friend, remembers those times very well. She says the majority of Poles were victims of communist propaganda and were unaware of what was happening in their own country.
“As far as censorship is concerned, the Soviets presented the Eastern Bloc as an El Dorado where everything was perfect and no problems existed,” she says. The government spread its ideology through newspapers, magazines, books, films and theatre productions. Popular radio and television broadcasts were also censored and reinforced the views of the communist party.
Every year on 1 May, all Polish citizens were obliged to attend a street parade celebrating the International Worker’s Day. A register of attendance was kept.“It looked like a country fair or circus,” recalls Sudy. “Everyone was dressed up to show how joyful it was to live in Poland, how happy we were because of the socialist system. But the party stood above us with a whip.”
The elections worked similarly and attendance was also mandatory. Many saw them as an ironic spectacle organised by the authorities. The ballot paper featured only one name. “I always signed the register but I never put the card in the box,” says Sudy. “This was my battle with communism.”
Such oppression, constant fear and invigilation had a strong influence on the Poles. Some listened to Radio Free Europe, which broadcast unbiased news from Western countries.
In 1989 the situation changed drastically: the Berlin Wall was torn down.
“The store shelves filled up again with foreign goods,” says my mum. “Travel agents started organising vacations to other countries. This was very difficult before then.”
An invisible wall divides us into those who are too young to remember and those who suddenly woke up in a capitalist country
Some Poles found the change shocking. Sudy says that, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the amount of uncensored news was overwhelming. “It was hard to believe that we could have lived differently since the end of World War II.”
The overturn of the uniform culture of communist Poland gave birth to a cultural explosion which had skillfully been repressed by the Soviets. Free expression in the arts in Poland did not exist during the communist period, according to Kasia Gasinska, a 24-year-old graphic designer. Some Polish citizens listened to music from non-authorised radio stations but it was only “after the wall fell down that [Polish] art became liberated,” recalls Gasinska.
Gasinska says that Western music suddenly became available in Poland, and Poles set up new bands. “New music genres were introduced, such as rave or techno, which embodied the feeling of freedom shared by many at the time.”
The collapse of communism also brought with it one of the most powerful artistic forms – street art, says Gasinska. Many Poles made the journey to the remnants of the Berlin Wall where they could freely express themselves through graffiti.
Some Poles found the change shocking. After the fall of the wall, the amount of uncensored news was overwhelming
This expanded as an artistic movement to major cities in Poland. Lodz, the third largest city and a post-industrial centre, became one of many hubs for street art, famous for its colourful murals and playful graffiti that covered many bleak estates.
Polish cinema was liberated from communist propaganda as well. There were new movies that referred to the Polish romantic ideals of the previous epoch, as well as comedies and films that dealt with everyday life in the wake of the political transformation.
Today, the events that led to the dismantling of the Berlin Wall seem like a distant memory for many young Poles, myself included. I was born in 1990 and I only learnt about those times by listening to the stories my parents told. Some were scary, some funny. But mostly, they feel unreal, as does the idea of getting shot at for attempting to cross the western border.
Although the Berlin Wall was torn down 25 years ago, divisions can still be felt. An invisible wall divides us into those who are too young to remember and those who suddenly woke up in a capitalist country. Some made up for the lost time and found themselves in the new system. Others still tend to talk about the good old communist times when the pace of life was less hectic.
But even these Poles wouldn’t deny that the Berlin Wall has become a symbol of an unrealistic system, gradual economic decline and political oppression. Today, its ruins remind me of the adversities many eastern Europeans had to go through to experience living in a free, democratic country. Few remember that, at the time, only hope kept the Poles dreaming of a better life.
My mother told me that when she was a child, she received a present from her friend who was leaving for West Germany. “It was a pair of knee-high socks with blue and red stripes at the top. Today, I would say they were unsightly,” she says. “But back then, I wore them every day. Every time I looked at them, I promised myself that it was going to be better one day.”
Fighting for history
As other members of the Eastern Bloc flourished after the fall of the wall, the former Yugoslavia spiralled into disrepair, says our Generation Wall reporter
My father used to work as a cameraman for Bosnian television. On the day the Berlin Wall came down he was in their central Sarajevo newsroom watching it unfold live. “We were all cheering,” he says. The mood was good, initially. They were happy that Germany was reuniting. It was only later that they started to consider the other consequences.
One of my aunt’s strongest memories was seeing how pleased the whole of Europe was: “We thought East Germany was now going to blossom.” Beyond that, however, it was not an occasion that left a huge mark. “There weren’t any noticeable changes in everyday life,” she explains. “I’m sure there was a shift on the political level, but it did not have a day-to-day impact on the population.” My mother barely even recalls the day the wall came down.
“For me, a much bigger occasion was the day President Tito died,” recalls my aunt, with a smile. “I thought the Russians were going to attack straight away. I remember running home, waiting for the planes.”
Of course, the fall of the wall was not the most significant event of the decade for Yugoslavia. Less than two years after this historic act of demolition, the dissolution of the federation was under way. Volumes have been devoted to the reasons behind it, with the fight for the country’s history continuing long after the weapons were laid down. In hindsight, it is difficult to argue against the destabilising impact caused by the total breakdown of recognised world order – most obviously symbolised by the fall of the Berlin Wall – on the already fragile union. According to my father, the intelligentsia knew that this would have an impact on Yugoslavia.
War is the ultimate deprivation of freedom. The issue of freedom in the region since the war has been complicated, for lack of a better word. My family were relatively lucky as we escaped Sarajevo relatively early and settled in idyllic Norway when I was three years old. Hundreds of thousands of others fared much, much worse.
Above: Milana Knezevic as a toddler
Every now and then, I do experience that pull towards a home and a culture I never truly had the chance to call my own; a sort of immigrant-kid blues. However, I recognise that I am overwhelmingly privileged compared to many of my peers who stayed behind. Among the countless ways this privilege manifests itself, is the opportunity to observe the former Yugoslavia from the outside. I can use many words to describe what I see. Freedom is not one of them.
Twenty-five years after the fall of the wall, corruption on an endemic scale hinders any chance of meaningful growth in eastern Europe. A partisan and cowed popular press denies large sections of the public access to reliable information. The rights of minorities, notably Roma and LGBT people, continue to be trampled. Doesn’t sound much like freedom, does it?
In this context, special attention must be paid to Bosnia. Without dismissing the struggles they continue to face, most of the former republics have made some progress. Bosnia, meanwhile, has stagnated. Some might say this is to be expected. After all, Bosnia was torn asunder in a way the others simply weren’t. But after the war, a cocktail of misguided state-building and opportunist, nationalist and corrupt politicians have seen the country frozen in a post-conflict no man’s land for 20 years. Ethnicity-based separation was written into the constitution formed in the 1995 Dayton peace accords. This has manifested itself in a variety of ways, from a tripartite Bosniak-Croat-Serb presidency to segregated schools. The situation has been utilised by leaders in a cynical game of divide and conquer. While Bosnia may not have slid back, it has not had the chance to move on.
Among the biggest losers are Bosnia’s young people. My generation have been deprived of opportunities most of, if not all, their lives. Recent figures put youth unemployment at a staggering 63.1 per cent. A 2013 survey found that 81 per cent would leave tomorrow if given the choice. That’s not what freedom looks like to me.
Had I been writing this in 2013, that’s probably where it would have ended. As chance would have it, however, the 25th anniversary of the fall of the wall looks like it could be a year of change for Bosnia. Protests, peaceful but for pockets of vandalism, suddenly swept the nation this past February. The closure of yet another factory in the former industrial hub Tuzla was the spark. The flame spread and was sustained by the legitimate anger at the fundamental mismanagement of the country over 20 years, from both young and old. Let down by the political establishment and the failed strategies of the international community, the Bosnian people have taken matters into their own hands. A number of local governments, including the one in Sarajevo, have been overthrown and replaced by citizen assemblies, open for anyone to attend. The images from the meetings, spread across social media, are a remarkable sight and represent direct democracy in action.
A 2013 survey found that 81 per cent would leave tomorrow if given the choice. That’s not what freedom looks like to me
Bosnia has seen protests before, but never on this scale and never sustained for so long. With people still taking to the street daily across the country, the momentum is showing no signs of petering out anytime soon. The past 25 years have not brought with them much in the way of freedom for the Bosnian people. While I remain cautious of making sweeping conclusions, recent events give cause for cautious optimism that the next 25 will.