by Galya D. Bacheva
One ought take notice when some thing big happens.
November 1989. My country overthrew the communist regime, like many others. The communist leader that I had constantly been seeing on the news was now sitting numb in front of the cameras, looking drugged. Other people had the floor, speaking of change and progress. At age fifteen, I couldn’t have cared less. For lack of a better choice, though, I observed all that—the two channels on the only TV set in our apartment kept rolling the same story. Sigh.
My parents’ attention was riveted on the news. I was not sure how they felt about the new status quo because all their lives they had known that saying anything against the Communist party is not the smart way to go. It was only days later, after the news had been continuously confirmed, that they timidly expressed relief. Politics was usually not discussed in our home anyways, but even if they said something that night, I probably ignored them. As usual. Yet I gradually realized that this change was a great thing. The years rolled by and I enjoyed going to disco clubs that played western pop and rock music, and wore legally sold blue jeans without having to explain how I had gotten them. What perfect timing, this had worked out so well for me!
Once I finished school, I applied to university. To my parents’ dismay I got admitted into the best university in the country, which meant I would move to the capital city. Though very proud of my achievement, they had no idea how they would manage to support both me and my older sister, who had already commenced her studies three years earlier. Our country’s economy was progressively going down and there were times when dad would not even get his monthly pay. At all. But there was no stopping me—off I went, eager to conquer knowledge! “I’ll work!” I promised mom and dad. And work I did. I changed jobs every semester, because in those days no employer would give me time off to study for exams. They just kicked me out, though the law said otherwise. Adhering to the law was not in vogue at the time. Chaos had overcome the country. Unlike most post-communist states already governed by center-right political parties, Bulgaria was still in the grip of what was called the modernized socialists. The economy plummeted, prices skyrocketed, and racketeering was all over the place. Things were steadily going from bad to worse. There was a semester when I worked in a bar and my pay was almost double my father’s engineer salary. If he ever got it, that is.
I must have been quite rich because I remember having a beer with my friends from time to time. That often meant I had to skip lunch, but beer is made out of grains, isn’t it? We also got to visit the coast for a weekend sometime in the summer of 1994, as we were nearby working on an archaeological site. Being in the Archaeology program meant that we had to attend student practices every summer—how cool is that? So, one Friday after work my friends and I persuaded the director of excavation to let us disappear for the weekend. We would bring back some seashells, we promised. We buzzed off on Saturday, unsure how exactly we were going to swing it. Paying money for anything was out of the question—the five of us together barely covered gas expenses and had something left for a bite to grab. Yet jumping in the sea is free, and so is being young and reckless. We enjoyed the afternoon on the beach, and only started to worry about accommodation when the sun went down. We sat on a curb in the middle of the resort, chatting and having a great time. Somehow it would work out, we were sure of it. My friend Giovanni had a very loud laughter, and he was never shy to use it. So it came as no surprise that most passers-by gave us looks of disapproval.
As it happened, though, two old friends of Giovanni’s walked by, recognized his howl and darted to us, shooting questions about what we were up to. “We arrived today and have nowhere to stay,” we explained, laughing our heads off. “We might have to sleep on the beach,” someone concluded. More laughs. Camping nearby, Giovanni’s friends invited us to join. They had an A-frame tent and a couple of sleeping bags, what else would we need? Positioned transversely to fit in, four people slept in the tent. Their legs ridiculously stuck out to one side. Another friend crashed in the car, while the last two of us shared a sleeping bag under the open sky. It was beautiful. All the stiffness in the morning notwithstanding, we truly had a blast.
So life went on somehow. People are resilient creatures, especially the young. I remember one night my cute boyfriend and I begged a shop assistant to let us in seconds before closing, because we needed to buy condoms. How we got the money for that is inexplicable, but we did, and we were happy to spend it. The amused lady let us have it our way and chuckled behind our backs as we were exiting the store, holding hands and grinning. In our early twenties, nothing could swerve us from enjoying life.
Well, almost nothing.
January 1997. There was hyperinflation, banks had gone under, a loaf of bread cost hundreds, a kilo of cheese two thousand. The average salary equaled five American dollars. We were living a nightmare. Already in my fourth year of studies, I knew a good bunch of bright people. One day we held a meeting and talked business—enough was enough. It was time to take a stance and fight for change—we wielded the power of young age, after all! Our plan was to join a protest that had been organized by the right-wing party for January tenth. There had been many of those—to no avail. We decided to position ourselves in front of Parliament building and wait for the procession of protesters there. It was important to us that we took a stand not as politically-involved citizens, but as independent ones, the educated, the students. So we formed a human chain around Parliament building in the morning of January tenth.
It was quiet. Holding my friends’ hands, I looked around. The strong of the day were clearly prepared to deal with the legally announced peaceful protest. Sturdy military vans were positioned all around the open space surrounding Parliament building. Officers armed to the teeth could be seen through the small rectangular side windows of the vans. They had dogs too—German shepherds, beautiful animals. We wondered what all that was for, and we were bound to find out soon enough.
We wanted the government’s resignation, period. As expected, for the first couple of hours nobody came out to talk to us. Well, we thought, they are not willing to let go—what else is new? Yet we would not give up. We stamped our feet and blew on our hands, trying to keep the spirits high by talking about our bright future. Little by little crowds of passers-by appeared all around us. A Social Services van showed up and started handing out hot tea and sandwiches. A bit before noon the protesters arrived and the heart of town was now flooded with people shouting “Resignation!”
In vain.
At some point later in the afternoon, however, we noticed movement at the entrance. There was hope! Maybe they had been deliberating how to proceed and hopefully they had by now realized that this was the point of no return. A national strike had been announced and sooner or later they would have to resign. To our surprise, though, the “representatives of the people” got into their expensive cars, ready to leave. A line of police officers had been formed to stand between us and Parliament building, and some talked to us. “I understand what you stand up for, kiddos,” one of them told us, “but I have a family to support. Please go home,” he said quietly, “we would have no choice in case an order is issued to scatter the crowd.” His brows furrowed, and he added: “Even by using force.”
We did not believe it. Soon enough, though, the police pulled down the front pieces of their helmets and started ramming the batons into their shields. What had we done to provoke that?! It was only later that we found out. The ministers had simply wanted to leave the building and go home. Their working day was over, and it would soon be time for supper. So, the police had to clear their way out one way or another. We still could not believe it. We had missed thousands of decent meals by now and nobody had ever been held responsible for that. Let alone beaten.
I was in the third line facing the police, so the first blows did not get me. The young woman standing in front of me, though, they got right in the head. They cracked it open. Petrified, my friends and I hunkered down to help. There was blood, but the girl was conscious. We pulled her up and supported her until we reached the back lines of the crowd. Shouting at people to call an ambulance, my best friend headed for the front line. She was a feisty one! A single mother juggling with parenthood and student life at the time, she had left her toddler with her own mother to come to the protest and seek a better future for her child. “Don’t go, you have a son!” I screamed, pulling on her arm, the roar of the crowd drowning my voice. This was not what we had come for. It was pointless to get beaten. There were better ways. Luckily, she succumbed, so we left.
As we were exiting the battleground, our gaze followed the line of luxurious cars moving away, leaving behind the mess of screaming people and attacking officers. The crowds were enraged now, so people started fighting back. There was violence everywhere, and in only a matter of hours it was announced that the protesters had started it. That added insult to injury. The Parliament building was stormed and ravaged that night, and though we did not identify with the people who did it, deep inside we knew the government had had it coming. As I watched the news, I was filled with rage and resentment against everything that had been and was still going on. So I knew I was not going to give up. None of us were. But we would do it the right way.
From then on we protested every day. Meeting at 10 a.m. on campus, we the students marched downtown to join the countless crowds of anti-communist protesters. It was cold—January is the coldest month in Bulgaria. But we walked in the cold. We walked on the ice. We walked through snow and wind, hours on end every day for almost a month. We blocked roads and people could not get wherever they were trying to go, but most of them encouraged us. We saw people waving at us, shivering in the coldness of halted public transportation vehicles, their eyes brimming with tears. We heard other ones cheer from their balconies, holding flags in their freezing hands. We thanked the ones who came down with pots of hot tea, calling each of us “my child.” Some cried.
It turned out that jumping helped against the cold, so soon the slogan “He who does not jump is red” came into existence. Red being the color of communists. So, every once in a while, when somebody could not take the cold anymore, they shouted out “He who does not jump is red.” Like an enormous squirming snake, the whole procession was suddenly jumping, chanting the slogan and laughing. I guess we were making lemonade out of the lemons life had served us. There was a lot of jumping, as our lemonade was icy cold.
Since there was no verbal communication with the objects of our protests, we started wearing signs. One has particularly stuck in my memory—numbers, pinned to the front of every working person’s coat, like veterans’ medals. Each sign said how much that person’s monthly salary equaled in US dollars. As a student I did not wear one, but my sister was being paid something by her Ph.D. program. Her sign read “USD 3.” In all fairness, people who had already completed their studies were being paid five dollars, naturally. That was normal for anyone involved with academics. Bartenders, of course, got more—I knew that first-hand. There had always been true values under communist rule.
On February 4th1997 the government resigned, and we thought it was over. Not quite, but it was the first step towards sanity. Bulgarian communists proved to be tough cookies, so they managed to mess up the country a few more times. Nevertheless, whenever right-wing parties won the elections, they pointed us in the right direction. Things went back and forth and somehow, we never got rid of the mobs of corrupt politicians and people who had acquired wealth in suspicious ways. There is still a lot to be desired, but at least we have decent houses and decent jobs now. My salary equals more dollars, and my country is a member of NATO and the EU.
Today my friend’s son can afford to travel and study abroad. I myself have a fifteen-year-old boy. We have two TV sets, but he does not watch the 170+ channels available on either of them. Instead, he binge watches YouTube videos in his room and a lot of the time he ignores what I say. He is ambitious and wants to apply to university abroad, and though I am not wealthy I will do whatever it takes to support him as best I can. He has already declared that he will work during his college years, and he’d better! He will need the money to go shopping at night and visit the coast, though I do not want to know the nitty gritty about all that. But if he ever decides to stand up for the right cause, I will be there for him with a pot of hot tea in hand.
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