REVOLUTION DIARY

• •REMEMBER! December 21 - 25, 1989 The Great Young Revolution of Romania for the overthrow of the Odious Ceausescu's Communist Dictatorship PROLOGUE My name is Georgescu Claudiu, born in Bucharest on October 14, 1949, by profession a Principal Designer at the Design Institute for Metallurgical Industry
• •IPROMET
• •Bucharest. In the Atelier where I have been working for over 20 years, I have gained a reputation for being joyful, with a bitter humor towards this population of Romanians caught in a tight entanglement with the communist tyranny. My only weapon against the despotism and oppression of the dictator, in fact the only way of fighting in that current situation, were only some jokes about Ceausescu and his messy clan. This monstrous dictator had succeeded, after almost a quarter of a century of physical and moral shaming and constraints, mainly directed against the spirituality of the Romanian nation, to bring us in such a stage of wandering, ignorance and mistrust between us, that, although the whole nation was against him, and in the country there were small groups or individuals of resistance and sabotage, there was no question of a revolt of such magnitude as this spontaneous revolution was. In the many meetings, imposed by the collective ''Alaiul'', patronized in our Institute by the lackeys of the Party, at the huge popular gatherings for the ovation and glorification of the tyrant, myself and other colleagues with whom I shared the same opinions, joined and engaged in small forms of protest, by not chanting any incantation or slogan and categorically refusing to carry placards of any kind and portraits of the ''adoring one'', in most cases preferring to ''get lost'' along the way, to avoid being fed with shameless lies and stuttering addressed by the brilliant, most beloved and most sung, profane illiterate of the nation, when he used to tickle the ears of those still remained at the manifestations, kept by fear of afterward reprisals in case of absence. It was that priceless communist work ''Ceusescu's Opus 9''
• •in the interpretation of the choir ''Alaiul'' under the conductive baton of the incomparable agitators. I remember that at one of those great manifestations of adoration and glorification of the great hero of peace, organized in the Palace Square, I was asked by a communist servant, a person named Mantu, to take the portrait of the ''comrade'', codified NC (his wife was EC) in the language of the Party puppets. I refused categorically, saying that I couldn't stand even seeing him, neither carrying him around on my back. I told him that this task falls in my opinion, in the care of those on the same side as him, who may have various advantages for that. Of course, my position was reported to the higher levels, and for the following manifestations of the adulation of the beloved leader I have not been asked for this task anymore, on the grounds that I am ''a person who does not show confidence'' In my Atelier, in the Institute in general, there were people, big number, some with leadership positions in the Party assets, who were thinking like me and hoped like me for the coming day when this odious dictatorship will collapse, deep in our hearts feeling it closer with every hour, every moment. This belief led me to count myself in, on the tenth day of the 14th Congress of the PCR, among tens of thousands of people, brought as usual by the direct care of the management, in the great Palace Square. I was hoping to witness the first blow given to the tyrant, by not being re-elected as Partys General Secretary. At that monstrous announcement, made with mortuary solemnity, hitting painfully our ears by dozens of megaphones installed in the square, by the servant number one Manea Manescu telling us that unanimously voted, the master statesman, Ceausescu Nicolae was re-elected for the supreme position in the Party, as General Secretary, the entire mottled mass of people, made up of activists , patriotic guards, agitators, party secretaries, workers, intellectuals, militia and army, was engulfed in a grave of silence. No slogans were shouted, not a call for adhesion from anywhere. Only the loudspeakers could hear the puppets breathing in the room, a precise expression of the lie and falsity of the moment. The faces hardened in hatred and resignation of the people around me remained imprisoned in my memory. I wanted to chant right then ''Down the dictatorship'', but I realized the uselessness of this singular gesture that could be easily be neutralized by the security and military forces present massively in the square. They were prepared, in the event of a revolt, since fire trucks with water cannons were placed on the streets entering the Palace Square. I was mentally ill, I used my ''get-well days'' from work to recover from the shock, but seeing how quickly the flame of the uprising was spreading in the socialist camp, I was paying intens attention and I was ready at the slig