Palace

They call it a palace but is more a sumptuous villa. I never knew where Nicolae Ceausescu, the Romanian dictator, lived in Bucharest. I knew that his residence was somewhere on some streets in the northern part of town, streets that were closed for the regular mortals. Policemen and barriers were blocking the access so we could not see where “the most equal among equals” lived.

But not that we had any interest to come near his lair. In Romania the strata of the society lived parallel lives that did not care one of the others. “They” only wanted from “us” to build their world and “we” stubbornly refused to do it. I found this dichotomy years later in Cuba, a world where the two classes live so far apart that you feel that they are not even in the same country.

I never cared about Ceausescu’s life. I was more interested in his death. So I never watched on TV documentaries about his residential villa in Bucharest invaded by revolutionaries in December 1989. And I never had any desire to visit the place from where he dictated the oppression acts upon his people. I heard stories about the gilded bathrooms that without knowing anything at the time I suspected that they were fake.

I walk a lot in Bucharest finding that places are so close apart that is better walking that taking a cab in the craziness of Bucharest traffic. By pure coincidence in one of my walks I found myself at the entrance of his palace/villa that was full of foreign tourists ready for a tour. On a whim I joined an English tour that carried us through all rooms, winter garden, sauna, the pool and the garden. All decorated in all sort of classical styles with remarkable works of art and mosaics made by famous Romanian artists.

At one point, an European tourist asked Jo, the English speaking Romanian guide – probably Ioana – how was life under Ceausescu. “Not bad”, she said “people were able to manage. Actually today about 50% of Romanian are nostalgic about those times.” I was shocked. I knew that there are people nostalgic of a time when the world made sense to them but how can you be nostalgic about the rest? About Securitate, about the prisons, about the torture, about the long lines for food, about the blackouts, the lack of heat in the house, about the lack of freedom, about the feeling that you were living in a jail. How can you be nostalgic about a life lived in servitude? I did not want to talk over her no matter that probably she deserved a retort but I wrote my views in their impression book.

There were people in Romania who asked me if after so many years I can reconsider Ceausescu as a patriot. Of course people compare him with the current politicians, an ocean of mediocrity and upstartism, uneducated but with high degrees and doctorate diplomas. Like Elena… Yes, Ceausescu was a patriot who tried a lot to implement his dream. The fact that he failed many times I find to be normal. But let’s not forget that he was a dictator who abused his people. A tyrant who was ready as it proved numerous times again and again, last time in December 1989 to repress and kill any opposition just for his regime survival. A nation is a collection memories and feelings of its people not a assembly of lands. Ceausescu invaded and sullied the people’s souls destroying their hopes, lives and feelings for an illusory dream. So, if I were to meet Ceausescu today, I would acknowledge what he tried to do for the land but next I would put a bullet through his head – again – for what he did to his people. No remorse.

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