One of my sons suggested I write an essay about growing up in a communist country so Americans, including the current generation of American “democratic” socialists, can learn more about life behind the Iron Curtain, and perhaps would end up appreciating their own country more. I decided to give it a shot, and I ended up comparing my past life with my current American life.
It is different here in North America, at least it used to be until recently. You can be whatever you want to be (with certain exceptions, such as a Nazi, a member of the KKK, a jihadist even—as long as they espouse these ideologies without following up with actions), even Jewish! Not just Jewish, but openly Jewish. And that was new to me when I arrived in Toronto as a refugee from socialist Czechoslovakia.
I grew up in communist Prague, the capital of Czechoslovakia, a socialist country. My parents were Holocaust survivors who never got over their WWII experiences. My mother in particular did not recover from her experience of hiding from Slovak fascists and Nazi troops in the Slovakian mountains and witnessing atrocities. Today she would be diagnosed as suffering from PTSD.
In Prague, you did not talk about it, if possible. You did not mention that you were Jewish if some mention of Jews came up in a conversation. We, I mean my family, did not go to a synagogue and did not celebrate the Sabbath or any of the Holidays. But, to be honest, Catholics and other denominations kept out of sight and quiet as well. My parents did not tell my sister and I that we were Jewish until I was in the second or third grade, around 1961. The revelation did not come as a big surprise as my parents always discussed who was Jewish and who was not, who from their friends or acquaintances left for “Palestine” (a code word for Israel).
I remember how happy I was to find out that we were Jewish, and I did not hesitate to share this good news with my friends who were unimpressed. I think that it was in middle school when I learned that the communist regime was threatened by three enemies: American “imperialists,” German “revanchists” (who wanted to regain the lost Sudetenland), and, yes—you guessed right—“Zionists.”
Already then, in the ’60s, the Zionists were plotting! The Six-Day War of 1967 was a watershed moment for me. The anti-Semitic propaganda in newspapers, radio, and TV was incessantly toxic and I became a Zionist. I remember evenings and nights when my father was trying to tune into heavily jammed Western radio stations: Voice of America, the BBC, Deutsche Welle, and Österreichischer Rundfunk. The experience of the Yom Kippur War was equally traumatic—the hateful official propaganda, and difficulties getting reliable information.
Life in Prague was difficult in other respects as well. I felt always as the other—different from other kids in school and the neighborhood. I was well aware of the fact that I was the only kid whose parents did not have roots in what’s known today as Czechia. Czechs and the rest of people living in Czechoslovakia were very homogenous and parochial in those days. My mom was from Slovakia, my father grew up in Romania. And we were Jewish, living more or less undercover. Most kids had grandparents living in villages not far from Prague, while I did not. My parents, especially my father, learned Czech somewhat later in life. Their Czech, and mine as well, was perfect—too perfect. I was not familiar with many colloquial expressions. We all lived in a cage that opened once in a while and let a few people out for a few days, mostly to sister socialist countries, members of the Warsaw Pact. We would go to Romania because we had relatives there. Romanians had it worse—less food, less freedom, with beggars in the streets of Bucharest and on the trains. And that was even before Ceaușescu.
Things exploded with the Prague Spring in 1968. Suddenly you could travel to the West and you could be openly Jewish and free. And news reporting was objective. Of course, this did not last long. The Soviet tanks took care of that on August 21, 1968. After the invasion, people were hoping the Americans would come and liberate us, but that did not happen. However, Czechs stuck together for several more months and then gave up. Oppression came back. My parents who were journalists and writers lost their jobs and were harassed and interrogated by the secret police. Although their book of stories about interrelation between Jews and music came out in 1971, it was almost immediately confiscated. My parents speculated that its title, The Song for the Day of Atonement, did the book in.
I started medical school, and classes on communism and Marxism-Leninism were part of the curriculum. I was interested in research and was involved in projects at the genetics institute where I was recruited into their Ph.D. program that would start after my graduation from medical school. That never happened. After two or so years (medical school takes six years in Prague; it is a first degree after high school) I was told by the institute director that higher powers forbade my post-graduate studies. Why? Because I was Jewish. The director was very apologetic, after all his grandfather was Jewish, but nothing could be done.
I think that it was in middle school when I learned that the communist regime was threatened by three enemies: American “imperialists,” German “revanchists” (who wanted to regain the lost Sudetenland), and, yes—you guessed right—“Zionists.”
A few months after this exchange, our family was able to escape. And as a result, I did not have to take the medical school’s exam on “scientific communism.” I knew I could never pass it; until this day, I do not know what “scientific communism” is or was. We ended up in Toronto where I was amazed by the lively Jewish life—synagogues; Jews easily identifiable from their attire, who were freely attending services in these synagogues; Jewish day schools; kosher groceries and bakeries; and kosher restaurants. And Jews were not afraid of being Jewish. Amazing. I finished medical school, married my American husband, and we moved to the U.S. And for many years I enjoyed the freedom, not just to be Jewish, but to pursue a career I was interested in; where nobody told me that being Jewish disqualified me from getting a Ph.D. or becoming a pathologist, and where there was complete freedom of access to books, newspapers, and now social media. Because we have been living in a Southern college town, we did not have a Jewish day school. So the kids went to “regular” schools wearing kipot (yes, we have three boys) and taking off for Jewish holidays.
As life went on, I became American and felt free to express my opinions and to be Jewish, though I still am not able to flaunt it. And this is the meaning of America—you can be what you choose to be, even Jewish. And you can travel around the world, then come back and still be an American. You can move around the country, and nobody will prevent you. You are free to do it. And free to do many other things. This is America at its best: welcoming, self-reliant, tolerant, taking you in.
I also appreciate how friendly and helpful Americans are, though this is connected with a certain, many times endearing, naïveté and ignorance about the oppressive conditions under which people in many countries live. That might be one reason why some Americans, including college students, express their dislike—if not hatred—of America and their support of socialism and radical Islam.
Perhaps a week spent in China or in Gaza would open their eyes, and they would appreciate being welcomed back home by passport control officers.
