Walking into my father's prisons, Jilava and
Aiud, the cells completely submerged in darkness and bone-chilling
dampness, reading the records of his admission to the prison infirmary
with fractured ribs and "bruises from hammer applied to fingers", I
understood what I could not have understood before.
When he left home, the car stuffed with placards and Aiud, the cells completely submerged in darkness and bone-chilling
dampness, reading the records of his admission to the prison infirmary
with fractured ribs and "bruises from hammer applied to fingers", I
understood what I could not have understood before.
leaflets, my father knew what he was returning to. Yet he had no choice.
For him the family was his country and the country was his family. If
he did not fight for everyone else, he could not have hoped to put food
on our own table. Or a shred of dignity in our lives. He left us out of
desperation and moral conviction.
He protected us by saying nothing to us. But you can only
understand this by going into the prison rooms where he suffered. And by
standing next to him while he shouts that he has no memory of receiving
beatings that fractured his ribs, even though you face him, with the
radiography record trembling in your hands. This is the side of heroism
no-one likes to talk about, not even him. But it is the face of heroism
that now makes me proud.