Social media as a platform for the court of public opinion is a risky business. There was a time when freedom of speech was meant to ensure that truth could prevail. Lately, fake news has become prevalent in our society. We are dangerously growing accustomed to it. Perhaps we need the transformative power of truth to help our society thrive and prosper again.
Change in the air
The year 1990 was an exciting time to be backpacking in Europe. The Berlin Wall was coming down. Travel was impacted heavily as East Germans were allowed to travel after many years of restriction. Pilgrimages to the Vatican were complicated by ongoing renovations to Italian railways. I was en route to Rome when, frustrated, I decided to improvise. With a first class rail pass and no itinerary, I took the train that was easiest to hop. I let it take me wherever it was scheduled to go. I ended up in Prague, which was at the time in Czechoslovakia.
Getting my bearings
It was exciting to peruse Wenceslas Square. Just months before I’d seen images of it on the nightly news. I recalled the evening scenes of candles and flowers gracing the protest signs. In November 1989, an estimated half million protesters assembled in Prague. All citizens of Czechoslovakia staged a two-hour general strike, forcing the top leadership of the Communist Party to resign. When I arrived there were large video screens in Náměstí Republiky blaring music videos as locals gathered — dancing, drinking, laughing — celebrating their new freedom from communism.
In need of new walking shoes, I went shopping. Instead of displaying their wares, most of the storefront windows boasted televisions. I observed what looked like news anchors speaking in a variety of languages. It had been awhile since I’d seen the news, so I scouted an American broadcast. I came upon a rather young Dan Rather and realized these broadcasts were archival. This was old news being replayed. It made sense that a country newly released from censorship would be hungry for news, but from the past? It seemed odd to me.
The mystery begins
The next day, I took to the streets intent on finding a museum. I noticed a long line of people waiting along the sidewalk. The line curved out of sight around a corner. Intrigued, I followed the line for not one, not two, but three city blocks. As I followed along I observed the people waiting. I could tell by the way they were dressed they weren’t tourists. These were locals. What were they waiting for?
And who am I?
The people in the queue also seemed curious about me. I’d been told I looked like a tourist. The night before, one of the local revelers in the square had remarked that I was obviously an American. I asked him why I didn’t appear to be perhaps, European.
He looked at me, sizing me up, then shook his head. “No, there is something fresh about you. You come not knowing. You have wide eyes. You are used to one way. Just the one way. And forgive me, but you look like a little girl.”
I was thirty years old. But when life is hard, people age much more rapidly. I had seen how quickly youth can fade when I was in Poland. His response initially amused me, yet I also found it made me uneasy. It was not how I pictured myself. Now, the sting of what he said spurred the little girl on.
The journey within a journey
I finally arrived at a large, impressive building. I smiled at the people waiting and asked if anyone spoke English. I received only curious looks and awkward smiles. I found a guard, but he did not speak English, Spanish, or French. I left deflated. I decided to write it off as an unsolved mystery.
The thing is, I can’t stand unsolved mysteries. I returned the next day. Unfortunately, still no English speakers. I returned each day until, finally, I found a guard who spoke English. He was a young man studying to be a writer. He was currently working on a play about the revolution. He was bursting with pride that their newly elected leader, Václav Havel, was a playwrite. Mastering the English language would enable him to write to a global audience. He was eager to speak with me to practice his English.
An odd party?
He explained that since the Velvet Revolution the occupants of this building had vacated. As he spoke, the massive doors opened to allow a small group of very merry people to exit. The guard excused himself as he counted the people leaving and then allowed the same number inside. While the doors were open, I was unprepared for what I heard: raucous laughter. Was it some sort of victory party? When the guard returned he gestured toward the long line. He told me that at closing each night they had to turn many people away. It was beyond me how people could wait so long and then not be admitted.
Profiling the crowd
During our conversation, I observed the people coming and going. I was intrigued by the difference in the demeanor of those emerging versus those waiting. The muffled, somewhat dour expressions of those waiting were a contrast to the lightheartedness of those leaving. I watched as a small group walked away from the building with a confident swagger. They did not seem giddy or drunk. They seemed oddly at peace and entirely satisfied. Based on what I saw, visitors appeared to be having a cathartic experience.
I noticed the guard seemed to brighten as he let people out, then immediately became more somber as he respectfully allowed those waiting to enter. He explained that the people had come to experience something deeply moving. He felt bound to pay his respects as they entered. When he realized the joy of those departing, he could not help but smile. Whatever awaited them inside was enabling some sort of transformation.
The psychological dance
The people needed a way to deal with the scars left by the communists. For many years, they knew their government could not be trusted to tell them the truth. This created a national sense of being out of step with the rest of the world. The guard cautioned me that having a suspicion you are being lied to, and actually knowing the truth are like night and day. Tall and handsome, with a gleam in his eye, he advised me that suspecting your lover is cheating on you, and then catching them with another... Well, he shook his head knowingly: two very different things.
He explained, “What you see with your own eyes, you know. It may be hard to deal with, but you are dealing with a known entity. The mind games work in a different way. First, they bait the hook. When it is something you want to believe, they use that desire against you so that you allow yourself to be convinced. Never mind that it is untrue. They help you talk yourself into it.
Then, when it is something you do not want to believe, they cripple you with doubt. They play on your fears. They convince you that some terrible thing is the only alternative to the lie they are forcing on you. It seems like a lesser of evils. Over time, you actually become their agent working against yourself.” He shook his head, “It is madness.”
What could be worse than madness?
The guard then posited that knowing you are being lied to, and believing you are not able to do anything about it is a type of “little murder.” I asked him what it was that was dying.
Taking a deep breath and gathering his thoughts, he continued. “Over time, to ease the tension of the conflict you find yourself in, you learn to take comfort in the lies. You actually make friends with them. The part of you that would fight this intrusion on your mind dies a little every time you allow it. The longer it continues, the more ‘little deaths’ occur."
"Finally you don’t feel you need to know anything but what you’re told. You don’t have the energy to fight it. Now, the lies are a part of you. It is a kind of mind control. And make no mistake, that is the end game. They win. It is not about the importance of the information that is manipulated. Any information will do. It’s that you accept whatever they say — not even as the truth — but as what you are willing to go along with."
"It doesn’t even matter that you don’t believe it. If you aren’t willing to challenge them, you lose. You allow them to lead the way on their terms. You put yourself at their mercy.”
The catharsis continues
Another group of emotional people emerged. I noticed a woman dabbing her eyes. I could not tell if they were tears of sadness or joy. When the guard returned he glanced toward the woman in tears. He explained that while the manipulations were just stories to the communists, to these people it was very personal. These were stories of loss and heartache. The lies were the foundation upon which the people endured losing their jobs, their businesses, their loved ones, their way of life — their dignity.
The guard’s mood grew dark and his face became taut. “The people blame the communists — they hate them — but now the communists are gone. There is no one to blame. All the work that must be done falls on those who are here now,” he shook his head slowly, “and there is much, much work to be done.”
The guard suddenly seemed tired, as if in that moment, the idea of rebuilding their society seemed overwhelming. He was old beyond his years. He must have been only in his early twenties, yet the strain showed on his face. His insights into the communists were sobering. Maybe the best way to understand freedom is to lose it.
To tell the truth
The guard explained that the exhibit was a continuation of what appeared in the shop windows around the city. Newspapers, government documents, television and radio broadcasts for major events that happened over the years were on display. The lies were juxtaposed to the truth, consistently told by a consensus of reporters, leaders, and experts from all over the world. Not only were there proof of the lies, but how they were engineered and propagated.
It made sense to me now. I realized the exhibit gave each person an opportunity to confront, if not the actual communist, at least their handiwork. This was a chance to stare down the lie itself. It is what the locals hungered for: to replace their own complicity with the lies of the past with bold statements of truth. General knowledge of the injustice was not enough. As the hurts and deprivations were personally experienced — so must the remedy be.
We're all in this together
A public exhibition made perfect sense as well. The crime itself was committed against the entire community. Society itself was humiliated. The same venue was needed to vindicate themselves. The lies had to be bared publicly. Everyone together must see the naked truth of the countless deceptions. Together they would share in the annihilation of what was once their collective mental and emotional prison. Hopefully, it would bolster their resilience against ever allowing it to happen again.
Anticipation of this experience was the salve that sustained those making this sacred pilgrimage. They were given a one-time chance to reclaim the pieces of themselves that had been lost over the years. It helped account for the lack of impatience of those waiting. It was a community process. Those who were inside were helping build the experience for those waiting to enter. And the laughter?
It's my party
The guard sighed loudly. He admitted the laughter surprised him when he first began his duty there. “Perhaps, a kind of release?” He shrugged. “Laughter and tears, in a way, they are the same? But it is good to laugh,” he nodded, “for there are surely more tears ahead.”
Several months after I returned to the States, I spoke with a friend who, on a travel assignment, had arrived in Prague just a week after I left there. He said that a sense of melancholy resignation had set in. No parties, no dancing, no music videos. In a word, the city seemed depressed. We both marveled at the difference one week can make. It also gave credence to the guard’s prophecy.
I appreciated the conversation I was able to have with this aspiring playwright. I began to leave when the guard lowered his voice. He leaned in toward me. I found this gesture comical considering it was unlikely anyone around us understood English. He advised me that a visit to my consulate would ensure I could enter the exhibit without waiting in line. They would bring me in as if I were a reporter. No one would question it.
A wave of uneasiness washed over me at the thought. It felt like crashing a funeral. I lied. I told him I was leaving the next day. I thanked him and began the journey back past the long line of hopefuls. At first, curiosity compelled me to look into their faces. Surprised at my own reaction, I quickly looked away. I began walking faster as a sudden sense of urgency overcame me. Now that I understood their mission, I shirked from the pain in their faces. I was unnerved by their drive to stare down what had subjugated them for so long. I was, after all, just a visitor. I hadn’t come prepared to make the journey that lay before them.
Photo courtesy of rawkkim on Unsplash.com
Glad you like the story, Kent. I'm afraid we're all on that journey now, like it or not... ready or not...
Fabulous story Leslie. I look forward to the next one. Are you prepared to make that journey now?
Poignant and revealing.