As the saying goes, better to die standing than live kneeling.
Trading Kents for the lives of children. And he said it without hesitation, without the pain and shameful truth it carried – that the guards cared more about nicotine than humans.
Sorrow. Anger. An expanse of emptiness that takes form as a separate entity living inside of you. It digs, takes root, and dwells there. And somehow, you know that even if it worms its way out, there will be no relief. If it leaves, there will be nothing left but charred remains, like the inside of a house torched by fire.
The State controls the amount of food we eat, our electricity, our transportation, the information we receive. But with philosophy, we control our own minds. What if the internal landscape was ours to build and paint?
You’re wrong. They steal our power by making us believe we don’t have any. They’re controlling us through our own fear.
This never knowing, it weakens us,” Bunu would say. “It’s a form of control. They know exactly what they’re doing.
When we don’t know the full story, sometimes we create one of our own. That’s what I had done. And that can be dangerous.
Mistrust is a form of terror. The regime pits us against one another.
If communism is Paradise, why do we need barriers, walls, and laws to keep people from escaping? A great question indeed. In the days ahead, let us not forget these sentiments as we reflect upon communism’s aim to create a man without a memory.
He had stolen us from ourselves, for himself. He had broken the soul of Romania and parched a beautiful country into an apocalyptic landscape of the lost.
I’ll take it. I’ll keep it locked in the box. Maybe we can trade it for medicine for Bunu.” Cici looked at me, displeased. “A Coke and a dollar. What’s going on, Pui?” she whispered. “Nothing,” I assured her. “Just good luck and bad luck.” Cici nodded slowly, suspicious. “Just remember, Pui, good luck comes at a price. Bad luck is free.
What is the cost of self-worth?
I didn’t yet know that sometimes in outwitting others, we accidentally outwit ourselves.
Questions. Why does she cling so tightly to questions? Why can’t she open her fist and let them fly away? Together with doctors, bishops, and priests, Sister Hortensia devotes her entire existence to the orphans. It is disrespectful to question their authority. Yet something nags at her. Hesitation. Doubt. She is ashamed by it, yet compelled to probe further.
We were marked “present” in attendance but were often absent from ourselves.
A revolution eats its heroes.
You know what, Cristian? Dante was wrong. Hell isn’t hot. It’s cold.
Better to die standing than live kneeling.
Sometimes we think we know. We’re sure we know. But we know nothing. Years pass and eventually, time becomes the unveiler of truth.
Should he look directly at them and acknowledge their sacrifice or look away and honor their dignity?