Our Iron Curtain

I've always been a little more sympathetic to the Communist ideology than my American friends. Maybe it's because history has treated my family better than most in China. But sometimes, I tend to forget that Communism is not about Mao's mausoleum in Beijing, old photos from my waipo's younger days, or my fashion totes.

Instead, it's about this.

We visited the House of Terror in Budapest. We saw the torture chamber where the political prisoners were interrogated for their affiliations with groups aiming to overthrow the Communist regime. We touched the cell walls where hopeless men have clawed through their desperation.

 

 

An excerpt from a documentary in the background:

Old Man 1: You can forgive but you can't forget.

Old Man 2: But you have to forget, no?

Otherwise there is no way to forgive. 

These young men came with their ideals. 

And their executioners.

Why, why?

This was their socialism.

Oh God, how could they have done this . . . and still believe?

People still put flowers on the ledge outside the House.

  

If he had lived, he would probably be a handsome intellectual 

who was constantly holed up in a cafe writing books.

Or a Hungarian Elvis slash Grease front man.