When the Czech delegates left for Čierna nad Tisou at the end of July to meet with Soviet potentates, Literární listy accompanied them with a text by Pavel Kohout titled “A Dispatch to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia.” This appeal reminded me of our recent and not overly encouraging history:
All the more eagerly did our nations welcome socialism, which liberation brought us in 1945. It was an incomplete socialism because it gave its citizens neither civil nor creative freedom. We began obstinately to seek it out, however, and started to uncover it after January of this year.
The moment has arrived when our country once again has become a cradle of hope not only for our nation. The moment has arrived when we can present the world proof that socialism is the only genuine alternative for all of civilization.
The dispatch went on to condemn the unacceptable pressure of socialist community spirit and appealed to the representatives of the party in the interest of our shared country and progressive forces on all continents to protect socialism, alliance, and sovereignty, and presciently pointed out that any use of force will strike our judges as well like a boomerang, it will destroy our efforts, and, primarily, it will leave a tragic blot on the idea of socialism anywhere in the world for years to come.
In order to understand this impassioned declaration of Socialist faith, we must enter into the tense atmosphere of the time. The Soviet leadership intended to halt, perhaps with force, the renewal of at least a few civil freedoms. The citizens sensed this. Thousands of Communists and others signed declarations. Suddenly the dream was revived that we were creating history, that our deeds were obtaining some sort of higher meaning.
For the first few days after the unbelievably massive invasion of the Soviet army, thousands of unarmed citizens tried to restrain the Soviet tanks and explain to the unknowing and manipulated soldiers that they were being abused, that what had been happening for the last eight months in Czechoslovakia was supposed to benefit socialism, not do away with it.
During these brief eight months, hopes for change for the better flared up. They even took (at least for many) the form of a dream of the fusion of democracy and socialism, despite the fact that history had shown that such a fusion was almost impossible.
Life in Subjugation
Our small country has been repeatedly afflicted with waves of emigration. The first big wave, following the 1620 defeat at the Battle of White Mountain, is half forgotten. But even then, it was the elites who fled the country.
Only in the last century have there been several waves of emigration. The first preceded the Second World War when, first from the republic and later from the protectorate, the leading democratic politicians, but especially the Jews, fled. (Most who did not manage to escape were murdered.) The second wave of emigration — more precisely, forced expulsion — affected almost three million Germans who (like their forefathers) had been born and lived in the territory of the republic. The next wave followed the Communist takeover when, within a brief period before the borders were closed, around fifty thousand people left the country. And after the Soviet occupation, more than a hundred thousand people emigrated. As is common in such cases, it was the more able and educated who left, those who believed that they would find greater opportunities in a freer world.
If we imagine society as a powerful body with a complicated circulatory system, then these waves represent huge bleeding wounds that are difficult to stanch.
But what does emigration mean for each individual?
Perhaps it is better to call emigration for political reasons escape from probable persecution, imprisonment, or even execution based upon a concealed verdict delivered by a manipulated court. It differs from normal relocation — that is, economic emigration. At the decisive moment, when a person crosses the border, whether legally or surreptitiously, his action appears as final and its results appear as irrevocable. A person on the lam must admit that unless the political situation changes in his country, he will never be able to return. He will never again see the places where he spent his youth, and he will probably never see his relatives and friends. With the exception of the displaced Germans, he knows he is leaving forever the home where he can best make himself understood in the language he has spoken since childhood. Emigration from a country that limits rights and freedoms offers the émigré more rights and better opportunities, but it also requires sacrifice, which to some might seem incidental, but to others might mean lifelong trauma.
Those who leave are, even if they refuse to admit it, surrendering a part of their soul. In more sober terms, they are interfering with the emotional ties that form the integrity of their personality. There will be some who seek out their compatriots and a certain nostalgia. At times they will recall their former homeland with satisfaction. Others, on the contrary, will avoid everything that might remind them of their former homeland and try to merge with the new society as quickly as possible; to achieve success, perhaps even property; to forget about both their previous home and their native tongue; to convince themselves that all their emotional ties were dispensable.
After the Soviets violently entered Czechoslovakia, for almost a year it was relatively easy to leave the country. Even during the first days after the occupation, the borders were open, and entire families were permitted to depart. Many abandoned property, employment, and even their country with the firm justification that they were leaving primarily for their children. At least they would grow up under free conditions. Of course, many of those who remained, or even returned to an occupied country, had children as well. Was their decision, therefore, bad or selfish?
We know that children quickly adapt to a new environment and a new language. They will accept the new country as their homeland. Nevertheless, even they are forced to break all previous ties. They are deprived of grandparents and other relatives, and if they are old enough to perceive their homeland, they lose that also. And what if the parents love their native land, their town, their language, their country and want to raise their children so that they have essentially the same values? Wouldn’t emigration leave a spiritual or physical burden on the children as well?
Parents make decisions for their children until they are old enough to choose their fate themselves. It is possible that when they grow up, they will reproach their parents or, on the other hand, praise them. But the decision whether to or not stay is the parents’.
For many of those who left, the free conditions helped them apply their gifts and abilities. Others were overwhelmed by their new reality, the new conditions in which they felt themselves uprooted. After the Bolshevik Revolution, most Russian emigrants incorporated themselves into their new environment only with difficulty and, for the most part, never learned the language of the country that had offered them asylum.
For many, freedom that they do not earn becomes something foreign and false. If a person is threatened with almost certain death, as the Jews were during Nazism, the decision to leave or remain is a false dilemma. It is different for a person whose life will most likely not be imperiled.
In a country that suppresses freedom, each citizen has the right to freely decide which of his values are more important. One can say: I do not want to live under these degrading circumstances and will do everything to escape them. One can also say: They are depriving me of most of my rights, but I will not allow myself to be deprived of my home and everything that goes with it. Therefore, I will stay.