I was born in Trnava. My father believed in communism, my mother believed in God.

I remember trying to find my own way between them.

As a child, I did everything they asked of me. As Young Pioneers, we collected chestnuts and helped the elderly. It was nice, but it just felt empty.

When I was 16, I went on a rock climbing trip.

We were sitting by the fire in the evening, and someone sang a Karel Kryl song.

I remember sitting there and thinking, how can someone have the courage to sing something like that?

That’s when my bubble burst.

When I went to university, people were afraid.

We whispered about banned books so no one would overhear.

In public, we stayed silent, truths kept to ourselves.

No one could live like that for long. And then November came.

I remember how we huddled together by the locked auditorium.

We heard students had been beaten in Prague. We were scared, but couldn’t back down.

On campus, the students wrote the first appeal against the regime.

Later, they read it sentence by sentence, each person only a small part.

When the auditorium opened, officials gave their speeches from upstairs.

We refused to stay silent. I stood up, went to the microphone and said: ” I am ashamed of you.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then everything moved quickly. Students wrote appeals, put up posters, called friends.

The leaflets still smelled of fresh ink when students handed them out in front of factories.

People took them and smiled. That smile was our first freedom.

Soon came the general strike and the regime fell.

I remember the joy as the squares filled.

Since then, I’ve believed change comes not from politicians, but from people who stop being afraid.

That’s how it was in November 1989, and that’s how it can be today.