I grew up in Rimavská Sobota. When I was six, I fled from a tank for the first time.

It swerved in the street, sending paving stones flying.

As payback, they said, for someone giving bad directions. I remember that fear to this day.

Days later, tanks lined Gottwald Square.

One aimed its barrel at the crowd.

Again, payback for a stone thrown at a driver, they claimed.

People, me included, ran terrified.

I was scared.

After that, our father would remind us, “Don’t say anything, you never know who might be listening.”

We watched the news every night, tense and silent, not knowing what would come next.

Even children suffered under the regime.

My classmate, a top student, was told not to bother applying to medical school because her father spoke out against the occupation in ’68.

It was cruel.

Schools changed with each new order from the comrades.

We took the Iskra oath, became Young Pioneers, and later swore to Marxism-Leninism, not really by choice.

I came to see that the regime wanted everyone to blend in, to obey without question.

At work, it made little difference if you tried hard or not.

Pay was nearly the same.

The communists preached collectivism but didn’t realise we were learning to resist together.

I dreamed of becoming a painter but ended up in theatre.

At first it was only a hobby, until the KNAP theatre in Banská Bystrica showed me its power.

Theatre gave us a unique freedom.

Even though criticism of the regime was covert, the joy of being able to express it was boundless.

My first open protest was my Master’s thesis, “The Theatre of Life,” about how we wear masks,

especially under communism, when everyone had to appear trustworthy to the regime.

I concluded only people without masks should judge my work.

This caused an uproar. One party official wanted my thesis rejected.

Silence fell until Professor Plintovič said, “Let’s ponder whether this young man might be right.”

In the end, I defended my thesis with an A.

At the Rimavská Sobota theatre, I learned even a small stage can be a weapon.

We slipped in references to communism, sometimes subtly, sometimes openly, even in Alice in Wonderland.

The joy of speaking truth, however quietly, was immense.

When November came, Rimavská Sobota was ready.

Thousands gathered before the Public Security building, men with guns in the windows.

The organizers hesitated to speak—the crowd turned to me.

I stepped up, introduced myself, and began to read.

My hands shook, but I knew someone had to do it.

Looking back, I see a boy fleeing a tank, and later, a man with the courage to stand on stage.

Not everything turned out as we hoped.

But if not for that November, I would not be who I am today.