FREEDOM AND THE BATON: THE FIRST CHRONICLE OF THE ROCK GENERATION

At the end of August 1988, Romania (Eastern Europe) groaned under the weight of an increasingly suffocating communist regime—one in which Ceaușescu felt threatened even by the electric guitar’s rebellious riffs. There we were—Angelo and I, George—sitting in a grim Ceaușist Militia (police of the communist regime) outpost, face to face with a dictatorship trembling at the raw freedom carried by a single, metallic sound. We loved rock—everything from the warm melodies of The Beatles to the relentless force of Metallica. We were the Rockers, the fans of ‘Metal.’ “You’re fascists!” shouted a captain, pointing indignantly at the name Twisted Sister boldly printed across our vests. “You’re Nazis!” snapped the major, his superior, jabbing a finger at our T-shirts—one bearing the Master of Puppets (1986) album cover, the other with lyrics from Welcome Home (Sanitarium), our soul-song. To them, we were ‘enemies of the people.’ Of the communist people, that is—because the real people would’ve roared back, without hesitation: Encore!

The Words

“I see our freedom in my eyes”—a lyric from Welcome Home (Sanitarium). Words like freedom, honor, glory, courage, and unity rang through rock music, especially the Metal subgenre we held so close to our hearts. Words that were forbidden—because they embodied precisely what the communist regime feared most. They defied, outright, the dogma of “communist ethics and fairness,” which demanded: no independent thought, no control over your own destiny—only blind obedience and total adherence to the teachings of the Communist Party, especially the “precious directives” of Ceaușescu. And yet, these Words echoed exactly what we, the Rockers, felt and believed. That made us their enemies.

And maybe—through the regime’s eyes—something even more dangerous. Because we weren’t an organization. We had no leaders, no structure, no hierarchy. We were free-floating electrons, pulled into orbit by rock music and the power of its message. And that made us unstoppable. Untouchable. Neither the Secret Police (Securitate) nor the Police could figure out how to kill off the “Rocker-mania.” What started as copying the outfits of our favorite rock stars became something more— a symbol, a parallel world. A way of life, defined by those forbidden words. And in Ceaușescu’s “Golden Age” Romania, that meant something radical: A quiet, but relentless act of rebellion. And into that world, wide-eyed and fired up at fifteen, we stepped.

Love at First Listen

At the end of 1985, George and I—Angelo—were freshmen at Mihai Viteazul High School in Bucharest. Magda, our classmate, had a pair of mesmerizing green eyes and a burning passion for the bands Compact and Holograf, both wildly popular at the time. Hoping to get closer to her, we started listening to them too—and to our surprise, we actually liked what we heard. We even went to one of their concerts together, where we sang and danced to the biggest hits of the moment.

The real revelation of the evening was the band Iris. With a harder-edged rock sound, in the style of Metallica, they lit up the stage with an electrifying performance. Hundreds of fans knew every lyric by heart and shouted them from the depths of their lungs, frenetically mimicking the guitarists’ moves. For us, it was love at first listen. At the next concert, we dressed like proper Iris fans. A few people stopped us and asked, “Who are you with?”—as in, which band do you support, what rock “camp” do you belong to? From our hesitant answers, they instantly realized we didn’t know much—about the music or the lifestyle. That’s when, with a solidarity that felt almost ritualistic, they gave us a direct initiation:

“We are the Rockers. What binds us is a deep friendship—beyond words. We live rock, live Metal, as a way of life—one in total opposition to what the Communist Party preaches. Our values are freedom, glory, honour, courage, and unity. They guide us in every moment. So does our salute.”

But know this: the Party hates us.  We are its most dangerous enemies. The Police hunts us, stalks us. And when they catch us, they beat us— not for what we've done, but for who we are. But we don’t back down. On the contrary—we grow stronger. So they asked us: “Do you really want to be like us?” And our answer was a resounding “Yes!” Spoken with every fiber of our being, with our voices and our souls. From that moment on, our lives took a new turn— a life lived under the sign of Metal.

Metal and the Creed

Forty years have passed since then. Metal has been our companion through every twist and turn of life— a soundtrack, yes, but also a creed. Its values, its power guided us, strengthened us. It gave us the will to resist teachers who tried to mold us into loyal servants of the Party. And more than that—it gave us the courage to grind down the regime’s so-called “practical activities” for schoolchildren into dust (see "School Praftica in Communism" and "Children, Education and Forced Labour" on this blog, under the Communism section). After Ceaușescu fell in the Revolution, we both built strong careers in Romania. But in the 2000s, frustrated by the sluggish pace of the democratic transition, we left. We started new lives in new corners of the world— George in New Zealand, I in France. And the Metallic torch burns on. Our children carry it proudly. Mine are grown now, and in a delightful role reversal, they share today’s best Metal bands with me. George’s kids—still young, 11 and 14—already show signs they’ll walk the same path. Maybe even surpass it. Watching them grow, discover, we remember ourselves— how we made the leap from Rock to Metal in just a few months. And how, without knowing it, we found our purpose.

The Road to Metal

From our first brush with the Rocker world, we found ourselves surrounded by kindred spirits—others like us. We met again and again—in parks, at friends’ homes—uncovering a universe that lived at the edge of communist society and, at the same time, stood in fierce contradiction to it. It was alive. Unpredictable. Every moment felt like an act of freedom. We were just a couple of curious teens—sponges soaking up everything: stories, wisdom, music. At first, we were mesmerised by legendary guitarists: Jimi Hendrix, Carlos Santana, Jimmy Page, and the epic grandeur of Led Zeppelin. But over time, we craved heavier, rougher sounds— and made our transition from Rock to Metal. After all these years, we’re no longer sure when or why it happened exactly— but one song always returns: “Breaking the Law” by Judas Priest. It hit us not just with its razor-sharp riffs, but with the realization that we too were breaking the “law”— the law of communist values. Maybe listening to it, we thought: If we’ve chosen this road, let’s ride it at full speed. That pounding sound, that weight—it gave us a visceral feeling, as if molten lava flowed through our veins. Even as we embraced Metal, we never abandoned the softer rock tracks that clung close to our hearts. One amusing memory: at the end of 9th grade, our classmates knew us as obsessed with “The Final Countdown” by Europe. By the start of 10th, they found us devoted fans of Metallica. To mark the metamorphosis, we put on a mini-concert: four tracks from Master of Puppets—played with soul, fire, and plenty of on-stage improvisation. The applause at the end went on and on. Were they clapping for the performance—or because we didn’t play the whole album? We like to think they were wowed by our stage moves— inspired by those explosive guitar shows we’d seen— and by our not-so-great attempt at mimicking the unmistakable growl of James Hetfield. Or maybe… they just liked our Rocker outfits.

The Art of Imagination in Communist Scarcity

A rocker outfit in Ceaușescu’s Romania of the ’80's? A beautiful dream—difficult to achieve. But necessity, as always, gave birth to imagination. Ironically, that imagination led us to the army. The Romanian military uniform—a symbol of obedience and conformity—became the foundation for a fashion rebellion. Supply officers—those pragmatic "patriots"—were more than happy to supplement their incomes by selling off military gear. The result? Army boots became rocker shoes. Military trousers and jackets formed the core of the look. Store-bought T-shirts were such poor quality, many of us replaced them with army shirts. From a distance, we might’ve passed for soldiers. But up close—it was clear we weren’t theirs. The accessories, the inscriptions, the attitude said it all. They shouted, loud and clear: Rocker.

Clothes with a Metallic Soul

Without professional artists to inscribe the names of our favorite bands or songs, we did it ourselves—with pens, patience, and care. Soon, each piece of clothing became a living page, bearing the name of a band or title of a song—sometimes both—woven into a more or less visible collage. The most common names? Iris, Judas Priest, Metallica, or Manowar.   The songs? “Nașul” and “Floare de Iris,” “Breaking the Law,” “Welcome Home (Sanitarium),” “One” by Metallica, and “Blood of the Kings” and “Kings of Metal” by Manowar. The most talented artists among us would spend hours painstakingly recreating album covers on T-shirts and jackets—for themselves and for others in the group. But the poor quality of the drawing tools threatened the life span of our artwork—they could fade after just a few washes. So these special pieces only came out for concerts, preserved like relics, worn like armour.

Rock Accessories: Leather and Courage

In Ceaușescu’s so-called “Golden Age” Romania, nothing was available. Rock-inspired accessories? Impossible. So we leaned on imagination—and the few resources we had—to create our own. We’d cut up worn-out boots to salvage the leather needed for crafting rock bracelets, decorating them with small metal scraps salvaged from the parts we were supposed to be assembling in “industrial school practice.” Some of these fragments became metal crosses, echoing the symbols worn by legendary bands like Black Sabbath or Megadeth. We wore them with pride, feeling they were vital to our rocker identity. Metal chains—10 to 20 centimeters long—completed the look and sent a clear message: this is Metal.   And beyond symbolism, they served as improvised weapons in clashes with rap gangs or groups of thugs that frequently attacked us. Why? Because the Police, unable to stop us directly, often deployed those groups to intimidate us. Usually, though, they were the ones who got thrashed. Many Rockers practiced Martial Arts. George and I—Angelo—started training almost as soon as we became Rockers. It turned out to be one of the smartest choices we ever made.

Kumite and Metal – The Art of Resistance

Martial Arts were also banned under the communist regime. Not just because they taught combat techniques, but because they cultivated discipline, responsibility, and integrity.

Absorbing those values could’ve strengthened the regime. But martial arts also taught the warrior’s code—like the samurai’s Bushido—to karate practitioners, making them ideologically incompatible with Ceaușescu’s dogma. Combining those principles with those of the Rocker? A recipe for rebellion. And it showed—just look at how many Rockers flooded the streets during the December 1989 Revolution. That said, one dojo in Bucharest—owned by a high-ranking Secret Police officer—enjoyed total protection from any interference. We started attending in the fall of 1986: three training sessions a week, each about two and a half hours. Warm-ups. Muscle strengthening. Obsessive repetition of attack and defense techniques. The style was Goju-Ryu, and the dojo was somewhere off Calea Griviței. The final 30 minutes were reserved for kumite— one-on-one or one-on-two sparring, where we tested everything we’d learned in near-real conditions. Our sensei and his assistant, the sempai, guided us and corrected us, always pushing us to improve. Those first weeks? Exhausting. But slowly, we found our rhythm. We loved it so much, we began training outside the dojo too— in parks, at home. Warm-up and kumite: to grow stronger, to fight back, and to endure the blows without falling—a skill absolutely necessary, given the brutality we faced from the Police.

In the Shadow of the “Organs” and Communist Repression

And yet—we were lucky. Had we lived two or three decades earlier, we’d likely have ended up in Soviet labour camps, at the Canal… or in a coffin. By the 1980's, the communist regime—entrenched in power since 1945—had begun to rot. Corruption and “P.C.R.” politics (short for the Romanian Communist Party, but also shorthand for “connections, favours, and influence”) had infected the system—deep into the Secret Police and Police, down to the bone and beyond. Still, people lived under a thick veil of fear toward the “organs” of the state. And that fear alone was what kept Ceaușescu on his throne. In December 1989, when people finally found the strength to confront their fear, the regime collapsed— despite the bloody crackdown that continued into the early hours of the 22nd. For us, the Rockers—branded “enemies of the people”—the worst that could happen was a vicious beating and a few hours held at a Police station. That is, if we got caught. Which, frankly, was rare. One such time was late August 1988, in Costinești, where we had traveled for the Rock Gala. We’d been promised a night of unforgettable music—a break from the strict boundaries Ceaușescu had imposed on Romanian Rock.

The Sound of Rock Revolt Beyond the Iron Curtain

Born in the West as a burst of freedom, Rock music shook conventions and carried the voice of an entire rebellious generation. That sound eventually crossed the Iron Curtain—into Romania. The communist regime, realizing it couldn’t stamp it out, chose to tolerate it—believing it could control the music and its followers: the Rockers. A grave miscalculation.

In the ’60s, one band lit the spark: Phoenix—with powerful rhythms and profound messages. Their massive success paved the way for other local groups, some inching ever closer to the tone and intensity of Metal. When Phoenix chose freedom and fled the country, the regime tightened its censorship grip. Only bands that played tame, watered-down rock—bordering on light pop or disco—were promoted on vinyl records, aired on the radio, and allowed to perform on major stages. But the Metal bands—led by Tectonic, Voltaj, and Iris—didn’t vanish. On the contrary: they grew in number, developed their sound, and steadily gained ground. Some even managed to slip past censorship and restrictions, releasing vinyl's and performing scattered gigs. At Costinești, during the Rock Gala, the die-hard Rockers gathered—hungry for more: Harsh riffs, furious solos, and lyrics that pulsed with raw edge and defiance. A sound untouched by censorship. On the coast, in the sweltering summer nights, in a fleeting oasis of freedom, Romanian rock bared its teeth—Metal teeth, this time. Wrapped in Metal’s fury, for a few hours, we felt the dream of freedom beating louder, surging closer. Except, of course… in 1988.

Costinești: Toward the Great Unleashing

For the 1988 Rock Gala, we dressed in our formal rocker gear—what little we had that felt grand. We took the tram instead of the subway, hoping to avoid the Police agents we seemed to see everywhere: in bushes, between apartment blocks, in our dreams, and—somehow—even tucked inside our sad little sandwiches. That outdated vehicle, with its scratched windows, cracked plastic seats, and reluctant doors, became our shuttle to glory.

People stared at us—some with fear, others with eyes silently asking, “Are you insane?” A few, just a few, envied our courage—the boldness to openly defy the regime. As we traveled, more Rockers joined us, and by the time we reached the train station, we’d become a formidable group. The Police, sensing they were outnumbered, retreated to call for reinforcements. Big mistake. The path to the train was suddenly ours. And the train itself, almost eager to take us to the seaside, lurched forward— dragging itself at the speed of an arthritic snail, like a caricature of communist “progress.” A slow, aimless march… to nowhere.

Dragged by Carriages, Driven by Dreams

This wasn't just a trip to the coast—it was a pilgrimage, a resistance movement of the Rockers. We rode a personal train that slithered like a long, lazy snake, dragging twelve worn carriages through the heat haze of summer, over tracks scorched like frying pans left too long on the burner. Its metal rumble was heavy and dull— an exhausting railroad crawl, laced with flickers of festive joy and fragile illusions. The compartments reeked of sweat, cheap body spray, and unspoken hope. We had an old mono cassette player pumping out the real stuff— Metal tougher than titanium. At every makeshift station, local Police officers boarded and disembarked like kitchen cockroaches. They stared with bovine eyes and asked, almost in unison: “Who are you?” “What’s with those clothes?” “What’s that racket?” Their tone and gestures felt ripped from a manual called “Ten Intimidation Techniques for Idiots.” We answered them with smiles and long-winded replies, laced with vocabulary that sounded like it came from an academic thesis on the etymology of Romania’s most obscure words. They understood none of it. Eventually, they gave up, muttering coarse curses about the Bucharest crowd.

The Conductor, Affectionately Nicknamed “Nașul”

He boards our carriage, hesitant. Naturally, we hadn't bought tickets—because in communist Romania, only Party members and those shackled by fear did. Those who live secondhand lives, without rebellion, without purpose. 'Nașul' eyes us with unease: we’re many, and we look dangerous. He moves among us like a linen-clad ghost, avoiding eye contact, pretending not to see us. But we are Rockers—we trample the values of communism, not of humanity. So we dig into our meager food reserves and prepare a care package for him. In that Romania, such a gift was worth two gold bars. He leaves with enough supplies for an entire week, looking back at us with quiet satisfaction—perhaps even wondering, deep down, if he ought to convert to Metal himself.

Captured!

Under a dry heat that melts not just asphalt but any lingering trace of reason, we descend into a dusty train station—lost somewhere between nowhere and forgetfulness. Two twisted benches. Three bored flies. One barely-breathing dog. And a rusted sign that tragically reads "Station.” It’s a caricature of late communist Romania—Ceaușescu’s version of progress. As the train doors creak open, Rockers spill out from every carriage. Dressed in gala gear: ripped jeans, studded jackets, shirts and vests emblazoned with Metallica and Slayer, chains, leather, and eyes burning bright. We greet each other loudly, like soldiers reuniting on the battlefield—shouting band names, laughing, exchanging conspiratorial grins. Splitting into small groups, we march toward the town, a few kilometers away—of course, no buses or transport in sight. According to Ceaușescu’s directives, we should be at some construction site, hauling cement sacks “voluntarily” for the glory of the nation. Instead of shovels, we carry cassette players. Instead of overalls, our armor bears rock insignias. Before reaching the town, we pause near a crumbling building grandiosely calling itself a “hotel.” Dream on. Behind it, among weeds and shadows, we settle for a makeshift lunch. But peace doesn’t last. A shout slices through the air— “There they are, those sons of—!”— and a group of thugs charges us. Years of martial arts training kick in. We drop into fight stances, resolved not to budge. Seeing us, the attackers freeze—like they’ve stumbled onto the wrong movie set. After a beat of confusion, they bolt. Drunk on victory, we lower our guard. And walk straight into an actual ambush. A narrow alley. Both ends blocked by Police. We have seconds to decide: launch a frontal attack and punch through? Possibly the most logical choice. But Victor, one of our train comrades, springs into action. He throws himself to the ground, writhing, crying out— “Please, don’t hurt me! I’m sick!”—faking an epileptic seizure. Brilliant. The Police hesitates, confused. George and I mirror the tactic on the opposite end of the alley, buying just enough time for the others to slip into the bushes and vanish.

Inside the Police Headquarters

The Police’s trap had worked—but the haul was pitiful: George and I, Victor, and two more tangled in foliage. We were divvied up like war trophies. George and I were loaded into a tired Aro vehicle, paint-brushed and wheezing like a sick animal but still loyal to its mission of oppression. Victor and the others rode in battered Dacia, their captors crammed inside like canned goods in a “Made in Communism” tin. All this drama… to transport us a few hundred meters. Our destination? Police Headquarters—a faded building with grimy windows and an aura so lifeless it seemed either abandoned or possibly haunted by Leninist aliens mid-Party meeting. In the courtyard, a herd of officers stomped the ground with heavy boots like rhinos in blue coats. There was even a VIP section—our very own “VIP Committee”: a captain with the aura of a Bolshevik sergeant and a major whose belly served as his badge of authority. When they saw we were only five, not the 25–30 they’d imagined, disappointment poured out in a storm of saints, gods, Christs and graves—aimed at their incompetent subordinates. Inside, the two higher-ups put on a show at the sight of our outfits—threats, apparently, to both the seaside’s proletarian morality and its cheerful ideological tone. “You’re fascists!” shouted the captain, pointing at “Twisted Sister” printed in uppercase across our vests. “You’re Nazis!” yelled the major, gesturing toward our Metallica shirts adorned with the Master of Puppets album cover and lyrics from Welcome Home (Sanitarium)—our favourite. All the while, they stared with the self-assured air of men who’d memorised 'The Idiot’s Guide to Looking Intelligent'. They ended their performance under the gaze of subordinates frozen in parade stance—right hand fixed to their belt buckle—and left, but not before ordering: first, the infraction report. Then, the beating.

Better Batons Than Grammar

You’d think completing a formal citation would be beyond these uniformed grunts, and you'd be right. Most of them had spent a lifetime in tragic battles against compound sentences and the basics of logic. One of them—the likely squad leader—wore a cap far too large for his skull and a mustache so thick it could host an annual moth convention. He asked what we had to declare in a voice like expired canned food struck by nostalgia. On his third failed attempt to pronounce “statement” without tripping over syllables, he gave up and handed it off to the team’s “party activist.” This man was their intellectual heavyweight—having graduated from the infamous “Ștefan Gheorghiu” Party Academy, a fortress of shameless communist propaganda. He solemnly removed his pen, opened the standard form like an ancient scroll, and read it slowly—tongue pressed between his teeth—as though deciphering an alien transmission from the Milky Way. Sweating profusely, his grimy finger followed each line like it carried nuclear secrets. Then came “circumstances.”   He froze. Eyes narrowed, suspecting sabotage. The truth was painfully simple: Life is hard, comrades. Especially when the enemy of the people is… grammar. In the end, he realised he was far better with batons than with consonants.

Communism Wants Us Broken in Two

With no clear directive, they began to beat us—precisely, methodically—in the places where bruises wouldn’t show and wounds didn’t require bandages. A refined technique, honed behind closed doors over years of practice. Our three comrades probably felt the pain. George and I, less so. As fists landed like August rain on dry clay, our sensei’s words echoed in our ears: “Pain is temporary. Honour is eternal.” At one point, visibly annoyed, George dropped a sarcastic insult between gritted teeth—then instinctively dodged the next punch. It landed not in his stomach, but on the shoulder—the same shoulder that had proudly absorbed my blows during sparring. The impact was sharp. The officer paused, looked at his hand as if he’d hit metal. He examined his fingers, mentally checking for fractures.

Then he stared at George—who returned the gaze with something cold, something… metallic. Something shifted. To them, we weren’t just rebellious teens anymore. We were beasts. Capable of going for the throat. The beatings stopped. Everything fell silent—like a radio unplugged mid-broadcast. To preserve appearances, they resorted to theft—done theatrically. They tore off our jackets, shirts, chains, cassette players. Each item was recorded as “evidence”—which in Militia jargon meant: “It’s ours now, suckers.” We were left in undershirts, not trembling from fear, but from the pure absurdity of it all. Goodbye, tapes. Goodbye, Metallica. Goodbye, freedom powered by child-sized batteries. Costinești—the cheerful resort of our summers—had morphed overnight into the set of a low-budget horror movie, directed by Kafka and gleefully funded by the Romanian Communist Party.

Silent Forgiveness

The journey home has no history. It is mute, gray, emptied of meaning—like film overwritten too many times until the image fades and all that remains is the ghostly flicker of memory. We are escorted to the train station like smugglers of freedom, flanked by a platoon of Police officers so rigid they seem sculpted from ideological concrete. We wait nearly an hour for our train, surrounded by a silent gathering of fellow Rockers. This year’s Gala is canceled: the major bands refuse to play in protest against the Police’s invasion and the absurd restrictions imposed on their fans. For a moment, the music stops. The train conductor—a frail man, his face frozen in postwar humility layered thick like dust—stares at us. His eyes, perhaps, have known other silences, other beatings, other defeats. He says nothing. Asks for nothing. He leaves us “in our own hands”—a Romanian phrase that, in this moment, carries a liturgical weight. A silent forgiveness. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he had once belonged to another microscopic resistance. To some, a story like this—raw, real, unvarnished—might have broken their will. Might have made them believe the state was a monolith, that fists always beat words. But it did the opposite to us. It fueled us. It deepened the conviction that we must never give in. That freedom—no matter how fragile or clumsy—is worth every ounce of suffering. It ignited, in our chests, that Metallic flame no baton could snuff out. When we returned, we were no longer just kids in undershirts. We were symbols. Living legends in the Rocker tribe. The ones who had stared down the Militia in the heart of the system—and emerged unbroken. Untouchable. Transformed. What we didn’t yet know was how fast time would move. That stories like ours would soon become common. Not the exception—but the norm. Not echo—but spark. One of many that would, in time, ignite the fire of the Revolution in December ’89.