YEARS OF COMMUNIST HIGH SCHOOL: UNDER OHM'S DICTATORSHIP

On September 15th, 1985, the new school year began in Romania (Eastern Europe), which was suffering ever more deeply under Ceaușescu’s criminal regime. That was when we first met, at Mihai Viteazu High School — the best in Bucharest.

Angelo and George

Coming from a working-class neighbourhood (George) and a Romani neighbourhood (Angelo), we wondered what we were doing there — and in a class of “nerds” no less (children of doctors, engineers, intellectuals). We wanted to play football, listen to music, and hang out with girls. They wanted to be top students and follow in their parents’ footsteps. But the communist school administration had other plans for all of us: to become the backbone of the “well-rounded and developed Romanian socialist society.” In other words, devoted members of the Romanian Communist Party.

The Failure of the Communist Authorities

At first, George and I tried to escape by skipping the most politicized classes. In response, the school authorities and their lackeys — that is, most of our teachers — increased the pressure to break us. Total failure: united, forming a true “Dream Team,” we built a friendship that lasts to this day, forty years later. A friendship of steel, forged through increasingly daring acts against “communist values.” Over time, we even drew our classmates into the same quiet resistance. That’s how devilishly clever we were!

Revenge

When we finished high school in the summer of ’89, the communist authorities took revenge: assignments to the Jiu Valley (a symbol of the “heroic working class” and a space of deep hardship, isolation, and exploitation) as miners, to supply the country with as much coal as possible! Fortunately, the gods of the communist Pantheon — led by Marx, Lenin, and Stalin — abandoned Ceaușescu in December 1989. And the “wonderful” mining careers our “dear” teachers had chosen for us vanished with him. Instead, we built successful careers: a journalist (George) and a lawyer (Angelo) in Romania. Later, after leaving the country, we began a second professional chapter — I became a history teacher at one of New Zealand’s top high schools (George) and worked in a multinational company in France (Angelo). The politicization of the school under communism and how our “adventures” began in high school are recounted below.

The Same School Everywhere

Although there were some differences, communist Romanian schools shared a similar structure to those in France, New Zealand, or other countries. From ages six or seven to ten or eleven, children attended primary school, then middle school (collège in France) from around ten or eleven to fourteen or fifteen. High school followed, intended for adolescents. The curriculum was essentially similar everywhere, because children were expected to acquire roughly the same knowledge. Still, major differences existed in “civic education” or “moral and civic education” (or their equivalents), and in “practical schoolwork” or “internships” — what we simply called “practice” in everyday language.

Romanian Particularities

Worth knowing: similar practices existed in all communist countries; differences were mainly linguistic. During the communist regime (1945–1989), the declared aim of children’s and adolescents’ education was to “create the well-rounded individual” — a sort of ChatGPT, but ten thousand times stronger. In reality, the goal was to turn students into devoted servants of the Romanian Communist Party once they became adults. The school was meant to be a “fortress of knowledge,” a place where “communist values” were memorized and obeyed blindly. Middle and high school students were “prisoners of knowledge” for six hours a day, including Saturdays, and were then expected to be “volunteers.” In other words, in their free time after school, they were required — formally, “of their own free will” — to participate in activities imposed by the Party’s youth organization, the U.T.C. (Union of Communist Youth). In short, communist authorities tried to occupy every moment of children’s and adolescents’ lives, like a carefully orchestrated performance. Civic subjects, which glorified communism, were one of the main tools of indoctrination.

Civic Subjects: The Party Phase

At this stage, civic subjects were dominated by texts that glorified the Communist Party and its struggle to defeat the “rich,” the “bourgeois,” the “landlords,” the “priests” — in short, anyone who “sucked the people’s blood.” These texts also portrayed communist society as ideal, where everyone is equal and no one has more than anyone else. All are owners of all wealth and property, and the “national wealth” belongs to everyone. In other words, thanks to the Communist Party, we were living in a paradise described in the Bible, the Qur’an, or any other sacred text (depending on your preference), or even better. Bonus: the texts also described the Party’s “ongoing struggle” to annihilate the “enemies of the people,” usually called “fascists,” sometimes “Nazis.” This phase ended as the Comrade Dictator — whatever his official title — sought to be worshiped more than his believers worshiped God. This was called the “cult of personality.” Now began the “Comrade phase.”

Civic Subjects: The “Comrade” Phase

The Party became “second fiddle.” In the foreground now was the Comrade — the country’s dictator, thanks to whom this wonderful world existed and developed (my foot!). Naturally, the civic texts fully reflected this shift. But this was only the beginning: as the Dictator’s Personality Cult expanded, many other spheres — industry, economy, agriculture, culture, history — fell under his influence. In other words, all technical and technological processes, all innovations, development, and regulations were his doing and carried out according to his thinking and/or instructions. The same applied to most school subjects: everything followed his orders, instructions, and “precious advice.”

The Personality Cult in Romania

The emergence of the “Cult” varied from one communist country to another. We will speak of what happened in Ceaușescu’s Romania, to warn and prevent such abuses from ever happening again. Ceaușescu came to power in 1965, and initially his reign seemed relatively benevolent — especially compared to his predecessor. In retrospect, we believe this “benevolence” was merely a strategy to consolidate control over the state apparatus before instituting his own cult. It developed gradually between 1972 and 1980, then became widespread from 1981–1982, permeating all areas of political, economic, and social life. Ceaușescu’s “precious instructions” already dominated the school curriculum when we started middle school in 1981, but we were too young to understand much. The real impact came in high school, as our personalities were formed. And it all began on the very first day — the day we established our first tradition.

The Tradition of Grade 3 in Physics

On the first day of school, during the first class, we met, shook hands, and became friends at first sight. A friendship that lasts to this day, forty years later, despite the 18,000 kilometers between us. It all began with an animated, enthusiastic discussion, trying to get to know each other: who we were, where we came from, our passions and dreams. The setting: the physics laboratory — a cold, solemn, oppressive room that sent shivers down our spines every time we entered. A room like our physics teacher herself. With a predestined name, Șeitan (Shaytan — “devil” in Arabic), she was the only teacher we truly feared in high school. Yet not even she managed to break us, despite the grade 3 (the lowest possible) she entered in the register, without any prior warning. And that on the very first day! Annoyed by our constant chatter, she punished us exemplarily. The tradition continued: at the start of every term, year after year, we received the same 3. Even in our final years of high school, when, inexplicably, we had acquired solid physics knowledge. In short, a tradition. The tradition of grade 3 in physics.

The former physics laboratory, renovated today.

Strengthening the Tradition

That tradition grew stronger at the start of our second year of high school. During the long summer holidays, we discovered Vlad Mușatescu, “the greatest Romanian humorist” (according to us). From him, we learned a rather unorthodox definition of Ohm’s law.

At the beginning of tenth grade, when Șeitan asked us to state the law, Angelo raised his hand — he had won the draw we held during the break. He stood up and proudly declared: “If you’re Ohm with me, I’m Ohm with you.” To explain, in Romanian, Ohm sounds exactly like 'human'. It was one of those rare moments when we truly believed Șeitan might suffer a stroke, which, unfortunately, she didn’t. Instead, she ordered a “pop quiz” for the entire class. None of us scored higher than a 6, not even those who had answered every question correctly. It was one of those “collective punishments” our teachers adored. According to their handbook, nothing destroyed a class’s spirit more effectively than such measures. Perhaps that was true — we’ll never know. But in our class, that punishment was the final straw. From that moment on, our classmates joined us completely. They became our enthusiastic and loyal accomplices in countless acts of defiance against “communist values” — acts that Angelo and George had been mocking since the very first weeks of school.

The First Skips

The forty years since September 1985 have blurred the exact moment when we decided to start skipping certain classes. Most likely, it happened during one of those endless “civic education” lessons — the ones where teachers bored us stiff with speeches about “the wonderful country we live in,” “the great achievements of the Communist Party,” and “the precious instructions of Comrade Nicolae Ceaușescu, the most beloved son of the people.” All this while we could clearly see the daily struggle to secure even the bare minimum for survival (see our blog post: “Scarce food: a guide to survive communism). Very soon, we began skipping class so we could read — Angelo devoured detective novels, George adventure stories — instead of listening yet again to Ceaușescu’s praises. Our high school had a small patch of garden, a kind of magical spot shaded by trees and hidden by bushes, perfect for reading and quenching our thirst for books. Unfortunately, we were soon driven out of our quiet corner by the headmaster, Spulber (a story told in “Dictatorship begins with the alphabet book”). In the months that followed, the teachers thought we had fallen in line after being severely scolded by the headmaster. Yeah, right!

The Library

We were simply more cunning — and found an even better hideout: the school library. We knew it well, since we often went there to borrow books. We told the librarian comrade that our teachers had sent us to help her arrange the volumes. Even though she quickly realized that wasn’t true, she said nothing — probably charmed by our supposed “thirst for reading.”

To skip class without getting marked absent, we told teachers that the headmaster himself had ordered us to help in the library. And when Spulber eventually passed by, what did he see? Angelo was reading intently from a hefty manual of Socialist Political Economy, while George held a volume of Comrade Ceaușescu’s Precious Instructions. Had we reformed at last? Not at all. In reality, our early warning system had worked flawlessly! Of course, the teachers eventually caught on to our little operation. That happened at the end of the second term, and the school leadership decided it was time for drastic measures.

“They have to get out of my high school!”

That’s how Director Spulber screamed in the staffroom when he was told what we’d invented so we could skip classes freely and without being bothered. We were impossible to “domesticate,” unstoppable in our skipping, especially during the “civic subjects” — precisely those lessons meant to turn us into loyal servants of the Romanian Communist Party. Ordinary punishments couldn’t put us right: scolding, detention, and low conduct marks. Expelling us wasn’t an option — such a measure would have badly stained the school’s reputation. Their solution was to wait for us to ask to transfer on our own. The perfect tool of pressure: bullying — to be harassed by teachers (through grades) and, above all, by our classmates, who were to make our lives a living hell. The starting signal for the bullying: a “trial” in front of the whole class, during which our classmates were supposed to harshly criticize us for breaking rules and “communist values.” An opinion scripted in the headmaster’s office. In reality, our classmates didn’t care one bit about our absences or behaviour.

“The ‘Trial’… postponed!”

That “trial” was supposed to take place at the start of the third term of our first year. But when classes resumed after the Easter break, our behavior left the teachers and the headmaster baffled: we no longer talked in class, showed no sign of discontent or revolt, and attended every lesson. We were the first in and the last out. Of course, the teachers should have found this coma-like state odd, but that would have required pedagogical competence — which, frankly, was lacking. They preferred to believe we’d become well-behaved, “tamed” by the steady drop in our conduct marks and the stern reprimands. So our “trial” was postponed — indeed, there was even talk that it wasn’t necessary anymore. But what had actually happened?

Exhaustion

In fact, we were exhausted from martial-arts training. Completely wiped out! A few weeks earlier, we had accompanied Magda — for whom we had a soft spot — to a rock concert. There we had the encounter that changed our lives: we discovered IRIS, the “Romanian equivalent of Metallica,” fell madly in love with their music, and became rockers. On their advice, we began attending a martial-arts dojo; the three weekly sessions drained every last ounce of energy from us (see the whole story in “Freedom and the baton: the first chronicle of the rock generation”). The day after training, we were as nimble as trees. But that state couldn’t last. Toward the end of May, during one of the periods of industrial practice, we came back in full force!

“Out the door or out the window”

During the industrial practice lessons, we were supposed to learn lathe work. In the third term, our mission was to repair a large batch of small metal parts that had minor defects. What did we do? We organised a contest to flatten them, which made them perfect for the rubbish heap (story on the blog: “School Practice in Communism”). When the news reached the school leadership, Comrade Director Spulber urgently called a meeting with all the teachers. According to the rumours, he shouted: “They must leave my school. By the door or by the window, but they must leave — damn them to hell.” The plan for our “trial” in front of the whole class — intended to spark a wave of bullying by our peers — was revived, this time in an “improved” version. The teachers had worked out a well-rehearsed script so that all our classmates would attack us, each one playing a part in the theatrical harassment.

The lathe at which we learned the 'secrets' of industrial practice.

“Judgment Day”

Sun Tzu wrote in The Art of War: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles... If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.” We didn’t know Sun Tzu — and probably didn’t know any other famous strategist either. But we devoured science-fiction books, spent our time among rockers (hunted down by the Militia whenever possible), and absorbed the lessons of our martial arts instructors. Thus, we were capable of developing strategies that far surpassed those of our communist teachers — people whose intelligence had never taken them beyond their own front doors; they had been employed at the school more through corruption than through competence. The conclusion was simple: we were ready for confrontation. They were not. And what had to happen, happened — their plan collapsed completely.

George Strikes Decisively

On D-Day, the committee of three teachers entered the classroom and read out the act of accusation: skipping classes, lying to justify absences, damaging equipment during “practical work” — everything was there, meticulously compiled. Then, according to the script, Stroe, the class leader, was supposed to stand up and attack us. Only, before he could even rise from his chair, George leaped to his feet and began speaking at a machine-gun pace. He attacked me — Angelo, his friend — and he did so harshly, brutally even. He launched into a litany of insults and threats, including physical ones, which I had allegedly hurled at him to force him into my “criminal ventures.” He spoke at length, relentlessly, until the teachers, astonished and disoriented, managed at last to intervene. When they finally tried to say that George was accusing me only to save himself, their words sounded hollow — absurd, even. Their phrases were so empty of meaning, their tone so clumsy and unconvincing. Afterward, the classmates who had been appointed in advance also spoke up to attack us, but it was obvious that their hearts were no longer in it. The “trial” went on formally, but after George’s speech, it had turned into a farce. Our classmates, like typical teenagers, were laughing uncontrollably — secretly, of course, for in front of the teachers, they played their roles with a lack of enthusiasm and conviction visible even from the Moon. The teachers, however, noticed nothing. They went back to the principal, saying, “Mission accomplished.” Later, a curious case of bipolar perception set in: the teachers were convinced that our classmates were relentlessly tormenting us. In reality, the situation was somewhat more... complicated.

Maximum Astonishment

Of course, our classmates understood nothing of what had happened before them. Even less did they grasp the scene that followed the “trial.” They probably expected us to come to blows or at least to hurl insults at each other. Instead — stupefaction! — we embraced warmly, slapped each other on the back, and grinned from ear to ear. We exuberantly congratulated one another on yet another victory over “decaying capitalism”!

“Decaying capitalism”

But what, exactly, was that odd expression? Day after day, our teachers told us that the future belonged to “communist society,” and that capitalism would soon vanish. They said the capitalist world was in its last days because the rich were getting richer, the poor were getting poorer, and the workers were oppressed and deprived of rights. In short, capitalism was “rotten.” The teachers repeated this story mechanically, like parrots of the Party. For us, everything they said was true — with one crucial difference: we mentally substituted “communism” for “capitalism.” So, by proclaiming yet another victory over “decaying capitalism,” we were in fact celebrating a victory over communism. Implicitly, we were making fun of our entire communist society, of its “values,” and of the obedient teachers who served them with zeal.

“Pati-Bar”

Seeing these incredible scenes, our classmates pressed us for an explanation. So, adopting the pose of great conspirators — finger to the lips, left hand pointing at the walls, whispering “The walls have ears” — we arranged to meet them at the “Pati-Bar.” It was the school pastry shop: a small room with a few high tables and no chairs, so nobody lingered too long. Packed during breaks, deserted during lessons. The pastries there tasted like Paradise to us. We sat down and ate quietly, even staying after the bell had rung to end recess. A first! The vendor watched us in bewilderment but said nothing. In time, she grew used to us: “Pati-Bar” became our headquarters — the place where we planned our next adventures.

Who were we?

Facing us was the “cream” of the class: best dressed, best at lessons, admired by teachers, envied by others. Children of people in solid positions — doctors, engineers, architects. In short, the “popular” group, the unofficial leaders of our class. The girls: Narcisa, Delia, and Cristina. The boys: Bălă, Iulian, Tom and Cristi Tocan. There may have been others, but over time, we forgot them. Before this group, we “declared” ourselves Rockers and Karateka — two categories deeply detested by the communists. And we told them plainly: what had happened in the classroom, under your eyes, was only the application of the lesson you yourselves, the instructors, had taught us.

Lesson in strategy: offense is the best defense

Like everyone else, we already knew what was coming — the teachers’ script was predictable. So we devised a plan to surprise them and foil it. George’s “attack” on me was a trap. Given how close we were, that was the last thing the teachers would expect. In reality, George’s attack was not directed at me, Angelo, but at their plan — a devastating, decisive strike that left them speechless. That was our lesson in strategy: strike first and so hard that the opponent can do nothing against you. Of course, we were talking about what had happened in the classroom, but the message ran deeper: tomorrow, anyone else, even them, could be our target if necessary.

So what should we do now?

Our classmates’ question was legitimate. The teachers wanted them to harass us intensively. But that was the last thing they wanted — both because of what we had just shown them and because of an adolescent instinct to rebel. Their solution was ingenious: to pretend. To look like our enemies in front of the teachers — to keep their distance, to throw angry glances at us when a faculty member passed, to speak ill of us in their presence. And they did exactly that. By the end of the school year, the teachers saw only what they wanted to see: our classmates “bullying” us. Meanwhile, most of the remaining school time we spent in detention.

“Detention”

In reality, our class did not complete the last three weeks of “practice” that year — we lacked the workpiece: the ruined parts that had earned us the earlier “trial.” Instead, we were placed in an ordinary classroom under the supervision of a teacher who was supposed, in theory, to monitor us and, in practice, to secure his own hours. According to the school’s communist logic, teachers possessed the gift of omnipresence: they were everywhere and nowhere. So he would come in the morning, take attendance, and leave after asking us to be well-behaved until the end of the program. On the first day, we followed instructions. On the second day, seeing he did not return, we understood the lesson: be present for roll call and then… free. After a few days, our classmates joined us. It was the second time they copied us — the first being the affair of the destroyed parts. For them, everything was an adolescent game, a story to tell later over beer: “We were young once and did crazy things.”

The final mistake

Perhaps it could all have stopped there. But the teachers, led by Director Spulber, went mad when they saw us return to their school the following year. They revived the scenario, asking our classmates to harass us again. Then came the episode with Ohm’s law in physics, with Șeitan — finished, of course, with bad marks for them. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. And then they summoned us urgently to Pati-Bar.

The fury of the “populars”

“We’re fed up with them making fools of us!” thundered Bălă. “Stop taking us for idiots!” added Narcisa. “We want to be like you,” concluded Cristi Tocan. And so, one sunny afternoon, two apparently opposite worlds united in a monstrous coalition against the communist teachers. On one side, the sons and daughters of intellectuals (doctors, engineers, architects), who dreamed of flawless grades for elite universities. On the other side — our world: metal music, karate, total indifference to grades and the future. On the day of our “trial,” we had shown we were not easy prey. But the school’s communist leadership, together with its lackeys, brutally intervened in the lives of our classmates, pushing them to confront us and threatening them with collective punishments. Their disgust was so great that they threw themselves body and soul into our camp. In the years that followed, they were the ones who challenged the system, ostentatiously violating the “communist values” taught by the teachers, knowing that we would be the ones to take the blame for all. But those are other stories, which will follow.