MANUAL FOR DIVERTING REVOLUTIONS, 1989 EDITION
- angelogeorge988
- 1 day ago
- 18 min read
The third part of the series dedicated to the 1989 Revolution describes how, by whom, in what manner, and with what means it was diverted into a coup d’état. Part One is titled “The Army and the Revolution,” and Part Two is “The Mastodon Awakens.”
16–22 December: from “Down with Ceaușescu!” to “Down with Communism!”
Timișoara
The Revolution began in Timișoara, Romania’s second‑largest city and, at the time, its most Western‑oriented. On 15 and 16 December, the parishioners of Pastor László Tőkés opposed the enforcement of a deportation order. The Militia and the Securitate intervened with all the elegance of a rhinoceros entering a porcelain shop, trying to crush hope under a heavy boot and a cold blue stare. Too much, too late — and on 17 December, young people poured into the streets en masse, with the pastor’s followers now only a minority among the demonstrators. The Army was called in to support the communist regime, and people were wounded and killed. The same happened on 18 December, only with even more people in the streets. By the end of the day, the regime had to pull the soldiers back into their barracks, fearing they might join the protesters. It was in vain. The revolt spread as repression intensified: at first, it was about defending the pastor, then about “Down with Ceaușescu.” The Army’s intervention radicalized the mood and pushed it toward “Down with Communism.” On 20 December, the communist authorities were driven out of the city, which was proclaimed “free of communism.”
Bucharest
In a display of galloping foolishness, Ceaușescu called for a mass rally in Bucharest, the country’s capital, on 21 December. There he delivered, with his usual grace, the same tired slogans: the achievements of the “socialist revolution,” the “multilaterally developed communist society,” and so on. The crowd’s response did not take long: an explosion of popular anger rose against him — the Tyrant — and against the communist regime that had made him possible. Initially crushed in blood during the night of 21–22 December, the revolt turned into a devastating tsunami on the morning of 22 December: workers joined the revolutionaries in waves. Soldiers deployed in the streets crossed over to their side, and the crowd reached Palace Square, where the headquarters of communist power stood. By noon, cornered, Ceaușescu was forced to flee by helicopter, only to be captured a few hours later. His regime collapsed. The Revolution had triumphed.
22 December 1989, at noon: the Russians intervene
At that moment, in sheer desperation, the Soviet Union — as the Russian Empire was called at the time — decided to step in. The Russians had failed to overthrow Ceaușescu through maneuvers inside the Communist Party, as they had done in other countries of the Eastern European “communist bloc.” The outbreak of the popular revolt against him, and its scale, caught them by surprise. They watched in horror as the revolt against Ceaușescu turned into an anti‑communist revolution. Consequently, the Russians had to act quickly and decisively to regain control; otherwise, Romania would have slipped permanently out of their sphere of influence — and out of communism altogether. For them, this was unacceptable. They pushed forward and supported their trusted man, Ion Iliescu, who had long been waiting to step out of the shadows and claim Ceaușescu’s position. But who was he?
Ion Iliescu
He was a communist of the purest breed. His life was dedicated to the “noble ideals of communism,” which, he claimed, “Ceaușescu gravely betrayed” — a statement he made in February 1990 before the miners who had come to Bucharest to disperse an opposition demonstration. To understand him, one must recall that Iliescu studied for five years at the most important party school in Russia. There, he was a classmate and became friends with Gorbachev. When Gorbachev rose to the leadership of the Soviet Union in 1985, Ceaușescu sent Iliescu to “work at the grassroots.” He feared too much that the Russians would maneuver to replace him with Iliescu. His fear was well‑founded — between 1987 and 1989, persistent rumors portrayed Iliescu as the internal opposition within the Communist Party to Ceaușescu, as Romania’s version of Gorbachev, and as the man the Russians wanted to install at Romania’s helm in Ceaușescu’s place.
22 December, early afternoon: the failure
Relying on this image, Iliescu presented himself at the seat of power after Ceaușescu’s flight. With remarkable audacity, he demanded to be recognized as the new leader of the country. But he was met with an unpleasant surprise when he discovered that other people were already in the process of organizing the new leadership. And they were far from delighted by his presence; they regarded him with suspicion. For the Revolution — the popular uprising of 16–22 December — was no longer aimed solely at Ceaușescu, but also at the communist regime that Iliescu embodied. Even so, thanks to his notoriety, he managed to secure a place within the new power structure. He was fully aware that he had to act quickly and decisively; otherwise, as a communist, he risked being swept away by the revolutionary wave as well. Left to unfold freely, the Revolution would inevitably lead to the end of communism and the establishment of genuine democratic life. It was, therefore, the moment to launch his Coup d’État, using the scenario provided by the Kremlin — one sealed in a blood‑red communist hue.
The Scenario
The Revolution had to be transformed into a mere “palace coup” through which Iliescu would replace Ceaușescu at the country’s helm. To achieve this, Romania needed to be engulfed in a bloody conflict, allowing Iliescu to present himself as a “war leader,” the supreme commander of the forces of “Good.” He would win the battle, become the one to whom the success of the Revolution was owed, and consequently obtain the legitimacy required to lead the country after Ceaușescu. On the opposing side were to stand the forces of “Evil,” composed of Ceaușescu loyalists, generically labeled “terrorists.” Their goal? To restore Ceaușescu to power through a merciless war against the new revolutionary leadership — in other words, to carry out a counter‑revolution. This was the scenario prepared by the Russians, as neither Iliescu nor anyone in his entourage possessed the strategic intelligence to devise such a plan. To carry it out, Iliescu would ally himself with General Stănculescu.
Who was Stănculescu?
An officer since 1952, he rose quickly through the army’s hierarchy — not thanks to military skill or competence, but because of his boundless loyalty to the Communist Party. Noticed by Ceaușescu, he held important positions in the army during the latter’s rule. A master tactician in behind‑the‑scenes maneuvering, he chose not to step into the spotlight, not to become Minister of Defense or Chief of the General Staff. He remained in the second line, yet everyone knew he was the real Boss, the one who decided everything in the Army.
At the same time, he was known as Ceaușescu’s trusted man there. Therefore, Ceaușescu turned to him when the Militia and the Securitate proved unable to crush the popular revolt in Timișoara. Despite his personal involvement, the army also failed to stop it. The organization of the public rally on 21 December in Bucharest was very likely his idea.
Once the revolt spread to the capital, he conveniently put his leg in a cast, making it impossible for him to coordinate and lead the repression against the Revolution in Bucharest. A very convenient, opportunistic move — perfect for allowing him to shift in whichever direction the wind would blow. The wind of the Revolution. And so he made sure to be present exactly where he needed to be when Ceaușescu was forced to flee by helicopter.
22 December, late afternoon: the Iliescu–Stănculescu alliance
Thus, Stănculescu managed to maneuver his way into the new leadership of the country after Ceaușescu’s flight. On this occasion, he met Ion Iliescu, and together they allied — each needed the other. But Stănculescu carried heavy baggage: his troops had previously fired on the revolutionaries. On 22 December, the ecstatic crowds hailed the army as their salvation; by joining the Revolution, they had made victory over Ceaușescu possible. Yet later, once things calmed down and order was restored, the army’s role — and his in particular — would be viewed differently. With far more critical eyes. Iliescu understood this well and pressed the point to persuade him to join forces: under his presidency, Stănculescu would not be prosecuted for his role in the repression of the Revolution in Timișoara on the 17th and 18th. For the army’s actions there, he should have ended up before a firing squad.
Division of Tasks Within the Alliance
A Communist Party activist by profession, Iliescu had held various high‑ranking positions during Ceaușescu’s rule; he knew the administration well and influenced it. However, he had no power over the army, having no connection to it whatsoever. But without the army’s participation, the “terrorists” could not exist. And this is where General Stănculescu, the de facto head of the army, was to intervene. Thus, there was a division of labor between the two: Iliescu would create the “terrorists” in the media, on television. A fiction, a virtual reality existing only on the screen. But Stănculescu would ensure that the “terrorists” also had a real, flesh‑and‑blood existence. That confrontations with them would take place, that there would be dead and wounded, and that Romania would be transformed into a battlefield.
22 December, evening: the “terrorists” appear on television
On the only national television channel that existed at the time, Iliescu solemnly announced that forces loyal to Ceaușescu were mobilizing to free him and restore him to power. He even provided details about them, referring to them generically as “terrorists”: highly trained military personnel, mobile and well‑armed, capable of firing with precision from any position. Additional information about them and their actions began circulating immediately, spread by Iliescu’s associates, who had close ties to the Russians. Among them were Virgil Măgureanu, who would become the first head of the Romanian Intelligence Service (SRI), and General Militaru, forcibly retired by Ceaușescu for being too close to the Russians, then reactivated and appointed Minister of Defense by the new leadership at Iliescu’s suggestion. To these were added opportunists such as Petre Roman, a university professor who had demonstrated with his students on 21 December in University Square. The son of a former high‑ranking communist official, he quickly understood Iliescu’s maneuvers and allied himself with him — a profitable choice, as he would become prime minister after Ceaușescu’s fall. Rumors and false information about the so‑called “terrorists” were also spread by others: fleeting figures, people who knew nothing but wanted their moment of glory on television. To be an “influencer” for a minute or even a second. And many others who simply followed along, like sheep. All with one precise goal: to create panic.
Panic
Iliescu needed a wild, overwhelming panic that would lead to a generalized psychosis in which everyone would see “terrorists” everywhere. Such a state of mind was also necessary to silence rational voices — those who might have asked perfectly logical questions such as: “Where are these guys coming from? Why didn’t they appear earlier, against the demonstrators? Or to defend Ceaușescu before he was forced to flee?” Instead, there were exaggerated, even foolish reactions from everyone in the streets: civilians summoned by television supposedly “to defend the Revolution,” as well as the soldiers sent there by Stănculescu.
From the night of 22–23 December until 25 December: the ‘terrorists’ are everywhere — in flesh and blood
Let this be clear: there were never any real terrorists, loyalists of Ceaușescu fighting for him and for his return to power. Instead, there were armed civilians and soldiers everywhere, and many fired at one another, convinced they were shooting at “terrorists.” Here is how things unfolded.
One: distributing weapons to civilians
On Stănculescu’s orders, transmitted through the military hierarchy, weapons were distributed to civilians. Not to just anyone — only to those who met two conditions: they had completed their military service in an infantry unit, and they were between 25 and 40 years old (theoretically an age suitable for combat). The announcement was made on television: “Those who meet these conditions, come and request weapons to defend the Revolution against Ceaușescu’s loyal troops.” And they received weapons and fired without any control. They fired at anything that seemed like a suspicious movement. These were people who barely remembered how to load and fire a weapon. Not that the soldiers sent to “defend the Revolution” were any more experienced.
Two: sending in the conscripts
To fight the “terrorists,” defend various objectives, and secure difficult areas, conscripts — soldiers performing mandatory service — were sent out on Stănculescu’s orders. They had no training for infantry combat, let alone for fighting in an urban environment. In the city, that is. Typically, groups of soldiers were deployed who had received only minimal military instruction. The few somewhat experienced military forces Romania had at the time — composed of professional soldiers — were carefully kept away from any combat situation. Why? For fear they would discover the truth. And when, by mistake, such a group was sent into the field, its members were shot by those they were supposed to protect. This is what happened to an eight‑member team of the “USLA” (the equivalent of today’s SRI Anti‑Terror Brigade). They were killed during the night of 23–24 December in front of the Ministry of National Defense, which had summoned them for protection. Their bodies were left on the street for a while, with signs labeling them as “terrorists” who had come to attack the Ministry. And thus, a “proof” of their existence. This occurred in the context of the third and worst part of the scenario: obtaining dead, wounded, and corpses of “terrorists” through fratricidal fire.
Three: spreading false information
Even all this might not have been enough to prove the presence of large numbers of “terrorists” to be fought in many places. So a simple technique was used: military unit X was ordered to send a team to secure a certain objective. Shortly afterward, military unit Y received the same order. “Operational secrecy” — no communication or coordination between them. The result: the two groups often met and shot at each other, each convinced the others were “terrorists.” Gunfire, dead, wounded. The general public, through television, was informed about a battle against “terrorists,” about their “neutralization,” and so on. On the ground, there were many such cases, each with specific details that made them even more credible when presented on TV. And throughout this time, from the night of 22 December until 25 December, Iliescu appeared everywhere — especially on television — as the one leading the operations against the “terrorists.”
And that was not all.
Commanders “dumber than night” ordered countless bursts of fire from their weapons: the famous Kalashnikovs, but also machine guns, cannons, rockets — everywhere and in every possible way. Without any order from the Army’s leadership. Simply out of panic, or perhaps to demonstrate their “real tactical and operational capabilities” to their superiors.
The result was useful for Iliescu and his plans: all these bursts of fire were presented on television as clashes with “terrorists” (yeah, right). George’s commander was one of them.
GEORGE: fighting ‘heroically’ against the ‘terrorists.’
Night of 24–25 December: the nocturnal attack
That night, my unit was “attacked” by “terrorists,” meaning our superiors sent us to fight heroically against the reality that they did not, in fact, exist. But in the parallel reality of my commanders, an attack by “terrorists” was imminent, and we had to thwart it. Following instructions, several soldiers and I positioned ourselves in an agricultural field a few hundred meters from the unit. We brought with us several heavy crates, which two soldiers had to carry with utmost seriousness. What did they contain? Ammunition, of course. A lot of it. And very old. I was equipped with a PKM machine gun (Pulemyot Kalashnikova Modernizirovannyi) — in simpler Romanian terms: a “more advanced” Kalashnikov, a serious weapon for sustained fire. The kind of weapon with which, in theory, you defended the homeland and, in practice, broke your back carrying it.
Another comrade had an RPD (Rucinoi Pulemyot Degtiariova), a drum‑fed machine gun. We affectionately called it the “Big Drum” because it looked like a failed musical instrument, with its circular 100‑round magazines. We made fun of it at every opportunity, laughing from ear to ear. The other comrades were equipped with simple Kalashnikovs. The crates smelled rancid, of oil, and probably dated back to the Second World War. Since we were terribly 'competent' (yeah, right!) and the darkness outside was absolute, it took us more than half an hour to load the ammunition belts correctly. All of it, of course, by the light of a cigarette lighter. In a real war, we would have been riddled with bullets in the first 30 seconds — but that didn’t matter: we were following orders (ha! ha!).
Night of Glory
Once everything was prepared, we took up firing positions, and all eyes turned to me; I was neither the highest in rank nor the most senior in the group. But I was the main plotting‑table operator of our anti‑aircraft missile unit, so I was the one who had to designate the targets we were supposed to fire at — after all, that was my job as a “plotting‑table operator”! And I, seized by a kind of warlike exaltation, proposed — or rather ordered — that we fire continuously in front of us until the ammunition was exhausted. Especially since, almost a kilometer away, there was a railway line offering us perfect “targets”: some moving trains. It was, therefore, our moment of glory, in which we fired until the last bullet was spent. We fired in sustained bursts with an enthusiasm worthy of the worst Russian propaganda films about the Second World War. I should mention, however, that the trains passing that night had all their lights off; they must have been freight trains, without passengers. At least, that’s what we hoped. Moreover, in a deeply embarrassing way, none of our tracer bullets traveled even half the distance. We watched them glowing beautifully in the night and falling to the ground about a hundred meters in front of us. A military fireworks show, organized with professionalism by superiors stupid on paper and executed by soldiers bewildered by the absurdity of the orders received. But perhaps it was better that way — for the trains and for our conscience.
The Morning Hangover
Morning came quietly, in a strange silence, like after a collective drunkenness no one wants to remember. Fog hovered above the plain, and we hovered between exhaustion, cold, and the vague feeling that we had taken part in something profoundly stupid, yet historic. At first, no one asked us anything, no one congratulated us. No one has scolded us yet. An obvious sign that our superiors were still trying to understand the orders they themselves had given the night before. Eventually, an officer appeared with an empty stare and a confident voice — the kind of man who has no doubts because he has no thoughts, no neurons available. He told us that “the situation was under control.” He did not specify which situation. Probably the one in his head. He added that the terrorists had been “discouraged.” Instinctively, we looked toward the railway. The trains had passed. The “terrorists” had been frightened by our pyrotechnic display and had gone home (ha! ha!).
The ‘Mathematical’ Shock
Then we were asked to hand in our weapons and declare the amount of ammunition used. When the numbers were written down on paper, a heavy silence settled. Not a silence of horror — a mathematical silence. It was obvious that someone would have to explain to the army leadership how our unit had just waged total war against trains and imaginary “terrorists,” consuming (almost) all the ammunition we had. For us, the conclusion was clear and simple: we survived not thanks to the system’s efficiency, but despite it. And if the Revolution was going to win, it would not be because the orders were intelligent, but because reality stubbornly refused to take them seriously. For the officers in my unit — and even less for the commander — this was not so clear. So I was brought before a group of officers, and the commander prepared to interrogate me, a kind of pre‑trial hearing before a real judgment. Fortunately, before he could begin, someone shouted: “Ceaușescu’s trial is on TV!” They all rushed to the television, leaving me there. After a few minutes of waiting, I headed to the dormitory as well, realizing I had escaped. At least for the moment.
Epilogue
A few days later, I was brought before the entire unit, assembled for a very important announcement. I expected to hear my sentence for an imaginary offense and imagined finishing my military service in a disciplinary battalion. Surprise: the commander read an order from above granting me the rank of corporal and three days’ leave. When I got home, my parents told me about the fear they had lived through that night, when television announced that our unit had been attacked by “terrorists” and that “heavy fighting” was underway. They experienced moments of pure terror until the announcement that the “terrorists” had been repelled and that there were no casualties among the soldiers. That explains my leave and promotion: someone high up appreciated my behavior that night; it fit perfectly into the scenario of the confrontation with the “terrorists.” And that, even though in reality, the purpose of our battle was to empty the ammunition crates so we wouldn’t have to carry them back to the unit. And I had thought my leave was connected to Ceaușescu’s trial and execution!
25 December: bye‑bye, Ceaușescu
The fate of a deposed dictator is simple: either he manages to flee to a friendly country, or he is killed. In the second case, he is most likely killed on the spot, in the first hours after capture, like Gaddafi. Or he is tried in a fair trial, like Pétain or, more recently, Saddam Hussein. This was not Ceaușescu’s case. Captured on the evening of 22 December, he was tried and shot together with his wife three days later, following a miserable staged trial. Iliescu entrusted General Stănculescu with organizing it, and he carried it out with “military” efficiency — meaning he dispatched everything in an hour and a few minutes: the trial, the death sentence, and the execution of the Ceaușescu couple.
Oath of Loyalty to the Russians and to “Communist Values”
In reality, this was the ultimate proof of Ion Iliescu’s adherence to “communist values,” he being the new leader of Romania. It was also a ritual offering to his master in the Kremlin, Mikhail Gorbachev — a demonstration of his commitment to doing everything possible to keep Romania communist and under Russian influence. Ceaușescu had dared to oppose Russia and Gorbachev; for that, Iliescu made him pay with his life. Thus, the trial and execution on the sacred day of Christmas had nothing to do with the Romanian Revolution, and even less with the Romanian people. It was a bloody settling of accounts between communists: between Ceaușescu, the communist who posed as a “nationalist or sovereigntist” to rule as an absolute master of the country without answering to anyone, especially not to the Russians; and Iliescu, an “internationalist” communist whom the Russians wanted at Romania’s helm to maintain their control over the country.
26 December: the end of the “terrorists”
The trial and execution of Ceaușescu were broadcast on television on the afternoon of 25 December. Shortly afterward, Iliescu appeared to announce: “It’s over. Everything has ended, the dictator has been executed, and there will be no more terrorists.” And he proclaimed “the victory of the revolution,” which was in fact the victory of his coup d’état.
Soon after, calm and peace settled in, and people’s lives returned to normal. The “terrorists” disappeared overnight, as if they had never existed. How was this possible? Simple: civilians were asked to return the weapons they had received — and generally, they complied. And the soldiers were confined to their barracks. And then, without armed civilians and soldiers on the streets, there were no more “terrorists.”
ANGELO AND THE PUNISHMENT
On the night of 22–23 December, I was part of a group of soldiers sent to fight the “terrorists” in Fetești, about 120 kilometers from Bucharest. But our group of soldiers consisted exclusively of “tough guys” from the most “elegant” neighborhoods of Bucharest: Giulești, Colentina‑Tei, Pantelimon, and Ferentari. So we “saw” the maneuver from a distance and, instead of unleashing deadly fire, we chose to make peace with the “terrorists.” In reality, they were soldiers just like us — but some had been sent there specifically so that we would massacre them. Our behavior contradicted the official version about a terrorist attack in Fetești, and the information had to be withdrawn from television (the story is told in detail in The Fall of the Mastodon). And we received our punishment: on 26 December, the High Command ordered us to stand guard for two weeks at the Fetești power plant, located in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of an agricultural field.
The Communist “Love Nest”
On paper, the punishment seemed perfect: to guard a plant that had none of the facilities necessary for human life. Which is why we were given a huge army tent to serve as both a dormitory and a dining hall. With no source of heat, with insufficient food supplies, and of even worse quality than the usual army food (which was already disgusting). “Bad luck”: nearby, there was a very well‑maintained wooden cabin, perfectly equipped. It was the “love nest” and drinking den of the Communist Party activists in the county. The “smart ones” in the army had no idea it existed. Neither did we, of course. But the locals knew it very well.
Once the army dropped us off — abandoned us, rather — they came to greet us and talk to us. It must be said that at that time, soldiers were considered “heroes of the nation”; by fraternizing with the demonstrators, they had ensured Ceaușescu’s fall and the success of the Revolution. And we were twice the heroes, because we had avoided a massacre in Fetești — something everyone in the area knew very well; in the countryside, information traveled faster than today’s social‑media messages. So they guided us to the cabin, which we stormed with an efficiency unusual for the Romanian army of the time. Two minutes — that’s how long it took to break down the door and occupy the building.
The Shock
What followed was pure debauchery: we played cards, watched television, and slept. Food and drink were plentiful because everyone in the area wanted to treat us; we were their heroes. In the end came the shock. The shock of our officers and commanders when we had to return to the unit, and they greeted us, convinced we were starving, weakened, sick, and almost destroyed after two weeks spent in extremely harsh conditions. Instead, we were in top shape. Well… almost, because the culinary and alcoholic excesses had left their mark on our bellies; each of us had gained at least five kilos. The most “intellectual” officer among them concluded: “These guys are extremely dangerous. If we abandon them in the desert, they’re capable of stripping the poor Bedouins naked.”
Epilogue
Iliescu was president of Romania until 1996, democratically elected twice, in 1990 and 1992. Each time, he presented himself as the “emanation of the revolution,” a sort of “my right to be president of the country by the divine grace of the revolution.” He remained loyal to the Soviet Union until its dissolution, signing in April 1991 a treaty of official submission to the Russians. Romania is the only country in the former Eastern European communist bloc that did this. Fortunately, history moved on: in December 1991, the USSR disintegrated and left Iliescu orphaned of his communist father figure. Out of necessity, he had to accept Romania’s adoption by the West and the democracy that came with it. In 1996, following the presidential elections, he was replaced as head of state. Unfortunately, his legacy — marked by a coup d’état that caused countless deaths, injuries, and lies — remains one of the darkest pages in Romania’s history. And the system of corruption and clientelism that Iliescu inherited from Ceaușescu and adapted to Romanian democracy survives to this day. As does his political offspring, the PSD. At his death, we, Angelo and George, wished him in the traditional Romanian way, from the depths of our souls: “May the earth lie… HEAVY upon him!”
The third part of the series dedicated to the 1989 Revolution describes how, by whom, in what way, and with what means it was diverted into a coup d’état.
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