Dispatches: Remembering March 1968

As to the events of March 1968, I was in the eye of the storm, though I, like the rest of my peers, was oblivious to the political machinations and set-ups underlying the student movement. I was the classic representative and spokesperson for a spirit enslaved by communism, a national spirit, the Polish spirit—in pursuit of liberation from Soviet control, on the one hand, and on the other, freedom from the communism imposed on us by force.

I was in my fourth year of studies. One morning, on my way to a doctor’s appointment outside of the University, I picked up a leaflet on the ground in front of the library, a leaflet among many which someone had scattered like seeds. It was an announcement for a rally at 3pm that day, on that very spot in the courtyard, to protest the removal of a canonical play from the National Theatre (the play was removed for its incitement of anti-Soviet sentiment). As I returned from my check-up, I realized that all the streets leading to the university were blocked by militia squad-cars. Tension was rising.

The rally began with a protest in relation to the play, though immediately afterwards, we heard people shouting to each other to flee for the university buildings, for the militia had begun to attack.

We quickly rushed to a building and barricaded the doors. From the window I could see militia officers, not dressed in their regular uniforms but as workmen, beating students with batons and throwing them into police wagons.

Meanwhile, other schools were joining the student movement, and every day the movement was growing larger.

At the University I took part in a rally in the main auditorium, then in the departmental sit-ins, and in the marches through the Krakowski section of Warsaw; when threatened with police violence, we ran into Holy Cross Church.

But these are all minor details. Most important was the hope and joy we felt, that something would change, that we were fighting for Poland’s independence, that history was being made. The ability to express one’s hatred for the Soviet regime, thrust upon us against our will. And what’s more, the knowledge that we could express our deepest convictions without fear. I remember crying from happiness and pride, ecstatic that I could sing our national anthem in protest against the Soviet regime.

We belonged to the post-war generation, fighting for freedom despite our fear of the Stalinist repressions that so severely affected those of the wartime generation, our parents and grandparents.

In later years we discovered that, far from being agents of change, we were a bunch of dupes. The declaration of martial law in 1980, after the fall of the Solidarity movement, was the final blow to my ideals. After that, everything was an illusion.