It was an oppressively hot August day, when I heard on the radio that Czechoslovakia had been invaded by Soviet troops. I was 9 years old, and a sense of fear gripped me, as the grown ups seemed unusually worried, suddenly facing the prospect of war again. Mom and Dad, who had gone through the Second World War, had taught me to fear war.
When I visited Communist Czechoslovakia in the mid and late 70s, I could sense a mood of resignation and cynicism among the people I got to know more closely. By their own perception, which would prove right with hindsight, those in their best years then were a lost generation, robbed of national pride, humiliated by a farcical socialist Leviathan and utterly lacking in the life chances of a modern Westerner.
The illusions that I had entertained about socialism were brutally destroyed by visiting that bleak and grotty planet where people were made to hurry about like puppets so that some intangible anonymous power could have its socialism. The Communist Prague I knew was populated by Kafkas entangled in an absurd play.
It is awkward to think that the West was right not to interfere militarily, and that those who decided it was better not to die defending their budding freedom had made a wise choice.
We who worry about our freedoms, how much resignation and cynicism are we entitled to?