A story of the past. Cold War memory lane and why we shouldn't forget.

This is a modern story about Hungary, but it actually starts in Berlin on the night of November 9, 1989. Having gone to bed early, I was fast asleep in my little flat on Gneisenaustraße, when the phone rang. A friend blurted out. “Have you heard the news? The Wall is open!” Barely awake, it took a minute for the words to sink in. I was suddenly wide-awake, but I still thought it was a joke. It wasn’t a joke. As I dashed for my camera bag, only one thing was clear: Something big was happening, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

Cameras in hand, we were among the first to arrive at the Brandenburg Gate that night. Unlike the rest of The Berlin Wall, the section in front of the Brandenburg Gate was wider than the rest. At about 15 feet deep and hundreds of feet long, it made a great platform. We had no idea what to expect as we boosted each other onto The Wall, ran along its length with a video camera, chanted, and shouted at the ring of uniformed border guards silhouetted against the reddish glow of East German streetlights. There we were, a small group of crazy Americans, doing the unthinkable. It was insane, but exhilarating… Until the East Germans broke out the riot gear. Fire hoses spraying water laced with tear gas would “encourage” us to jump off the wall, but we were relentless. We’d take a break, then boost each other up again. They eventually gave up.

As more people joined us, we dangled our legs off “our” side of The Wall in silence. Catching our breath, we just looked out over West Berlin. Even though it was well after midnight, we could see people wandering through the Tier Garten, drawn toward the gate by some unexplainable impulse. In hindsight, I don’t think anyone on the planet really knew what was going on. All I knew was there was only place I could be. I had to be at The Wall. We all did. Nothing was more important.

We watched as Tom Brokaw’s team set lights and he began broadcasting the news to the world. It started to get a little crowded on our perch, so we decided to head south along The Wall toward Checkpoint Charlie. By the time we arrived, our ranks had grown tremendously with strangers who had joined us along the way. At the checkpoint, we merged together with a mass of hundreds, maybe thousands, who were already pressing around the tiny guard shack and road barriers. We could catch glimpses through to the east side, where crowds were gathering in numbers as well. All those people across the barriers in the East saw an opportunity to cross over to freedom. They didn’t know if they would be welcome, or what tomorrow would bring. Nevertheless, they were here. Eager, scared, desperate… uncommonly courageous. It suddenly dawned on me; we were here for them.

As the first East Germans were allowed to file through the barriers separating east and west, the anticipation had us holding our breath. When the first person crossed over, the crowd went wild. The cheers continued to rise and fall with each new arrival. Sometimes a couple, sometimes a family, old, young… Each was greeted by roaring encouragement and free-flowing tears from their western counterparts. I’ve used the word euphoric, but that’s not enough. It was like watching a lifetime of hopes and dreams come true, over and over and over… I still get chills thinking about it.

As we all know, The Berlin Wall fell that night and stayed down forever. It was a new era. We didn’t sleep for days. In the months that followed there were so many stories, so many new “eastern” friendships, so many sledgehammers…

And that’s my point! Sledgehammers.

In the weeks and months that followed, the hammering and chipping at The Wall never seemed to stop. That spring I took a picture down a western street that ran dead-end into the barrier. Lush trees reached out from the yards of beautiful villas and canopied over perfectly arranged cobblestone. Vibrant color in window boxes accented green manicured hedges. But, of course, there was a giant chiseled hole in The Wall, exposing the desolation of “No Man’s Land” and the drab apartment buildings of the East. The image captured the stark contrast between East and West. But what's really amazing is I went back to that spot exactly 1 year later and found the street had been connected seamlessly to the east. “No Man’s Land” was gone. Buildings were erected; flowers and trees planted… with German efficiency; all evidence of The Wall’s existence had been erased in just 12 months. It was surreal.

I found this phenomenon in other countries. As Eastern Bloc nations shed the mantle of Soviet rule, monuments to communism disappeared. Some fell to the sledgehammer, some were melted down as scrap, some re-purposed as art, some just abandoned and left to ruin. Much like the Berlin Wall, the pieces were scattered around the world in small chunks; sold as souvenirs. The statues of Lenin, towering bronze monuments to the workers and peasants; granite Hammer & Sickles with accompanying Cyrillic script… gone. It had to happen. For most, these symbols were grim reminders of darker harder times. Times best left in the past. Still, I found it a little sad. I just couldn’t put my finger on why.

Jump forward to the present. This is a story about Hungary, after all.

Fact: In all my travels, I’d just missed Hungary. I wasn't avoiding it! It was on my list; it just took 25 years for me to arrive. I was keenly aware of the role Hungary played in the collapse of the Iron Curtain. In the months before The Berlin Wall fell, I was introduced to an East German who had gone to Hungary on a “vacation”. He was one of the first to cross over through Austria to West Germany. Many are not aware that Hungary was actually the first country of the Soviet Bloc to lift travel restrictions and open their borders. As we sipped coffee and practiced English in West Berlin, Hungarians were witnessing the mass exodus that overwhelmed West German Embassies in Hungary, Poland, and Czechoslovakia. We'll see how history remembers it, but in my mind, the actions of Hungary were certainly the catalyst that led directly to demonstrations on East Berlin’s Alexanderplatz; that triggered the subsequent fall of The Wall. But it was a week into my trip before I understood why Hungarians were so perfectly equipped to be this catalyst.

Travel Photographer's Tip: My usual routine is very deliberate and designed to facilitate connecting to a place. I rise early to shoot the sunrise, explore the "usual" sites, and attempt to capture a unique perspective. I usually visit galleries and public monuments to get to know some history and culture. Then I explore outside the "tourist areas" and attempt to find hidden gems. This is when I can really connect to a place. I never pass on an opportunity to make a personal connection. During these explorations in Budapest, my picture of Hungary started to come into focus.

A man, old enough to be my grandfather, saw me chatting with someone on the street. He was sitting alone at an outside cafe table and asked me to join him. I learned he had gone to University in Berlin, so we bypassed his broken English and moved to German. There are so many lessons in Hungary’s rich, often tragic, history. Wars, resistance, stubborn insistence on free thought... he described with passion how frequently their collective desire to find a fair and, dare I say, right path influenced their history. He wanted me to see the honor and how it shaped something uniquely Hungarian. It was also clear he was also afraid some of this might be lost on a younger generation. As it turns out, those fears were unfounded.

Everyone I spoke with reminded me that Hungarians have been fighting for a thousand years, and were keenly aware and very proud of this legacy. Even in cases where they were not successful, going back as far as the Mongol invasions and the devastation of the Ottoman empire, Hungarians have always contentiously preserved what it means to be Hungarian.They quickly reference the 1956 rebellion that cost 30,000 Hungarians their lives during the Soviet crackdowns; their ability to affect a degree of pluralism in the 1980’s even within the existing communist system. So many had great stories of how they creatively resisted at great personal cost. The Soviets, nor any past occupiers, were able to dislodge this distinctive individualism. They never gave up hope and were willing to patiently endure. Uncommonly courageous.

That’s when I discovered Memento Park.

Memento Park (or Memorial Park) is an open-air collection of Soviet Era memorials gathered from locations around Budapest after the fall of the communist dictatorship. I heard some refer to it as a memorial graveyard, but it’s so much more. For this American, it’s a place that best represents the unique perspective of Hungarians. Once I learned of its existence, I was drawn there, much like I had been drawn to The Wall on that fateful night in 1989.

Just minutes from the bustle of the city center, I began to feel like I was seeing the "real" Hungary. Rolling hills and rural landscapes give one the impression that life might have been exactly the same 100 years ago. Modern roads and power-lines were the only things that kept my imagination in check. Once I arrived at my destination, I was surprised to find how remote the location felt, even though it was only 15 minutes away from the outskirts of Budapest. No flashy signage, no lines of tourist buses... It felt much more like a place you would take a pastoral stroll on a Sunday afternoon. My camera was on its tripod before I reached the ticket booth.

The next hour, I chased the sunset. This is what I had been missing on my previous travels in the east. I didn’t need a museum full of artifacts, statistics, or photographs. I needed a larger than life reminder of the past. The experience triggered a wave of memories and emotions that time had already buried pretty deep. A blunt reminder of how easily freedom can slip away, and how hard it can be to regain it.

I took a lot of pictures. As the sun faded and I finished packing up my gear, I realized I was so… grateful.

Tamás Deutsch, a former government minister, may have said it best:

“… Whenever given a chance to make a free choice, our nation chose freedom and independence – both in 1956 and in 1990. Not only in words did she make this choice, but in sacrificial and exemplary deeds as well. We need to be proud of our ancestors’, fathers’ and grandfathers’ commitment to freedom. The only way to pay tribute to them is by keeping them in our memories, by remembering and commemorating them daily… That specific need makes Memento Park extremely worthy and important.”

Here, here.

Thanks Hungary. We won’t forget.

ECW

P.S. Click anywhere on the picture above to scroll through some of my shots of the day. But my favorite is on the home gallery page. “Liberty Paradox”

E.