Twenty years ago

Twenty years ago I was sitting in front of the TV in my living room in Stockholm, crying floods. I am almost crying now when I think about it. I grew up knowing that the Communist regime was invincible. At sixteen, I as prepared to die for freedom, to burn myself on Red Square, to do anything to overthrow the hateful dictatorship. My mother told me not to be a fool. Nothing would change if I sacrificed my life. The dictatorship was there for ever. Not even my grandchildren would live to see it fall.

And there I was, twenty years ago today, watching, together with the rest of the world, the Wall being pulled down. I had never imagined I would live to see it. But there it was, happening right in front of my eyes. I had never before known what it meant to cry of joy. Those who remember, just look back and contemplate. Those who were too young, try to grasp.

For my grandchildren it is all ancient history.

Essential numbers

In the old country, the most important number to remember is your personal identification number. It is easy to memorize because it contains your birth date and the magical “four digits”, the unique combination that newborn babies are allocated automatically and resident aliens on application. To receieve your four digits is, for an immigrant, to be accepted as a rightful community member. Many people complain that personal number is an intervention into their integrity, a sign of the Big Brother, but it proves very convenient. You are asked the number in all contacts with authorities, from car insurance to blood test.

Here in England you are instead asked for your postcode. Since many people obviously share a postcode I cannot really imagine how it works but it does. And apparently your identity changes every time you move.