Between Vigil and Birth
All things come to an end, whether glorious, tragic, or anonymous. It depends on circumstances, which rarely ask for your opinion. The moment comes, and just like that, you move into eternity—or oblivion. At the beginning of December 1989, there were few signs of what was to come. Only the tense atmosphere following the 14th Congress in November and the open jokes about Nicolae Ceaușescu were noticeable.
Then, things began to accelerate in mid-month, with rumors, and later news, about the street movements and the revolt of the young people in Timișoara. Disparate, distorted, and interpretable information was being broadcast by Radio Free Europe, the BBC, and Voice of America. Ceaușescu was on a visit to Iran, and there was a fierce media campaign against „foreign agents” and those defying communism on the streets of Timișoara. The first casualties and injuries were reported. In large „spontaneous” popular gatherings (pre-organized), workers were called upon and urged to expose the dark forces threatening national security and to fight against them. „Steagul Roșu” had to report on this atmosphere in its last two editions of its „communist career,” unaware that it was nearing its inevitable end. Meanwhile, preparations were being made for special editions celebrating the end-of-year holidays, with the Republic Day in the spotlight. The pragmatism of colleague Constantin Bursuc, a photojournalist with nearly four decades of experience, tempered the atmosphere a bit, as he pointed out: „Take it easy, don’t you see what’s happening in the country?” It was Thursday evening, December 21. In the capital, a large rally had taken place, and another was scheduled for the next morning. In the newsroom, as in all institutions and economic units, an on-call service was established, which for us meant a night spent in a lounge chair-bed, with old service records…
On Friday, December 22, our focus was on… waiting, implementing the slogan „how to do so little while still doing so much!” A few editors, along with the photojournalist, were sent into the city to observe and take the pulse.
The rest of us gathered in front of the only TV set—a white-and-black Diamant—watching the live broadcast of the mass gathering in front of the Communist Party headquarters. Ștefan Olteanu was tasked with recording the events in the central square minute by minute. His notes would later become „The Chronicle of a Great Day,” as writer Corneliu Leu would paraphrase. It fit perfectly, as the chronicle would appear the following day in the new publication, about which we knew nothing yet. Around 12:30 PM, the first reporter returned from the field with the news that the revolutionaries in Bacău had occupied the local Party headquarters, forcing out the first secretary and other local political leaders.
Similar reports were coming from all over the country. Amid the avalanche of exceptional events, we began to consider immediately publishing a new newspaper. We took the risks without any discussion. It was, truly, a unanimous „hitching” of our efforts.
The decision was made shortly after 1:30 PM, just moments after the dictator couple fled by helicopter from the Communist Party headquarters. At the same time, the portrait of „the comrade” in the editor-in-chief’s office was taken down from its seemingly eternal place. One publication died to make way for another. Along with the system. „Steagul Roșu” had celebrated its 43rd anniversary in the spring, and by then had added almost eight more months. A few civil registry details: birth—May 1, 1946; death—December 22, 1989; baptismal name—”Luptătorul”; its genealogy: „Curierul”—launched in February 1935; „Înainte”—October 1935–June 1936 and October 1944–February 1948; „Vremuri Noi”—May 1946–January 1948. After six years and eight months of publication (until January 7, 1953), with 1,783 issues published, „Luptătorul” changed its name to „Steagul Roșu,” which would be its title for the next 37 years. Over this time, the publication saw 14 editor-in-chiefs, with Dumitru Mitulescu holding the longest tenure (14 years and a half, from August 1965 to November 1979), and Mihai Buznea serving the shortest (2 hours, from 11:15 AM to 1:15 PM on December 22, 1989). Notable names included writer Constantin Prisnea, the first editor-in-chief of the pre-December 1989 Bacău newspaper.
„Finit coronat opus” („the end crowns the work”) is one of the maxims of the great poet of antiquity, Ovid. The choice was made, and as it should be, „in all matters, let us take the end into account,” because, as often happens, it means a new beginning. As for me, after the „Flacăra Moineștiului,” I participated in a second vigil, but also in a first birth: Deșteptarea. This is another chapter, written in both cheerful and sad tones, of my journey in the world of Bacău journalists, and not only…
Freedom with a Weapon at the Heel
…It was December 22, 1989, 1:30 PM. From the roof of the building housing the Communist Party Central Committee, a military helicopter took off, carrying with it the couple of notorious memory: the Odious and the Sinister. The two dictators were trying to escape their historical fate. It was a flight toward an unknown we would come to know in just a few days. C’est le commencement de la fin (it’s the beginning of the end).
This moment was also intensely felt in the Bacău newsroom. „Steagul Roșu” stopped fluttering. It succumbed. Another era ended. A new one began, with immediate and clear political appointments: either/or… The editors collectively made a new choice: we would publish a different newspaper, one independent and democratic. The first free/collegial elections took place to choose the leadership: Mihai Buznea—editor-in-chief; Ioan Enache—deputy editor-in-chief. The dictator’s portrait was dethroned from the wall where it had hung for 25 years. A rectangle of whitewashed wall remained, a stark reminder of a past era. For nearly a month, the room became a kind of museum, and no one felt drawn to occupy it. Ten people—the same who had edited the old publication—took on a job that could have had any outcome. But we didn’t hesitate for a moment. We sketched the first editorial plan.
We made a list of 14 possible titles: Victoria, Tricolorul, Glasul Bacăului, Deșteptarea… Around midnight, we decided on the last one. The connotations were many and profound. There had, in fact, been a rebirth in consciousness and attitude. Help arrived from all quarters, encouraged by gestures from within the consciousness of the people of Bacău: teachers, engineers, ordinary people. Most of them had pure intentions; others were opportunists born of the revolution. But the sieve would soon filter them out…
At dawn on December 23, the rotary press started spinning; the first issue of Deșteptarea was being printed—110,000 copies. It was the second newspaper of the Romanian Revolution, after Libertatea from the Capital (converted from Informația Bucureștiului), which had released a poster-style edition in the afternoon of December 22. It was the first regional publication to emerge. Alea jacta est! The newborn was strong, from courageous parents, and the fates had foretold a long life for it. But not without its own set of challenges; the city remained tense, and the atmosphere heavy with rumors and perceived dangers.
There were reports of a few shots being fired near the Decebal Hotel, supposedly from terrorists. A provisional county council led by actor Geo Popa was established in the former office of the first secretary. New people for new times. Press directives came in a reserved tone, though the newspaper was independent! But other threats loomed, and we called for military protection. The commander of the garrison, Colonel Cantonieru, sent us a platoon of soldiers led by a major lieutenant. The soldiers protected us for over two weeks, day and night, risking their own safety.
The first pleasant surprise came early on December 23 when master baker Nicolae Tănase—head of the bakery department in the CFR neighborhood—arrived at the newsroom with a group of workers. They brought with them an aromatic collection of braided tricolor wreaths made from dough, a gesture of support for the Romanian Revolution.
We photographed and published the images in the next day’s issue. Shortly after, Professor Eugen Șendrea—an old and steadfast collaborator of the Bacău press—appeared with another gesture of support… this time gastronomic, from someone we least expected: a lunch of fasting food—bean stew, pickles, bread, mineral water (it was Friday!)—from Father Ștefan Erdeș, the dean of the Roman Catholic Deanery of Bacău.
Most of the city’s restaurants came to our aid—Parc, Bistrița, Autoservire Piață, Parcul Trandafirilor—ensuring our sustenance for about two weeks, both for the editors and the soldiers guarding us.
The newspaper instantly gained popularity. The print runs of 120,000–130,000 copies were barely enough! They sold out in less than two hours. The readers had finally found the truth they had longed for!
Consummatum est! Everything had ended. Everything (or almost everything) had changed. And this was just the beginning…
The Return of the Weapons
So, after almost 44 years of uninterrupted publication, Steagul Roșu passed into history. Its last issue appeared on Saturday, December 16, 1989. Deșteptarea took its place, as an immediate response to the „turn of the weapons,” with an unanimous and unequivocal decision. In the „civil registry,” its birth was recorded on Saturday, December 23, 1989, at 3:30 AM, when the old rotary press began its „triumphal march.”
The slogan of the new publication: freedom and democracy. Print run: 110,000 copies. It would prove insufficient for the Bacău people’s hunger for „hot” information. It was the concrete and unequivocal response of journalists here to the new course of history. Revolutionaries of the pen. Of the eight initiators of this editorial endeavor, only two remain in the newsroom today, and only three still write for various publications. The glory (if one can speak of such a thing in those dramatic circumstances) was forgotten in the lost collections of the newspaper. For „sic transit gloria mundi” (thus passes the glory of the world), which over time has turned into „vanitas vanitatum.”
But while the birth process was not particularly difficult in terms of commitment and assumption, the post facto developments became more complicated day by day, influenced by malevolent forces that created an atmosphere of suspicion, division, and conflict in the editorial offices of the revolutionary media.
