David Whitley takes a look at where the tourists now follow the demonstrators in the Czech capital.
Political graffiti
Scrawl on the wall at the back of a building can sometimes be surprisingly illuminating – in this instance neatly summing up an ideological conflict that spanned half a century. “Commies had it coming,” reads the considered hand of one scribe. “Long live Russia,” another.
Other comments are somewhat more incisive. They rally – “Hegemonic capitalism = the new serfdom” – snipe – “A museum founded by an American for Americans” – and panicmonger – “Islamo-fascists want to kill us all!” But whatever the view, it appears as though no-one leaves Prague’s Museum of Communism without one.
Prague’s tourism overkill
It’s an interesting place for it to be situated, as there are few places that have leapt aboard the transition from Communism to Capitalism as enthusiastically as the Czech capital. It opened not only the doors, but the floodgates as well. The power of the tourist dollar, pound and euro was impossible to resist, and now the city centre is almost a local-free zone. Well, apart from the umbrella-toting guides herding the heaving tour group masses around, anyway. Overrun doesn’t even begin to cover it – although perhaps the sight of visitors routinely taking photos of a beggar with his head bowed does.
Museum of Communism
The Museum of Communism also couldn’t be in a position that is any more ironic. It is right next to the main shopping strip, above a McDonalds and next to a casino; more Vegas than Eastern Europe.
At the entrance, visitors are greeted by a giant bust of Lenin and a large Soviet flag, smaller versions of which are dotted around inside. This gives a vaguely theme park-y feel, but there is information to go alongside the icons.
In an occasionally glib, and rather one-sided, way, the museum traces the history of Communism from its formation under Marx and Engels to its effective collapse along with the Berlin Wall. This, of course, is a story that is widely known, but it’s when it is narrowed down to the Czech context that it becomes rather more interesting.
The exhibits explore the fluctuations in the strength of the Soviet grip, from the Stalin-influenced collapse of the democratic system in 1948 to the invasion of 1968 when reforms got a little too liberal for Moscow’s liking.
Life under Communist rule
The effect on the people is also explored, with the piped triumphal brass band music providing a somewhat incongruent backing. Despite the best efforts of the regime, supply and demand always won out, with shopkeepers keeping back supposedly unavailable items for those with plenty of (preferably foreign) cash to pay for them.
There’s also a mock interrogation room, defining the tactics used to control the population. To not report ‘criminal’ (or anti-State) activity was a criminal activity in itself, and officials were given handsome rewards for eliciting confessions through torture.
It would be all too easy to dismiss most of this as propaganda – as the cubicle philosopher states, the museum was founded by an American and isn’t overly subtle as to where its sympathies lie – but it pays to watch those going round the displays.
Outside a small section on what happened to the farmers, there is a young couple – a Czech girl and her Australian boyfriend. “That’s exactly what happened to my family,” she says, pointing towards the text about land being confiscated and nationalised. For all the obvious bias, there’s still a nasty truth there.
Memorial to the Victims of Communism
Far more powerful than the museum is the Memorial to the Victims of Communism. By the Ujezd tram stop and shadowed by the tranquil parklands of Petřínské Sady, it’s in equal parts striking and controversial.
Unveiled in 2002, it is a categorical statement of which way the city and country are looking. It consists of six metal-sculpted figures on steps, the first of which is the full human form, the others gradually more dissolved versions increasingly lacking in limbs and other vital body parts.
To say not all agreed with its installation would be a categorical understatement – it was damaged in 2003 by a bomb attack.
Wenceslas Square
The major stop on Prague’s communist trail is Wenceslas Square, named after the Czech patron saint and the star of the Christmas carol. If he looked out on the feast of Stephen today, he would probably see a lot of multi-national banks and chain stores and street vendors selling universally awful hotdogs.
In summary, therefore, it is about as decadently Western as you can get, even if it is flanked by grand buildings. Wenceslas Square is where the herd comes to spend, buying the same things they could get at home at slightly cheaper prices, and stag parties come to skulk into strip clubs. Such are the heady heights of progress.
In the past, however, this 750m-long boulevard has been the scene of conflict, tumult, horror and celebration. Long the traditional staging post for demonstrations and rallies, a bronze cross by the National Museum commemorates one of the most shocking protests the former Eastern Bloc ever witnessed.
Jan Palach’s self-immolation
On the 16th of January, 1969, a 20-year-old student named Jan Palach set himself on fire and burned to death. The torturous suicide was in protest at the previous year’s Soviet-led invasion, and over a million people joined his funeral procession in a show of solidarity.
The square was also the designated end point for the student march that instigated the Velvet Revolution – the collapse of Communist rule in the country.
In November 1989, the march (ironically commemorating a protest against Nazi occupation 50 years ago and fully approved by the Communist leadership) was brutally charged by riot police before it could reach Wenceslas Square. A graphic video of events can be seen in the Communist museum while a sculpture on the corner of Národní třída and Mikulandská commemorates what became known as The Massacre.
In the days afterwards, a tide of people surged into Wenceslas Square, on strike and protesting loudly but non-violently. The surge was enough to bring down the regime, which decided to walk away quietly rather than fight.
Today, aside from the archive footage, the square carries barely a trace of its past. The flag is no longer draped over the statue in celebration, and the crowds come to spend, not shout. And it appears as though the city wouldn’t have it any other way.
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