I grew up under Communism so we could only learn Russian, and

Hear the voice of Petra Nemcová, a voice shaped by both hardship and liberation, declaring: “I grew up under Communism so we could only learn Russian, and then when Communism fell in 1989 we could learn a few more things and have the freedom to travel and the freedom of speech—and the freedom of dreaming, really.” This is no idle remembrance, but a testimony carved from the stone of history. Within her words dwell both the chains of oppression and the wings of liberty. They remind us that when systems fall, the spirit of man may rise, and when silence is broken, the soul may finally learn to dream again.

The Communism she speaks of was not merely an economic order, but a net woven tightly around the human heart. To learn only Russian, as she recalls, was to be limited not just in language, but in thought, in imagination, in the capacity to commune with the broader human family. Language is not only words; it is access to worlds. To forbid tongues is to confine minds. Thus, in her youth, the horizon was narrow, bounded by ideology and fear.

But in 1989, with the crumbling of the Iron Curtain, a new dawn broke. The fall of Communism was not simply the fall of walls of stone, but the tearing down of walls within the human spirit. Suddenly, a people long imprisoned in silence discovered freedom of speech, freedom to travel, and most wondrous of all, freedom of dreaming. For to dream is the highest liberty. Governments may command bodies, restrict voices, and dictate movement, but the dream is eternal—and when a people are allowed to dream openly, new worlds are born.

Consider the tale of Vaclav Havel, playwright turned president, who himself lived under the crushing silence of Communist Czechoslovakia. His plays were censored, his voice suppressed, his body thrown into prison. Yet when 1989 came—the Velvet Revolution—he rose from prisoner to leader, declaring that “truth and love must prevail over lies and hatred.” Havel embodied exactly what Nemcová describes: that freedom is not only the right to move or to speak, but the right to imagine, to envision a future that is nobler than the past.

The meaning of Nemcová’s words is therefore twofold: they honor the pain of restriction and they celebrate the power of liberation. The memory of oppression gives depth to the value of freedom. For those who never knew chains, liberty may seem ordinary, like the air we breathe. But for those who have been bound, every word spoken freely, every journey taken without permission, every dream allowed to bloom is a miracle. Her testimony teaches us never to take for granted what others once risked their lives to obtain.

From her words, the lesson becomes clear: freedom is fragile and precious, and it must be nurtured, defended, and used wisely. To speak truth is a duty. To travel and learn is a responsibility. To dream boldly is an obligation to those who once could not. If you possess freedom, then waste it not on trivial pursuits, but use it to build, to heal, to create, to lift others from darkness.

Practical action follows: cherish the freedoms you hold by exercising them daily. Read beyond your borders. Travel beyond your comfort. Speak with honesty. Dream without fear. And above all, honor those who came before, who endured silence so that you may have a voice. In doing so, you become not merely a beneficiary of freedom, but its guardian.

Thus, O listener, remember the testimony of Petra Nemcová. She lived in a world where the mind was bound, and then saw the dawn where the spirit could soar. Take her words as a charge: do not let the gift of freedom lie dormant. For in the end, the greatest liberty is not only the right to live, but the freedom of dreaming, really—and to dream is to shape the destiny of tomorrow.