Martial Law, Poland,1982

It was a time of greyness and of tanks, of water cannons on the market square, a time of strikes, protests, and fear. Despair was a catchword we wore to work, the thanks we gave for empty shelves, for brothers crushed beneath the muddy wheels of ZOMO lorries, the finger we would give to those, who, storeys above us, smiled, then kept our voices hushed. It was a time of all resistance smashed, of vodka in our wounds and cigarette smoke in our eyes—of promises rehashed. It was a time of snitches, thugs on call, of bravery, of kindness, of regret— a time of praying—and—no hope at all.