By David Harsanyi
Thursday, March 05, 2020
It is in no way to disparage the child-rearing efforts of
my beloved parents to note that the greatest gift they ever got me was obtained
two years before I was even born. In the summer of 1968, my parents—both in
their 20s, both with secure jobs, both beneficiaries of “free” health care,
both graduates of top-flight Communist literacy programs—packed one bag each,
left the small apartment they shared with relatives in Budapest, and boarded a
train headed for Rome. They wouldn’t return to visit Hungary until 1990, by
which time they were fully Americanized.
The summer my mom and dad defected to the United States,
the Soviet Union was busy crushing the aspirations of Czechoslovakian reformers
by sending 600,000 Warsaw Pact troops and tanks to Prague to end a student
uprising. The scene was, no doubt, familiar to anyone who’d witnessed the
Soviet crushing of Hungary’s democratic aspirations in 1956 or the crushing of
East Germany’s democratic aspirations in 1953. If there was one thing Commies
were able to do with ruthless efficiency, it was crush dissent.
The summer that my parents spared me a life in some
soul-sucking collectivist factory—and Hungary wasn’t the worst nation in the
Eastern Bloc at the time; there were no mass arrests, no gulags, just economic
inertia and a tedious low-grade authoritarianism—Bernie Sanders was
role-playing a Trotskyite in his class war against the Lumpenproletariat
and kulaks of Burlington, Vt.
There’s no record of the future mayor of that prosperous city
ever defending the brave men and women of the Prague Spring—why would he, after
all?—though he did find the time to publicly admire the Vietcong, a group
responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of Americans. Bernie would make
apologizing for Communists a lifelong endeavor. You’ll forgive me if I take it
personally.
My father, a year younger than Bernie, was born two years
before the Nazi deportation of the Jews of Hungary got into full swing. His
father would never return. His mother, a seamstress with a knack for staying
alive, would take to Budapest’s perilous streets to welcome the Red Army as
liberators. Soon enough the Soviets would teach Jews a thing or two about
anti-Semitism themselves—not only on the home front, but in bankrolling the most
virulent and indefatigable post-war enemies of the Jewish people.
Bernie, who didn’t have my grandmother’s excuse to
embrace Communists, never offered a word of support for the thousands of Jews
trapped in the Soviet Union, not even on his voyage de noces as a
47-year-old to the CCCP. If anyone is confused about how Marxists view “organs
of bourgeois reaction”—especially the ones they grew up in—Bernie’s tapping of
Linda Sarsour and Ilhan Omar as campaign surrogates offers a good clue.
Anyway, by 1969, my father, trained as a chemist but
unable to find work in that field, began his new life packing bags in a
warehouse while my pregnant mother assembled beads for which she was paid by
the bracelet. But not for long. I doubt either of them was aware that in the
United States a red-diaper baby could move to New England and become a
professional revolutionary, never having to really work a day in his life. And
I’m positive that the prospect of such a life would have chafed their newly
adopted sensibilities.
I’ve never met anyone who has escaped Communism—not from
Cuba or China or Hungary or Ethiopia—who had any interest in living on the
dole. Now, perhaps not everyone is as hard-working or as lucky as my
parents—and, of course, chance plays its part in everyone’s life. But when
socialists such as Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez mock and dismiss the notion of
Americans’ “lifting themselves up by a bootstrap,” they are no longer pressing
some liberal case for equality, they are embracing an un-American notion. They
are trolling for victims. Victims of religion. Of industry. Of race. Of
circumstance. Of history. Once socialists have convinced an entire generation
they’re victims, there is no way back.
Fortunately, my emotional detestation of collectivism
comports perfectly with my intellectual detestation of Bernie’s movement.
Capitalism saves the victims that socialism produces. Nothing achieved under
socialism can’t be achieved under capitalism—other than perhaps inducing
perfectly healthy people from a beautiful island to get on rickety homemade
rafts and try to traverse the Caribbean to move to Florida. And yet, here we
are. Again.
William F. Buckley Jr., this magazine’s founder, had
typical prescience in a 1962 debate with novelist Norman Mailer, who, like
Bernie, was a Castro apologist. Buckley noted that while Americans didn’t know
how to deal with Communist dictators, “there is a much bigger problem: We don’t
know how to deal with Harvard University. If Harvard couldn’t spot Castro for
what he is and show us how to cope with him, who can?” The “dulled . . . moral
and intellectual reflexes” of our elites, Buckley said, are what should scare
us most.
The way we treat Bernie, as a crank or well-meaning
left-winger, is itself a way to normalize Marxism—“democratic socialism,” in
this iteration. We would never treat any other similarly destructive ideology
with the same nonchalance. For me, it’s nearly unfathomable to accept that my
parents—and thousands of others who gave up their friends and families to come
to this meritocratic nation—would ever have as their president a socialist who
praised the Soviet Union.
Happy warriors shouldn’t take politics too personally.
When it comes to Marxists, and I have no doubt Bernie is one, I make an
exception. I take history too seriously not to.
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