1986 proved to be an unusual year for a young woman who had spent most of her life in America to visit Prague. Despite the uncertainties, my parents were compelled by a longing for their homeland and the people they had left behind, and so I decided to accompany them. The Cold War was on the wane, yet the remnants of its grip still lingered; the Berlin Wall stood, and the Velvet Revolution was yet to come.
During my time there, the atmosphere was somber and subdued. The city appeared draped in a cloak of gray as if veiled in a film of soot, while soldiers stationed at every corner meticulously scrutinized our documents. With a name like Květoslava, derived from the Slavic words for “flower” and “glory,” I frequently found myself stopped and questioned.
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