Jan Tyl

* 1956

  • "It was clear, and I knew it, that you couldn't just drive across, especially with that grey Czechoslovak passport that wasn't valid anywhere else, so what now? I had heard a story some time ago where someone drove a car from Yugoslavia to Austria across a field. It stuck in my head, and so we thought we'd get through somehow. We drove from Živogošće to Karlovac then to Maribor. There was a big crossing in Maribor. I drove up to that crossing and we saw that there was actually a barrier so cars couldn't pass, so we turned around and went back, and turned into the forest a bit past Maribor. We drove through the forest, a some forest road, and then the Trabant got stuck in the mud and wouldn't go any further, so we took two bags in our hands and the child on our backs walked. We spent about twelve hours on the road because we didn't get to Austria until sometime in the morning. When we asked for directions, we spoke this broken Russian and nobody gave us any advice except one lady. We were already in the mountains and there was this little cottage, it looked quite poor. The lady saw we had a child, we asked her for water, and she gave us bottled sparkling water which wasn't free then, I remember. We asked her and she didn't want to tell, but finally she said, 'you have to cross two streams'. The reason why they didn't want to talk to us, I remember, was that there was no coffee in Yugoslavia in '83. I don't know what was going on but there was just no coffee. We had heard it before and brought some with us, but when we wanted to pay with coffee in the very first restaurant somewhere in Croatia, the lady wanted all of it. We had like three or four bags, so we left her the three bags of coffee and you could see how happy she was. There was smuggling from Austria and there were some shootings in '83, so of course the people who lived there were scared, I think, that's my interpretation of it. So nobody really wanted to talk to us, but I remembered what this lady told us. We really went on and crossed one, and then it got dark. In the darkness, we reached the other creek she was talking about and the problem was the shore was steep, two metres high, so with the kid on our backs, we walked around for a while to find a place where the cliff was easier to cross. We finally found it, jumped in the water and crossed the line. That was Austria, the stream was the dividing line, the border. We walked a bit through a meadow, came to the first country road and turned right. Then we saw a signpost that was in German and it said Jugoslawien, so we knew we were going the wrong way, we had to turn and go the other way, and we came to a house. My wife had lost her skirt as climbed the shrubs and stuff, so she had just her panties and a T-shirt on. We rang the bell at the house, told them about our situation and asked them please, in broken German, take us to a hotel, we'll pay you, we had a couple of marks which I got from a friend. But they called the border guard on us."

  • "They took issue if a person had long hair, that was the first problem. The second problem could be the lyrics, but mostly it was the music. It was such an interesting culture at that time, at least in southwest Bohemia, because people had access to German television and knew the songs. They knew they couldn't go to the store and buy a record, there was no way, so they went to dances and asked the bands to play exactly what they had heard on Radio Luxembourg or seen on TV. That's pretty much what bands did back then. There wasn't much room for original music - it was the seventies, early eighties - and the people who went to the dances wanted to hear specific stuff and not your own music. That was definitely the case in the 1970s. That was another thing. And then, if there were too many people coming to see an artist, that was a huge problem. I still remember an incident that happened in a town called Slavonice on the Austrian border. We went there maybe three times. One time, I do remember, it was really nice, just an ordinary rural dance, really crowded. Afterwards, the person who was in charge, the 'bandleader', was summoned to the police station and there was somebody from the StB. I wasn't there so I can't say exactly who they were, but they asked him how it was possible that so many people were coming to see the band and why. What was so interesting about them? Why would a band like theirs, of local calibre in Slavonice, draw five thousand people. That's the first time I heard that. I didn't know that there were so many people - I still don't know, I doubt there were that many, but that's what he was told - and the band was also banned for that, for having too many audience members. That was wrong too."

  • "Most importantly, from what I remember, was that the people were kept in custody for 48 hours without being told any reason; then they were fired from their jobs immediately while also there was a statutory duty to have job. In about a week, they got prosecuted for not having a job. It was just bullying, that's what was happening, yeah."

  • "The band bans started. At that time there was an institution called the Municipal Cultural Centre in Strakonice. I started out in the Strakonice district, and for as long as I can remember, which was actually ten or eleven years before we fled, there were two people there who took it upon themselves to eliminate the enemy of the working class. Long story short, the first ban I experienced came in 1974 or so. When we got seven bans - I still remember there were seven of those bans - that was the moment I said I don't want to be in this country because it doesn't make any sense. It was such a change. I remember listening to Free Europe and Voice of America and the BBC, and I remember that when they were talking about what happened in Rudolfov in 1974, the Plastic People and then more bands like that, like when they arrested and locked up Havel and the others... I was sitting there, and thinking back about it today, I'm not one of those people who had any... I remember sitting by my radio station and being like, dude, where the hell do they get it? They don't stand a chance, you can't fight them (the communists). That's why those people who openly opposed the regime, I mean openly stood up... It's one thing to make fun of them at a rural dance, and it's another when you stand up openly. I guess I stopped right at making fun and mockery, but I didn't have the guts oppose them. So that's why, the people who did this and had the guts to do it at the time - well, anybody can say anything nowadays because it's easy after forty or however many years, but not me, I do remember it - so those who really stood up and opposed the were just a few."

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    Černošice, 05.08.2024

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The witchhunt for rock bands was why I left the country

Jan Tyl, 1980s
Jan Tyl, 1980s
photo: Witness's archive

Jan Tyl was in Mariánské Lázně born on 30 July 1956 and lived there until he was fifteen. He studied at a secondary tecjmocaů school in Volyně, South Bohemia, worked as a labourer at a sawmill in Nepomuk near Strakonice and began part-time studies at the University of Economics but did not finish due to emigration. His father Jan Tyl ran a mill until 1948 and produced electricity for the South Bohemian region, while his mother, Vlasta Tylová, came from a family of farmers. Both families lost their property after the communist coup in 1948. In the 1960s and 1970s, Jan Tyl listened to rock music and played in punk rock bands with his friends at dance parties. In 1974, concert bans began to come in, so he decided to emigrate to Canada in 1982. He left Czechoslovakia with wife Jana and son David via Yugoslavia and Austria in 1983. They were granted political asylum in Austria and left for Edmonton, Canada in October 1983. Jan Tyl completed his university education in Canada and passed his auditor exams in 1992. Following divorce in 1993, Jan Tyl returned to the Czech Republic for four years, founding the local PriceWaterhouse office. After four years, he moved to the management of Grant Thornton’s Czech office. Until 2014, he held various jobs abroad - he founded an audit chamber in Kosovo, later worked for the World Bank in Vienna and visited the Czech Republic where he has lived permanently since 2014. Since 2013, he has been involved in tourism, CBD products and restaurant business, and today he helps non-profits Amélie and Hyb4City. He lives permanently in Černošice in the Central Bohemian Region.