The main message of this book is how ordinary people, especially women, adapted to the absurdities of communism. Drakulić doesn’t dwell on political theory; she shows the reality—like scrubbing floors with shampoo because detergent didn’t exist. It’s a testament to ingenuity under scarcity. Women shared recipes for homemade lipstick, traded ration coupons like currency, and turned state propaganda into jokes. The laughter isn’t defiance; it’s a coping mechanism, a way to preserve sanity when the system failed them at every turn.
This book captures the dark comedy of life under communism. It’s filled with stories like using newspapers as wallpaper or bribing officials with homemade jam. The message is clear: people endured by mocking the system that trapped them. Laughter was rebellion.
Drakulić’s work is a masterclass in finding humanity within oppression. The book’s core idea is that survival isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. Women knitted sweaters from unraveled scarves, hosted secret salons to discuss forbidden books, and whispered critiques of the regime over coffee. Their creativity in the face of deprivation reveals communism’s ultimate irony: it couldn’t crush the very individuality it claimed to celebrate. The laughter? That’s the punchline.
Slavenka Drakulić's 'How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed' is a piercing exploration of everyday life under communist regimes in Eastern Europe, particularly through the lens of women. The book strips away grand political narratives to focus on the mundane yet suffocating details—like queuing for hours to buy a single roll of toilet paper or repurposing old clothes into children’s outfits. It’s about resilience, but not the heroic kind; it’s the quiet, stubborn endurance of people who learned to laugh at absurdity to keep from breaking.
Drakulić exposes how communism eroded personal freedoms in ways rarely discussed. Women bore the brunt, juggling full-time jobs with endless domestic chores, all while navigating a system that promised equality but delivered exhaustion. The ‘even laughed’ part isn’t trivial—it’s survival. Humor becomes armor against despair, a way to reclaim agency when choices were scarce. The message isn’t just ‘we suffered’; it’s ‘we outlasted you by finding joy in the cracks.’
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My girlfriend's so-called guy best friend found out I had epilepsy. He deliberately spiked my drink with stimulants.
The moment I drank it, my nervous system was overstimulated. My heart rate surged. My chest tightened. Then the familiar warning signs hit–blurred vision, fragmented awareness, the onset of a seizure.
The next second, I lost control of my body and collapsed onto the floor. My muscles convulsed violently. My jaw locked tight. My breathing turned uneven.
I struggled to pull out the emergency medication I always carried with me, trying to stop the seizure from worsening.
However, just as I was about to take it, I realized the hot water in my bottle had been replaced with highly concentrated coffee.
The extra caffeine intensified the neurological stimulation. My convulsions worsened. My thoughts became more chaotic. My fingers stiffened to the point where I could barely move.
Aaron Stone looked down at me on the floor and laughed.
"Not bad. You're pretty convincing.
"I've seen plenty of seizure patients before. Never seen anyone act this well."
Gasping for air, I forced myself onto my knees in front of Mia, my jaw tightening from the spasms.
"Mia... call an ambulance... I'm having a seizure..."
Mia frowned at my obvious condition, but there was only impatience on her face.
"Enough already.
"If you keep acting like this, it's honestly too much. Since when can people having seizures still talk?
"Aaron's a doctor. With him here, what could possibly happen to you?"
I stopped trying to explain.
Because I was already entering the next stage of neurological collapse. Even speaking had become difficult.
Using the last of my strength, I pulled out my phone and sent an emergency distress message.
I gave Julian Marchetti thirty years of my life after the war ended.
I built his empire, raised his children, and held the family together behind the scenes.
But when he died, his will didn’t even mention my name.
Half his fortune went to our children. The other half went to Lydia Carter, the daughter of the man who’d saved his life in Normandy.
The same Lydia who’d stolen my identity.The same Lydia who’d built her entire life on the ruins of mine.
All he left me was a single note, scrawled in his familiar handwriting.
I loved you. We had thirty good years. But I owe Lydia. This is the least I can do.
I dropped dead of a heart attack right there in his study, clutching that pathetic piece of paper.
When I opened my eyes again, I was reborn in 1945, when the war had just ended
This time I will not swallow my anger and suffer in silence; I will fight back. And I will take back every single thing that is rightfully mine.
Adrian Moretti’s adopted sister—She knew perfectly well that I suffered from severe asthma and could not be exposed to smoke or strong scents.
Yet during the yacht reception, she deliberately dragged me onto the open deck, where cigars burned nonstop and the wind howled.
Within seconds, my chest tightened.
When I reached for my inhaler, my blood ran cold.
It was empty.
I collapsed against the railing, gasping violently, my lungs burning as if they were collapsing in on themselves.
She crouched beside me and smiled.
“You’re always so dramatic. It’s just a little smoke. You don’t need to act like you’re dying,” she said softly.
“You’re too weak. You need to build some tolerance.”
I looked toward Adrian, my vision already blurring.
“Adrian,” I choked. “Give me my inhaler. If I don’t use it right now, I’m going to suffocate.”
He frowned slightly.
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he said coldly.
“I’ve never heard of anyone dying from a bit of smoke. She’s right—you’re always seeking attention. We finally gathered tonight, and you’re ruining it.”
My heart dropped.
I fumbled for my phone and called my mother.
“Mom,” I sobbed, barely able to breathe.
“I’m being bullied… and I can’t breathe.”
My voice shook violently.
Seven days before my wedding with Giuliano Corleone, the heir of the Corleone family, I find out that I'm pregnant.
At that moment, I receive a text from an unknown number.
"Mommy, please abort me. I'll get born with crippled legs, meaning I won't be able to stand up for the rest of my life. You and Daddy will keep fighting every day because of me until all of your love is reduced to hate. In the end, you'll get overwhelmed by the pain and get afflicted with severe depression, which will lead to you taking your own life by overdosing on pills. I don't want to see you living in that hell ever again."
I immediately head over to the hospital to go through a medically-induced abortion without any hesitation.
When Giuliano realizes what I've done, he's furious, to say the least. He yells at me, demands answers from me, and vents all of his rage on me. Finally, he stomps out of the ward and slams the door on me.
By the time I return to Giuliano's heavily-guarded estate, I can hear Eva Bianchi's loud, malicious laughter ringing from within.
"How is it possible for such foolish women to exist in this world? To think that she actually believed the text came from her child from seven years in the future!
"I can't believe that she actually got rid of her unborn baby because of a fabricated text!"
With a poker face, Giuliano warns Eva, "I'll let this incident slide. If you dare bully and humiliate Elena again in the future, I will never let you off the hook."
I stand outside the closed door, feeling eerily calm.
There will never be a next time.
I know that the so-called text from the future is fake. But the thing is, I've also gotten reborn from seven years in the future, where I've gotten my heart shattered.
In October 2025, an explosion occurs at a remote lab. An unidentified substance is leaked, and the virus makes people go insane. Anyone who is bitten by these rabid creatures becomes one of them.
It's like the zombies people see in movies and video games.
On the first day of the explosion, my five-year-old, Joyce Fairfield, is still at kindergarten. I risk my life to hurry there, but I can't even find her corpse when I arrive. I can only look at the surveillance footage to see her face, which is ashen with fear. I also see her mouth, "Mommy!"
15 days after the explosion, I finally traverse the city and get to my mother's home. However, all that welcomes me is a destroyed apartment and blood everywhere.
20 days after the explosion, my husband, Emmett Fairfield, calls me one last time from his office, which zombies have surrounded. He tells me not to leave the house.
Less than a month after the apocalypse arrives, I lose all my family. I'm alone as I struggle to survive in this dead world.
The spread of the virus triggers chaos in mankind. I exchange all my supplies to save a neighboring couple from bandits, leading them to safety in a secure zone where they can live stable lives. However, my kindness is not repaid.
Three years after the explosion, the secure zone is under siege by a wave of zombies. As we retreat, my neighbors shove me underneath a car so I'll distract the zombies. Then, they make a run for it and get away.
Trusted neighbors betray me. As the zombies eat away at me, I can feel death looming. All I want is to see my family again.
Now, I've been reborn. I have six hours before the zombie apocalypse breaks out.
For as long as I can remember, my family and I have been living in an underground basement that's completely shut off from the outside world.
My parents have told me that the zombie apocalypse is terrorizing the outside world. The air is completely plagued with the zombie virus, and we'll die if we ever leave the basement.
In order to save the supplies—which are already dwindling, to begin with—I've starved myself to the point I'm all skin and bones despite being only 18 years old.
When I realize that there's only one last can of food left, I leave behind a suicide note.
"Mom, Dad, now there's one less mouth to feed. You'll last a few more days."
After that, I slit my wrist right away.
Once I'm dead, my soul phases through the thick and heavy metal door.
Bright sunlight illuminates the entire world. It's a beautiful, peaceful world filled with greenery. I can even hear birds chirping in the distance.
Mom, Dad, and a bunch of people are throwing a barbecue party on the lawn. The mouth-watering smell of food being grilled permeates the air.
So, it turns out that the zombie apocalypse is just a lie that's designated to trap me inside the fortress. I'm the only one who has died in this sunny, peaceful world.
I read 'How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed' a while back, and yes, it's absolutely rooted in real experiences. The author, Slavenka Drakulić, writes about life under communist regimes in Eastern Europe, blending personal anecdotes with broader societal observations. Her vivid descriptions of everyday struggles—like standing in endless lines for basic goods or navigating oppressive censorship—ring true because they reflect the collective memory of millions. The book doesn't just recount events; it captures the emotional weight of that era, from the absurdity of propaganda to the quiet resilience of ordinary people. It's less a historical document and more a visceral, human testimony.
In 'How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed', the depiction of daily life under communism is a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the absurdities and hardships faced by ordinary people. The book highlights the constant shortages—queues for basic goods like bread or toilet paper became a way of life, turning mundane tasks into exhausting ordeals. Bureaucracy seeped into everything, with permits needed for trivial matters, and surveillance made trust a rare commodity.
Yet, the book also captures the dark humor and resilience that emerged. People traded jokes about the system’s ineptitude or bartered goods in underground networks. Women, especially, navigated these challenges with creativity, repurposing old clothes or swapping recipes for makeshift meals. The juxtaposition of struggle and laughter reveals how humanity persisted even when the system seemed designed to crush it.
'How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed' is a feminist work because it unflinchingly captures the resilience of women under oppressive regimes. The book isn’t just about survival; it’s about how women carved spaces of agency in a system designed to erase individuality. The author, Slavenka Drakulić, exposes the gendered burdens of communism—how women bore the double load of labor and emotional labor, keeping families afloat while navigating political terror.
The humor and irony in the title aren’t accidental. They reflect the subversive strategies women used to resist, whether through dark jokes or quiet acts of defiance. The work critiques how communism’s egalitarian promises often masked patriarchal realities, with women still expected to conform to traditional roles. By centering these overlooked stories, the book reclaims women’s history, making it indispensable to feminist discourse.