Servus! Arriving in Cluj, Romania Monday night was not exactly how I had pictured it to say the least. To say the most, I suppose you'd call it if one were to describe a TV move, a "tragi-comedy!" It would be hilarious if it weren't so tragic!
We arrived in Oradea, a major Romanian city on the border of Hungary, and after eating at McDonalds, we took off for what should have been no more than a three to three and-a-half hour drive. We were smacked in the face though with a snow storm whirling it's way through the country. Ordinarily I would think that in a country that is used to such forces of nature, everyone would be prepared for such events. We wound through the mountains as the snowstorm picked up speed and we crept ever slower and slower. Following closely behind trucks made us feel a little safer as they would tend to break up the ice, making the road a little more secure. The day before there had been trucks out sanding the highways, but not today. About 40 km outside Cluj we thought that we' d be home in a half-hour or so when traffic came to a complete halt! We were sandwiched between two trucks so it was hard to see ahead what the problem was. Victoria Goodwin had picked me up in Budapest the night before with her 16-year-old daughter Alicia. It was Alicia and I who ventured out into the snow to trek around the truck in front and see what was going on. Nothing. We could see nothing. Just a line of red tail lights from the cars stopping as we had, the front leading somewhere into a white whirl of infinity. As the whine of engines turned off, the silence of the snow falling through the gray air and turning this world into a white wonder, this surreal sense became overwhelming. I've always expected the unexpected in Romania but this was totally beyond my wildest imaginings.
Alicia and I scurried back into the car as the spell was interrupted by truck drivers stomping through the snow to try to catch a better view of what was going on and vehicles coming from the east from the direction of Cluj began driving past us. Finally some brave souls behind us became rather impatient and crept forward only to have to squeeze in between cars and trucks already pulled over as we were.
Finally though the line would begin to move and we'd get all excited until we'd spot the km markers along the road and realize we'd progressed only one km, sometimes two. At around the 32-km marker, things really started to pick up as a vehicle coming from the opposite direction was headed toward us when we saw a strange sight. A man was running slightly ahead of this car and he had a shovel in his hands. It became clear finally that he was scooping up dirt from the side of the road and throwing it onto the icy road ahead of his friend's car! I suppose they would trade off periodically. Quite ingenious really, but what a task! Right after that, another car was coming our way and we noticed that the front door was wide open and a man was running frantically beside it, pushing with all his might. Before we had a chance to register in our brains the scene in our eyes, a pickup truck followed quickly behind the car and two of its passengers were standing on the back bumper of the truck, trying to get the truck some traction to get it up the hill! What struck me rather odd was that there were no chains on the tires, no preparation for traveling in this kind of weather that affects Romania every year from November to April!
At last, we were able move a little bit longer with fewer stops. As we trekked through the countryside I realized that the more things change in Romania, the more they remain the same, particularly in the villages. People were trudging through the snow. Women with their babushka-type scarves wrapped tightly about their heads, topped with furry hats, their feet clad in heavy snow boots, big wool coats wrapped about shivering bodies, ruddy faces pressed against the wind and cold; all coming home from work in the factories, barns, stores. And of course there was some men falling-down drunk. We had to be particularly careful passing them in case they weaved and fell in front of our car.
Ahh, life goes on in a country that is clawing it's way out of 50 years of communism, now into its 11th year of "freedom." Some Romanians can be heard talking about the "good old days" under their oppressive, Communist dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. You see, now inflation is rampant, the leu being devalued daily is nearly 20,000 to one dollar, and prices sky rocket out of sight every day and wages remain the same which is roughly $40 to $100 per month for the average worker. In 1989, when I first traveled to Romania, the leu was 9 to the one dollar, and bread was 5 lei for a loaf. Goods abound now but there is no money with which to purchase them. The saying goes that in Ceausescu's time, money was plenty but then, there was nothing to buy. Now that there is everything to buy, there is no money. Yet there is "freedom," and sometimes this word is said with a sneer. I've seen the hopes of the young turn into despair at the lack of a bright future because there are no funds in the family to continue with education. Dreams are dashed as they see only a bleak future which leads many to despair and into alcohol abuse, and an endless cycle of disappointment and hopelessness.
So as we crept closer to Cluj, the comedy of the passing cars and the ingenious methods they used to get through the snow and ice played out. The cold of their bitter life is as biting as the frosty, wintry wind whipping around us so mercilessly and it sunk into my brain, "it is the way it is" and the Romanians face these types of problems everyday.
I love this land and her people. I'm entering for one month, this world of unrelenting harshness. You must, and this can't be stressed enough, simply MUST have a sense of humor to survive. Sadness creeps in all too often. I'm reminded that this is "forever" for the Romanian caught between a government not knowing how to pull their country out of the mire that was left by the communists. And now they are creating their own muck. Whereas the average Romanian desires to simply get on with their lives, have enough to eat and clothe their family and have shelter over their heads and give their children a better life. It is forever! I leave in one month.
Well Zan, "Bine ati venit in Romania". . ."Welcome to Romania!"
Tuesday, I settled into Silvia's apartment, the same one I rented in the summer of '97. It felt good to be home. I immediately wanted to learn about the whereabouts of the "cave kids" and find out more about the ones in prison.
Sadly, but not so unexpectedly, most of them have indeed been in one prison or another throughout the country. Some of the other kids are still on the streets. The caves where they hung out have been filled with rocks and sealed to keep the kids from hanging around there, so most of their time is spent at "la gara" the train station, begging in the streets, huffing their glue and getting into trouble.
On Wednesday, Victoria and I headed to town to change money and to do some shopping. Late in the afternoon we ran into Craig, Victoria's husband, and about that time, we saw the familiar figure of a young man in a wheelchair who is afflicted with a degenerative muscle disease, named Csaby, pronounced Chaby. He is quite the mascot among the homeless, and it's easy to see why. Beneath his sandy, dirty-blonde hair and behind his small blue eyes, there appears to be a bright attitude in this likeable, young, homeless man. I met Csaby in 1997 as some of the kids were wheeling him around the town. Csaby doesn't let his disability hinder his mobility around the city and surrounding areas. He's also most useful to the homeless kids as he earns quite a bit of money on the streets. Strapped to the arm of his wheel chair is a large, rectangular, gray, tin box with a very long slit in its top. As we were talking with him about the kids at la gara, nearly everyone who passed him put coins or bills in his collection box, and of course, we followed suit, as a black lab-type puppy played beneath his wheelchair. He's also a wealth of information and informed us that one of the younger of the cave kids, Calin, the little "wild one", would be released from prison in two days. I'm not exactly certain about his crime, most likely theft. He is 15 years old now. Csaby kept asking us about food and when Craig told him we would be down at la gara with food packets on Saturday, Csaby brightened up even more.
There is no ministry that I know of that is working directly with these hopelessly homeless kids right now. I've been led to believe that most people consider them "irretrievable" because working with them takes so much time and effort. They are like wild packs of dogs, turned loose on a society that has neither the time nor energy to cope with them, so they round them up, lock them in the juvenile detention center or for very serious crimes, cart them off to various prisons. I know that what I can offer in the short time that I have here is a mere drop in the proverbial bucket and that is so frustrating for me. I long to do more.
I finally got in touch with Ole, the social worker who introduced me to the cave kids over two years ago. Even Ole has given up on the homeless street children. Ole is deeply involved with the Christiana School Dropout Program. Christiana is an organization that was begun by the Orthodox Bishops as a humanitarian outreach program. Ole has been working with the School Dropout Program since 1996. I desperately wanted to meet with him and talk about the possibility of getting into Gherla Prison to see Jacomin and Claudiu, the two leaders of the cave kids who were put in prison 6 to 8 months after I left in September, 1997. Jacomin, the leader of the group was put in for rape, and Claudiu, the "body guard" for the cave kids, was for robbery. I suppose the idea of trying to get into Gherla Prison began formulating in my heart months ago when I learned I would be heading for Romania. I don't doubt they did these criminal acts one bit. I simply desire to go there to let them know there is someone out there that does love them and has continued to pray for them. They don't know what unconditional love is and that's what I want to show them. I simply know it's something I need to do if at all possible.
So, when I met with Ole, he brought a friend, Adrian (Adi) whom I had met before and who is a social worker with World Vision. Adi is from the city of Gherla, and had worked in the prison for a few weeks a while ago in his capacity as a social worker. Adi has connections in the prison and we were working out our strategy of being able to visit them. The prisoners can only have visits once a week on Saturdays. I also wanted to know what kinds of things, food and/or clothing we could bring to them. So, as I sit here writing this letter, hopefully the wheels are beginning to turn, but they're going to need a lot of prayer to grease those wheels and get them turning in the right direction.
Gherla, Romania is indeed a city with split personalities. On the one side, atop the emerald hills overlooking the town, nestles the awe inspiring Nicula Monastery, a spiritual retreat to this vast area and one that offers spiritual wells to satisfy the thirstiest of souls. On the other side of Gherla there stands one of the most infamous prisons in all of Romania. It was in Gherla Prison that the notorious were incarcerated for their horrendous crimes against society, yet they mingled with the saints who were imprisoned for their unrelenting faith in God. I first became aware of Gherla Prison as we were passing by one day and I asked a young man traveling with us, what was that gigantic, garish, Pepto-Bismol pink building standing starkly alone in the middle of a field at the edge of town. "Oh, that is Gherla Prison," our friend said. Later I learned that this man had spent two years of his life there for trying to escape the clutches of this former communist country, only to be returned to Gherla some years later, caught once again for daring to escape Romania. It was in Gherla Prison that this man, the brother of a good friend of mine, slowly went crazy. I also was told that Gherla Prison, as large as it appears from the road, underneath, Gherla Prison is just as large as what we could see above the earth. It was here that so many saints suffered for what must have seemed an eternity of years of unbelievable torture and degradation. Saints and sinners alike lived and died in Gherla Prison. Some that did not have faith lost their minds. Those that had faith in their Lord and Savior survived in mind, spirit and body, albeit some bodies emerged broken, their spirits endured, strong and intact. This is the prison I desire to go into.
I've walked the hillside covered with red, purple, blue and yellow flowers as I visited the ancient Nicula Monastery several times. I drank deeply of the Holy Water and spiritual wells. The monks wage spiritual battles into the wee hours of the morning, heavenly liturgies and services are attended to daily. Prayer and incense rises unceasingly to the heavens at Nicula Monastery. The monks minister the oil of healing, the medicine of immortality in the consecrated gifts of the Eucharist as well as the balm of hospitality to the stranger, the poor, the homeless and needy.
And now my need is to venture to the other side of this city and knock on the gates of hell where two of the cave kids reside. Pray for this venture for me.
Cu mult drag. . . (With Much Love. . .)
Zan
PS. . .If you're new to my Virtual Romania email, then surf on over to my
website and see my "cave kids" up close and personal.