Though the cold air still bites, though the land is still sprinkled with flakes of ice, today March 1st, Romania officially and beautifully celebrates the arrival of the much awaited, much beloved SPRING. And when Romania celebrates, it celebrates in GRAND!
Today, all Romanian women receive from other women but especially from ALL men in their lives, be it their near and dear ones or co-workers and neighbors or, as in my case, even strangers on the street, little figurines, symbols of spring, tied with red and white strings that they then proudly display, attached on their clothes, above their hearts.
For the past few days, the streets have been lined with more and more little stalls filled to the brim with a humongous variety of these little symbols of spring called "Martisoare" ... so much so that it actually becomes difficult to walk about. Here are some pics I took a few days ago, when the frenzy had not even begun:
It just so happened that today I spent 11 hours straight going from one side of the city to the other, looking at places to hold yoga classes and I have seen with my own two eyes what I would otherwise never have believed: every other woman in the metro, on the bus, on the streets, was walking around with ARMFULS and BAGFULS of flowers... For today, as yet another festive symbol of the welcoming of spring, women receive fragrant flowers by the tonnes... It is impressive and festive beyond reason. This morning I was at my friend Alexandra's office and, every 2 minutes the door would open and a co-worker would come in and offer her a "Martisor" or flowers that she displayed in a make-shift vase... and she was not the only one... The reception area where 2 women work was lined with plastic bottles filled with flowers received from co-workers... all that before 10 am!!! Even I received, from a friend of hers (and also from her), for my only presence there, one of my favorite spring flowers: hyacinth (Zambile)... in which I then proceeded to dip my nose every few minutes for the rest of my long and hectic day :)
According to archeological findings, the "Martisor" tradition apparently began 8000 years ago. There are a few legends about the why of this beautiful tradition... here is my favorite one: One day, the sun decided to take the shape of a beautiful man to be able to take part in the dance festivities of a little town and was unfortunately taken prisoner! A young man from the town decided to free the sun and searched for it all during summer, fall and winter. Come spring, our young hero found the castle in which the sun was held prisoner and, at the cost of his life, freed the sun who was then able to go back up in the sky and warm the land. The legend says that from then on, youngsters started to wear the red and white strings that represent our hero's courageous blood mixed with the Snowdrops (Ghiocei) that represent the arrival of spring!
How sweet is that?
Such a beautiful way to celebrate... to make this day, this whole month special. People even call each other to wish each other "a wonderful and warm spring"! One more thing to add to the long list of things that make this country special to me, that make me love it more and more each day...
However, this is also a land of stark contrasts... For each strikingly beautiful tradition, object or reality, there is a heart-wrenching and horrifying one. Here, the exquisite and the poetic coexist with the monstrous and the disgusting, and they fight daily for attention in my thoughts and heart. I will, perhaps unfortunately, have to interrupt this ode to Romania with the rather shocking account, promised in my last blog, of my "interview" with a policeman.
One late evening, about two weeks ago, I happened upon a local policeman with whom I struck up a conversation. Noticing he
really liked to talk, I told him about my work with the Art of Living Foundation and how I was interested in learning about the situation of the kids and old people on the street, especially from someone who might be personally involved in these matters. I was right: he had indeed been personally involved and, what more is, was willing to talk. Enticing him with promises of cakes and tea, I invited him to come over to my house another day and tell me, first hand, of his experience and what he knows of the matter. He did come and he did talk... and painted a seemingly honest though not so pretty picture for me.
He first wanted to make me understand the background, the situation of policemen in Romania: the government has apparently been slashing their pay checks and pension plans left right and center, not paying most of them on time and shamelessly overpaying other ones. The general mood, he says, is now one of deep dissatisfaction, discontent and carelessness. Policemen in general, and HIM PERSONALLY, he bluntly told me, have no interest whatsoever in upholding the law. He said he personally, as well as most, simply go to work to receive a pay check at the and of the month. Work?... Why bother? Protect the unprotected? ... What for? For the pay that might or might not get deposited in the bank at the end of the month? Not for him, thank you very much! No. Much better to just show up, do the bare minimum, get by, collect his due and mind his own business. That, he said, is his modus operandi...
What then of the kids, the elderly on the streets? What's with them? Where are they coming from? Who takes care of them? Are there NO LAWS in Romania about a minimum age up until which ALL kids must be in schools???
In case I have not yet described it in detail, here are the sights I daily see: adult "parents" begging on the streets between cars, with babies - BABIES!!! - in their arms, in the middle of winter, all day, every day, because having babies in their arms brings in more money; little boys in tramways and buses loudly singing a much practiced tune about being "a poor little boy all alone in the street with nothing to eat and a little sister in the hospital" and then going from person to uncomfortable person begging for money... having done perhaps only this since they were old enough to walk and talk; little girls and boys so young they are not much taller than my hips, moving about in between cars stopped at the red light trying to wash windshields for a few cents and an impressive amount of cold stares, shrugs and angry honks mixed in with, let's not forget, a healthy dose of "I don't care, I don't see".
What is going on with that, I asked my loquacious policeman.... Well, it seems, there is no point in bringing said kids to police stations and children homes for they run away the very next day. And it is, in fact, what has happened to him. And why do they run away, I ask? They apparently like the freedom the street brings them. What more is, the policeman confessed to me, in these said children homes where they are supposed to be protected, nurtured and taken care of, they are beaten and sexually abused on a daily basis by the very people paid by the government to protect them.
And you KNOW that and do NOTHING about it??? Said I, passion beginning to get the best of me... If a kid comes to the police station and tells you so and so abused and beat me... you can't arrest them? He calmly explained to me that the system is so complicated that it takes forever to arrest anyone and then it becomes next to impossible to prove anything. And so, all this abuse goes on uninterrupted and the kids run back to the streets and straight into the arms of gang leaders who make little "armies" of beggars and demand money at the end of the day in exchange for some "protection" or "more money" ... and same happens, believe it or not, with the elderly, each gang leader "owning" different regions of the city. He even mentioned some of these kids end up butchered for organ trafficking.... By that time I had pretty much reached my quota of horror and could not process any more.
He basically told me there is not much that can be done. As long as the government does not pay and value its police force, said he, its police force will be ... symbolic at best. Not only that, he said, but the government and all its representatives, from top to bottom, is thoroughly corrupt and, unless you can cough up real money, no one will even look at you, no matter what it is you try to achieve.
You can imagine how uplifted I felt at the end of this conversation! I did achieve my objective tough, which was to get a clear picture of what was going on with the elderly and the kids on the streets. I mean, if I am to one day do something about it, I have to know what it is I am dealing with, ugly, scary and depressing though it may be. I can only hope that I found not only the most talkative policeman in Bucharest but also the most pessimist one. Cause then it would mean things are not so bad as he described... But who am I kidding? His words sounded TRUE. It took me a few days to be able to process all this information... not that I have completely... I mean, I can't possibly get used to this horror. However, I have come to the conclusion that, with affairs in this state, every little bit counts.
EVERY little bit counts!
No matter how small.
With that in mind, I would also like to point out that there ARE people and groups that CARE and do good honest work, that actually nurture these kids, that give them a time and place to BE KIDS... to uncover their talents, to play and feel safe. I have actually been invited to meet with one such organization this week, to see what they do and to participate. There are also the two projects initiated by the people in my first course here (1: feeding and spending time with the elderly who have very little money and 2: spend time with kids in children's homes)... Though we have not yet started, these are in the works. I WILL report back on those. For sure! These to me are more important than anything I do in this country.
All righty people.... enough for now. I hope my crude account has shocked you ... and ... if it has, see how you can help! I would be more than happy to receive input and useful ideas.
As far as I am concerned, Romania's pain makes me love it and its people even more than its beauty. I feel it is MY country, my people and I am here to serve them... in whatever way I can... small though it may be!
EVERY little bit counts!
No matter how small.
Till next time... Be good and, wherever you can, do some good!
A little poem I just wrote:
How is it possible that this whole family (not just them) who has barely seen me in over 20 years takes me into their heart so easily, so readily. What a wonder! What a blessing it is to me. I have come to this new place with about three built-in families... I love them all dearly. My godmother is part of a very old Romanian family who was harshly persecuted by the communists because of the simple fact that they were "boieri", the highest rank of aristocrats when they (the communists) swept in and confiscated all land and all riches from all who had any, and then proceeded to throw them in jail and banish them from the various cities where they had spent their lives, and this, for over 40 years. While her father was rotting away in a communist prison - for no other reason other than that he was a land-owning aristocrat - her mother, for the same "reason" would not be given any work by the rest of the scared community. They had nothing to eat, had to rely on neighbors, had to move in new cities. During communist years, due to the "economical plan" of our infamous Ceausescu, she contracted Rheumatic heart disease because they spent many winters in 0oC - 4 oC temperatures in their house. Gas was turned off for three months at a time to "save money" for the country... She has told me so many crazy stories, she has had such an interesting life, that I am seriously thinking of recording everything in what could eventually become a book, the book of her life. Isn’t history better understood through personal accounts? It seems to me it would be…
