A Beautiful Thing
There is one moment that summarizes my entire three month adventure in Brasov. I can not remember the exact date apart from the fact it was a Friday. And not just any Friday, but it was to be my last in Brasov, ergo it was the last time I went to Donald.
Much to my disappointment, the children were not in the best of spirits that day. It was sunny, so the children were being fed outside in the garden. Anna was sat on one of the mats chewing her wrist, already sore from where she had bitten it previously; the sticky biscuit pulp of masticated biscuit, blood and saliva desecrating her delicate skin. Sammy was equally distressed; biting and hitting and crying frustratedly. Surprisingly, even Julian was out of sorts; grunting and shouting in a state I had not seen him in before. It broke me to think that this would be the last image my mind photographed, the last memory I took away of the children.
Again, I felt helpless. Helpless, like the time the homeless gypsy stood outside the flat lacerating his neck with broken glass. Helpless, like the time Alina was beaten, kicked and abused at Bradet and all I could do was watch. Helpless, like the disgraceful number of times children like Georgianna, Valentine and Marian were slapped, bullied and hit at the nursery. Amongst this morbid collection of memories, the worst thought that ran through my mind, was the question of whether or not I was helpless. After all, I had gone to Romania to help children in need; to make a difference no matter how small. How can I say I made any bit of a difference if all I did was observe at the times I was needed the most?
My efforts to comfort Anna, Sammy and Julie were fruitless. Although today was rather an anomaly, it still felt as though all the work I had done with the children at Donald had been in vain. I was even forced to leave the children at Bambi on an unhappy note that week. It was as if I had reached the finish line only to fall at the last hurdle.
On leaving, my spirits lifted somewhat when Florine ran out of the house carrying my bag, and after presenting it to me, gave me one of those rare Florine kisses not everyone was graced with. Izi and I bid farewell and left Donald for the very last time.
The bus ride back was a quiet one. I dejectedly sipped from the bottle of Sprite I had bought at Harman, now warm and flat. I replaced the cap and put it away as we pulled into the station.
As always, Brasov train station was abundant with gypsies, begging from natives and tourists alike as they milled out of the mouth of the building. I followed closely behind Izi, making sure I remained cautiously aware of the activities of those around me as we ambled to our stop and proceeded to wait for the bus.
It was not long before we were approached by a small girl, holding out a fragile, expecting palm; a hair crab holding up her rusty, brown hair. She could have been no older than 7 or 8. Ever the prepared one, Izi reached into her back pack and produced a handful of bracelets and hair bands. The child’s face shone with joy and excitement. Izi counted each bracelet as she adorned the child’s delicate wrist with the jewellery, her little fingers bunched together at the tips as her hand passed though each loop; arms so thin that each one fell down to her elbow.
Struggling with all she was holding, Izi dropped two of the hair bands from the collection she had taken from her bag. On seeing this, I half expected the gypsy girl to pick up the fallen items and keep them for herself. Instead she picked them up and offered them back to Izi, who gave them to the charming child anyway. Overcome with gratitude the little girl threw her arms around Izi’s waist, embracing her.
She then looked to me, but all I had on me was half a bottle of warm, flat lemonade. Employing what little Romanian I knew I asked the girl if she would like the bottle. Nodding her head I gave her what little I had on me to give, wishing I had something more, something better. Wrapping her arms around my waist, the little girl gave me a hug that expressed appreciation unlike any I had ever felt before.
I broke away from the hug and asked the child for one of her new gifts; a hair band. She gave it to me without hesitation. Facing her away from me I took out her hair crab. Releasing her matted, broken, weathered hair, I gathered it ever so gently, ever so lovingly into a pony tail and replaced the clip. “Gata.” I announced as I finished. The girl raised her arms to the back of her head, and explored her new hair style.
Then, without warning, I found myself lost in the awe of this beautiful child’s gratitude as she embraced me once again. I wrapped her in my arms, lifting her slightly off the ground, and rocked her slowly. I had never met this girl before, yet I felt like I could not have loved her any more than if she was my own child; lost in a moment that felt like we were the only two people on earth.
Now, I have seen children open an unwanted Christmas present and discard it without so much as a second look. How can this little girl, who came from a family so destitute that they had to send their own child out by herself to beg from strangers, appear to be the happiest girl I had ever met in my life? The material possessions Izi and I had given her did not bring her as much joy as the love that was shown to her.
Love; a gift so powerful it transcends any tangible offering. Love made everything worthwhile. The love I felt for all the children I worked with in Romania was real. The aching sadness I feel when I think about how much I miss them is real; as is the torture I feel when I realize that I might never see them again, but I know would rather die from a broken heart than not feel anything at all.
Before Romania I was in a dark place I feared I could never escape from. Nothing I did would ever make a difference. Nothing I had was ever enough. I was a lost cause. Unreachable. Unlovable. Until an extraordinary, benevolent child opened my eyes and made me realise, that at the end of all things, we are all loved, and that is a beautiful thing.
February 18, 2009 at 1:06 am
[...] (Catherine Andrea Van Dort) reflects on one of the defining moments of her trip to Brasov in A Beautiful Thing: Memories of Romania’s children . [...]