Thursday, June 30, Bucharest, Romania
Hard to believe . . . our trip is nearing its end. Tonight we’re back here in the capital, waiting to fly back to our homes and families tomorrow morning.
This evening Jeanne and I sat in the hotel restaurant, eating one last good Romanian meal and talking over our experiences. We were in fairly comfortable surroundings once again: a plentiful meal of soup, bread, salad, and cheese; a clean dining room; and even a musical band of sorts, playing live lounge music (we especially enjoyed their rendition of “Hello Dolly”).
I couldn’t help reflecting on the stark contrasts we’ve seen all in one day. Just a few hours ago, we were still in northwest Romania, traveling with Corina to visit one of the many gypsy colonies scattered throughout the countryside.
Our trip was more than educational: we were tagging along on another mission to locate a child’s birth family. Two-year-old “Thomas” came to Hope House after being abandoned as an infant in the hospital. For months, Corina has been trying to do the necessary paperwork to make him eligible for a more permanent solution—Lord willing, adoption by a Romanian family.
Thomas faces a double challenge: not only does he not have a birth certificate, but his mother’s birth was never recorded by the government, either. Today Corina was in “detective” mode yet again, traveling over thirty kilometers to the town of Sacueni, to track down somebody who could attest to the birth of Thomas’ mother.
First stop: the local police station. They directed us to a government medical dispensary, which was once a small maternity hospital. They promised to search through their stored archives for any kind of birth record. Finally, we went in search of one sure witness to the mother’s birth: Thomas’ grandmother.
We finally found her down a deeply rutted, muddy road. We pulled up to a dilapidated shack, and out spilled nearly fifteen people, all women and children. The filth of the children was shocking. One little boy stood wearing a shirt and underwear; another little girl wore only pants with no shirt (and neither had shoes). They were dirty from head to toe, with runny noses. But beneath their uncleanliness, they were absolutely beautiful children, and they smiled at us cheerfully as they curiously crowded around the car.
Corina had instructed Jeanne and I not to speak English, so as to avoid being accosted for money. Jeanne obediently kept quiet in the back seat; I took the camera and talked to the children in Romanian while taking their pictures (which delighted them). Jeanne and I were both fairly nervous about being “discovered,” and what might ensue if we blew it! Thankfully, although I’m sure my accent was noticeable, nobody asked where we were from or seemed to guess that we were Americans.
Finally, Thomas’ grandmother arrived. Corina explained the situation to her, and she gladly agreed to have a birth certificate made for her daughter. It was very enlightening to listen to the conversation.
“When was your daughter born? In what year?” Corina asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know the year. But she’s 22 years old.”
“Okay, then, do you know the month? The day?”
“No, no.”
“How about your younger daughter here? Do you know when she was born?”
“No, I don’t know. Why do you keep asking us these things? We don’t know anything.”
“Have any of these children here been to school?”
“No, not a single one.”
“Okay, fine. I’m writing up a statement for you to sign. It will say that you gave birth to your two daughters, and the place you gave birth to them, and the year. Now, I want you to know what you are signing. Do you know how to read?”
“No.”
“Does anyone here know how to read, so they can read it for you?” The crowd had now grown to over twenty people, and several men had made an appearance. But not a single one replied – none of them knew how to read.
“Okay, then I will read it to you.” Corina then read the document aloud, and the grandmother signed it by putting her fingerprint at the bottom.
We left the gypsy colony with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that Thomas was now one step closer to a better future. But we couldn’t help feeling a great sadness for the other children we had seen – some of them, no doubt, Thomas’ cousins. Although they seemed happy enough that day, for which we were grateful, we knew that their long-term future would be one of continued ignorance and extreme poverty. And it is almost certain that along the way, more babies like Thomas will be abandoned and forgotten.
Pray for the Roma people. Ask God to break the chains that have held them in bondage for so many centuries. Pray especially that their children would be given a chance for a real future: an education, sanitary living conditions, intact families, and a real opportunity to better themselves. And pray most of all that a genuine spiritual revival would bring true freedom for these long-marginalized people.
Jayme
P.S. The late hour prevents me from reviewing the photos tonight . . . but hopefully when I get home I can post a few for this entry.