Ghosts haunt me from the past this week.
I was brought to tears late last week reading first a post about a 4 year old girl who had endured such thorough verbal abuse that she actually thought her name was "Idiot". Then shortly after, I made the mistake of watching the video report from Syria of the now famous young "Omran" sitting in the back on an ambulance trying to wipe blood from his face and his hands. That's when the the ghosts crept in.
I am sure there are still a few people out there who remember 1989, the wall, the communist block and the aftermath when it all came down. God help us if we ever forget.
My wife and I were in Romania shortly after the Communist rule of Nicolae Ceaușescu came to a violent, bloody end. By mid 1990 the world was well aware of the corruption in the Romanian government under Ceaușescu's rule and the thousands of orphaned children in institutions there. We traveled there hoping to do something - anything - to change the situation for at least a few of those children. We left jobs in limbo, barely had time to collect passports and other papers before catching a last minute flight to Bucharest and only caught our breaths for a moment of clarity somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. We had no clue what we were doing, but someone had to do something. After we arrived, we found that were not the only lunatics who needed to get on a plane to save children. We met many couples from all over the world who were equally lost and determined at the same time. I am sure there is a novel worth writing there, but not today.
And we met the children. Hundreds of them. In Bucharest and Braila, in Alexandria and Constanza and Brasov. There were newborns and toddlers and pre-teens in every city, and they out numbered their care givers 300 to 1. Occasionally we would meet an actual doctor, but for the most part facilities were staffed by two or three nurses or volunteers. In Bucharest we spent some time with a special group of 3 to 5 year olds who managed to capture our hearts and memories. Children who had no awareness of the politics or the men who placed them there, were singing us happy songs and making their best impression in hope we would take them home, away from that place.
Men and politics and war and economics.... and the lives of children.
Twenty Six years later I can still see them when I close my eyes. I can smell the rooms, hear the cries, feel the sadness knowing we could not bring them all home and keep them safe. I often wonder how they are today. I wonder and hope that they survived and flourished. I also know that for most of them it is unlikely. Those children may never know the names of the men who's politics and greed for power put their tiny human lives at risk. If they lived, they would be adults today in their mid to late twenties. Dozens of couples flew to their aide and like us brought medicines and food and supplies, but we know it was not enough. There were just so many of them. So many.
There were the twins in Orphanage number 1 who danced for us and there was the 5 year old in Bucharest hospital who sang "Good Morning Romania" at the top of her lungs every morning in spite of a crippling injury to her legs. There was the toddler in Braila who's parents simply could not afford to keep her and the baby who spent most of his time rocking and bouncing his head against the wall of his crib to fill the void created by lack of contact. So many children needlessly abandoned by a system driven by powerful men and their politics.
The echoes of their voices, their memory ghosts haunt me today more than normal as I think of the children of Syria. I can't get the image of Omran trying to wipe the blood from his face and hands out of my mind. More senseless politics and violence.
More damaged children.
More ghosts.
