We arrived at the “gypsy village”
at about 5 o’clock in the afternoon. “Gypsy village,” the term
we bandied around, was relative. It was hardly a village but three
or four houses tucked at the edge of a much nicer Hungarian village.
Those four housed seven or eight families and maybe thirty kids.
We sat on a bench with the matriarch of
the village, a short, plump woman with bright eyes and a look of
perpetual worry. Even when she smiled her face, especially in her
wrinkled eyes, held insecurity. The kids either sat next to us or
used us as jungle gyms. Their faces were dirty and glowing. They
had big smiles. They were small for their ages. I particularly
liked one quiet little girl. She had dark hair, fair skin, and,
remarkably, blue eyes. She was shy but still happy to see us. She
had dirt on her pale cheeks.
I sat at the end by myself and wondered
what the meaning of all of this was and whether we could really make
any difference when we didn’t even speak the language.
The bench was basically just a long,
old plank placed over two blocks of wood. You could fit ten people
on it, but it sagged until your butt was a foot from the ground.
We sang summer camp kid songs like
“Pharoah, Pharoah” and “Every Move I Make.” We did all the
hand motions. The kids joined in as enthusiastic as they could
considering they didn’t speak English. They laughed at the Americans
as they made fools of themselves.
I hate this, I thought. I hate that
we’re trying to get them to somehow join in worship songs they can’t
understand. It’s so ethnocentric. Who are we to make them try to
understand our
language, our culture? Why didn’t we learn any Hungarian or Romanian
songs?!
The frustration and
impotence wouldn’t go away. continued to build. I started to pray.
Father what am I doing here? What is your will for me right now?
What can I do for you that you will be honored by?
As I prayed I
noticed Robi, one of the gypsy teenagers, who was standing alone by
the wall. I wondered why he was here. He was the only guy his age
hanging out with us this week. The week before there were three or
four gypsy teenagers who were attracted by the novelty of the
American’s visit. But this time it was only Robi.
To be continued…
