Moldova. Hardly anyone knew where Moldova was when I would tell them it was a destination for one of my months on the WR. It’s a little country that is tucked between Ukraine and Romania that came to their independence after the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. Moldova is ranked as the poorest European country where communism and Orthodox religion instill fear, allowing little to no room for hope.
I am not a writer, so I have a hard time trying to articulate my words to describe the environment here, but if you got a sense of depression from that little description, multiply that by ten. The atmosphere here is cold, literally with the turning of seasons into fall, and with the loom of hopelessness in the air. A smile is hard to come by on the faces that look so weathered. On my morning runs, I say, “Privet” to everyone that I pass, but only receive a hand full of returned smiles, let alone responses.
My heart breaks for the people here, and for the little tid bit stories that we get to hear through our translator. We hear about how hard it is to find jobs in Moldova, how little money they make with the jobs that some do have, the lack of education these children are receiving in school because their teachers don’t care, which ripples into the students not caring. I have yet to meet one of the youth that wants to stay here in Moldova. Everyone wants to get out of here. There is no future for them here, and they are trying their hardest to get out.
The youth here find it so odd that when we get home from the WR, we want to live near where we grew up and with our families. We explained that it is beautiful where each of us lives, the job market is good for us, and our families live there. Why would we want to leave? Not being able to call the place you grew up “home” would be so hard for me, especially because I hold Berthoud so dear to my heart.
This morning I was able to help a widowed babooshka in her apartment with Kelsey. We slowly walked to the top floor of the apartment building and went into her three bedroom space. We were told not to take off our shoes, a rarity in this culture, but soon saw that she had a pet chicken, and that was why our shoes stayed on. Luba was her name, and she has been widowed for 10 years now. Her two sons left for Moscow when her husband died, and now all she has is a pet chicken, who she named, Chicken. This broke my heart, and all I wanted to do was hug her. She was so appreciative of Kelsey and I sorting out her and Chicken’s food (dried corn for Chicken, and walnuts for her), and was continuously trying to hold back her tears while talking about all of the ugly hardships she has gone through.
I am continuously being broken for the people that I am living around, and the culture that fosters such heavy spirits. Please pray for the people that are not as warm, or as full, or as surrounded by community as you are. Please pray that my team and I can continue to be the light that these Moldovians need to see and feel warmed by.
