"I'm a legal alien,
I'm an Englishman in New York"
-- Sting
It was in my early childhood when I first heard
about "our brothers across the Prut River," the
Moldavians: Romanians by language and history,
Russians by occupation.
I heard many stories of divided families living
on opposite sides of the river, of people who could
not speak their mother tongue in their own country.
I heard of terrifying deportations in Siberia for
those who tried it, of the KGB and Securitate who
were trying to reduce people to silence. And all
these built the image of the region in my mind.
After 1991, however, the border opened.
Romanians and Moldavians got back together,
families reunited, the Russian language ceased to be
compulsory, and the Soviet ghost drew back to the
East. For a while at least.
At this time of great change I became
interested in what happened there. But
since there was no strong motivation, I
didn't actually study the situation as I
should have. But at the end of 1996 I
joined AEGEE-Iasi, and there it was again:
Moldavia, the destination and subject of
the Case Study Trip. In order to organize the
event I had to read more, to get a little extra
information beside all the chopped-up and
shortened pieces of news that I heard on radio and
TV. It didn't help much. Black-on-white articles,
books, media. . . all were just cold words. And
that is why I wanted so much to go to
Chisinau myself, to see it myself and get
my own impressions. When the event in
Iasi ended I took the bus east; my first
visit to Moldavia, my first visit to the "Wild
East," as some jokingly called it.
My first shock came during the bus
ride. People were speaking Romanian. And
arguing in Russian. The accent was
strange, yet the language was more than
familiar. When I arrived in Chisinau the
situation changed a bit. For better or for
worse, I can't say. Everyone understood me
when I spoke Romanian. But in a number of cases I
got answers only in Russian. Confusing enough.
Part of me said: you are at home here, this
is/was/will be Romanian territory as well, and these
people are of the same origin, have the same history
and live by the same customs that you live by. The
other part just cried out: you're an alien here, this is
not Romania anymore. Even so, everyone was very
nice. I recognized in the people there the old, much-
talked-about Moldavian hospitality, and I felt at
ease speaking to them. It was very nice when one
day, while I was sitting on a bench in Pushkin Park,
an old man walked by me and we started a little
conversation. He was kind and old and wise...like
the good wizard in the stories. When he learned
that I came from Iasi, he started to tell me
all about his life. About how he served in
the Romanian army, at the beginning of
World War II, then how the country was
suddenly divided one night and he was
sent back home to his native village, then
how he was again called to arms, by the Soviets this
time, and ended up in a military unit near the
border, in today's Transdniestria.
However, it was not very nice when, in a
bookstore, I tried to ask the shop assistant
something in Romanian and all I got were some
angry words in Russian. Even more painful was to
go to Tiraspol’. Someone asked me whether I could
imagine that I could be at home there. My answer
was a definite "no." In Tiraspol’ people are sad and
gloomy and poor and hopeless. . . But most of all
they didn't feel Romanian at all, not even
Moldavian. They are Russians. I would have liked
to see the countryside, or some other small town,
too. Tiraspol’ was a shock. I expected militiamen
all over the streets, fights, shooting and crying
babies. What I've seen was somehow worse. The
people are normal people, of different ethnic origin,
but they don't have an identity anymore. Foreign
governments don't recognize their country, and they
themselves don't think there should be a
Transdniestrian Republic, but would rather have an
economic union with Moldavia, or rejoin the
Russian Federation.
Then came Comrat, where people were a bit
happier but also seemed to be a bit lost among
Moldavians, Turks and Russians. These Christian
Turks have their own lifestyle, live by their own
rules and, more than the Transdniestrians, feel at
home in a Moldavian Republic.
My last experience outside Chisinau
was Sofia, a small village in the north of
the country. It is one of the traditional
rural areas with considerable economic
autonomy, ancient people and beautiful
surroundings. I met there people so much like the
Moldavians west of the Prut. The language was the
same language spoken by my grandparents, the
habits were just out of the folk stories and
everything was very familiar to me.
At some point I even felt I was one of the hosts
and tried to explain things to the "others," to the
foreigners in the group.
This is what I felt and how I felt during my first
visit in Moldavia. I could not state whether it was
good or bad, but I am very glad I was there. From
my point of view Moldavia is still Romanian in its
roots but was deeply influenced by the time spent
under Mama Russia's wing. I liked the people in the
countryside very much; I liked their openness. But I
feared the city folk.
