Sunday Morning ~ Coming Home

Kungapande tambala kudzaca. ~ Even if there were no cock, daybreak would come.

~ Chewa proverb

May 29, 2022

Hi Everyone,

It’s always strange coming home from an intense experience. Sometimes it’s a huge relief and I sink into my house like it’s part of me. Other times I go into a funk for awhile feeling like there’s no place here for me. The adjustment timeframe varies between a minute and a month. I guess the longer I’m away the more difficult the re-entry.

I listened to very little news while I was gone and it was an incredible relief. It also gave me some perspective on how the bombardment of information shapes our sense of well being. Even though I was hearing difficult personal stories and seeing traumatized families, I was less anxious. I felt more positive about our future. The strength and resolve of others was infectious and it seemed all difficulties could be overcome. I was in a constant state of awe that life could go on so normally when there was an active war with bombs dropping so nearby. Bakeries still made gorgeous pastries. Families still strolled through the parks. Markets still sold fruit and vegetables. All this was in vibrant color to me. I wondered how it was being reported back home. 

I was only gone for six weeks, which, is not very long so I was a little blindsided by this feeling of…despair is too strong a word…maybe despondency is more like it. I left a place where people are fleeing a war to return to a country where kids are massacred in school, people die while grocery shopping, and women are being stripped of their basic human rights. It all makes me question where the war is. 

What often makes returning difficult is the way I imagine home life to be while living in another culture. No one is invading my home or dropping bombs on our houses. I can travel freely. I can say what I want. It makes me incredibly grateful to have been born into this life in this place. But that’s all a romanticized version of home. That’s what happens while I’m witnessing suffering far from home. Upon return I am reminded of how imperfect and flawed our society is and how the outward appearance is only the reality for a privileged class. I got home, caught up on events and though, Ugh, this is where I live. In a country where politicians allow this to happen. In Maine, our beautiful state, farmers are fleeing their poisoned land, not sure what damage has already been done to their health. Our senior senator continually votes to perpetuate the atrocities inflicted on women, children, and minorities. I feel cynical and duped. We’ve done a good job of making sure there’s an enemy for everyone. How did it get to this point?

I’ve heard criticism about how this country isn’t taking in as many refugees as it should. I stop and think who would want to come here anyway? I had the opportunity to observe the Polish medical system, and though not perfect, people are able to access care in a timely way, are treated respectfully,  and are not worried about how to pay for it. I was flabbergasted at how efficient it was. This illusion we are fed in the U.S. about having the best medical care in the world refers only to those who are privileged and white. Otherwise, it is a disgrace. An expensive, inefficient, inequitable disgrace. 

Whew! Debbie Downer today. Until Tuesday I felt like the war republicans have launched on women would be the tipping point. I thought this fury they’ve unleashed will overpower them at the polls and the pendulum will finally start swinging back. But It’s not that simple. It’s all been strategic and now I’m wondering how much worse it has to get before things turn around.

My consolation is still knowing we can vote our way out of this. I’m grateful for those who stay positive and see a solution. I’m more and more alarmed when I hear others despair. Giving up, I remind myself, is only for those who have nothing to lose. I look at my grandchildren and shudder at what others have lost. I don’t know how they bear it or how anger and despair doesn’t consume their spirit. For their sake alone we can’t give up.

I walk by and get a whiff of the lilac blossoms. Their scent is like a drug, and I think those lilacs will blossom whether I appreciate them or not. So why not embrace all that is good, and somehow, without surrendering ourselves to anger and frustration, plod forward. I feel like we owe it to everyone suffering right now.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Budapest

May 15, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I’d been to Budapest in December of 2012 when traveling from Warsaw to Zagreb. I’d taken an overnight train to Budapest then another to Zagreb which left from a station on the other side of the city. I shared the sleeping berth with an older woman from Romania who spoke not a word of English and I spoke no Romanian. Somehow we communicated, though, I can’t pinpoint how. She shared a thermos of warm chocolate with me in the morning. I carried her bag to her connecting train to Bucharest. We hugged goodbye. My train to Croatia left five hours later so I decided to walk from one station to the other a few miles away. That was my only experience of Budapest: an early morning, deserted, cold, and mysterious walk through a strange city. I gaped in awe of the architecture and planned to go back someday and really see the place.

My friend Matt is a geneticist who teaches at a college in Rochester, New York. He’s also a priest and helps out in our parishes in the summer months on MDI. He was doing a Fulbright scholarship in Ukraine, working on agricultural ethics, and last summer we talked about what he hoped to accomplish and I thought I might visit him in Uzhhorod, figuring it would be a great chance to see some of Ukraine. When the war broke out he evacuated to Budapest so a Ukrainian visit will be delayed a bit. Shifting travel plans I boarded an overnight train from Warsaw to Budapest on Tuesday and visited him there. This time I was alone in the berth and though I missed an opportunity to meet someone interesting, I loved the privacy (my own bathroom!) and good night’s sleep. I barely noticed the stop in Prague. An hour before arriving in Budapest, the porter brought breakfast. I didn’t even know that was done anymore. I arrived in Budapest well rested to bright warm sunshine into a gorgeous train station designed by the Gustave Eiffel company. Matt was there waiting with a map marking my guesthouse and other points of interest as well as a public transit pass. A perfect welcome. 

The contrast between Warsaw and Budapest is striking. It’s interesting how these two cities, both devastated by war and communism, emerged so differently. I’m wondering how Budapest got such a party vibe? I saw scads of young people bar hopping, moving in groups as if it were a handsome/beautiful competition. I felt dowdy, like I should go get a nice pair of shoes and a better bra. I don’t know if it was graduation or international bachelor/bachelorette week, but there was some serious fun happening in multiple languages. You’d never know there was a war going on next door.

Hungary was always a mystery to me. As a kid I heard the term “Iron Curtain” and thought of it literally. All that transpired behind that drape was none of my business. I daydreamed in history class so don’t even know if Hungary was mentioned much there, not that I would have remembered anything if it were. I knew Zsa Zsa Gabor was Hungarian and that’s about it. So, I learned a lot this week.

I like to start a stay in a new city by just wandering around and getting my bearings. I had a luxurious five days, a nice amount of time to explore, so wasn’t in a rush to tick off the list I’d made of things to see. The scale! Everything is huge as if they built this city for giants. And I wondered why I always had such a romantic notion of the Danube? Must be from some song somewhere. The second longest river in Europe doesn’t sound particularly romantic, and it’s not  wide or remarkable aside from splitting this city into Buda and Pest. Hills on one side, flatlands on the other. The first afternoon here Matt and I walked along the river bank on the Pest side and came upon the iron-sculpted shoes. It is a haunting memorial to the people persecuted and shot on the banks of this river after being forced to remove their shoes, a valuable commodity. Twenty thousand people. 

It was the last year of the war, 1944, when Hungary fell to the nazis so they worked hard to do as much damage as they could in one year. Horrifying what desperation reaps. I could see so many correlations to current events it’s hard to take it all in. There is a museum I visited called the Terror House on Andrassy Ut, the huge main boulevard here. It is the building where interrogations and executions were held in 1944 and then again during the 1956 revolution. The museum is well done and indeed terrifying and sickening. I felt it was similar to visiting Auschwitz or the Equal Justice Institute which was once a slave market. It’s important to stand on that ground and pay respect to the people who suffered and died. As hard as it is to be present and learn what happened on those premises, I saw how important it is to acknowledge the past crimes against humanity and honor those victims. Whew. It was painful.

The city is full of the most amazing contrasts. The architecture is jaw dropping. Some of it was destroyed in the war but it wasn’t eradicated like Warsaw. Soviet influence is detectable here but it’s obscured by the grandeur. In Warsaw the architecture makes it very clear who occupied whom; here not so much. On Saturday, Matt and I took the metro to the end of the line, then a local bus to Memento Park, an open air museum in the countryside where the statues that were removed from the city after the fall of communism are displayed. It’s a fascinating and well-done display about dictatorship as a means of understanding democracy. The whole thing has a cemetery feel to it and the plaques have the location of the city where they once stood. Stalin’s boots, left from the toppling of his statue in 1956, are there. The grandstand on which they perch, looks obscene. We were the only ones there for a long while. We walked around, read the plaques, then sat and talked about where our lives were in 1989 when so much changed in this country. We talked about how events of such magnitude could occur while so much of the world remains clueless. What was happening back home then? Stock market instability? Kids’ concerts? Little league games?

I am now on my way back to Warsaw where I’ll have a few days of family time before flying back to the states. I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from my constant news consumption but get the drift of the perils women now face in my own country. This has got to end. As if it weren’t hard enough already for women to get health care. It’s clear what we need to do and I believe it’s possible. Only two more senators and maintain the house. Then we can clean up this shit and put these misogynistic mementos in a park somewhere. Deep breath and onward. They will not win this. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Gdansk

May 8, 2022

Hi Everyone,

After two weeks in the border town of Ustrzyki Dolne in the Bieszczady Mountains I headed back to Warsaw by local bus to Krakow then train to Warsaw. I loved the landscape in those mountains. They were not massive or steep. They were soft and old, rounded and rolling; perhaps worn down over millennia. The highest of the peaks is in Ukraine. I found them welcoming. I knew nothing about that part of Poland before going there. I didn’t know how many times the borders changed and inhabitants were suddenly of a different county: Poland, Austro-Hungary, Poland, Russia, Germany, Ukraine, Russia, Poland––strangely, like a bargaining chip or piece of clothing being passed around, as if no one lived there. The region is so rich in oil they used buckets to draw it up out of the ground. It bubbled out of the surface. Almost all the jews who did not flee in the 1930’s were exterminated. The camps weren’t far away. Their train ride was short. The whole area is dotted with old wooden orthodox churches sitting singularly in beautiful mountain settings. I wondered why a church would be set in such an isolated place, then learned there were villages surrounding them at one time, all destroyed. The churches were rebuilt. The whole region is now the wildest in Poland. As the forests grew back so did the wildlife. One of the sisters told us of coming face to face with a bear as she walked in the foothills. I’m hoping my next visit there will be as a tourist and the heaviness of the current situation lifted, though the generational trauma is palpable. 

I’m grateful for the wonderful people I met there, giving their time to volunteer in many different capacities. Local restaurant owners routinely brought soup for the volunteers working at the border. College students took shifts covering 24 hours in the fireman’s tent. The firemen transported Ukrainians to the refugee center, and the people at Caritas provided supplies and support. It was a privilege to work with them for this short time. 

Since I arrived in Poland I have been working on ways to get money directly to some who need it and I want to let you all know how that money has been used so far. Many of you gave generously and it has been enormously appreciated. A woman just south of Kyiv organized a system to get food, goods, and support to women who are not able or willing to leave the country; a chunk of money went to her. Some has paid for fuel a man needed to transport people safely to border crossings when trains were full. Some went to a man who lost three limbs in an explosion; he survived and the money will help him and his family. Some went to a woman with young children and no friends or family to rely on in Poland. Some has gone to a woman transporting people into Poland where she buys specifically needed supplies then transports them back into Ukraine. All of them are incredibly grateful and gracious, not only for the financial support, which is a godsend, but for the spirit and solidarity in which it was given. I believe it is making a difference. I stand in awe of the efforts and strength I’ve seen. I wish I could have done more. 

The bus ride to Krakow was long and uncomfortable, and that was with little luggage and a home to return to. I constantly imagined myself fleeing and what that would be like. I was happy to hold my granddaughter again. We took a family trip up to Gdansk for the weekend and here I sit listening to church bells ringing waiting for everyone to get up. Gdansk is a city I’ve wanted to see for a long time.  My interest started in1980 when there was a new Polish pope and a shipyard electrician in this city who inspired me. I had a new baby at the time and was a Peace Corps volunteer living in a remote Malawian village. Time magazines came weekly via diplomatic pouch and, being our only news source, I devoured every story of the solidarity movement. Being a new mother made me look at the world in a different way. Every world event was highlighted as a life or death possibility. Every action we each took could be significant. 

This completely rebuilt city is inspiring to me. It’s location near the Baltic is stunning. It’s blend of old and new design is beautifully done. I can see a weekend here will not be enough as I could roam these streets for hours and days. We visited the World War II museum yesterday and that was sobering, as if we needed more sobering. It is so well done and powerful. It is a lesson in facing history full on and gave me a deeper understanding of the Polish determination to protect itself and it’s neighbors. I found it hopeful, actually. Clarity of purpose and solidarity does that to me. There is always a tipping point.

On Monday night I will take an overnight train (sleeper car!) to Budapest to visit a friend who was doing a Fulbright in Ukraine and is now displaced to Hungary. When I planned this trip last summer my intent was to spend a couple of weeks in Ukraine with him. I thought it would be a great opportunity to see a part of the world I hadn’t experienced. How things change. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Ustrzyki Dolne

May 1, 2022

Hi Everyone,

When I was a child I had a recurring nightmare. A sinister man who looked like Brutus on Popeye, forced me to dance with him in my living room. I could see my family happily watching television in the den just a few feet away and I knew if I could cross over into the den I’d be ok. But I could never get there. I’d try to force him in that direction then wake up in terror before reaching the line between living room and den. I’ve thought about that dream a lot this week. I wonder if the people crossing over this imaginary line into the den of Poland finally feel safe. It’s only a few feet away. 

Some days there are hardly any Ukrainians crossing. On Monday, I think there were only three people. Tuesday maybe twelve. Then Wednesday there were large groups of all ages, lots of children, grandparents, and mothers. They waited in the cold for a couple of hours for a bus to take them to Krakow. The medics blew bubbles to entertain the children. Some of the firemen kicked a ball around with them. The older folks ate soup and nibbled on cookies, looking sad and bewildered. We passed out stuffed animals to the littlest who were smiling and laughing as if this was one big fun adventure. 

An older woman was walking around, up and down the compound. She saw me at the opening of the tent and came over, speaking animatedly, nothing I could understand. “I speak English, sorry.” I said, putting my hands together like I was praying for forgiveness for this shortcoming. She went on a long upsetting soliloquy, “Mariupol” was said many times, I did understand that word. I asked, “You are from Mariupol?” She nodded and made motions with her hands to express buildings going down. Then she covered her face crying. I said over and over, “I’m sorry, so sorry.” shaking my head, putting my hands over my heart. She pulled on the sleeve of her sweater then patted her head. I thought she was asking for a hat. I brought her over to the box of hats and held one up. She shook her head no, upset even more. Tomek came in to the tent and I told him I couldn’t understand what this woman needed. He spoke in Polish but she shook her head, like she didn’t understand Polish either. He took out his phone and put in a few of the words she was saying, then said, “Ah ha! She is asking for the pressure of her blood.” and motioned for her to follow him to the medics. Then I got it. She had a headache and wanted her blood pressure checked, which I found out, was sky high. The medics had her in an ambulance for awhile but when the bus came for her group, she exited the ambulance, boarded the bus, and went off with the others. Every time I saw a Ukrainian board transport for someplace heading away from their country, I said to myself, “God go with them.” 

On the quiet days I read. This is in spurts as it’s necessary to get up and walk around for awhile to warm up. I realized that all of the previous humanitarian work I’ve done has been in warm climates where I can sit and read, write, or paint for hours if there is nothing going on. I couldn’t possibly paint here as my fingers are too cold. I can, however, turn the pages of my book with gloves on.

Tomek and I were talking about how an organization decides when to close up. It’s hard to project the use or need for resources provided and difficult to calculate the cost/benefit. On the days when we are just sitting around it seems like the project should close, then one or two people come and share their story and it seems like just bearing witness and listening is reason enough to stay here and wait. Many of the young adult women crossing can speak English very well and I’ve been able to communicate. That feels good as most of the time I feel incredibly inadequate. I can’t translate even on my phone as I can’t read the words when they are spelled out. Polish is difficult (and by difficult I mean impossible) for me, though I can now say: milk, tea, coffee, water, good, and thank you reasonably well, but reading is out of the question. I’m telling you, I didn’t think I could admire Meryl Streep any more than I do but how she learned Polish so perfectly for Sophie’s Choice I now believe was super human. Cookies is ciasteczka in Polish and it’s not pronounced anything like it looks. Thank you is Dziekuje Ci, with a couple of accent marks in there I can’t figure out how to type, and it is pronounced something like Jenkweeay.  Ukrainian? forget it. 

So, when someone leads off in English because they don’t speak Polish, I get very excited. One young woman driving a van sat with us waiting for others to cross. She was able to transport seven people to Germany where she had family. She said her house near Kyiv was destroyed and she couldn’t stay any longer. Tomek asked if it was a small house or big building. She said, “No, not small house, big with many apartments.” Ah, so a big apartment building was destroyed. Hundreds of “houses”. She showed us photos on her phone. I saw the photos and thought it was astonishing she was as put together as she was. She spoke of fear for safety with a matter of fact tone that made me shake my head at what people endure, how they cope. She had stayed this long because her family had pets they did not want to leave. I asked if she thought she would go back when the war was over? “Yes, of course.” she said. “Everyone is saying this will last three months and we are now going into the third month. Then we can go home and start to build again.” The ones she waited for arrived, then she turned to us and said, “We always thought Russia was our brother because we used to be part of Russia. Poland was only our neighbor. But now, our neighbor is our friend and our brother is killing us.” She thanked us and ran off to her van. Tomek looked at me and said, “So you see? We are hearing straight from the people. This is not something made up like Russia says.” I said, “This made sitting here all day worth it, just to bear witness to her story.” I said “God go with her.”

On Thursday many more people were crossing. I spoke with a woman who said she was a driver, transporting  people out of the country. She wasn’t fleeing herself but transporting others then going back bringing supplies back with her. She’d already made several trips to various locations around Europe. She had lived in the states for five years and her family had active visas. When the war started she sent her teenage child to live with a friend in the US. “Now”, she told me, “I know she is safe and I can help others.” I asked if her husband was fighting? She said, “No, not fighting but protecting the city.” So, I’m not sure if he’ll be fighting if the front line gets closer or how that works, I didn’t ask. Is this like football? Defense and offense? I talked with her for a long time while she waited for others to get across the border. She drank coffee, a beautiful middle aged woman who loved her country. I asked what it was like when it all started. She said they just couldn’t believe it. They heard explosions and were all calling each other asking if it could be true? She looked at me and said, “We are not Russian. We will never be Russian. I will never carry a Russian passport.” I asked her if she needed money for petrol or supplies? She said not right now, but I gave her my contact information and told her my friends have given me money to help people like her and if she needed some to contact me. She said she would and thanked me profusely. The others arrived, she got them into her car, and they headed west. God go with her. I haven’t prayed this much in a long time. 

Our days begin at seven with mass at the uniquely designed church built after communism fell. It was designed by local architects and built with local materials. It is set into the hillside  opposite the Caritas House where we sleep. It has a long sharply sloped roof that is a combination of roof, steeple, and belfry; it is stunning. Coming from a place where weekly mass is sparsely attended in the winter, it’s noteworthy to see how many people in this town attend daily mass, which, most days, is concelebrated. For the non-catholics reading this, that means two (or more) priests celebrating mass together. At a weekday mass. I can’t imagine that happening at home unless the bishop was visiting. My first day at mass I looked around the church for the origin of the beautiful voice singing hymns, sure to see a young, gorgeous soprano standing in one of the many eves of the roof line. One of the three sisters living at Caritas House was playing the organ on the narrow balcony and as I watched her more intently I could see it was her singing. She barely opened her mouth, but from it came what sounded like the voice of angels. It’s incredible to behold. I’ve passed her briefly in the hallway at the house and, unlike the other sisters, she neither smiles nor greets me and behaves as if people in this house are a blight. She looks angry, as if her life has been difficult and cruel. To see her one would think nothing but a grunt or scowl could come from her. Yet, at mass, she is the angel singing; nothing but beauty pouring out of her. I wonder what her story is.

I will leave here on Tuesday and head back to Warsaw. I’ll take a local bus to Krakow, then a train to Warsaw. It feels like years ago I left there, though it’s been less than two weeks. I feel welcome here, love the mountain village of Ustryzki Dolne, and have gotten accustomed to the daily routine. It’s remarkable that just five miles from the border of a country at war, life goes on with remarkable normality. The biggest complaint I’ve heard is they have no visitors here now and it is crushing their tourist-based economy. There are two ski areas, empty since the end of February. I’ve hiked on a few of the many hiking trails and they are empty as well. I pray for these generous villagers who have opened their hearts and homes. Hopefully more of the world will find them when this is all over. This area has seen way more than it’s share of war and suffering.

I’m grateful for all the people I’ve met and my faith in humanity is boosted. There are so many good people in this world. It’s been an honor to work with them.

Love to all,

Linda