When the BBC Newsnight presenter visited Moldova, the poorest nation in Europe, to meet some of its few remaining Jews, she was stunned by how desperate their lives were. Here she reveals that, but for the courage of her persecuted grandparents, she could have been among them…OK, I admit it. When I heard I was off to Moldova all I could think of was Amanda Carrington and that dishy Moldovan Prince Michael in Dynasty. It might have been subliminal memories of the dishy one that made me agree to go in the first place.
The episode, as Dynasty fans will recall, ends in a wedding-day massacre. Understandably, it’s not something the Moldovan tourist board makes much of.
Indeed, the most satisfying thing about Moldova as a tourist is no one’s heard of it. Even my geopolitical junkie colleagues on BBC2′s Newsnight have been silenced by its name.
The kind of honours Moldova has accumulated are dubious. It is ranked the poorest country in Europe. On the worldwide corruption league tables it is higher than Burkina Faso. It has no gas, oil or coal. It emerged from the USSR in 1991 but the Soviet shadow still looms large in places. Now its most copious natural resources are – brutally speaking – women and children, earning Moldova yet another title: trafficking capital of Europe.
Some retail giants are ready to chance it here – Debenhams has set up stall in Mall Dova, the country’s one shiny (in the way nylon is shiny) shopping centre.
But today, I am here to look at investment of a much more tangible kind – the work of an amazing charity, World Jewish Relief. It reaches out to the poorest, forgotten individuals in parts of the world where surviving as a Jew is a miracle in itself.
The Jewish population in Moldova is between 18,000 and 20,000 – it numbered 300,000 before the Second World War. Behind that dwindling number lie stories of persecution, emigration and the communist and Nazi death camps of the Thirties and Forties.
They are stories that have been part of my own family history. My grandparents made the familiar journey from and through Eastern Europe (Russia/Poland/ Lithuania – the name changed depending on the year you pick) to London, forced to flee by Hitler’s regime.
One survivor of Moldova’s grim history is Chelia Bondareva, a 72-year-old woman born in Kishinev, evacuated to Kazakhstan until 1945 and then returned to her home town.
When we meet Chelia, she is lying in bed in a one-room house. She has not left this bed for three years. She can hardly hear, is unable to walk and has mental problems.
She keeps a can of water by her bed and a bag of photos under her pillow. The rest of the room is detritus, dominated by a broken television that she will not throw out. I begin to understand that familiar objects have come to replace missing family members.
The only contact Chelia has with the outside world has been through the work of Hesed, the community support programme of food, healthcare and regular visits from social workers that is funded by charities such as WJR.
She talks in Russian and Moldovan and I am stunned to find I understand some of it. Moldovan, it is explained to me, is very similar to Romanian, a language I studied while the country was still behind the Iron Curtain.‘Who comes to visit you apart from the welfare workers?’ I ask. Chelia’s answer is unintentionally heartbreaking: ‘Nobody.’
Our teacher, Mr Stanescu, a defector, would tell us the names of objects with a sense of irony. ‘Bec is a lightbulb, becuri is two lightbulbs. Except in my country you would never find two lightbulbs.’ As I stand in the half light of Chelia’s poverty, two decades of capitalism later, I realise that joke is wearing thin.
The next day we will leave Moldova and go to a country that does not exist. It has its own borders and currency, but it is not formally recognised anywhere else. It is called Transnistria, a kind of breakaway republic. It makes Moldova look like Monte Carlo.
Transnistria clings to its Soviet past and its inhabitants speak only Russian. We are greeted at the border by Soviet tanks and guards in greatcoats. When we arrive in Rybnitsa 40 minutes later, it is like stumbling into a communist theme park. Neat hedgerows, paved paths and spotless streets lead towards a huge statue of Lenin. Ah yes, they love Lenin here.
We are taken to see Nelly Fishman, who is waiting for us outside her home. We think it is courtesy but it is practicality. Nelly’s house is so small and cluttered there is barely room for another person. She is 59 but has spent her whole life in this house, now a tangle of firewood, dirty pans, cabbage leaves and cats.
For Nelly, this sinking, stinking shack is home. She devoted her life to looking after her father – now he’s dead and she’s alone.
But she is alive, and this again is thanks to the work of Hesed officials who bring her medicine and food, and remind her she is in someone’s thoughts.
They also encourage her to attend the local community centre. This is also where children who arrive after school are given hot broth and computer classes, while their (often single) parents move on to their second jobs of the day.
This centre breathes warmth, welcome and security – one place in this bleak land where the future can be made possible and history is allowed to be remembered.
I came as a slightly reluctant visitor to this part of the world and thought I would leave with my emotions intact. But before we leave Rybnitsa, we visit the Jewish cemetery, which survived all attempts at destruction or relocation.
It is here that the thousands of Transnistrian Jews killed by Nazi-Romanian Fascists after 1941 were finally given a memorial. I stare at gravestones and think how easily I could have seen my family name upon them.
The journey back to Moldova is a quiet one. I am thinking of Nelly. I am thinking of the children who, unlike my own, will never leave a scrap of food on their plates.
As we re-enter Kishinev a curious elation comes over me – Moldova now feels like the lap of luxury. For a brief moment I feel guilt and relief to be back, yes even here.
And I am thinking that in another time, but for the vagaries of migration and the randomness of history, I might have been visiting me.
via: travelvista
The kind of honours Moldova has accumulated are dubious. It is ranked the poorest country in Europe. On the worldwide corruption league tables it is higher than Burkina Faso. It has no gas, oil or coal. It emerged from the USSR in 1991 but the Soviet shadow still looms large in places. Now its most copious natural resources are – brutally speaking – women and children, earning Moldova yet another title: trafficking capital of Europe.
Some retail giants are ready to chance it here – Debenhams has set up stall in Mall Dova, the country’s one shiny (in the way nylon is shiny) shopping centre.
But today, I am here to look at investment of a much more tangible kind – the work of an amazing charity, World Jewish Relief. It reaches out to the poorest, forgotten individuals in parts of the world where surviving as a Jew is a miracle in itself.
The Jewish population in Moldova is between 18,000 and 20,000 – it numbered 300,000 before the Second World War. Behind that dwindling number lie stories of persecution, emigration and the communist and Nazi death camps of the Thirties and Forties.
They are stories that have been part of my own family history. My grandparents made the familiar journey from and through Eastern Europe (Russia/Poland/ Lithuania – the name changed depending on the year you pick) to London, forced to flee by Hitler’s regime.
One survivor of Moldova’s grim history is Chelia Bondareva, a 72-year-old woman born in Kishinev, evacuated to Kazakhstan until 1945 and then returned to her home town.
When we meet Chelia, she is lying in bed in a one-room house. She has not left this bed for three years. She can hardly hear, is unable to walk and has mental problems.
She keeps a can of water by her bed and a bag of photos under her pillow. The rest of the room is detritus, dominated by a broken television that she will not throw out. I begin to understand that familiar objects have come to replace missing family members.
The only contact Chelia has with the outside world has been through the work of Hesed, the community support programme of food, healthcare and regular visits from social workers that is funded by charities such as WJR.
She talks in Russian and Moldovan and I am stunned to find I understand some of it. Moldovan, it is explained to me, is very similar to Romanian, a language I studied while the country was still behind the Iron Curtain.‘Who comes to visit you apart from the welfare workers?’ I ask. Chelia’s answer is unintentionally heartbreaking: ‘Nobody.’
Our teacher, Mr Stanescu, a defector, would tell us the names of objects with a sense of irony. ‘Bec is a lightbulb, becuri is two lightbulbs. Except in my country you would never find two lightbulbs.’ As I stand in the half light of Chelia’s poverty, two decades of capitalism later, I realise that joke is wearing thin.
The next day we will leave Moldova and go to a country that does not exist. It has its own borders and currency, but it is not formally recognised anywhere else. It is called Transnistria, a kind of breakaway republic. It makes Moldova look like Monte Carlo.
Transnistria clings to its Soviet past and its inhabitants speak only Russian. We are greeted at the border by Soviet tanks and guards in greatcoats. When we arrive in Rybnitsa 40 minutes later, it is like stumbling into a communist theme park. Neat hedgerows, paved paths and spotless streets lead towards a huge statue of Lenin. Ah yes, they love Lenin here.
We are taken to see Nelly Fishman, who is waiting for us outside her home. We think it is courtesy but it is practicality. Nelly’s house is so small and cluttered there is barely room for another person. She is 59 but has spent her whole life in this house, now a tangle of firewood, dirty pans, cabbage leaves and cats.
For Nelly, this sinking, stinking shack is home. She devoted her life to looking after her father – now he’s dead and she’s alone.
But she is alive, and this again is thanks to the work of Hesed officials who bring her medicine and food, and remind her she is in someone’s thoughts.
They also encourage her to attend the local community centre. This is also where children who arrive after school are given hot broth and computer classes, while their (often single) parents move on to their second jobs of the day.
This centre breathes warmth, welcome and security – one place in this bleak land where the future can be made possible and history is allowed to be remembered.
I came as a slightly reluctant visitor to this part of the world and thought I would leave with my emotions intact. But before we leave Rybnitsa, we visit the Jewish cemetery, which survived all attempts at destruction or relocation.
It is here that the thousands of Transnistrian Jews killed by Nazi-Romanian Fascists after 1941 were finally given a memorial. I stare at gravestones and think how easily I could have seen my family name upon them.
The journey back to Moldova is a quiet one. I am thinking of Nelly. I am thinking of the children who, unlike my own, will never leave a scrap of food on their plates.
As we re-enter Kishinev a curious elation comes over me – Moldova now feels like the lap of luxury. For a brief moment I feel guilt and relief to be back, yes even here.
And I am thinking that in another time, but for the vagaries of migration and the randomness of history, I might have been visiting me.
via: travelvista
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