Falesti Orphanage

Recently I went with a group of high school students, alumni of the FLEX program (one year study abroad in a US high school), to give candy and small gifts to the 100 or so children living at an orphanage in the nearby village of Falesti. It was uplifting and heartbreaking at the same time. One thing that shocked me, other than how shabby many of the children's clothes were, and how unkempt the younger children were, was the song that the older children performed for us. One of the FLEX girls leaned over to translate for me as the children sang, since the song was in Romanian. "They are saying, mother, father, please come home," she told me. "This is a song about parents who have gone to work abroad. There are a lot of these songs nowadays." According to another FLEX girl, many children told her that they were not orphans, but that their parents had left them to work abroad, a practice that is apparently becoming more and more common. A week before, in my own town, I'd met a grandmother with an adorable, shy little girl of about 9 months. "Up until a couple of months ago, she was living at the orphanage," the grandmother told me. "Her mom and dad went to Israel. Finally I came to get her, and now grandpa and I are raising her."

The ratio of children to adults was unbelievable -- I saw only two women in charge of about 20 three year olds -- and the kids so obviously craved an adult's attention. In some ways, I think it's even more sad with the older kids, because they need affection as much as the little ones, but they won't just ask for a hug or to be picked up. At one point, as I took one girl's picture, I felt someone touching my hair and realized that one boy of about 11 was standing behind me, petting my ponytail. At 26, considering the typical age that Moldovan women marry, I suppose I could have been the mother of many of the kids.

They were such sweet kids, so affectionate, amazingly happy considering all that they have been through.
The kids all spoke Romanian so I couldn't technically communicate with them, yet we still connected through taking pictures with my camera and me jumping around like a big dork. (Ah yes, slapstick, the language that knows no cultural bounds...)