Judoisti la scoala

For more than a year, a handful of my students had been telling me that they practiced judo in nearby Hincesti. I didn't know until today that two of them are some of the best judoists in Eastern Europe.

At an assembly today, Eugen Vreme, and 8th grader, and Mihail Brinzeanu, a 7th grader, received the well-earned praise from their fellow students because they brought home first and seventh place, respectively, in an international judo competition in Kyiv, Ukraine.

The competition, the Olympic Hopes Tournament, featured boys and girls from 14 countries, mostly in Eastern Europe but also including Israel, Greece and Great Britain. In Eugen and Mihail's under-46 kg weight class, there were 34 boys. Our boys not only made our village proud, but they should make the entire country proud; Eugen was the only Moldovan in the entire tournament to win gold.

How do two village kids from the poorest country in Europe end up representing their country so well? Well, it helps that Mihai and Ilie Buiuc are their trainers. The Buiuc brothers were students of Vasile Colta, and became some of the USSR's best judoists in the 1970s. They took over Colta's studio later, and now train boys and girls from all over Hincesti county.

Eugen received the boatload of the praise today at the assembly, from teachers, the director and students who make appreciated "ooohs" and "aaahs" when they saw his trophy and medals. Eugen, who is normally incredibly talkative in my class, for better or worse, was taciturn in the face of praise; he answered questions that his teacher and a student interviewer asked him about judo, but never expounded on anything. Judo has certainly taught him humility.

The school director closed by making an excellent point; she had looked at both boys' grades from last semester and was happy to report that both boys had excellent grades. Judo hasn't affected their success at school. If anything, it has probably made them even more disciplined and focused.

I already thought highly of these two boys, but now I respect them even more. Especially because they can probably beat me up.

Ajutati-ne astazi!

Those of you who have read my blog for a while know that I am one of the two coordinators for the Peace Corps Moldova Basketball League. This league serves students in villages and towns in Moldova who do not have the opportunity to play organized sports. This year there are over 30 teams, both boys' and girls', from all over the country. This is a huge opportunity for kids to learn not only a sport, but sportsmanship and what it means to dedicate themselves to a team.

While we are on the path toward making this project independent of Americans, this project cannot exist currently without foreign aid. That is why we are asking you to donate today and help us raise the $9,382 to fund our grant. This money funds 73 percent of the league (Moldovans provide a 23 percent community contribution), which provides for the cost of transporting teams from their villages to games.

For a sense of what your help means to children in this country, read some of fellow volunteer Scott's blog from last March. Without your financial help, those kids wouldn't have a chance to play a sport that, as you can see in the pictures, they obviously love.

We want to finish funding the grant by mid-February, so please don't hesitant to contribute today. If every repeat reader of this blog donates $25, we can fund this grant completely. But don't count on everyone else contributing; please be as generous as you can be.

Olimpiada

Tuesday was the English Olympiad at our school, a competition that will choose a handful of students to represent our school at the county-wide competition in Hincesti. Fourteen students in 7th, 8th, 9th and 11th grades competed. Each class had its own essay topic, and the students had 35 minutes to write their essays. Since I haven't showcased student work for a long time, I thought I'd type some of the 7th- and 8th-grade essays to share with you. I hope you notice both the level of English that some of our school's best students possess, and also some of the thoughts that are in the minds of 13- and 14-year-old students, paying extra attention to the cultural leanings toward America, Russia, Romania and Moldova.

7th grade: Write about an imaginary trip anywhere in the world. Where will you go? What will you do?

First prize:
I will would to trip in America, this is one of my the bigest dreams. America is ones of the bigest country in the world. I want to visit the schools of America, the Statue of Liberty. For mee the most important will be to tack with people and with children of America. I think will have a very good opinions about their people, I now what in America live very interesting and nice people. If I will go in America I think my life would change only in the good thinks, but for this dreams I will be learn very good and menny, if I will learn good I will now very good language. I think in America will be a new life with a new friends with new people. In my dreams America is the most beautiful country. Every time I think how is atmosfera in America? How is vegetation, the people are a bed or a good than Moldova.

Second prize:
I visited city Boston then citys very big and very nice. In Boston very big houses and very biutyful. Boston in sud U.S.A., and then very nice people. Then are many rivers and likes. I go to the my friends Julia and Robert. They live in the very biutyful house and very comftable. Then I visited friends Julias and Roberds and very many markets and unyversity. I to mith very many good people. I did very mach friends nice. Then was very nice cat and doogs. I am happy because I go to the citys Boston and vizited this is a citis. I keep this is a trip because was very beutyful and intersting trip.

Third prize:
I like very much my countries. She is a wonderful for we. World is a very imaginary trip in we heart. France is one my prefered countries. In world I will and I visited Turnu Eifel and for me is a beautiful city Paris. In Franta I will do go in library, in university, in school, in governament and at distraction parc. I have many friends and colegi, they are ingenios, good and super friends.
Anglia is a big countrie. In she are a good people. In Anglia I will be go at my friend and I visited lie, mountains, rivers and etc. I go in the world and world for me is a enigma, for me world very important lesson. I visited in world the art, muzeu. I will do read book. In America I spoking wit Britney Spears and Madona. Britney is a good musician and Madona is a good mother.
I like very much world how is he.

8th grade: Describe someone who is a good role model. Why did you choose this person?

First prize:
I think that Angelina Jolie is the best women in the world. She really deserve to be called "a role model". Angelina is a beautiful women, a very good actrice and a wonderful mother. She adopted 2 kids from diferent countries. Now the poor baby and the young boy have all the chanses to live better. A. Jolie donated a lot of money for people with disabilities and for children from poor countries. And that's not all. She is alwais ready to help if that is necesary. It is very good that even Angelina look like a model, she is a role mode, to. When exist more persons like he world will become a little better. I choos her because maybe she is a ideal person.

Second prize:
A role model is that person who donated something for peoples who need help. I think that Angelina Jolie is a real good role model. She is thinking at that persons who don't have conditions to live anywere. Angelina Jolie have a family who need to live, and need money, but she donated her money to children hwo have a family in Africa. Also Jolie had visited children from any country. Why did she do this? The answer at this question is simple: maybe Angelina also in the past when she was a child, was very bad conditions. I would say that any person who know her should do like her. I chose Angelina Jolie because nobody who are actors didn't that many donations for people in the world. Maybe it isn't true, but this is my opinion.

Third prize:
I thinc a good role model is Stefan Cel Mare in the past became to was a king at 20 years and he was'nt very tall and very muscle but he was a very curajous and smart. He won 39 wars and lose only 2. He sayd "Moldova wasn't ours, not our sons, it were our future people. He is a very good role model and very good king. He has a 7 wifes and 11 children but only one wife was legaly. He protect our country at other countries. He was a very good warior. He made our country how it look like nou. I chose him because he was a very good and loves his country and he was friendly with other countries which was friendly with his country. And I like this tactic. He take people to war and he give them very mych land.

Honorable mention:
I think the role model is the president Russia, is Vladimir Putin because he help people with money. He have a good wife and two girls. He is very good president because he help every contrys with gaz.
For every president he is a good model. He is a good politician and speak with people with respect. Vladimir Putin have and a bad role but is very short. For him life is a respect and reciprocaly help. This president likes the life. In Russia are many posibilitys will be a better child and people are very hapy. In Russia people like hims president because he did for hims many good things.
Maybe this president for me is a nice men. He looked very good and he have a happy family. To be a good model is necesarry be a good men, to respected every children mens and womens, to help people and to looked very nice.

Honorable mention:
I thing that a good role person is Mihai Eminescu. He is a good role because he writed a good poez. He writed: "Luceafarul," "Codrule," "Sona pe deal," etc. He had a good friend Ion Creanga. He tired in 1891 summer in iulie. He was a good man.

Life's no longer a beci

My host father, Dumitru, has asked me to remove the video Life's a Beci from my web page and from YouTube. Evidently, the internet is big enough in Moldova and in my county that people saw it at work and were teasing him. He feels that the video might tarnish his reputation, which I don't agree with. But in any case, he's embarrassed that it might be seen by other Moldovans.

I think this exemplifies two cultural differences, both young vs. old and American vs. Moldovan. Like most Americans, Moldovans in my village seem to like the idea of being seen by lots of people around the world. The differences lies in the execution; if people in my village feel that they can no longer control who's seeing them, they get nervous. So when people at work began joking with Dumitru about something he didn't realize they'd be able to see, he was uncomfortable. I can understand it. I wish he didn't feel that way, but I have to respect his wishes.

I am making the movie a private video, which can be accessed if you ask to join my list of YouTube friends. I hope that you will still watch the movie despite the extra step, but I have to respect Dumitru's wish to control his audience.

Un documentar despre Transnistria

This BBC documentary describes the situation between Moldova and the break-away region of Transnistria. I liked it overall, especially the reporter's demonstration of how porous the Transnistrian-Ukrainian border is and his day hanging out at President Vladimir Voronin's villa. It taught me a few things I didn't know, but I also have a few issues with it:

• The documentary states that unemployment is a major problem in Moldova. From my conversations, I've concluded that the problem isn't a lack of jobs, it's a lack of compensation for jobs. Because Moldovans can make $2,000 a month in a foreign country doing the same job as what would make them $60 in Moldova, people choose to leave the country rather than find work.


• The journalist says many Moldovans claim Transnistria cannot function on its own. In all of my conversations with Moldovans on the subject, I've heard the opposite; without Transnistrian factories, the rest of Moldova cannot sustain itself.

Aside from those issues, this is a good documentary that exposes Moldova to the West. Those are always welcome.

Thanks for the tip, Mircea Bordeianu.

Sunt dezamagit, dar trebuia sa stiu mai devreme

My school's computer lab came today, but not as it had been promised in October. Instead of a 10-computer classroom full of modern machines to replace our school's current ones from 1997, my school received a single computer, which they placed in the secretary's office.

I should have known better than to believe a document from this government.

Nobody may ever know what happened to the money and computers that were promised to my school. What disappoints me the most is not the fact that we didn't get what was promised to us, but the reaction of my school's principal and vice-principal.

"It's not what we were told was coming, but it's one and we're thankful for what we received," the vice-principal said. The principal had a similar opinion. I seemed to be the only one in the room of four people even closed to outraged.

"The county has a problem with finances," the principal said.

"The county has a problem with lying," I countered.

It's a disappointing day for me, but honestly, I was half-expecting it. October had been the first time in over a year of living in Mereseni that I had heard of the federal or county government helping my village in any way. Now that I know it was a lie, it all makes sense.

Calculatoarele noi vin degraba?

The laboratory full of new computers that my school won in October will arrive before February 1, according to a talk show on state television that focuses on education. I'll believe it when I see it.

In the meantime, I made some upgrades to the nine-year-old HP Vectra computers with 16 MB of RAM and 166 Mhz Pentium MMX processors. After spending a total investment of $60 at Fry's Electronics and on eBay and scrounging around the computer history museum that is my parents' house, I was able to equip each of the eight computers in the lab with 8x CD-ROM drives, the requisite IDE cables, and new motherboard batteries (when a motherboard battery runs out of juice, a computer can no longer remember the date and other important information when it is shut down).

These upgrades were cheap and should be effective. This is the first time the school computer lab has had CD-ROM drives. In introducing the CD-ROM drives, I was able to tell one of my favorite jokes, which translated easily to Romanian:

A man calls technical support and says his computer's broken just two days after he had bought it.

"What seems to be the problem with it, sir?"

"Well, I put my coffee mug in the cup holder, and it broke off."

It got a laugh in all of my classes. Maybe my sense of humor is getting better in Romanian.

The killer app that I'm trying to push on the kids is the CD-ROM encyclopedia. I showed each of my classes the 2000 Compton's Encyclopedia in English, and they were impressed with the possibilities, especially because the only encyclopedias that the school has, according to my 8th grade students, are from the Soviet times. One of my students has offered to bring in his CD-ROM encyclopedia from home, a 2006 edition in Russian. A Russian encyclopedia is more useful at the school than an English one, because nearly all the students understand Russian, as opposed to the approximately 10 percent of the students who understand English.

Of course, maybe we'll get an internet connection with this new computer lab. Then we'll have access to Wikipedia, at which point the possibilities are endless.

But will the new computer lab come? As the Moldovans say, "Vom trai si vom vedea." We'll live and we'll see.

Eu stiu cum putem sa-l ajutam

One of my fifth grade students came to all three lessons last week without his homework done and without his notebook and textbook. Today, I noticed that he had done at least half of his homework, and I mentioned it to him as he left the classroom.

"I'm glad that you tried to do your homework today," I said in Romanian. "For tomorrow's class, finish it all and come with your book, too."

"Okay," he said, and then he left.

"Mr. Peter," said one of my stronger students, "I know a way that we can help him do his homework."

"Really?" I said as the rest of the students left and only the student with the great idea remained. "What can we do?"

He hurriedly explained his plan, which I didn't fully understand, but I grasped that there was some kind of writing things down on a loose-leaf sheet of paper.

"I didn't understand your idea," I said as I sat down in a student's chair to lower myself to the student's eye level. "Could you repeat it, please?"

"We can write the homework out on a piece of paper, then give him the sheet and he can copy the homework."

Great plan, kid.

"I'm glad that you're thinking about helping your classmate, but that's not a good way to do it. Does that really help him?" I asked. "What does he learn if he just copies? Nothing. You only learn if you do the work yourself, and if he starts copying in fifth grade, he will never learn how to do his own work."

I noticed that the student's gaze was drifting up and to his left. Was it because he was slightly embarrassed at his plan being shot down, or was it because he considered my concept of academic honesty quaint? Either way, I decided to wrap it up.

"So now you've heard my opinion, and I hope you understand why it's not a good idea to have your classmate copy from you," I said.

I really do hope he understood. But what impact can 30 seconds of discussion have on my student's mind when he sees copying as a legitimate way of "help" in all his other classes?

Calatorie in America

I flew back from America two weeks ago, and boy are my wings tired. (Ba-dum, shish.)

When I joined the Peace Corps in June 2005, I told myself I wasn't going to return to America until my full two years of service were up. I had a lot of reasons: I wanted to vacation in this part of the world as much as possible, I didn't want to experience the comforts of America for a full two years, I was worried that I wouldn't want to return to Moldova if I visited America, and I wanted the first time I stepped back on American soil to be filled with a feeling of accomplishment. I wanted to earn my American life back with two full years in Moldova.

After a year and a half of service, I had changed my opinion. I was no longer attached to the idea of returning home "a conquering hero," mostly because it didn't make a difference in my friends' minds back home; they just wanted to see me. I also was no longer worried that I would want to quit my job when I saw America again; I've become far too busy and have too many responsibilities and unfinished business here, so there's no way I could possibly leave. I also wasn't worried about experiencing the comforts of America, because I had experienced them in England during my summer vacation and, honestly, hadn't found them that appealing.

The biggest reason, however, was that my other vacation ideas fell through. My possible trip to Pakistan fell through first, when my Pakistani friend from college said that her job would keep her from taking vacation during my break. Then other ideas, which included Spain and Morocco on one trip and Romania and Bulgaria on another trip fell through because I couldn't find people to go with. So in early December I called my parents and asked "if it would be okay" for me to come home for the holidays. Surprise, surprise; they bought my ticket within days.

Flying from Chisinau to Frankfurt to San Francisco didn't take too long, especially since I had something to look forward to on the other end. As we flew low enough over California to see the cities, I noticed how many football and baseball fields there are in America. In the Bay Area, at least, it looked like there was one every few blocks. By comparison, the one sports field within six kilometers of me in Moldova is a soccer field with no nets on the metal posts and grass trimmed by cows and goats.

I arrived in San Francisco and claimed my luggage, very happy that neither the two plastic bottles full of house wine nor the glass bottle of cognac had burst in my bag. (Another volunteer during Christmas vacation broke a bottle of Jim Beam in his bag during his return trip to Moldova, making all of his clothes reek of whiskey.) I exited customs and saw my dad.

A funny thing happened when I saw my dad for the first time in over nine months; it felt completely normal. It was not the momentous event that I thought it would be. In fact, nothing about the drive home, seeing my parents, meeting the new dog (and calling her by the old dog's name), seeing some of my friends for the first time in 18 months or seeing my sister for the first time in six months felt out of the ordinary. I was home. End of story. I did, however, get a little overeager sharing my house wine with family and friends that night; the alcohol and my jet lag exhaustion combined to make life very interesting when my dad and I went to the airport later that evening to pick up my sister from her flight.

I had already gotten my family some Moldovan knickknacks for Christmas, but I had to scramble on the 23rd to get them something a little bigger. I went to a Barnes and Noble bookstore and picked a few books for family members. A sales lady was helping me when I turned to my friend and said, "Maybe I should get my sister the new O.J. book."

"They're not publishing it," the sales lady said.

"No? Oh, that's good," I said.

"Yeah, they decided not to about a week ago," she said. "Don't you read the papers?"

"Well, no," I said with a smile. "I've been living in Eastern Europe for the past 18 months and I got home yesterday." I had been waiting to use that line.

Christmas went smoothly, and on the 26th, my family and I hosted a welcome home party. About 15 friends came, and everyone had a shot-glass full of my house wine as they entered the party, just like at any good Moldovan party. I played my friends music by Zdob si Zdub, Parazitii, Ian Raiburg and Cleopatra Stratan, while they showed me a particular present-related Saturday Night Live digital short.

Being with family and friends seemed perfectly normal. Driving seemed perfectly normal, too, although I was more likely to take a walk somewhere around town than I would have been two years ago. Some things, however, seemed strange:

• When I went to the ATM, people in line stood nearly 10 feet behind me. In Moldova, I've come to expect nothing more than a three-foot bubble. Once, I even had to yell at two little girls to back off.


• The Department of Motor Vehicles was actually a pleasurable experience. My paperwork for renewing my driver's license was processed quickly, and there was a computer-based queue that everyone respected. The woman at the desk greeted me and smiled. She was also the only clerk who had car registration stickers to put on license plates, so my process was constantly interrupted by people coming up and getting the proper stickers. In Moldova, I would be expected to accept this. At the DMV, the woman apologized and said she was sorry I had gotten stuck with her.


• It took me a couple days for me to not automatically tune in to a conversation any time I heard someone speaking English. In Moldova, hearing English means you instantly have something in common with a person. In America, it means you've found one of the 300 million people in the country who speak English. Not quite as special.


• When I went to Fry's Electronics, I heard conversations in all sorts of languages, including Spanish and several Asian languages. I had gotten used to listening for only Romanian and Russian.


• My friend Ross and I went to a local burger joint and walked up to the outside ordering window. Another guy was waiting for his order, and he struck up a conversation with Ross about how much he had drank the night before and how much he needed the fast food to help his hangover. I couldn't believe how strange the guy was, just coming up and talking to us. After he left, I turned to Ross. "Do you know that guy?"
  "No," Ross said.
  "So why did you talk to him?" I asked, perplexed.
  "Because he started talking, and he seemed like a nice guy."
  I had forgotten that I had been like that two years ago, too. So open. So friendly. Not so much anymore.


• I had forgotten what it was like to be carded while buying alcohol. Just for fun, I attempted to use my Moldovan green card as identification nearly everywhere I bought alcohol. It worked in four of the five establishments where I used it. It was only rejected at the San Jose Arena during a hockey game. When I bought some beer (imported Baltica, of course) from a liquor store, the girl at the counter didn't even blink at it. After I had paid, I said, "That ID is actually a green card from an Eastern European country."
  "I know," she said. "I'm a security officer at my other job, so I know what these look like."
  "I'm impressed," I said. "So are these easy to counterfeit?"
  "OH yeah," she said with a bit of a laugh. "But I know all seven places to check it to make sure it's real."
  Молодеца девушка.

After a great New Year's party at which both of my hip-hop alter-egos, MO$' BLING and MC Saracie, performed, I got back on the plane on January 2nd. Little did I know that a huge storm had hit Moldova, knocking out power and phone lines to most of southern Moldova (including my village) and complicating landing procedures at the Chisinau airport. During my flight from Frankfurt to Chisinau, a stewardess announced only that there was "bad weather in Chisinau" and that we were landing in Bucharest. After she offered no other details, I raised my hand and asked her what we would do after landing in Bucharest. Were we going to sit on the runway? Were we going to get on a 12-hour bus ride to Chisinau? Were we going to stay the night in a hotel? The flight attendant told me that I shouldn't ask questions and in the course of our ensuing discussion, she told me that I had been poorly raised ("Nu aveti sapte ani de acasa," for you Romanian speakers). Even though we still had six hours of sitting on the Bucharest runway ahead of us, I knew then and there that I had arrived back "home" in Moldova.

O imigranta din Moldova

One of the best things about this blog is getting e-mails from Moldovans who read it. Here is a slightly edited combination of two e-mails from a conversation with Victoria, a Moldovan immigrant to America.

Peter,

A friend of mine forwarded me your blog's address and I have enjoyed very much reading about your experiences in Moldova. Thank you for posting your thoughts and your realizations as you live the quotidian Moldovan life. So many people don't even know Moldova is a country, so many people don't even know about its harsh realities.

I was born and raised in Moldova and then moved to the United States about 4 years ago. Reading your blog takes me back there, seeing Moldova not through my Moldovan eyes anymore, but through the eyes of a Moldovan-American.

I was born in Chisinau and lived there for 16 years (in the suburban region Buiucanii Vechi). When I was 12, both my mother left for Greece and my father to Italy in search for jobs. I moved in with my grandmother and my aunt's family. While being abroad, my parents divorced and my mother met her second husband in Greece. It so happened that this man was Greek, but also a naturalized American citizen. He lived in America, but spent summers in Greece, where he met and married my mother. They moved to America and then they brought me here as well. I have lived in South Carolina since then. [I]t is my 4th year that I live in the US, and I haven't been back to MD yet.

I was 16 when I came here, and it was such a culture shock. Coming from a background of raising goats, planting our own food in the garden, not having running water, and having an outhouse instead of a toilet—America seemed to be a wonderland.

The first thing that I said when getting off the plane in America was: "Wow, the roads are so straight and shiny!" :)

There are so many differences [between] MD and USA. People here consume so much, because there are so many products available (any shape, color, smell, composition, etc). Everyone buys. Everyone lists "shopping" as a favorite activity. In Moldova I had 1 pair of shoes that I wore all year round. I have 12 pairs of shoes now.

This makes Americans take many things for granted. People don't enjoy the little things in life anymore, they all seem to want the large-screen TV, and the biggest SUVs.

What I love about America is that it pardons mistakes and [applauds] successes. American children are always encouraged to succeed and to do their best. In Moldova, more energy is geared towards punishing failures than towards rewarding successes.

Another major difference: in an American school, the student is encouraged to think instead of memorize; to think critically, instead of accepting what one is told; to earn the grades through knowledge, and not through a bribe. My academic experiences in Moldova were limited to memorizing, regurgitating, and bringing "cadouri" [presents] for the professors.

Another major difference is the open-mindedness and the lack of it in Moldova. I can talk with my physics professor about menstruation or with my female boss about sex , I can blame the government for everything, and I can ask for fashion advice from the many openly gay classmates that I have. In Moldova, no one in my family/friends circle ever talked about such things. As for the gay community in Moldova, there probably won't be one for a long time, because the society is not ready yet.

I wish I could write a bit more. But I must run.

Numai bine,
Victoria

La inmormantare

It's been a long time since I've written here. There are many reasons: I've been incredibly busy, teaching 27 hours a week and also doing other projects; my computer problems in the past few months got me out of my blogging rhythm; and I had a couple of blog-related incidents with my community that made me hesitant to write anything at all about my life or work in the village. But I think a major hindrance was pure writer's block. I had in my mind for months that if I was going to write anything on my blog, it needed to be a particular entry about a particular event. It has taken me a long time to get it into writing, because it's not an easy topic. I'm not bothering to edit it, because I need to just post it and get it over with. Hopefully, this will be the end of my writer's block, and I can move on.

I hadn't spoken to my old Costesti host family since I had visited them in late July, so I was hesitant to answer my cell phone on a Sunday evening several weeks ago.

"Noroc, Valodia!" I said to my 16-year-old host brother, since his name had shown up on my caller ID.

"Noroc, Peter," said the voice on the other end of the line, which didn't seem to be Valodia, but a woman. "How are you?" she continued in Romanian.

"I'm good," I responded. "How are you?"

"Peter, something bad has happened to our family," said the woman whom I now realized was my old host mom, Mila. "Octavian died, and we're having the funeral tomorrow. We wanted to invite you."

Octavian was my host cousin, who was the cutest two-year-old I had ever seen when I first came to Moldova. His mother, Nadia, was my host dad's sister and was only a year or two older than me. She and her husband, Slavic, were some of the nicest people I've met in Moldova. Octavian had been only four years old when he died that Saturday.

When I received the call, I was in Chisinau, where I was waiting for a medical appointment Monday morning. I told Mila on the phone that I wasn't sure I could arrive at the funeral on time, since I had classes in my village from 1 to 3 p.m. the next day. She said the funeral was at 2, and that she hoped I could come. If there was ever a time that I needed to call the other English teachers at the school and ask them to take my classes, today was it. I told Mila I would be at the funeral.

I hung up and began thinking of Octavian as I walked along the street. I had seen him a handful of times during my summer training, back when he was talking in the same mashed-up gibberish that all two-year-olds use, which didn't blend well with my low-level Romanian skills at the time. Nevertheless, he was an adorable, energetic and well-behaved kid, and one particular picture I took of him is one both mine and my mom's favorite photos I've taken in Moldova. Since that summer in 2005, I had seen him a couple more times, during visits to Costesti.

Oddly enough, one of my first thoughts was that I was shabbily dressed for a funeral. In a country like Moldova that puts so much emphasis on dressing correctly, I didn't know how I could show up at the funeral wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a sweater, a canvas jacket and sneakers. I asked a Peace Corps staff member if I needed to find a way to get back to my village and put on nicer clothes before the funeral, but she said that I was dressed fine for a village funeral. Besides, I reasoned, I was not going to be the center of attention tomorrow, so it didn't matter much.

The next afternoon, I took the short rutiera ride to Costesti, and began walking up the hill to Slavic and Nadia's house. I arrived at the house at one o'clock, holding a bouquet of four yellow flowers (even numbers of flowers are given only at funerals). The gates to the front yard were open, and dozens of mourners were already inside the yard and standing out on the street. I walked inside the yard and found Valodia. I went to shake his hand and offer him my condolences, but he kept both hands in his jacket pockets.

"We don't shake hands at funerals," he said.

We talked briefly, then I made my way toward the house. His grave marker, a metal cross, stood on a post leaning against the side of the house, with a shirt draped over the arms of the cross. On the porch was a small memorial, mostly composed of photos of Octavian, including several taken by me. Normally, you take your shoes off before entering a Moldovan house, but the family had laid down clear plastic tarpaulin along a path leading into Octavian's bedroom. As I walked in, I saw Mila and some of the other female relatives in the hallway, who looked at me with eyes that had been reddened by tears for several days straight. I nodded and repeated, "My condolences," to them as I made my way into the bedroom.

There were about 10 women and girls in the small bedroom, with Octavian laying in an open coffin along the right-hand wall, dressed in a suit and with his hair perfectly combed. His grandmother was just inside the door and was crying the most, repeatedly pleading, "Come back to Grandma, Octavian." I laid the flowers in the coffin, assuming that that was what I was supposed to do, and crossed myself in the Orthodox style, ending on the left side. I staid in the room for about a minute as the grandmother continued, "Do you remember what a wonderful boy he was, Peter? Any time we got in the car, he would always be so happy and say, 'Where are we going, Grandma?' Octavian, come back!"

Then I saw Nadia for the first time, standing in the far corner of the room, a mix of shock and devastation. I barely recognized her because she suddenly looked five years older than she ever had before. I couldn't even start to think of things to say to her in any language, so I left the room and went back outside.

I joined a circle of men, some of whom knew who I was, and after a few minutes asked what had happened. They explained in medical terms that I didn't fully understand that something had ruptured near the base Octavian's brain because a specific membrane had not fully developed. He had entered into a coma for 14 days, including his fourth birthday, and died in a Chisinau hospital. There had been absolutely no indicators beforehand that he had this medical condition.

We spent the next hour waiting outside for the priest to come, and I got pulled into some conversations about Peace Corps and America and other subjects. By the time the priest came, there were over 100 mourners, including children from Octavian's preschool class. Six pallbearers, including Valodia and several of the men with whom I had picked strawberries in my first month in Moldova, went inside and brought out the body and coffin. The priest recited a blessing, and the procession began walking. We walked over a mile down one large hill, across a bridge and up another hill to the church, stopping at every well and cross along the side of the road so the priest could read another blessing. Nadia walked behind the coffin with only her sisters-in-law to comfort her, since her husband had a broken leg and had to follow in a car and her two brothers were already working in Russia for the winter. She broke down several times during the procession and began calling, "How can a mother remain without her son? Come back, Octavian!"

Each time the procession stopped, someone left behind a small bag that included a colac, which is an ornate ring of bread used in ceremonies, candy, wine, and other items. These bags are given to friends and youths "from the soul of the dead". My turn came near the end, at a bridge between the two hills. Mila picked the bag off the ground and handed it to me, along with a glass of wine. I drank the wine and accepted the package, which also included a small rug, about four feet by two feet.

The one thing that I can actually look back on the funeral procession and smile about is one of the godfathers, whose job it was to carry around a 10-liter pail full of wine and walk among the procession offering people a drink. I don't know how this tradition started, but it's probably what gave me a cold for the following week.

When we arrived at the church, we stood outside for several minutes while both Slavic and Nadia said some words. I could barely hear, but just listening to the fluctuations in Nadia's voice were enough to make me tear up. Then everyone came into the church, filing through in an orderly fashion and kissing every single icon in the church. Kissing icons has absolutely nothing to do with my own faith, so I passed on that, but I did buy and light two prayer candles. The priest said some words about how God takes each person at the right time, whether or not we understand it. I know a major purpose of religion is to help ease the pain in difficult times like the death of a young child, but I don't think anyone was very comforted. Then each family member and godparent kissed Octavian on the forehead and on the icon in his coffin.

After about 20 minutes at the church, the pallbearers lifted the coffin again and the procession went up the final 200 feet of hill to the cemetery. Octavian was lowered into his grave as more than 100 mourners gathered round. The priest said some more words, and then Nadia, nearly crumbling from tears, tossed a clump of dirt on the coffin. The pallbearers, including Valodia, picked up their shovels and began the burial. Several of the pallbearers, grown men, were weeping as they continued to pile on the dirt. One of Octavian's classmates said, "But tomorrow he'll be at school, right?"

Most of the crowd left for the lyceum near Nadia and Slavic's house, where a huge feast had been prepared. Even in the saddest times, Moldovans still pile more food on the table than you could possibly eat. I sat near the priest and Octavian's grandfather, and enjoyed the conversation as much as I possibly could. Since I had to catch a rutiera back to Chisinau and then back to my village, I had to excuse myself early, just as the sky was darkening at 5 p.m. I said my first words to Nadia from the entire day, telling her to stay strong, which were the best words I could think of in any language.


Octavian Veceslav Cutu
November 1, 2002 - November 10, 2006