I mentioned my visit to Vasilevka in my previous post as being one of the most affecting experiences I've had in my short and feckless life. I'll try to explain.
Vasilevka
Primarily a home for geriatric patients, we were visiting Vasilevka to spend time with a group of young people who moved there from another institution about a year ago. Like the kids in Rechitsa, the residents there have various levels of ability. Some have physical difficulties, some mental ones, others emotional ones, and some have simply been institutionalised all their lives and know nothing else. Of all the places we visited and the people we met, I found Vasilevka by far the most difficult to cope with emotionally. These are people my own age, with similar interests, who will never have the life that I do. Their radiant personalities made their company both a joy and a challenge. I danced, sang, had my fortune told*, ate, drank, smoked, laughed, hugged, and promised to come visit again. I fully intend to. Nowhere else in the world would the arrival of 40 odd sweaty cyclists be heralded with the traditional breaking of bread followed by a rave to "Ich bin ein Gummi Bear" at 4pm in the 35 degree heat.
*I'm going to have a long and happy life, and get married, but not have any children. Something catastrophic will befall me at the age of 46 (she couldn't stress enough how devestating it will be) but I'll live through it. That's alright then, isn't it?
Anyway, on with the story.
Home for Abandoned Babies No.1, Gomel
The name says it all, really, doesn't it? We spent a morning there, visiting the children (all aged between 1-4) and handing out the small toys we'd bought in the local supermarket on our way. The institution, though chronically underfunded, is exemplary. There are more staff than kids, and the love and attention given to the children is apparent from the moment you arrive. One of the carers explained to us how each child has a storybook kept for them, a scrapbook of their lives. Who they are, where they came from, their favourite toys, first words, best friends, all the things a parent would normally remember for their kid. Life has dealt these kids a shitty hand, but these small efforts to give them a sense of place, of history, of individuality and of how they are loved are amazingly thoughtful, and human. I think all of us who visited them will be profoundly affected by the experience, but in an overwhelmingly positive way. We got to see the good that people have in them, and the capacity for positive change that's in all of us, even when we don't feel strong ourselves.
Straight after our visit to the small babies in Gomel we headed off on a trip of a very different nature, into one of the exclusion zones that are dotted around Belarus. These places exist as a result of the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, the lands there are saturated with poisonous radioactive particles and it's forbidden by law to live there. Most of the towns and villages have been levelled to discourage squatters, but we went to visit a small community who continue to live and work the land there. There are maybe a dozen people, all that are left of a village of 4000. Such was their sense of place and belonging that they couldn't settle elsewhere, and decided to take the risk to their health and stay put. What struck me when I was invited into their homes was how universal loneliness, especially loneliness in old age, can be. I have met people just like them in rural Ireland, with the same regrets, concerns and material needs. We were privileged in that these people were happy to speak very frankly to us about their experiences, and anxious to have us understand how their lives are. On asking one lady (76) if she felt lonely living as she does, her reply was heartbreaking. "When I am in my home, or my garden, tending to my animals, looking after my vegetables, then I am home. It has always been the same. I am happy. But when I go outside, it is all fields. Nobody for miles. This makes me sad. I cry every day, every time I see this."
Vasilevka
Primarily a home for geriatric patients, we were visiting Vasilevka to spend time with a group of young people who moved there from another institution about a year ago. Like the kids in Rechitsa, the residents there have various levels of ability. Some have physical difficulties, some mental ones, others emotional ones, and some have simply been institutionalised all their lives and know nothing else. Of all the places we visited and the people we met, I found Vasilevka by far the most difficult to cope with emotionally. These are people my own age, with similar interests, who will never have the life that I do. Their radiant personalities made their company both a joy and a challenge. I danced, sang, had my fortune told*, ate, drank, smoked, laughed, hugged, and promised to come visit again. I fully intend to. Nowhere else in the world would the arrival of 40 odd sweaty cyclists be heralded with the traditional breaking of bread followed by a rave to "Ich bin ein Gummi Bear" at 4pm in the 35 degree heat.
*I'm going to have a long and happy life, and get married, but not have any children. Something catastrophic will befall me at the age of 46 (she couldn't stress enough how devestating it will be) but I'll live through it. That's alright then, isn't it?
Anyway, on with the story.
Home for Abandoned Babies No.1, Gomel
The name says it all, really, doesn't it? We spent a morning there, visiting the children (all aged between 1-4) and handing out the small toys we'd bought in the local supermarket on our way. The institution, though chronically underfunded, is exemplary. There are more staff than kids, and the love and attention given to the children is apparent from the moment you arrive. One of the carers explained to us how each child has a storybook kept for them, a scrapbook of their lives. Who they are, where they came from, their favourite toys, first words, best friends, all the things a parent would normally remember for their kid. Life has dealt these kids a shitty hand, but these small efforts to give them a sense of place, of history, of individuality and of how they are loved are amazingly thoughtful, and human. I think all of us who visited them will be profoundly affected by the experience, but in an overwhelmingly positive way. We got to see the good that people have in them, and the capacity for positive change that's in all of us, even when we don't feel strong ourselves.
Straight after our visit to the small babies in Gomel we headed off on a trip of a very different nature, into one of the exclusion zones that are dotted around Belarus. These places exist as a result of the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, the lands there are saturated with poisonous radioactive particles and it's forbidden by law to live there. Most of the towns and villages have been levelled to discourage squatters, but we went to visit a small community who continue to live and work the land there. There are maybe a dozen people, all that are left of a village of 4000. Such was their sense of place and belonging that they couldn't settle elsewhere, and decided to take the risk to their health and stay put. What struck me when I was invited into their homes was how universal loneliness, especially loneliness in old age, can be. I have met people just like them in rural Ireland, with the same regrets, concerns and material needs. We were privileged in that these people were happy to speak very frankly to us about their experiences, and anxious to have us understand how their lives are. On asking one lady (76) if she felt lonely living as she does, her reply was heartbreaking. "When I am in my home, or my garden, tending to my animals, looking after my vegetables, then I am home. It has always been the same. I am happy. But when I go outside, it is all fields. Nobody for miles. This makes me sad. I cry every day, every time I see this."
