Albania Winter 2000

February 18

     The rain had stopped and a brief, icy chill passed over the hilltop where our group was walking. This trail passed through a previous apple grove. Back home you might walk through the gnarled, aged limbs and think of better times, as we did here. We hiked on and came to a desperate looking house where six begging boys were camped outside the gate. The oldest looked like Huck Finn and moved with a stealth that put us on our guard.
     In a moment we found their intentions honorable and their gleaming eyes gave us safe passage through the gate. The front garden, with one small plum tree, and a medium-sized pear tree guided us to the front doors held closed by a little red rope. We were invited in by a young lady with a clear and sweet voice dressed in her working clothes and worn shoes.
     Long, faded curtains hung down from the only window, and the 1998 Caterpillar calendar was the only color in the room. The little girl on my lap had on an orange coat that looked like it was from the Fighting Illini. Actually, the label on her sleeve was in German and it appeared to be much older than the 98 calendar. The picture shows the calendar, the young girl, and Bukeria (which means beautiful in Albanian), the young lady that had met us at the door.
   Since the age of 2, Bukeria has been an orphan. She has spent 17 of her 24 years in three separate orphanages. With 9 children in her family, 7 were sent to orphanages following the death of her parents. She was the picture of simplicity and was so cautious in her conversation that it would often fade and flutter. Her 17 years in the communist orphanages have withered her spirit.
   I wished the story of her life had come with directions. Listening to her past, exhausted from neglect was more and more  heart breaking by the minute. Her resurrected memories of her youth dressed themselves with the stinging message of disappointment. She had no baby dolls, no birthdays, no bedrooms of her own. A personality smothered is one set wide for sympathy. 
   Bukeria endured the orphanages through her Catholic faith, relayed to her through her extended family, and with few words, applied a deep earnestness to her religion. We shared Christ's influence to her and her eternity, but her consent for more conversation was running low and under the influence of cold and sympathy, we adjourned. Sometimes people in the village that I've met, fall into a deep pocket in my mind for remembrance. Hidden in my heart I resolve to remember visits like this.

    Winter 2000 Index