Bubble-gum Pink

It wasn’t until we entered through the gate of a high wall that I could take in the big bubble gum pink building. I guess you could say that this building looked like it was trying it’s hardest not to be of the communist era and it was doing a pretty okay job of it. The director immediately came out of the building to see us and started explaining things right away. He was actually Romanian, so I was able to understand some of what he said and the rest was translated by Dorothy. He told us that there were 70 or more people in this facility. All but one (or two?) of them were boys and men. The ages ranged from 4-35 and he told us that he actually had to fight for those staying past the age of 18. Eighteen was the normal age that kids were forced to leave a “children’s facility” and usually the only place to go after that was a nursing home for the elderly. Right away he informed us that the range of disabilities in this facility was from “imbecile to highly capable”. How’s that for a shocking description.
There were a couple of men who were separate from the rest of the people and we were told that they cook and clean themselves. And that they’ve learned some crafts and skills for themselves which they get a very low pay for doing. Moving on we “toured” the place and saw all kinds of rooms. Play rooms, medical rooms, bed rooms, and a computer room. Although they did have some things to distinguish them from one another, they were rather bare. And there were no men present anywhere. It was an odd feeling walking through all of these rooms and finding men placed in only the places the staff wanted us to be impressed with. The computer room for example. There were about 5 guys in there and the director told us just how “capable” each one was. Singling them all out right in front of us. I couldn’t believe that he would degrade them (for surely it was degrading) in their presence to complete strangers, I can only imagine what that means when we aren’t around. Finally we met a lot of the men. We walked into a room with nothing in it but benches lining the walls and there they sat. All of them obviously waiting for something to happen since they’d been sitting there. Yet once we came in, they just looked. Some tried to talk to us, but were scolded (by one of the four total staff on duty). Others just smiled, big, goofy grins. Sure enough, at least their physical disabilities ranged from almost none to hugely distorted faces and bent limbs. But there they were, all grouped together, obviously told to sit and be quiet. And to just let us look.

Next we walked through a huge metal gate from floor to ceiling that separated one part of the building from the other and past many locked doors to see more bedrooms and playrooms. The place was unusually clean. All the beds were made and the floors looked like they’d recently been mopped. Each bed had a stuffed animal on it. And I couldn’t help but feel it was all an act. Something about it felt off. Even the way the director talked about the kids making their beds and the “best room” having a TV to watch, just gave me the shivers. Again we didn’t see any kids until we entered specific rooms. One room had a few boys in it who were happy to see us. They asked for their picture to be taken and we realized we had forgotten that cameras existed until then. We took their picture, they shook our hands. I was the last one out the door and upon leaving the room I heard several of them break out crying and one of the nurses talking sternly. Bekah (another student) thought she heard someone being hit. It took all I had not to turn around and hug all of them while staring down the nurse. I didn’t because we kept moving. The director wanted to take us elsewhere. A few more bedrooms later he said, “well, that’s about it!” and smiled. We all shifted uncomfortably because we knew there was no way we’d seen 70 people. “Oh, I almost forgot. One more thing to see,” he said. And he brought us downstairs into a room with more patiently (or not so patiently) waiting children sitting on benches along a wall and in wheelchairs. These kids were so excited to see us and we immediately started to interact with them. Some of them could walk and got up and walked around from person to person just holding a hand or asking to be picked up. Others laughed from their chairs and watched, waiting for their turn for attention. One little boy I picked up was so adorable. He was 9, but obviously dwarfed and I’m not sure he could walk. I could immediately feel that he had wet himself (who knows how long before we got there) when I plucked him up from his tiny chair. I held him he just stared and stared at me and at the others. I tried talking to him in Romanian, but he wouldn’t respond. He giggled when I made faces at him and touched my face like he was making sure I was real. The director was talking to us, but I’m not sure if any of us listened. We were enthralled by these kids. They were such little balls of energy and so longing for attention and love. They were beautiful. My heart ached as I set the boy back down in the chair and he looked up at me with sad eyes, his arms still stretched out. I kissed the top of his head and walked out of the room, feeling like a monster. How could we leave these kids?
As we left the facility, the director continued to talk. The only thing I really heard was “this is all the result of someone else’s sin.” I was so sad and frustrated by that comment and so overwhelmed by what I saw that I just cried. He looked at me and so “Oh, you’re crying!” and I looked down. I couldn’t make myself look at him.
Between this moment of anger and saying goodbye, I rationalized a little bit. Although it’s not perfect, this man was willing to at least try. He was taking the extremely difficult responsibility of being the director of a very understaffed, large, 70-people organization. No matter what it’s like, he deserves some respect for being the man to take that. So before climbing in the car I said good bye and gave him the Romanian “good health” blessing. He would need it, I knew.
Our visit was even quicker here than at the nursing home. And we really had just come to see it. I don’t regret going. I don’t regret meeting those kids, those men, but again their situation cried out at me. I felt like part of the blame of such a place existing fell on me. I am, after all, just as much a part of this broken world as any of these people. Doesn’t that mean that I am somewhat responsible for what goes on there? I’d like to think it does, but then again, maybe that is giving myself too much credit once again. Still, part of me was left there. I’ll always pray over the bubble-gum pink building in the Ukraine, holding 70 precious souls.