Articles I wrote as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Comrat, Moldova
Crossing the bridge in Otaci is a nightmare with the frigid winter weather that has once again descended across Moldova.
One of my dear Moldovan friends is now working for an NGO that is distributing aid and helping organize volunteer efforts to serve Ukrainian refugees in Moldova; she watched, heartbroken, as a mother “weeping, her face destroyed,” traversed the bridge with a young child in her arms.
Continue reading “Moldova Welcomes Ukrainian Refugees”
Out in the crested hills, we find little bands of lizards. They’re a cunning lot – twisting, wiggling when facing the predator. The trick to catching them is to predict: they are running in the direction of their holes. Continue reading “Story of the Week: Lizards”
“Because of the gasoline, everything was a terrible Hell.” – Galina Nikolaevna, resident of Comrat, Gagauzia and born in Sevastopol, talks about remembrance, World War Two, the deaths of her family’s men, and monuments to soldiers who have passed.
Scroll all the way to the bottom for the original Russian transcript. Чтобый читать оригинальную запись, просматривайте внизу.
Galina had joined my host mother Anna Nikolaevna and me for breakfast the morning after Comrat’s Big Easter night service. I had seen her come to the house before, but we never talked – only greeted each other. I just knew she had an old dog, and she would come to my host mother for scraps for the beast. Galina was living on a pittance of a pension. Continue reading “Monuments and War Memories: Interview with Galina Nikolaevna”
This is everything you could want to know – and more! – about Comrat’s first Journalism Mentoring Program. Read on for a narrative, project examples, reports on trips to Moldovan media stations and many photographs of the Club’s 7 months of events.
Continue reading “On Air: Students from Comrat’s Journalism Club “Wow””
If there’s anything I regret, it’s that I hadn’t experienced this before now.
They had done it 2 times before, and from their tales I expected splashes of blood and post-kill grief. The first time they did it, they didn’t know what to feel; they were swinging between tears and laughter; it was an emotional gutting.
Of those who live in Moldovan villages, nearly every family keeps a garden. It is also true for homeowners in towns and cities. My host mother’s garden goes beyond sustenance, though: it is a place of gathering and quiet thought for those who pass through.
Sundry Travels 