Afara?

Our neighbors at the drop-in center are a family of Roma...actually, it's several families. Roma (I think I'm spelling that correctly) are gypsies. A couple of the kids in those families come to the drop-in center, so we're well acquinted with them. As I was walking into the center on Wednesday I saw that these families and all their belongings were on the sidewalk. Not knowing what was going on I suddenly had this horrible feeling in my gut. I went into the center and tried asking the cooks, in my broken Romanian, what was going on, but I didn't understand their response. When I was able to find someone who could tell me I realized I knew this much to be true: these families were now living on the street.
I guess this family had lived on the property in make-shift housing since communist times. The government back then had placed most of the poor in the section of town where we have the drop- in center, the valley, and these families were included in that move. So, they lived on government owned land until it was privatized and purchased. Most housing was owned by the government in communist times and this housing mostly consisted of these giant apartment buildings called blocs. When the governemnt changed the families who were living in these apartments were given their apartment. But, this was not so for the Roma. They were not given their housing and so the land was sold.
This new owner gave them a couple years to find something different. And they didn't. Which means that now they're on the street waiting for something else, waiting for the government to put them somewhere else. More than anything I hurt for these kids. The first night they were on the street there was a horrible thunder and ligthening storm with lots of rain...something that doesn't usually happen in Galati.
I've had a variety of emotions about this whole thing. I don't understand how people couldn't be working in order to save and provide for their families. I ache for these kids...
And, I have no idea what it's like to live under hundreds of years of oppression. I don't know what it's like to walk down the street and be held in disdain because of the color of my skin, to be treated poorly when I do get work because I'm different from everyone else. I don't know what it's like to want to drink away my earnings because all I really know is despair.
It is easy for me to think of ways to be a good white Christian in America, to save money, to work hard. It's easy for me to pass judgement on my neighbors. "I wish we'd all been ready..." comes to mind as I shake my head thinking that they had plenty of opportunities to make better choices but refused. And the truth is, they did have lots of time and they weren't ready.

The same morning that these families were first on the street our children came to the center ready for the program to begin. They streamed in and past the Roma with all their belongings. One little guy, who've I mentioned before, with the thick glasses and who is so tiny, came inside to shower. He got together the things he would need and went into the shower, but came back out to get his soap. I was in the hall, opening lockers, when he came to me and in a soft, concerned voice said:
"April, afara?"
Afara means outside, and so I said, "Tu?" asking him if he wanted to go outside.
He shook his head no and said, "Ana..."
Ana is one of the girls who live next door and is now living on the street.
My heart fell to the ground and in my own soft voice I said, "Da." Yes.
We stood silent for a second. I knew he was trying to put together why they were outside with all their things. I was trying not to cry for the compassion I'd heard in his voice, a kind concern for his friends who no longer had a home. Realizing that this little one who showed such concern also had so of his own at home and is regularly met with violence by his parents.

I'm not excusing irresponsibility or saying that we should not be careful or plan for tomorrow. I'm asking God for such compassion as this little guy had, for a heart that sees a friend on the street and could care less whether they were prepared to move or not, who doesn't shake my head at "those gypsies." I'm asking for a tender heart first. I'm asking for a kindness that sees only the fact that my friend is now sleeping on the street. I'm asking to remember Him who didn't have a place to lay His head at night and laid down His life with such kindness, such compassion, such love. Who became human, truly the greatest degradation for God to become, the essence of poverty being humanity. And yet He, who in that extreme poverty, gave so generously.
As I write it is raining again.