Light in a Gray World

I was born in a Romania with closed doors and hidden words.
It was the time of communism, when fear sat at the table with people and silence became a way of survival.

The shops were empty, and souls were filled with forced silences. Any word spoken too loudly could reach the wrong ears.

And yet… in that gray world, I had the blessing of growing up in a corner of light.

My family – the foundation in the storm

My parents had a simple household, but it was full of life. With their hands, they nourished not only our bodies, but also our courage to move forward.

From the garden, the chicken coop, the barn… from hard work and love, my mother and father somehow managed to keep us above our hardships.

I was the youngest child, the fourth, born much later than my siblings.
Perhaps that’s why they always looked at me as if I were a living doll – a source of laughter, comfort, and warmth in a cold world.

I was the spoiled one of the family, held more in arms than left on the ground, kept more in stories than in everyday worries.

My mother – the gentle light

My relationship with my mother was a dream. She was the gentle light in all the shadows of my childhood.

With her warm words and busy hands, she planted in my heart the most precious treasure: faith.
Not as a dry ritual, but as a living presence every day – a deep trust in God, in the power of good, in the hidden meaning of things.

She always repeated something that has stayed in my heart forever:

“Faith cannot exist without good deeds and love for people.”

It wasn’t just a lesson – it was her life. I saw her helping, forgiving, giving from the little that we had.

Sometimes it seemed to me that she didn’t care how hard the day was, as long as she could do a good deed or bring comfort to someone.

That’s how I understood that believing in God doesn’t just mean praying – it means living your prayer through what you do, through how you love, through how you treat others.

My father – the unshakable rock

My father was different. A righteous, firm, sober man. No one dared to go against his word, and if they did, fire and fury followed quickly.

But he was also a foundation: stable, unshakable, like a rock that keeps the house standing. I respected him with fear, but also with admiration.

He was a man with a clear vision, deeply anti-communist, and perhaps that’s why in our home we always spoke in whispers.
The tall fences around the yard weren’t just for privacy, but also for protection – from eyes, ears, and suspicion.

From my father, I learned lessons that would accompany me all my life.

He taught me to make just decisions, even when they were hard. To take responsibility with dignity. To never be influenced by others if in my heart I knew it was the right choice.

This lesson became a cornerstone of my life. In every trial that came, I always returned to it.

Even when I fell.
Even when I was alone.
I always knew I had the right – and the duty – to choose consciously, not to live by the way the wind blows, but by the way my soul does.

Thursdays of freedom

In our home, we only had a television for the mandatory news where Nicolae Ceaușescu was glorified.
They were monotonous, cold, repetitive images – meaningless to my child’s mind.

But we had a radio. An old device, but alive, beating to a rhythm different from the rigid times.

Every Thursday evening, the whole family gathered around it.
My father sat upright, his brow slightly furrowed.
My mother knitted silently with her busy hands.
And I sat as close as possible, feeling that moment was sacred.

It was time for Cenaclul Flacăra, led by the great Romanian poet Adrian Păunescu.

It was the only hour of the week when I felt the air become lighter.

Thursday was about freedom. About poetry. About music where the words carried weight – words about spirit, soul, and dreams.

Honestly, I didn’t fully understand then what “freedom” meant, the way those artists sang or spoke about it. But I felt it.

I felt that there was something else in the world, beyond the fear we lived in, beyond the gray uniforms and the whispers around us.

It was a spark. A tremor. A silent promise that life could be more.

A spark for later

Perhaps it was there, next to that radio, on a Thursday evening, that my longing for another life was born.

A life with meaning. With my own choices. With faith and freedom lived, not just dreamed.

And today, when I look back, I know that spark never went out.
It guided me, lifted me, and accompanied me on all my paths – even when life took me far away from Romania.