New Year's Resolutions

Well, ya, i'm not much of a blogger. I'm not blogging for the sake of blogging, as some people do. So please stop buzzing me everyday with "why don't you write something on that blog of yours" thing. If i feel like writing, if i have something to say and i feel like it is worth sharing I write. This year i don't feel like Christmas, i don't feel like new year's eve party. I feel like running to the end of the world. And if i feel like that it means i don't really like my life or the way i am living it. And this asks for a few new year's resolutions, as crappy it may sound.

1. Work more. How is that for a change? Wanna do a story, just do it. I'm not gonna wait for anything to fall from the sky while i'm just writing 10 or 15 little stories a day nobody would remember in the next 5 seconds.

2. Be happy. Put life in order. Set a purpose for a change not just wait for time to pass by and solve problems. Well, this is a tough one. If you feel alone and misunderstood all the time, tired of listening and not being listened to, you need to change the people you're talking to, find some who can understand you. As one of my friends say "Keep moving". Don't run away, but keep moving. Feel like doing something crazy, do it. Why look back all the time and think about other people, about credits and money. That's not gonna make you happy. You wanna see the world, know the world, meet people and listen to their stories, well, do it. It's not just in the movies.

Haha, theory is easy. Let's see the practice.

I'm in Loooove!

I heard one of their songs on News FM radio station. It;s called Sleepless. I had to memorize the lyrics and look for it. And I found their website. Maaan, these guys rock.

Islamic Revolution Pictures

A very dear friend sent me these once. I didn't really know what to do with them until tonight. I wanted to show them to other people. Some of them are really shocking. But hey, revolutions are usually shocking and cruel. Remember what we, Romanians, did in December 1989? Well, they did it in March 1979.
Tehran University in 1979.

The temporary government.

This was the former prime minister, Amir Abbas Howaida. See how they smile?

This is just a waitress but she used to serve the shah.

The City of Scars

The misterious building across the street kept me wondering for almost a week. I kept asking people about it. Nobody knew what had happened to it. They all had found it they way it was, almost lifeless. Only two or three windows lit at night. The rest submerged in darkness. I filmed it from the balcony, trying to keep my camera steady while zooming inside. It looked like a fire had taken place there long ago. I stared a lot at the scars in the old curtains. The whole city is full of scars just like this. As you drive by Beirut people would tell you “oh, it’s here where Hariri was killed”. The place is not marked with a monument as you expect it to be. The crater is no longer and the street appears to be normal. But that is still a scar, the deepest scar the Lebanese people carry with them. Rafik Hariri has a shrine. His tomb is covered with white fresh chrysanthemae. His picture is everywhere in the city. People put it on walls, they write his name all over the walls, they put his picture on their houses together with the Lebanese flag. We make statues for writers and kings. They make statues for assasinated journalists. Those are scars too. We put concert anouncements and commercials on billboards. They put there the pictures of assasinated deputies. And if you happen to pass by the stadium, you’ll have to find out that somebody died there too.

An Afternoon with Alin Tataru and His Family

It was my second day in Beirut when I called Alin Tataru's home. He wasn't home. But a small happy voice answered the phone and said daddy wasn't home. I told her I came from Romania and the little girl was very surprised to hear the language again. People who called looking for her parents almost never spoke Romanian. She put down my name and i promised I'd call back to look for Alin again. I didn't call again that night. I had to meet a Lebanese girl and we talked till late in the night.

***

Wednesday morning. Rainy day in Beirut. When it rains in Beirut any other rainy day in Europe seems a child's play. The Beirut Philharmonic Orchestra is rehearsing in the St. Josef Church, in Monot, just across the street from the St. Josef University. The taxi driver, who only spoke French -which made me so proud of myself because I really found out that I remember the French I learned in school - left me at the university. The lady at the reception only spoke French too. She told me I was in the wrong place. Darn. I mean I could see it was definetly not a church. She showed me the parking across the street and she told me to cross it. And there, the old catholic church surrounded by people. The players in the Beirut Philharmonic Orchestra I found there were almost all Romanian. 28 out of 56. They stood together under a tree smoking, talking with a strong Moldovan accent, complaining about the lack of running water and the electricity that went off from time to time, about the very expensive heating and the too expensive plane tickets they had booked to come home for Christmas and New Year's Eve. I met the flute player Alin Tataru there, under that tree. A blond blue eyed German looking guy who had been in Lebanon for 5 years already. He never said he missed Romania. Not even a bit. After I shot the interviews and the whole rehearsal he invited me over for lunch with his family. We picked up his wife from work and that was the beginning of a very beautiful afternoon.

***

Crossing Beirut was hell. Rain was pouring down like a dam in the skies suddenly broke and let the water fall over the city. And then the thunder. So strong it really made your stomach ache. Thousands of drums played all at the same time (ok the comparison sucks, I admit). I was on my way to the mountain. I couldn't believe it. I lived for a week in a hotel in the Muslim part of the city. It was exactly what I had expected it to be. But the northern part of Beirut the Tatarus showed me was different. As we went up to the mountain the blocks became houses, really huge houses. They were happy I had noticed how big the houses were. We passed Michel Aoun's house, very much guarded by soldiers, we went to the supermarket and bought fruits I only read about in books and we went home for a treat. I wanted to buy a box of strawberries. Alin asked the supermarket caretaker if I should buy them. He said I shouldn't bother, they lacked the real strawberry taste. Hm, that would never happen in a western supermarket. I loved the honesty of that guy. I wanted to have the Lebanese chocolate. Oh boy, had I known! Chocolate in Lebanon does not mean just chocolate. Sweets are just something else. Nuts in all their forms. Pistachio, three layers of marzipan filled with pistachio cream. Oh I loved those. My aunt loved those.


And there they were, the two little guys. Nana and Andrei had already came back from school and were playing. They are the first brother and sister I've seen playing together without fighting. I fought Andrei with a sword (I loved this ever since I was a child and I was dreaming about being a knight, not a princess). Then Nana was all over me. We took pictures of eachother taking pictures of eachother. She showed me her notebooks. Andrei kept away, politely. But then he took my camera and took a picture of the spaghetti his mom had already made. Beautiful children both their parents were very proud of. But the greatest thing about them was not the fact they were so lively. They sounded like Babel Tower. They spoke a language placed somewhere between Romanian, French and Arabic. They had a contest with an ashta fruit. Nana won, she had found more ashta pits than Andrei. They were counting them in French. They they hid under the table and tried to startle me in Romanian. I guess that's what happens with expat children everywhere. But I could tell they missed Romania. They were so happy to see me. They hanged to my every word. Nana eventually came with me and her father to the hotel. She wanted to spend the night with me at the hotel. Alin convinced her in the end that she had to go back home.

***

Mrs. Tataru used to be a layout editor in Romania. She's never said she loved Lebanon. Alin was much more forward. He admits he misses home. But not the Romanian habits. And especially not the log time it take you to do paper work in Romania. He kept telling me about the Lebanese food (which I found out it was exactly what he said it would be, delicious) and the Lebanese hospitality (which I found out again that it was exactly what he said). He told me that even under the bombs last year, it took him just two days to get his children's school papers and take them back to Romania for the Ministry of Education in Bucharest to keep track of their school records. It took him two months in Romania for the public administration guys to accept those records. So, ya, i can understand why he is happy in Lebanon.

Raouche Rock and the Sunset over the Mediterranean

I am there, don't worry. It's my best friend Elena's favorite picture. Mine too I guess. The feeling I had while sitting there in the sunset! Oh, boy.




Ya, it's me on a Saturday afternoon looking at the Mediterranean Sea. :p Actually I was looking at some young boys swimming in the gulf at some 25 degrees Celsius. See how sunny it is? And it is the end of November! So, while you were all freezing and inhaling the fog in Bucharest I was happy looking at the see and the Raouche Rock in Beirut. Hehe, you have no idea how happy I was. Only Beirut knows that, and that's between me and that city.

BEIRUT in Capitals

Yes, I know I don't keep my promises. But I'm finally here, aren't I? Been back from Beirut for three days now. It's already Tuesday night and I haven't even written a word about it. But knowing me, you'll understand that when it finally comes to me I won't be able to stop writing. Trying to get there right now, but it doesn't really seem to work. As somebody in Beirut told me, intense experiences are difficult to express in words. So let's just take it step by step.

***

A beautiful place hidden beyond barbed wire. A place where the thunder is louder than anywhere else, where rain stops any Internet connection, where lights go off every 4 hours, where people believe are less fortunate than others. Where traffic should have been worse than anything had ever seen. Hm, they knew I was coming from Bucharest, my daily Bucharest, hell on earth. Beirut, has great roads. No trains, no subway, not many buses. Just lots of taxis and a highway that goes along the seaside. And when I say lots of taxis I mean LOTS of taxis. There are two kinds of taxis in Beirut. There are the private ones, kind of expensive, but not much more expensive than Bucharest. The drivers would always speak either English or French, because most people who get into a private taxi are tourists. The really interesting things are the cabs called service. Most of them are old Mercedes, veteran Mercedes I might say. Cars that have been through a lot and have seen a lot.

The service cabs are everywhere and they would take you places for one or two dollars. You don't even have to call them. They call you. Cars stop while you walk along the road and you just get in and tell them where you want to get off. Difficult for a foreigner though. They will try to overcharge you for sure, as they don't have a counter. But it's fun. Because you get to share the cab. You don't know when somebody else walking along the road might get in.

Beirut Tonight

Oh, ya, the moment I've been waiting for for the past weeks is really here. I am going to Beirut. BEIRUT! I can't even believe it. It's a dream come true. I promise I will write a lot and that I will come back with pictures. I will film as much as I can and I will try to find the Romanians. And I promise Tote, my boss, THE boss, I will count the mines in a stand up (he thinks Beirut is a mine field, couldn't make him believe it is not like that). So bye everybody, see you in 8 days if I don't get the chance to use internet there.

Writing for CEE Award in Vienna

Great night. I got my award diploma and I got to see the Stephan Platz Cathedral, eat the traditional sausage in the street, have a cappuccino in a coffee shop and breathe the horse shit smell all around the city center. You could say it was one night in Vienna. Too bad it snowed and it was cold.

Romanian Roma Everywhere

Do you remember I promised I would write about people? Well, I got a call yesterday morning. The guy who called me is British, married to a Romanian woman. Her name is Gabriela. They run a charity in the UK but they also come to Iasi county from time to time, to Gabriela's village. The news about the Romanian gypsies and the camps they have in Italy, the crimes they commit there and the whole pan-European scandal triggered by the Romanian Roma people traveling around made Gabriela's husband call me. He used to be a gangster once. Went to jail, got out, met Gabriela, married her and became a charity worker. The big guy with the big heart. I've never met him, but we speak on the phone. Well, anyways, yesterday he called to tell me that what happens in Romania on TV is not right at all. Why are they talking only about Italy? Gabriela, you know, works as an interpreter for Roma people in England. He knows these people. He has seen them everyday. They claim they're very poor, they have too many children and the British state gives them housing, and allowances for children. Nice guys, these British people. And what do the Romanian gypsies do? They cheat. They don't work, they never work, they steal. Mr. Jones was almost angry on the phone. Gabriela goes to these people's houses everyday. And what does she find? The same 4 children in every house. They all claim the children are theirs. What else? Stolen wallets all over the floor, credit cards you name it. They say they eat from the garbage bins. Guess what, wrong again. Gabriela and her husband know they eat very well because they steel from the supermarkets. The supermarket bodyguards already know what to expect when they see 10 Romanian Roma entering. They know they can catch one or maybe two, but the rest will get away. Mr. Jones went on and on endlessly. I kept saying to him I would call the Iasi correspondent. He was puzzled. He didn't understand why nobody says the things he said. I tried to give him an explanation, and the only one I found was that, ya, we are a bit afraid of a truth like that.

New Plans

Ok, so I haven't kept my promise. I just spoke to Alex Telibasha on the phone, a guy I'd like to think is a friend (thanks Alex, by the way), and he reminded me I have a blog. Anyways, my life has turned upside down in the past few weeks. Today is my last day at Romantica TV. I'm gonna start at Antena 3 on December 1. I can hardly wait. News station. Ok, you're right, it's not gonna be an easy job, but, hey, I like some stress once in a while.

I took a two week vacation. Tomorrow I'm going to Vienna. Just for a day. No vacation there , too conventional for me. I'm getting a prize. Ok, I've said it.

And on Saturday, the great event : I'm going to Beirut. What could be better than that? They have to elect a new president. Tough decision. He's got to be a Maronite, and the bishop refused to give a list of potential candidates. Lahoud's mandate ends on November 23. What's gonna happen? I have no idea. But I'm gonna be there to report it (as crazy as some of my friends might say I am). Of course I will write all about it. Not just politics. Beirut is practically a jewel, Les Echelles du Levant, as French merchants used to call Lebanon once. I'll see my favorite writer's country (it's Amin Maalouf, by the way). I just hope I will have time to do all the things I want to do.

Hm, a friend told me Beirut is packed with Romanian women. You know what kind of Romanian women. I might get a long look if I say I'm from ROMANIA. But then again, where else can I go and not have to stand that loooooong look. Italy, maybe? No way, after the murder of that Italian, Giovanna Reggiani, they'd think I came to kill Berlusconi or something. Spain? Romanian thieves, Romanian beggars, Romanian prostitutes again. Name a country in Europe where you can't find them. And silly me, I wanted to go to a different place, away from the Romanian prostitutes news.

Statement of Purpose

I promised I wouldn't write news here. But it seems news i all I know how to do. Well, ya, I had no idea what I was to write about on this blog when I started it. But lately I feel like letting it all out. I haven't written anything worth while in a few years. Just reports everyday. For a while it was enough, but now it seems life has run me over leaving me in a chair in front of the computer. (Raise your hand if you feel the same. I know you do.)

I miss the days in my hometown while I was in highschool and all I had to do is read, study, listen to rock music and, most of the time, dream. Ok, I agree, I couldn't do it again. Big cities are tiresome and addincting. I wouldn't last for a week in a small town in the country. But I have the right to miss it. Not it, actually. I miss myself, my old self. The one who wanted to travell, to know people, talk to them and write their stories. So, ya, here is an idea. I will write people's stories on this blog. Daily life protraits, people I meet everyday at the office, in the bus, on the street. Where ever.

The Man Who Brought It On Us

This is story number four. It started yesterday. I felt it coming, already taking a shape, threatening this God forsaken entire nation nobody even cares what it's called. Oh, ya. He is the man, THE MAN, who brought it all upon us. He did it. The 24 year old guy who couldn't resist hurting a 47 year old lady going home on a dark street in Rome. He is a beast, nobody can deny that. The Italians have had it with the nomad gypsies living in huts in the suburbs, begging with their newborn children on the high ways and stealing in the supermarkets. They are sending them back to Romania. First 100 will come home tonight. Fair enough. Ok, but will this stop the gypsies from leaving Romania to another EU country? Everybody doubts that. Maybe they will go to France. The French are much nicer than the Italians. If the want to get rid of Roma people, they give them 1000 Euro each to get in the buss, go home and start a business.

Three Stories

This is the story of a Romanian immigrant living in a hut in Rome. On Tuesday night he found nothing to do. So he noticed a woman walking down the street. He took her by force, he raped her until she fainted and then he threw her into a bush. The woman died today in the hospital. She was the wife of a captain in the Italian Military Marine. The Romanian immigrant was arrested.

***

This is the story of another Romanian immigrant. A woman who was passing by the area where the rape took place. She saw a man carrying a lifeless woman on his shoulder. She called the Carabinieri. She could have saved the woman's life. Unfortunately, she didn't. She helped the police catch the rapist anyway.

***

This is the story of an Italian mayor. His name is Walter Veltroni and he would get rid of every Romanian in Rome. He would send them home in an instant if the bastards from the European Union said it were ok. Not that he cares too much about the safety of the Italian citizen. He's in the middle of an electoral campaign. He asked the Romanian government to take its rapist back to Romania. The Italian prisons are already full of immigrants. Complicated situation. One that will be never solved.

This is the story in Corriere della Serra.

Why do these things happen?

I don't watch boxing and sports news is something I will never be able to do. But I have to admit that the news of the day in Romania is today a piece of sports news. Sad, but true. While one of the football legends goes to the grave today, other three Romanian boys have become the laughing stock of the whole world.

Three Romanians were thrown out of the World Boxing Championships and banned from amateur boxing for life after being caught trying to steal from a Chicago department store. One of them was a World Champion.

Here is the CNN news.

Ghenadie finally won

Today one famous footballer died. There was fog on the airport, the penal code was modified so that the journalists who use the hidden camera footage face 7 years in jail, one famous hip hop star was released from jail, the fires in California still rage and the oil reached 91 bucks. So I understand why we all were so busy.
Today a few hundred men and women got back their Romanian citizenship taken from their parents when Basarabia became part of the Soviet Union. They didn't get it back as they should have. They came up with all the papers, although some had lost them when Stalin deported their grandparents to Siberia. The Romanian Ministry of Justice ignored their applications for years. They even asked the president for help. And all for nothing.

After years of struggles they won their citizenship at the European Court of Human Rights. Romania was forced to take them back. Today they were sworn in as Romanian citizens. And nobody was there to report it. When exactly have you seen a few hundred people becoming Romanian citizens at the same time, in the same room? Guys, this IS NEWS!

****

When I met Ghenadie Brega he was trying to be officially Romanian again. He was struggling to put the statue of Romanian writer Liviu Rebreanu in the park in front of the Moldovan government. After a couple of months I found out he was arrested in Chisinau because of the same statue. I'm glad he did it. I'm glad he is now Romanian as I am, and maybe more than that. I'm proud this guy speaks my language and that today Romania gained a person like him.

Check his blog , although it's in Romanian.

The Emblem of Turkey, Kurdish Problem

Not very well filmed, the English needs work, but the story is really good.

The Tulip

How would you run an objective story about an Iraqi Kurd living in Romania at a time when he's watching TV and on every channel he sees his people bombed? What do you think he'd say?

“Nowhere in the world can you find tulips like in Kurdistan. No flower in the world looks down like the tulips in Kurdistan. The legends say the tulip looks down to show the suffering of our people. The flowers cannot take the pain and they weep.”

Urban view

On a certain October morning in busy Bucharest, on one main road where hundreds of cars wait in line for ages, where drivers would curse at anyone who's bold enough to get out of the line and get on the tramway and get to work with a smaller delay, where a police officer would always make things worse and where you would always think you waste a third of your life waiting in your car, it was foggy. On the right side, an empty field they pretend it's a construction site. Some workers waste their time hanging around pretending to be busy. It doesn't matter, it's just another dreary morning. A few meters away, four dirty children, each of them holding a bag very close to the mouth, take turns in hitting something fallen in the grass. Nobody seems to notice them. Just a bunch of kids who raise themselves on the streets who feed themselves inhaling paint thinner, the cheapest drug you can find at the market. They keep hitting and hitting something and they seem to have so much fun. Still, nobody notices them. Not even the construction workers hanging around the truck. The line of cars finally moves, you get to see them closer. They could be hitting an animal. Kids can be cruel sometimes, especially when they're stoned. In 10 minutes you get to move your car gain two meters to the front. Oh, ya. They're hitting a person. A guy dressed in a red coat lies on the ground. He won't move a bit, not even at the hardest kick. Don't bother to call the emergency hotline. You have to wait half an hour and then somebody would tell you they won't go for jokes. And it's just some street kids playing, right?

Youth without Youth

I can hardly wait to see it. A movie made by Francis Ford Coppola inspired by a Romanian Mircea Eliade's short story.

Here's more on the topic in a France Presse news story.

The Insurgents

A bomb blows up in the middle of a crowd. 10, 12, 30, 140 killed. Not important. People crawling in blood baths asking for help from a TV cameraman who's busy pushing the REC button. I've seen it this week, and the week before, and even today. And we all know it was them. The stars of the foreign affairs. Ladies and gentlemen, the insurgents.

Sounds so cold, doesn't it? They're so far it makes you forget they're even people. They're just the Muslim bastards blowing themselves up for the sake of Allah. And you, in your comfortable armchair, you sit in front of the TV and think these people are to blame you've got soldiers dieing in Iraq every day. And you still think that nice smelling elegant politician you saw last night on a talk show is right when he says your government should get the troops out of Iraq. And then you change the channel. The corruption scandal about a minister getting 15000 euro and some booze in exchange for a certain favor is funnier.

***

Imagine mom died in a shelling. Then, a week after, dad was arrested, tortured and killed in a prison. He was a suspect because he fired in the air at your cousin's wedding. Imagine all your brothers and sisters die in a friendly fire. And they say they were collateral damage ( e.i. The people who's deaths never mean anything). Tell me you wouldn't go insane and try to blow yourself up to make the people who killed them pay. Tell me that you'd care if your neighbors die with you. Tell me if you'd think about any God when you do this.