Her presence is overwhelming: too much nuisance and too much hope. A life she did not deserve, a life she did not ask for, but a life she accepted as given by God. It was her fate, she says, a fate she prays I would not have. She kisses me softly on the forehead, her lips burnt with years and pain, and asks me if my husband takes care of me. Why couldn’t you find a nice Romanian man? Do Canadian men understand Romanian women? She gazes into my eyes as if to read into my heart.
I lean against the aged walnut tree whose hefty branches embrace the table of our talks. Its leaves testify to the wind of well-forgotten episodes. I seem out of place in these surroundings. I cannot help wondering why Romanian women would require such particular understanding.
You are 26 years old, and yet so naïve! – my grandma’s eyes are saying while we share a glass of homemade wine. She takes the glass and spills a few drops on the muddy ground. For the souls of the ten, perhaps fifteen children I had to throw away… her voice murmurs, as if choked with grief and shame. She must have lost count a long time ago, as many women did. Perhaps this was a self-defence mechanism against the pain of her own regrets, doubled by punishing streams of consciousness rooted in her deep Christian beliefs. As she catches her breath, she continues: We were lucky in this village. We had Tanti Sita who knew how to make the abortions. Not many women died around here, just the crazy ones who tried to do it themselves. Poor Tanti Sita, she did plenty of years in prison because of this! I don’t know how they got to her since we all kept it secret. We had to protect one another. She swallows her pain and looks away. I remember reading, during my Master’s research, the statistics on women’s mortality during Communism in Romania, as published by the World Bank in 1992. This is how I came out to learn that women’s mortality in 1989 alone (when the situation was believed to have had improved) was valued at 150, almost four times greater than the average of the other Eastern European Communist countries, valued at 40. Moreover, it was more that fourteen times greater than the average of the OECD countries (e.g. Portugal, Spain Greece, Ireland), valued at 11. The cold wind blew right into me.
Her hands gripped a wet branch of the tree above us, the only one who had witnessed her long forgotten love and laughter, as well as all her pain; yet, it was staying there unscathed and proud like the social consciousness I grew up into. This heavy rain has ruined our corn! God turned his back on me! So much work for nothing! At least your grandfather was now here to help me work the land. He was never here before when I needed him… As a truck driver, he used to come home once or twice a week, get drunk and swear at me! Sometimes he hit me too because he said I was speaking too much. Then he would go and leave me pregnant again, to take care of it! All he wanted was sex, but what could I do? I am his wife, so I closed my eyes… Her heart twists with anger. The walnut tree remains impassive. I ask her why she did not protect herself and she just sighs. These were the times during Communism… Ceausescu forbade all means of contraception and abortions because he wanted a larger population. I knew immediately she was referring to the Decree-law 770 which was introduced in Romania in1966, and whereby the reproductive freedom was severely restricted for women younger than 40 years old or who had less than four children; in 1972 this extended to women under the age of 45 or who had less than five children. At the same time, women had to go through mandatory gynaecological consultations every month at their work place, whereas unmarried women and childless couples were severely penalized. My outpouring with anger and disgust reaches its peak when I picture women lining up by the hundreds to bear the monthly check-ups in the factories where they worked. Their dehumanization is as icy as the tools and the hand used for their examination. What are you complaining there about? – the sharp voice of my uncle pierces my senses. You forget and move on! – he mumbles as he enters the house to join my father by the TV.
As if the words of her son scattered against a shield away from her, my grandma continues: I only wanted two children so that I could feed them, dress them, and make sure they are well educated. I didn’t want them to work in a factory and have the same life as I did. But although they went to university, moved to the city and got good jobs, their fate was not much different. Your mom suffered just as well, but at least your dad took care of her. Poor man, once he stayed home alone for almost two months when your mom was in hospital recovering from an abortion. The doctors were good because they had mercy and did not want to let her die. All this time, your dad had to cook and wash for himself… You know, you and your brother came into this world by chance, like all your friends… I have always been immune to these remarks, perhaps because I have heard them too many times. I believe that peoples’ reactions are constructed by the social structures of their surroundings. Ours, the Romanian ones, leave no space for crying over spilled milk. Like my uncle said, you just move on. You wipe away the bad and remember the good. But what if you cannot see the good because the bad is too overwhelming?
Suddenly, I see a flicker in my grandmother‘s eyes: But now you’re fine, you don’t worry about anything. You are free to prevent pregnancies and make abortions when you want to, in the hospital. The women’s problems are over now; you live in a better world. Now come and help me prepare the food because the men should be hungry by now. The TV show should be over soon. She rushes to the kitchen and glances at an old wooden clock on the wall. I remain silent, wondering what taking care of his wife means to a Romanian man who now lives in a better world. Romanian society is too concerned with “real”, “important” issues to listen to women’s trivialities; and now that the problem with abortions has been eliminated, you should be well! Are you?
Chronicles of Women in Romania 