Mirage

No older notifications. iMessage read yesterday at 17:28. "Seen". No reaction. I push forward along the empty airport. All I hear is the hum of the moving walkways and the shuffle of the few disoriented travelers. I feel compelled to glance at my phone once again. No older notifications. iMessage read yesterday at 17:28. "Seen". No reaction. Feeling defeated, I buy a pack of gummy bears and open my book.

Going back has become unsettling, at least recently. Something has changed and I don't know if I like these changes. I don't know if these changes like me. Even though I loved going back before, this is the first time I'd rather stay. But duty calls and I conform. Two shifts a year, like a factory worker.

I look at all the people going "there" and a shiver runs down my spine. They represent everything I tried to leave behind. Everything I ran away from. Everything I once believed I could escape. It's because of the look in their eyes. Their docility. Their compliance. Their meanness. Their selfishness. Their lack of thought. Everything.

I know, deep in my heart, that reality is more complex than it seems. There is no single root cause for the destruction that's unfolding back "home". I know, I shouldn't resent and blame them. But my emotions get the best of me. I know, they are the ones who voted for that joke of a man. And I know, they would do it again. After all, they took to the streets for him.

For months now, Romania has been in the news. Ever since last December's annulled presidential elections, all hell has broken loose. The far right is organizing protests amassing thousands of people. From his lair and high on ketamine, Elon Musk rushed in with his own theories, adding even more fuel to the fire. Yet all the op-eds, analyses, think pieces I read from journalists from all over the world seem to be obsessed with the political system and especially with that joke of a man. The real issue, however, is ignored and never seen for what it is.

The people. The voters. The masses. The ones who enabled it. The problem.

I try to distance myself from these thoughts; maybe I'm too harsh. I try to remember simpler, happier times. I try. But the only memories that flood in leave me empty. The endless, gloomy hallway in my childhood home, lined with my mother's high heels. I remember the dark, empty school hallways, reeking of childhood games, Madonna dances and mysteries. The other hallways, 500m up the road, where we filmed German class projects. These hallways held everything. Our laughter. Our joy. Our fears. The vile comments about last weekend's party. The girls who had done too much. The ones who hadn't. The ones mocked for their lack of skill. Their hesitation. Their bodies. The crude body shaming. The whispered insults directed at me. My feline walk. The way I spoke. The way I moved. The eternal question. Do you have a girlfriend?

And then I wonder. How can a society heal if it's rotten at its core? How could I be surprised by the outcome when the election result is only a reflection of everything I ran from? I really shouldn't blame the voters because it's pointless. I think of all the other factors that played a role. Maybe Russia (who else?) succeeded with its disinformation. Maybe Romania did indeed become overnight a forerunner in the fight against disinformation. The lighthouse in the east, as one of my professors at university put it. Maybe that’s true. But I feel like the truth is simpler. Let's suppose Russia did indeed play a role in radicalizing our society. And this leads us to the people. The ones with little to no education. The ones who spent their lives learning how to cheat the system. The ones trained to obey and not to think. The ones lacking even the most basic comprehension skills. And then no wonder they fell for the "Russian" playbook. After all, what else can be expected from a country where functional illiteracy surpasses 50%?

It's true that the system failed them. But still, after 30 years of "freedom", these people have never accepted the changes happening around them. It also true that time was too short for them to comprehend the world they had suddenly inherited. I mean, from the fall of the Iron Curtain to the moment when we joined the EU accession only seventeen years have passed. And in the years preceeding the end of the Cold War, Romania went dark. In the 1980s, Gorbachev instituted change through his policies of glasnost and perestroika. But Ceaușescu had other ideas. After visiting Kim Il Sung, he imagined a nation modeled after Juche. While the Soviet Union struggled with reform, Romania clung to isolation.

And then, overnight, the Iron Curtain collapsed. The people I'm belittling suddenly found "freedom", but they had no guidance for the transition. A country that had spent decades in darkness was now expected to function in the light? How was that supposed to happen? The people had no one to obey anymore, so confusion took hold. How were they supposed to think critically? My feelings won't let my excuse them for their lack of thought. Maybe I should, but yet they decide for us. Millions of functional illiterates swarm the polls every four years and with every ballot cast, we are sliding down into the darkness. They don't know what they are voting for, but they are convinced they are right.

Maybe I was blind before, or maybe I wanted to be. Maybe this isn’t new and I’m only seeing it now because I was living in my bubble. Or maybe I always knew and just chose to hope. Maybe, deep down, I always knew why I wanted to leave this country. But in doing so, I moved away to a place of relative ambiguity. But what makes my story different? What sets it apart from every other young adult at a crossroads? Feeling lonely in this hateful society made me long for connection. In any form. Platonic. Romantic. But isn’t this what everyone desires? To belong? To be seen? To be part of a community I don't feel ostracized by? Where do I fit in this myriad of stories, xeroxed from a template?

My flight back to my new "home" will board in only a week, but with every return my departure is on the horizon. Point. Counterpoint. And what do I leave behind? Crowded cinema rooms, full of uncivil audiences, in what they call the capital of good manners. People with retrograde ideas. Ideas that reject change, diversity and modernity. Am I hopeful things will change when I come back? Maybe I was in the past. Now I realize it was a mirage. So with every return, the rift deepens. Widens. All these returns make my longing worse. For what? For a specific connection. A specific someone. Their love. Their presence. Their understanding. Their hope.

Even for just a moment. A minute. A second. A text.

20:15. I pick up my phone. One new message. I'm sorry.

On my nightstand:

• Der Sprung – Simone Lappert
• Sonia ridică mâna – Lavinia Braniște
• Sexagenara şi tânărul – Nora Iuga

On repeat:

• Striptease – FKA Twigs
• Burning Hour – Jadu Heart
• Punish - Ethel Cain
• Velcro featuring Gus Dapperton – spill tab
• Bad Texter – Ryan Woods
• Pinie featuring orbit - Parra for Cuva

To bake:

• Buchteln with rose hip jam
• Marillenknödel
• Babka with poppy seeds