On the occasion of the 27th anniversary of the declaration of Moldova’s Independence, IPN News Agency challenged young and older ones to write a letter to the country. Bellow you can see the letter of Ion-Mihai Felea, who was born the same year as independent Moldova.
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I saw you in the passports section today, my dear Moldova, and you didn’t look well at all. You had the mental age of a republic of four years and the swollen body of a Bessarabia aged 200 years. From the end of the line, I saw your difficult childhood through the bony figure. The diet of the 1990s left you feeble, flabby and translucent. Only the thighs shine with fat as the former nomenclature was deposited as a thick layer of nepotism capitalism there.
Do you remember how you stumbled over the war and Santa Clauses came to help you get up and raised you so high that you hit your head against the ceiling? You suffered a concussion, my amnesic Moldova. Because of the shock, you forgot about deportations and famine, cannibalism, GULAG, summary executions and churches transformed into storehouses. You can no longer read, my poor Moldova. They took away your toys and made you leave the primers at the kindergartens when you was a child and you had to cope somehow. You watched thrillers and radioactive talk shows that can be received with the help of a fork at the bottom of a cellar. They poured dirty water to your roots and enriched your chernozem with transuranic elements that you still inhale sometimes feverishly in a stifling spring.
When you was a child, no one vaccinated you against totalitarianism so that when others go to school, you developed measles that you already had once and red spots appeared on five corners. But you sad mercy, my orphan Moldova, when you stood dizzily after you conceding to be able to receive gas through the networks that you generously offered to a state company, of another state and you know which. You said mercy so that you could put something in the mouth on the Romanian, Moldovan tongue. But the kind of tongue no longer matters when only you know how you went through transition, wiping your butt with coupons for which you worked a previous life on genetically modified wheat and tobacco plantations.
You crawled further, Moldova, with broken bones that were put back in bowing position. You creeped mumbling in the Great Disillusion Square from time to time and, going on like this, with your elbows scratched, you grew up from dues coming from abroad and turned into a young lady. A lot of people came to you graduation ball, but the music was the same. The old and new folk music band took out the polished instruments and gave you to drink some rosy rotgut maturated in oaken barrels. You drank, my naïve Moldova, as you didn’t have a mother who could teach you not to drink with strangers, and at the age of 18 they shook you nicely and told you they will wait on you hand and foot from then on.
And they did it so well, Moldova, that you got rosy cheeks and started to cry after so much forced love. Afterward, being drunk with hope that you got rid of the Communists, you looked enviously at their instrument and embraced them confusedly and in nine months you found yourself with the future in your arms. It was a deformed future that yelled as loudly as this could about multicultural society, tolerance, neutrality and especially a lot of oblivion so as to forget that the father of the one that now teaches you what multiculturalism is drove away the band “Noroc” from the Moldovan Soviet Socialists Republic. The future grew by sucking from you and by milking the European Union. It sucked all your calcium from the backbone, my gelatinous Moldova, and left you shaky, with naked breasts and fragile bones.
You can no longer treat yourself, my Moldova with metastases. Your doctors are now docteurs, medics, Ärzte, curadores, γιατρούς or software engineers. The treatment costs, my failed Moldova. Where will you now withdraw money from when your savings faded away under the cynical sun of the fiscal paradises? How can you now take off your blouse to show to the people on the street that you are a young lady - sovereign, undividable and able to defend your citizens? I saw you in the passports section today, my poor Moldova. They told you to smile for a picture and I saw you are toothless. Someone else chews your food and you have to only swallow now.
Ion-Mihai Felea
On the same theme:
“Letter for Moldova”: Cultural unity will always keep You alive, always fighting
“Letter for Moldova”: It’s a pity you are forgotten, as the mother who is always away is
“Letter for Moldova”: Few could imagine that Moldova can be an independent state
