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Cristian
Mocanu
Report from
Romania
14 December,
2006
Winter In
Deva
As I stroll on the
streets of Deva, the town where I was born and raised, I wonder
on how to write about Romanian winter in a nutshell. It’s just
too complicated…It’s just too little known to the outside world
to keep it short.
Also: am I the qualified person to do it? A disabled person who
never descended Dealul Paiului (Straw Hill) in a luge to see how
it feels, and was never involved in a snow fight? A Latin rite
Catholic immersed in an Orthodox environment and whose Advent
and Christmas seasons are somewhat differently rhythmed?
Still, upon approaching the Magna Curia (the palace from which
Transylvania was ruled for much of the 17th century, and whence
its Protestant prince went off to sign the peace of Westphalia
to end the 30 year war) I meet the carolers. They sing with all
their might:
“O how wonderful
news
is shown to us from Bethlehem…”
to remind me we
still have many things in common (those carols for instance) and
that I must give it a try…
Winter in Deva can be harsh, sometimes, but more often than not,
the mountains all around us keep us safe from extreme heat and
extreme cold. Still I would find winter rather hard to bear if
it weren’t for the holidays.
Commonly, the starting point of those holidays is St. Nicholas’
Day (Dec.6th ). St. Nicholas, here, is not disguised as “Santa
Claus” to come on Christmas Eve, he leaves that to Father
Christmas: as for himself, he comes on his calendar day leaving
gifts so small as to fit in the shoes children leave on the
window—sill. He also sometimes leaves a little rod for naughty
kids as a warning; they’ll have to improve their attitude till
Christmas when Father Christmas will have more space (under the
tree) even for a toy train, if the child behaves and the family
budget can afford it.
In the City Park, another group of carolers sings, rather
incongruously, to a small public:
“Will you, or
won’t you give us,
some bacon or some sausage”
Romanian carolers
never trick but always ask for treats. Fail to comply and you’ll
be “ostracised” for the rest of the year as the local equivalent
of Mr. Scrooge. Although the treat is mostly none of the above,
but fruit or brezels. But that reminds me:
The actual Christmas kick—off is traditionally Dec.21st , when
the Orthodox remember St. Ignatius of Antioch, the 2nd century
martyr. This is the day pigs are slaughtered. Pork is a staple
food and all those who possibly can keep pigs even in urban
areas. (15 years of more or less normal market economy have done
nothing to dispel the fear Romanians have of starving at some
point in time; keeping pigs can be reassuring). Slaughtering
pigs is a kind of ritual involving family and friends and if
you’re looking for masters of fresh—made charcuterie Romanian
peasants would give any French chef a run for his money.
The carolers have reverted to something less materialistic:
“Three shepherds
met and advised each other thus
Come, brothers, let us go and pick flowers
Make a wreath and bring it to Christ”.
Christmas tends to
be more spiritual here than in places farther west, although
symptoms of shopping craze have appeared. Nowhere is that more
apparent than in the carols. Some of them have a very profound
theology, so much so, you find it difficult to believe they have
been composed by ordinary peasants. But they were…
My Mum and myself would try not to skip Midnight Mass in our
parish and then take a look at the crib. Most of the Catholics
in my part of the country are Hungarians. We are Romanians. I
understand Hungarian, Mum doesn’t. She’s never had a Christmas
Midnight Mass in her language and fondly remembers the times
when she used to sing in the church choir and Latin was bridging
all divides. I tried to make her come with me and spend
Christmas with some Catholic friends in Bucharest, to have
Midnight Mass in Romanian for once but she would have none of
it. On Christmas, one should be at home.
We had a rough time this Christmas Eve, actually. A Hungarian
satellite TV channel chose to broadcast everything live from our
church, and all access was blocked by trucks, vans, cables and
what not. I don’t know who actually got to be inside the church.
We ended up calling a taxi and riding across town to the other
parish. I’m glad we did.
The snow fell quietly and fluffier than ever. Inside, there was
a concert. The children’s choir. The women’s choir. The mixed
choir. Some French girls working here played the violin and
cello. People were nice, stress-free, accommodating. We had
Mass. Mum went to confession (in Romanian). All in all, a night
to remember.
I keep on walking. Near the Prefecture (county administration),
a place known as “at the frogs” because of the stone frogs
decorating a fountain is a favoured location for open air
concerts. Sure enough, there are carolers here as well. Their
costumes tell me they are from our own county but from some
villages in the highlands. They are called “Pãdureni” (forest
people). Their carols are peculiar. I recognize a carol for an
“unmarried young man” sort of telling him what to do to find a
soul mate. They also have a carol for the “unmarried girl “, the
“widow”, the “expectant mother”. Their villages are small.
Everybody knows everybody. When nearing a house, they know what
to sing. Because carols are about hope. And everything—for them
at least—somehow has to do with this Christian God who chose to
be born as a frail child…
New Year is also about hope, of course. There are various ways
for groups of children and young adults to wish others a Happy
New Year. There’s the goat dance and the bear dance…Shepherds
sometimes come with a lamb for you to touch, thus making sure
you’re blessed in the year to come. But all of this is not too
common. The most common ways are Sorcova and Pluguşorul.
Both are rhymed poems. Sorcova is actually a stick adorned with
paper flowers. Children wave it above your head chanting
something along the lines of:
Sorcova, the
merry one,
May you live and grow old,
Like an apple tree or pear tree,
Or like a rose.
Like apple trees or pear trees
In midsummer.
Hard like a stone,
Swift like an arrow,
Hard like iron,
Swift like steel.
In this year and many years to come.
Pluguşorul
(little plough) is a more elaborate poem. Teenagers or young
adults chant it accompanied by whips and devices which let the
wind blow through, so as to make a sound similar to the “moo” of
oxen; all reminiscent of the ancient way of ploughing. This
because prosperity is seen mainly as linked to what the fields
will yield. The poem itself is quite long and in it Romanians
recall their Roman origin and Emperor Trajan who, the poem says,
went to plough himself and then went to the fields again,
gathered the wheat in his storehouse, then ground it himself
into the finest flour.
Then there’s also the Epiphany. The Orthodox tend to focus on
Jesus’ baptism, that’s why all the rivers, fountains, springs,
and the sea itself, are blessed on this day. Catholics of
course, think more of the Three Wise Men. Be it as it may: this
is the end of the holidays. Both Catholic and Orthodox priests
come to bless the homes of their parishioners around this day.
Tradition requires—at least in our part of the country—that you
dispose of your Christmas tree as soon as the priest has left
your house: it’s a sign that one has already stockpiled as much
joy, good will, hope and good wishes as needed, and should be
ready to tackle whatever comes one’s way in the new year. And
it’s back to dull, everyday life again.
But for now, I’m just trying to gaze into the future. I haven’t
touched any lamb yet, it’s doubtful if I will and I just make an
inventory of my hopes. They are—I think—modest enough to be
fulfilled. Anyway, that kind of fulfillment is what I wish
everyone reading those lines…
Cristian Mocanu
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