Our first runaway

I recently read a book called A People’s Tragedy, by Orlando Figes.  It was a very good, but long and depressing book about the Russian Revolution from 1891-1924.  There was a story throughout the book of a Russian farmer named Semenov who, when he was young, went off to see the world.  As he traveled from country to country he learned about different methods of farming.  When he returned to his village he was determined to implement what he had learned and try to educate his neighbors.  Villages at that time would divide the land in the village up amongst the peasants in long narrow strips of land that a family would work to provide their food for the year.  Semenov fought to be allowed to have a larger square of land where he implemented crop rotation, used modern machinery and applied various other techniques. 

Semenov’s new ideas faced very staunch opposition from many of the village leaders.  Over the years, however, while most peasants struggled to grow enough food to simply feed their own families, Semenov became a very successful farmer.  He did this, in spite of the fact that people stole his equipment, burned his crops, burned his house, threatened his family and put him in jail for his unorthodox approaches.  He was a perfect example to those around him that there was a better way to farm. 

It was a sad, but inspiring story throughout.  And it ended with Semenov being murdered by those who were threatened by the change he represented.  I remember thinking at the end of Semenov’s story how disappointing it was.  I want stories to have happy endings, and for the people involved to leave the story changed.  But nothing changed.  Semenov tried throughout his whole life, and then he was killed.  And things went back to the way they were.

That was about a hundred years ago.  Today, right next to Smile House and all over Ukraine there are still long, narrow strips of land where every family works on their hands and knees so they can provide just enough to make it through the year.

There are larger farms and fields but for the poor, very little has changed in the past hundred years. 

******

On Thursday we were in Komrivka for graduation at the orphanage.  After the ceremony, the assistant director told Doug that one of their boys, Zhenya, had run away the previous night and hadn’t returned yet.  Apparently, the day before, he had gotten into a fight with one of the other kids and then just took off.

Doug found Zhenya’s little sister and asked her if she had any idea where Zhenya might have gone.   She not only didn’t have any ideas, she wasn’t really interested in talking to us.

So, Helena, the assistant director, asked if Doug would be willing to take her to the county seat so they could file a report with the police.  Lexi went along with them.

We were in two vans that day, so most people went on home to Kiev, but I stayed at the orphanage to spend more time with the kids before they headed off to camp.  The trip should have taken a little over an hour, but ended up taking more like 2.  When they returned, Doug told me what happened.

Helena went in to file the report, and the police wouldn’t even let her get that far.  They wouldn’t let her file a report for a kid who ran away from the orphanage.  Why not?  They weren’t interested in helping.  When she asked who she could go to for help, the answer was simple, “We don’t know.”

It’s crazy because I’m pretty sure that in every country in the world its the duty of the police to help track down missing kids.  They could have just filed the report and done nothing and we would have been none the wiser, but they felt they had the right to refuse to help at all.

So, not long after they returned from the police station, we headed off for home.  We were going to drop her and Lexi off in another town before we headed back to Kiev. 

Then, just before our turn off, Doug saw Zhenya on the side of the road.  (Thank you, God) He was with an older man who had a bike.  They were just standing there.  I couldn’t tell what was happening from the car, but we decided that Doug should go over and talk to them alone, since Zhenya was probably feeling vulnerable at the moment, we didn’t want to appear to be ganging up on him. 

The older man had found him, in the woods, or on the road, and was pretty sure he was a run-away, so he caught him and wasn’t letting him go until he could think of what to do with him.  When he saw that Zhenya recognized Doug, he decided to let him go with us. 

When Zhenya got in the van, there was another person sitting between the two of us.  Since we were close to where we were dropping off the girls, we ahead into town, and dropped them off.  We gave Zhenya some trail mix, since he probably hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and it was all we had.  He ate some of the trail mix but didn’t say a word.

After we dropped off the girls, I got to slide over next to Zhenya.   He smelled a little and had dirt and spiderwebs on his shirt and shorts.  He had obviously slept in the forest last night. I tried not to think about what that had been like for him.

I asked him how he was.

“I’m fine.”  He said looking straight ahead.

“Really?”  I asked, trying to catch his gaze.

He looked at me flatly, “I’m fine.”

******

I’m not sure I knew who Zhenya even was before one day this winter.  I was going around right after showing up at the orphanage and I was saying hi to all the kids.  I always give the guys a hand shake and then pull them in for a bro hug.  Three pats on the back and then I let them go.  That day, I gave Zhenya his three pats and let him go.

But it didn’t end.  A few minutes later he was back for another hug.  I didn’t even need to shake his hand.  I hugged him and started moving again.  A few minutes later, he came in for a hug.  Again I hugged him and again I pulled away.

Sometimes I am really stupid.  If you know me, this isn’t news.

Zhenya came back for another hug.  I hugged him, and let go … but he didn’t let me go.  I gave him another quick hug and three more pats.  At this point I leaned back to see who was hugging me (to be honest, part of the reason I kept moving away from him was that I wasn’t sure who he was).  He was wearing a beanie that obstructed my view of his face so I asked if he was Sasha.

“No, I’m Zhenya,” he said softly. 

I hate it when I do that.  Janna and I work hard to remember names, because we know how much it means, especially to these kids, if you know their name.  So I quickly tried to make the awkward situation a funny one, by showing him why I thought he was Sasha.  I pulled his beanie down over his face.

He didn’t laugh at my antics, but he shrugged meekly, it was ok.  And he hugged me.   

I got it then.  He needed a hug.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, if you beat me over the head long enough I will catch on … eventually. 

As we stood there, I thought about what would cause a 12 year old boy to hug a 30 year old guy he barely knows for such a long time. 

I didn’t know Zhenya’s story then, but I did know that he lived in the orphanage.  You have to be tough just to survive in that place.  For the hundredth time I realized that I hate the orphanage, and wished I could change everything about how these kids are taken care of.

Over the next few months, Zhenya kept coming back to me for hugs. But he came less and less.  For a while I thought that it was just because he was doing better.  But Janna later told me that she saw him becoming more and more withdrawn. 

******

As we sat in the van, I was torn with what to do.  Zhenya was playing the tough guy, he said was fine, and he didn’t need to talk.  But I knew that it was a front. 

I watched him for a while, and then put my arm around him and rubbed his shoulders.  I kept doing that as we drove, until my own shoulder couldn’t take the awkward position any more.  During that time, he relaxed a little bit, but he still looked forward, and still didn’t talk to any of us. 

I had envisioned him breaking down in tears, letting it all out, and then starting to recover a little bit.  I wanted him to be able to do that in a safe place. I wanted to provide that safe place.  But he had no reason to trust me.  I just visit the orphanage every now and then, and then go back to my home after a few hours.  I don’t understand him.  I don’t really know what he goes through. 

So, I just prayed for him.

******

A month ago, Zhenya’s mom died. 

We don’t really know how or even if it really affected him.  She wasn’t in his life.  We know nothing about the father.  I don’t know how to relate to that, I’m not sure where to start. 

But I’ll be honest, I don’t fault him for running away from the orphanage.  I’m surprised that more kids don’t run away.  Its a very broken system,  but like the long strips of land and outdated farming techniques, its something this country just can’t seem to break free from. 

******

When we arrived at the orphanage, we took Zhenya into the main building to try and find the Assistant Director.  She wasn’t there, but as we started to leave the building we ran into some of the kids, led by Zhenya’s little sister.  She said something, it seemed like she was making fun of him. 

Zhenya took a few steps back, and bumped into me.  I put my arm around him, and for the first time he leaned into me.  I gave him a hug, he didn’t hug back, but he didn’t pull away either.  He wasn’t ready to face this place again. 

I wished we could have taken him back to Kiev, for a  few days.  He could have stayed with us.  He could have rested, maybe healed.  It could have been great.  But, we also could have been arrested, and we would lose trust with the orphanage staff.

Just about then one of the teachers came through the door.  He grabbed Zhenya, and pulled him out the door with him.  Zhenya was in trouble. 

We watched the teacher drag Zhenya across the yard.  I thought, This isn’t how the story is supposed to end.  

All the time we are working to help these kids, they are still being victims of their situations.  While I am building Smile House for them,  their lives are still falling apart.  It’s like fighting gravity. 

I wish this story had a happy ending. 

But, I try to remember, the story isn’t over yet.