One night in the late 1980’s found me in the corridors of a very daunting building. I was tremendously afraid of the dictators who lived with us in the orphanage. At the end of that corridor was my bedroom where about thirteen or fourteen of us were sleeping on metal beds. The intensity of fear was not necessary generated by the long corridor, but rather, by the dictators and the bathroom which became the ground for a fight. It was three o’clock in the morning, and while we were sleeping, one of the dictators (himself an orphan) shouted in a very loud voice and with fearless authority: `Get up from your beds you dreadful creatures and wait at the end of the bathroom corridor...`.
Overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness and despair, we all sprinted towards the end of that bathroom, and as we dashed with much fear, at both sides (of the bathroom) were the dictators standing ready to begin the fight. Running out from the bedroom I was hit with a chair on the head and I collapsed to the cement floor. Shortly after, I was lying on the wet floor, receiving continuous hammering from the dictators, who were hitting with great malice and horrendous evil. The chair terrified me the most, for I feared to be placed on it and thrown back to the wet floor of the bathroom. The floor soon was covered with blood and my body was bruised and very sore. Despite the blood flowing down my body, I was still being beaten with a wet towel and afterwards thrown and smashed against the bathrooms walls. The dictators, who were throwing me from one to the other like a ball, slammed me into the mirror which broke. Everyone stopped and panicked because I collapsed to the ground; unconscious, I was placed into a tiny bath and cold water was poured upon me in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
The next morning found me bandaged. I was instructed, if asked, to say that I fell down the stairs. And so, with incredible fear ruling deep down within my heart, I began to accept their horrendous advice. That night ended around five o`clock in the morning. Sleepless and terrified that another round of beatings was about to commence, I lay there in expectation with my body broken and my heart disintegrated by the torrential flow of evil. I learnt that sometimes in the deep deep darkness the light seems to be impenetrable. In the trenches of deep darkness the symphony of evil was surpassing the choral hymns of hope. Those notes rang out not in harmony, but in a colossal dischord – an arrangement that could only generate chaos and a longing that this pain will one day end. Nights like these become some of the longest symphonies that one had to go through, for when the dictators came to beat us, everything felt as if the world was erupting around us. These nights were truly terrible and indiscernible. The idea that I could ever find hope in my situation was far fetched: I believe no-one else could comprehend the helplessness and despair in my heart and mind.
Engulfed in this great darkness there emerged a great longing - wanting to be non-existent. I simply could not have witnessed another night or another day with such calamity being inflicted in front of a large audience. Escaping such reality became a dream to aspire to. I was longing that beyond this evil and hate to find that there was something good, something peaceful, something that provided me with time to rest, a time to walk away from pain. Unfortunately all this was a very temporary haven to which one ran like a famished dog returning to its vomit. It was a laugh to even think that the prince of darkness would allow its captives to walk away freely. From this shattering reality, the question of God’s existence emerged. For from here I was longing for some sort of consolation, some sort of remedy that there was going to be some true justice. I was hoping that there was at going to be, at the end of this tunnel, at least a glimmer of hope; some sort of understanding that beyond our orphanage there was something less horrific, less animalistic, less inhuman, less of everything.
An escape became the only possibility of hope. From within the walls I wanted to run, but the only way of escaping such evil was by not staying within the premises of the orphanage. Working (mostly for free or in exchange of food) in the village of Dacia throughout the day and returning to the orphanage in the evening was a refuge. However, I later discovered that I did not successfully manage to escape the actual reality. On the days when I came back with no money (and they were many) I once again buckled under their rule (the rule of the dictators). For about ten years I was a slave of a reality that I could not escape from. In order to flee from that reality one had to count the full cost of suffering. Equally, one was required to understand that the king of escapism was evil itself. I was enslaved in this inescapable reality. How was I to escape from such injustice? Who was going to answer the question of pain and suffering? Who was going to be brave enough to venture into such a context and attempt to end the evil that was flowing through the veins of the dictators (who themselves were casualties of the Marxist propaganda)? Who was going to ask the real questions of suffering? Who was going to provide hope in the midst of torture and evil? Who was going to do away with escapism and bring us all to a stage where none will be in need of having to run from such evil? Were we, including myself, as William Edgar has suggested , placed here on earth in order to seek God and find Him?
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