When I first visited their subterranean house in Bucharest city center, I never expected I would become, over time, part of their family.
A small, yet growing tribe on the margins of society. They are the sons of neglect.
Thus was born street life, full of crime and violence. Its inhabitants have developed a hard shell of fear and mistrust. Trained with blows, they learned to growl to be heard. It’s hard to be kind and respected at the same time.
Many of them, grown up with no parents and in social exclusion, discovered early the drugs and the prison, of which they inevitably bear the marks on their body and mind. Sometimes it seems they rush towards death on purpose. Sadly, someone has truly told me so.
Nonetheless, they learned the values of hospitality, helpfulness and fraternal bond. In search of affection and safety, those boys have given support to each other. According to rules that can be easily misunderstood in the 'civilized' world, they founded a community. They gathered around a paternal figure to create the warmth of a family home. Taking care is the greatest and most admired skill.
This work is dedicated to ‘my little sister’ Catalina who died recently, just one month after turning 18.