Belonging Creative Writing

Morning arrived. Sleepless and jet-lagged. Halfway across the world, I was a stranger in Rome, Italy in order to discover and experience one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I had a camera in one hand, a map of Rome in the other and a small silver cross hung around my neck. The Vatican Citys a small sovereign city state in the heart of Rome where statues emerge from the ancient ground. It is where one of the largest religious faiths in the world resides. Glancing into the crowd, I noticed the sheer variety of people that came to see the wonderful and sacred place. Many were Catholic, strangers like me, who wanted to visit to rejuvenate their faith, while others we here to say they crossed it off their bucket list, number three after the Louvre and The Great Wall of China. A diminutive, wizened old gypsy woman sat outside in a decrepit wheelchair, head down and fingering a small statue. She appeared to be in her sixties, grey, frayed hair and of looked of Romani descent. A polystyrene cup sat next to her with a few euro cents placed inside by passing travellers. Local passerbys spat at her as if she was nothing as they hissed get away from me. My jaw dropped with a perplexed expression. I pondered myself, was it normal for the locals to do that? Do I have the right to question their ways and intervene as I am just another stranger in this place? She was unclean, a leper that was reminiscent of the parable of the Cleansing the Leper; to be avoided at all costs, viewing her with a preconceived image of unlawful gypsies, without a hint of pity or remorse. I didnt stop however; I kept moving as I held my small silver cross, given to me by my godparents as a symbol of my faith. Leaving the Vatican City, outside a souvenir shop, I noticed the old gypsy woman resting the polystyrene cup in her lap. She began to creep forward in her wheelchair, intrigued by this woman, I just had to follow her. She did not belong here, but did I? My somewhat shaky religious record was not all that good, I had missed masses because I was busy and occasionally forgot lent. Maybe this visit to this country will absolve some of these religious misdemeanours. Id been criticised by my parents, too selfish they said, dont care about old people, never visit your grandparents they said. Lost your faith they said, you cant even remember the story of the Good Samaritan. Fore shame on your name, our name. Turing a corner, I watched her manoeuvring the chair down the uneven, ancient sidewalks, the cobles rattling her decrepit wheelchair. She passed Bvlgari and Armani as a Ferrari and a Maserati sat parked outside. Woman after woman with the oversized blow fly like glasses engulfing their faces, the expensive jewellery blinding me and the aroma of perfume assaulting my nostrils as it nauseatingly lingered in the air. What was she doing here? Even I felt like a stranger here. She kept moving, as if she was any other person in this extravagant setting as passerbys merely rolled their eyes as in utter disgust. Abruptly, one of the rattling wheels fell off and she became unbalance and then thump, cursing those around her under her breath and in a language I could not quite interpret.

Lifting her back up, are you okay?I inquired, although I only got a slight murmur from her, which I could make out as a thank you, as I reattached the wheel. She began to move away but was not succeeding, it was disheartening to watch, I grabbed the handles and began help her along. I queried whats your name, where are you heading? Hesitating and in broken English, Aishe I am heading down there, under the overpass. You are my good Samaritan arent you? A little taken back, Yeah I suppose you could call me that, I havent really been called that before. Is that your home over there? I inquired. I noticed the conditions in where she lived. There were bags of what looked like rubbish stacked in piles in different places on the grass that appeared as though it had never been cut. Fire lit up the underside of the overpass, stemming from old and used barrels that provided the gypsy camp with a slight amount of warmth and something to cook over. Mentally I asked myself how anyone could possibly live here but people will do what they can to survive in this world. She noticed my disapproving expression. Home... home? You really think I have a HOME? My home is where ever us gypsies are allowed until the authorities get fed up with us... we are always strangers replied Aishe. She spat and cursed a string of expletives which I assumed were aimed at the Roma police force. She looked me up and down, noticed my crucifix. So you are a believer, but you don't know much about gypsies? Look at this, it may not be much but this is a little statue of one of my people... and I want you to have, as thanks for showing me there are still decent people in this world. I was touched but even before I could open my mouth to say my thanks, she had already begun her descent towards the gypsy camp. As I was walking back I stopped at the Vatican once more, holding my cross, I glazed at this faded gypsy statue. The late afternoon Roman sun was setting as the day was ending and so was this portion of my experience. I realised that I may not be the most overly religious person and I may not of had an epiphany, but my faith seems stronger for what I have been through after just one day here which is more than what I was hoping for my whole time here. I guess, like in the parable of the Good Samaritan, I must go and do likewise for others.