Tag Archives: #success

She Survived Genocide and Returned Home to Heal Others

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I act often with fear and bravery chasing each other in my eyes… – Olya Aman

L. is a good nurse, and that alone tells a lot about her. She was born in Rwanda, adopted and raised in Europe. L. moved back to Rwanda when she learned her way and made sure that helping her patients was her aim in life. After the genocide her native country needed support, her least lucky people needed her knowledge.

L. is a fine creature, her big almost black identical in size and shape eyes cause people to confide in her. She learned early on to listen, and this skill proved to be invaluable in her profession.

“Every day is like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again,” she says. “I begin my harum-scarum day and see the transformation, one person at a time.”

“I was 12 when my new parents took me to Europe. I have my first memories linked with horror and fear, loss and grief. Those memories shaped my personality and in some way, I am grateful for the background I have.

“My good, generous and loving parents had to put up with a lot. I was not an obedient child, rebelling at anything and everything. I was in constant emotional pain at least first five-six years or so. The lesson of the genocide period in Rwanda left my whole being in ruins. Nearly one million people were killed. I lost my family, my friends, everything I ever loved.”

“Love and patience helped me to gradually come back to believing again. Jane and Matt—my stepparents—are my rocks in life. I owe them my new self, or, rather, the return of my old happy before-the-horror-self. I remember and I mourn, I often cry, but now mostly because of happy memories.”

“This transformation came with the knowledge that I wanted to make a change. A woman that nursed me in the hospital imprinted the longing for the same profession in me. By that time I knew that Rwanda was in the reconstruction period and the system of health needed human resources. I was going to come back home.”

“The most precious resource of the post-genocide Rwanda was its people. Thousands of community health workers traveled from home to home providing the necessary care. I willingly joined the rural health tribe.”

“The health workers were selected by the villages they served. The people of my native village decided that I would care for them. It was the happiest day of my life.”

“At the end of every day, I am tired and full of joy and sorrow. Both mixed together comprise my life and make it unforgettable. I take both and grateful for both. The new coming day is ever more incredible because of this mixture of emotions and I always start it on a positive foot.”

“I am happy to be home. To lead the life of purpose is stimulating. I often in a state of inward merriment and I encourage myself to prolong this feeling because it is contagious. People around me can feel it and, consequently, become happier from my presence in their life.”

L. is very contented in her profession. She is a link in a chain of remarkable alterations for the better.

L. confided in me and gave her permission to share her story. She only asked to make an emphasis on the happy side of it, showing to my readers the importance of positive, grateful approach to life. She mentioned several times that love saved her sanity, and optimism of her parents, being contagious, helped her to get better physically and emotionally.

The Book Club That Almost Buried My First Book

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I always loved reading and had a great natural aptitude for creating fascinating stories. I finished my book and its manuscript burned my fingers.

I became a member of the ‘Pen-Friends’ club, aspiring authors of my little countrified and old-fashioned town, in the spring of 2011.

When a friend of mine offered to spend a long winter night reading and discussing my manuscript in a company of like-minded people, I rejoiced and agreed with delight. Little did I know what it would make me fear for the sanity of my mind and the soundness of my body.

There wasn’t a nerve in me this experience hadn’t twisted. It wrongs my heart to think that one of my books was so close to being buried in the coffin of a negatively false critic. The true nature of this club made me shiver with repulsion, sell my house, and change my address.

We always met on the dark side of twilight. The owner of the house welcomed everyone with an uncompromising face, hard diction, and vibrating consonants. When I looked thoughtfully enough, I saw a person who admitted nothing and looked down on everybody but himself.

If he could not out-argue me on the point of the value of my book, he bullied me and took my silence for agreement with his views.

Dracula #1 had her hour of victory when with malicious intention she made me believe she was a trustworthy friend. And when my heart was open, she triumphantly ended any amicable intercourse, exchanging it to a pretentious smile. She invented various scenarios to make me feel sorry for the things I’d done and confided to her. Her sudden transformation was the major reason that raced my shadow away from my hometown.

Dracula #2 was not tall, but he carried his head so haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something cunning and sharp in the look of his closely set little grey eyes. He disapproved of every attempt of my authorship experimentations in his engaging, deep, and a little husky voice.

I almost lost an ability to think under a tyranny of his pressing personality. He reasoned well and was driving at making me doubt my book and forsake an idea to publish it.

In the company of these people, I became almost not real anymore. This wretched book club made me forget all my responsibilities toward my family and friends. They had been quite ‘blowing my trumpet’ to win my confidence at the beginning. And at the end, I became a person on whom they exercised their revolting abilities to drain and drench.

That was a lesson to learn and never to be forgotten. I learned to stay positive no matter what happened and what others thought about me. Now nothing can shake the step of my intellectual pace. I believe in myself and in people I love and care about.

I Found 7 Profound Reasons to Be Patient, and It Saved My Family

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I found patience at a crisis in my life… the blessing that greeted my nature – Olya Aman

Keeping the kids nice and neat, the house cozy and welcoming, the food tasty and nourishing—I reduced my restful, sleeping hours to about four a day, comforting myself with thoughts about excellence and perfection of my life.

In three months I felt as if I was groping forward a few steps in my daily life and strolling backward with increasing speed. The little one cried almost every night with no obvious reason. I often lost my temper with my four-year-old.

The growing family forced my husband to accept an offer of higher pay and longer absence from home, often being away on his business trips for weeks in a row. Left alone with kids I could not find energy enough to keep my old acquaintances and friends. I was busy and very lonely.

I kept reproaching myself for lack of attention to my husband and kids. Too often I ended up snappish in my manner.

The atmosphere at home became suffocating. My husband was providing for the wellbeing of our family, and I was devoting myself fully to the kids. Although our generous impulses had the best intentions, the outcome didn’t provide lasting happiness.

I was aching to the distant time of those happy days when my husband was at home every night. The tears I shed on the occasion of his coming home from another business trip caused the sacred emotional transformation. The only solution was to reunite our family, sacrificing some pleasant but unnecessary luxuries on the way.

My husband decided to go back to his old employment with lower pay and higher healthy, meaningful time spent with his family. With each day at home and each family dinner, the healthy and benign atmosphere was coming back to the house.

We abandoned our expensive car for a cheaper and a trifle less comfortable one and our pompous yearly vacations for a lovely countryside escape. When a chain of unlucky events at my husband’s work culminated in his losing the position, we didn’t despair. We lived out of our humble savings and occasional company commissions that I still received now and then.

My husband, freed up from the necessity to go every day to the office, finally could devote his time to his music experiments. He used to compose wonderful pieces when in college.

My husband was shutting himself up in his study at night, interrupting his work for rounds with our crying son. The little creature grew quieter with time, sensing my increasing tranquility. I had my full night’s sleep thanks to my husband’s loving help. Our older son got much attached to his father with his bedtime stories and childish fighting games.

Sometimes the artistic progress was dishearteningly slow. Producing music, though, became more familiar with each failing attempt at reaching the desired effect. I believed in his talent and future success. I encouraged his persistent work.

The daily treadmill of our home life was sweet and enchanting, notwithstanding the portioned to us hardships. I liked to see my husband, to hear him about the place and at his music work.

One year left us with a feeling that we’ve accomplished a lot of good for our family, which no money could buy. The second year brought the first small yet increasingly delightful music projects. My husband and a few of his college friends got back together and created a small-movie company.

All three of their movies presented at the festivals didn’t gain recognition. My husband became an instigator and a powerful motivator for his small company lot.

His music grew strange, turbulent and insistent, soft and plaintive—and the movie they produced with not much money but with great blissful inspiration became a winner.

The Train Compartment

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Let us be acquainted with my childhood friend Marta.

She is my noble and generous friend. Noble not by birth but by her personal qualities, virtues of the heart. Our strange friendship started in the first grade and ended in the 8th… to be renewed with the boldness, freedom, and maturity of womanhood.

When in school, Marta used to make fun of everyone in a boisterous manner. When someone came to the class with a new school bag the classmates used to say, “Marta will be mad before long, you wait and see.” And sure to the word, she gave enough time to lamentations that all the kids were ready to swallow up all the new things they had before Marta could lay her envious eye on them. They called her ‘the practical’ because of her love for all material things.

I rarely had anything popular at the time: the cool gadget pet that you can feed and it grows into a funny fat cat or a scary huge beast; the pretty multicolor pants all girls adored and considered the only possession that can pave you a way to a popular kids’ group; the denim backpack with numerous pockets, belts and buckles that every boy and a girl had; the list is endless. The lack of those things made my life a nightmare sometimes. I was an outcast in old neatly looking pants, and a sweater my mom made with so much love that I felt her hugging me each time I heard a bullying accusation. I looked so lovely in it, which made every teacher adore me. And… yes, I was hated for that even more.

Marta’s parents were respected doctors with busy schedules and no time for sentiments. She was well dressed, well fed, well groomed… and not loved enough. There were no grandparents to substitute the lack of genuine affection, her whole being was craving for.

She started to take a fancy to me mostly because I seldom had anything worth her attention and I liked her, because she was the only child walking home with me. My friendship happened to be the most precious thing for the child that could have everything in her life but for sincere affection.

After 8th grade, we’ve lost each other. Marta and her family moved to live in the nearby city, and I stayed in my native village till graduation.

A few years ago, a nice-looking woman entered my train compartment. The long trip to the far-away city was shortened to a thought provoking and tears causing conversation.

I wanted Marta to make the running. The inner writer and explorer of human mines raining in me. I was resolved to persevere in my silent patronage of the conversation.

Marta gave voice to her inner child, and we cried bitterly and laughed heartily at the memories of a girl who considered gifts to be the merits of love. A girl who could ill bear when someone had things she considered pretty and nice. She thought that meant someone was loved more — and that notion was painful for a child deprived of a genuine feeling.

That day in the compartment Marta looked contented. Strong character was visible in the physiognomy of this young woman with her big unmoving eyes, her almost lipless mouth, and a high intelligent forehead. Marta carried herself with confidence. There was not even a passing feeling of irritation, only that physical beauty that comes from the loving energy inside.

I was not able to take my eyes off her. She radiated positive energy and every word she shared was saturated with thoughtful consideration. I couldn’t help thinking that the person in front of me was not the Marta I knew.

When I asked her about the turning point, the element in her life that caused this alteration, Marta fell silent for a moment, so much taken up with her thoughts that her eyes seemed to stop seeing.

The loss she endured was painful enough to make her think of what she could have exchanged for a life given back. Her parents didn’t have time to love her, but she loved them with every cell of her body and every vibe of her soul. She was only 18 when an unchained element of nature left her an orphan, her parents’ car being smashed from the road by a violent gust of wind, both her mom and dad dying instantly.

It seemed like a dream, or fiction, or chimera. Vulnerable and insecure, Marta was left alone to think about the present. The past was gone, but the future was hers. Anything in that timeframe of days bygone and days to be still lived was compared to that particular incident.

I could see into the inside of her nature with the eyes that understand and the heart that can weep in unison with her soul. I lost my father in a car accident only a few months prior to our meeting with Marta. I finally had a person who spoke to my heart with the words it could understand.

Life, after having handled her so roughly, seemed now was willing to teach her the survival skills. She found the diary her mother had, and that precious notebook was full of tender words her mother seldom voiced but no doubt felt — and that was the only thing that mattered.

Marta was not going from then on, she was led by love. The exhilarating effect that love has, changed her understanding of true values. Any envious feeling towards material possessions of others disappeared like a star lost in the distant darkness of the horizon.

Her salvation was in a feeling of gratitude. Her beauty was in the desire to devote her life to the people she loved.

Marta had no family left. She decided to have a big one comprised of abandoned children, orphans. She volunteered for many years in various orphanages around the country and abroad. Marta’s family left her a substantial legacy which she spent on education and donated to different causes.

She witnessed life undisguised, seldom gentle and often cruel. Her experience made her compassionate and generous. Marta favored a minimalist approach to material possessions. She became a passionate advocate of children’s rights. Her dream was not to have a luxurious house and an expensive car, but a tiny home full of love and child’s laughter.

Our shared journey was coming to an end. Marta waited silently for any fresh question that I could have, being a little tired from all the various emotions she forced herself to go through again. She surely satisfied all legitimate curiosity, and I let her rest and husband her strength, joining her in contemplation of a succession of low hills and rich forests outside the window.

Marta became an active, vigorous woman, and even now I can see her in my mind’s eye being happy in her chosen career. She is a therapist working with at-risk youth.

She rarely breathes a word of her private misgivings, but always opens a listening spot in her busy schedule for a friend who needs some consolation. And she offers her love with that shy grace that is so very charming.

Marta and her husband do not give up hope to have their own kids. For over 10 years, they failed to conceive. They adopted a two-year-old girl and a 13-year-old special needs boy, two siblings whom they didn’t want to separate. Every time I visit my native country, I go to their house to get the feeling of unconditional love. This family is happiness personified. Her daughter experiments with my hair and her son makes me play all known table games with him. I go home with my hair tangled and my heart singing.