Andrew Tonn Photography LLC

A group of children from a local orphanage had been brought to the medical brigade for free dental work one day. One boy strode fearlessly into the room, sat himself in the dentist’s chair, and declared that his name was Bogdan. Several days later, I saw him again at the orphanage, laughing and joking with his friend who was wearing a clown’s nose.

The Roma settlement documented in this exhibit is the most impoverished location that I’ve ever photographed. I shot several frames of this girl as she followed me during my visit. In her plain white shift, she seemed to float above the mud and squalor.

The young Reverend David Arpad was my driver, translator and “fixer.” One day I accompanied him on his ministerial duties and visited “the aged and infirmed” of his flock. This couple lived on the edge of a small town. They liked to work in their garden and stay close to their tiny house. The husband told me that he and his wife had been soldiers once and had met in the Soviet Army. After sharing their personal history, he remarked, “…but that was long ago when we were young.”

On a hot, humid midsummer day, I encountered this group of female patients from the Transcarpathian Regional Mental Hospital. The women had been led down to a nearby meadow of thick grass, flowers and stinging nettles. Mountain streams and deep forest bordered the meadow. Although it would be months before any leaves would fall, these women were made to rake as a form of therapy. It was unusual, since there was nothing for the metal teeth to collect.

Martha Siegel, a SARA Mission Team Leader and occupational therapist, often speaks of a young boy named Adam. She had worked with him for many years before his death. She was honored to share her experience with this dear boy. In her words:

I first met Adam in the summer of 1999. He slipped into my heart and remains there today. He had the most severe case of unresolved hydrocephalus that I had ever seen. Over the years, I would visit Adam and provide training to the staff at the orphanage on how to provide proper care for the children. How happy I was to return and see that he was drinking from a cup and being fed from a spoon. In his thirteen years of life, he had never been able to sit up, since his neck could not support the weight of his head. He inspired me with his infectious giggles. Then I learned that in his thirteenth year he passed away. When a child dies, we all feel the gravity of the situation. In the case of Adam, my faith tells me that he is out of that little bed and free of pain. Run free my little man, and I'll hear your giggles in my heart until we meet again. Blessings of Joy, your Marta Neni.

The Roma children crowded around me…laughing, pushing one another, and posing for the camera. This sad-faced girl smiled like the others, but only when she thought I was looking.

This Roma man and woman struck me as a good couple - full of humor and affection for one another. In each shot, they exchanged looks as if to say, “Who is this guy taking our picture?” In this particular photo, their shared look seems to say, “Well, he seems odd but harmless enough.” They were right.

One day we visited a school for Roma children. This boy had just received a new puppy and kept it very close to him. He wouldn’t allow any one to else hold it. It was clear that he had something of his own, and would not let it go.

This elderly woman had been in the mental hospital for some time, and carried her prayer book everywhere she went. Each time I took her photo, she’d read from the book, cross herself, and make another sign to ward off the Evil Eye.

This mother stood in front of her half-finished, mud brick house, and pointed to the holes in the walls covered with cheap blankets. She said that no one would help her complete her house, and then demanded that we do so. When I had no answer for her, she turned and walked inside. At her mother’s departure, this little girl began to smile, and asked that I take her picture.

During my visit to Transcarpathia, I stayed at the home of this great-great-grandmother of a local family. She ruled the house and its four younger generations firmly and quietly.

As I stood outside the women’s ward on my second visit to the Transcarpathian Regional Mental Hospital, I watched from the distance as the women watched me. I smiled, and then they smiled. I gestured to my camera, and they indicated that it was acceptable to take their picture. I raised my camera, focused, and they arranged their dresses and patted their hair into place. I gave them a moment to get ready. Just as I was about to depress the shutter, one of the women reached down, removed her shoe, and set it atop her head.

In farm country, every spare piece of land was dedicated to growing food. Every house had grapes on trellises, climbing up walls and cascading over patios and driveways. Sitting quietly in the sun near the ripening grapes, this man watched over generations of his family one Sunday after church.

As the village council led me through the Roma settlement, we were followed by a group of curious children who ran immediately to my camera. We stopped by a wall that the city had built specifically to isolate the settlement. When I focused my camera on this young girl, she raised her arms in the manner of a trained dancer or a bird taking flight. As I depressed the shutter release, her friend reached over and took her hand.

At a home for the elderly, I enjoyed a special moment with a gentleman who had been a jazz musician in his youth. He was told that I was an American. Using a picnic table to beat out a rhythm, we had an impromptu jam session and played Glenn Miller’s Chatanooga Choo Choo. While we played, I noticed this woman’s beaming smile. Once she was made aware that I was an American photographer, she lit up and clasped her hands…just in time for me to capture this image.

While visiting this kind widow, I watched as she yanked up a bunch of nettles with her bare hands and chopped them up with a rusted knife to feed her chickens and rabbits. I was told that she read the Scriptures every day. She’d read the Bible from beginning to end, write the date in the back, and begin the ritual again. I asked her to read to me. Although we did not understand one another’s language, we shared a moment with God’s words.

This man approached me at the mental hospital, and told me in calm, but halting English, that he was not crazy like the other people around him. He then showed me the anarchy symbol that he had carved into his own arm with a knife. He offered me a cigarette, a valuable commodity in that institution. It seemed rude to refuse, so we smoked together in silence, having exhausted the conversation.

Aided by a translator, this great-grandmother told me that she truly missed her family. Her sons, daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren had brought her to the mental hospital. After explaining her situation, she added, “…but maybe it’s better this way.”