Among my encounters, there is one that remains especially dear to me: my meeting with the American writer Paul Mandelbaum. His mother had Romanian roots, and he came to Bucharest following the traces of her memories. This is how I discovered a sensitive and profound man. The evening we spent together stayed with me because of the intensity of our confessions. Nothing in this world moves me more deeply than the adventure of identity.
Many nations mingle in my blood as well—a Balkan world that I often see advancing through history. My ancestors come from far away, from ancient times. Some were Aromanians who came from Montenegro. They sought salvation by repeatedly crossing the Danube, hiding to the north or to the south, depending on how the winds of history were blowing. Other ancestors emerged from the vast Byzantine world, from the Ottoman labyrinth, after confrontations or alliances with the Slavs. Countless peoples passed through the Balkans, and whenever I look back into the past, one crucial point keeps coming to mind: Varna. A place of passage, a place of refuge, where names do not matter. Perhaps this is why a name itself can sometimes serve as a form of cover.
I remember a history lesson about the bravery of a Bulgarian tribe. Their sacrifice impressed many, and although their empire lasted only briefly, the legend spread—and with it the habit of presenting oneself as Bulgarian. Traveling Vlachs, scattered Cumans, Germanic tribes, post-Roman populations, and especially Slavs, whenever they wanted to assert themselves or make room in the world, claimed to be Bulgarian. The name had become a brand; precise identity no longer mattered. Yet in critical moments, the ancestral language reminded them where they came from, and with it, the place of origin resurfaced.
I believe that, from time to time, human beings are compelled to reflect on identity—especially when they fall in love, when they search for their counterpart.
Every love story contains, at its core, a crisis of identity.
To love means to give up a part of yourself—or to donate it—to accept contamination.
As I finish today the novel Nas de bulgar, the sequel to Ferenike, my meeting with Paul and his journey to Romania naturally came back to mind—a journey you can read about here:
https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/haunted-in-bucharest-fathoming-my-mothers-homeland-by-talking-to-its-writers/
My novel is not directly connected to his story. It is a love story, yet within it lies the long and complicated narrative of my own historical legitimation.
