This Week's Visa Issues

Everyday there's a new development. Last Tuesday I had another prospect for someone to register me: Baba Valya, whom I sometimes sit and drink tea with outside. In my desperation I asked my landlord if he'd be willing to let me stay longer if I raised my rent. He was obstinate in his decision. He would have his apartment back. But he would help me ask some neighbors. This is how we came to ask Baba Valya. She'd already known of my situation. After talking for several minutes and a long phone conversation with my Counterpart, we came to an agreement that I could live with her until I found a place to live. But she refused to register me.

The next day I got a call from a friend of mine, Sergei. He wanted me to celebrate his vacation with him and his wife Zhenia by going to the local discotech. I had never been there before but I figured that this might be the last and only chance that I'd ever make it there. So I went and we had a few drinks and danced. I told Sergei about my situation and he was quickly on board to help. His mother lives in Moldova: a potential problem because everyone on the registration papers would need to be present at the passport office. However she was making a trip to Ukraine anyway and it would only take about a day for her to get here. She, the landlady, agreed to register me only if Sergei could get his sister to agree, for the mother has it in mind to hand over the property to her when time comes for it. I'm not sure if she agreed or not, but as it turned out there were other problems. Sergei's mom would only be here for a day and it would be on the weekend. The passport office is only open on Tuesday and Thursday. Furthermore, the property is located in a village outside of town but still technically in the same region. I didn't know if that would fly with Peace Corps. On Thursday, Sergei, Zhenia, and I went to my school to talk to my counterpart, who would inform them about everything that needed to be done. It would prove useless because Sergei would end up canceling on me. He had plans to go to Moldova with his wife for his vacation in a couple days. It was only out of the kindness of his heart that he was willing to go out of his way to make an attempt to help me. I can't blame him.

Back to square one. I figured that it would be wise to start looking ahead at my other options. While I was waiting for Peace Corp's permission to change sites to Kharkiv, I went ahead and got my contacts in the city looking for a place for me to live. I had already had three potential options for people to register me if only Peace Corps would agree to let me change sites. I received a call from my Regional Manager telling me that I could only register in the same town as my workplace (site), which is what is written on the documents that Peace Corps gave me. And because my site is in Shevchenkove and I would try to register in Kharkiv, it would technically not be abiding by the rules. Peace Corps would not give me new documents for a site change. So it came down to getting someone to register me in my town or leaving Ukraine. I said that I would try going to the passport office, despite the discrepancy in my paperwork just to see what would happen. But of course, I would have to wait until Tuesday. On Monday, I would meet with Karina to talk to her University about getting free housing in exchange for a de facto Peace Corps Volunteer.

The weekend passed with sleepless nights, the first bad slumber I've had since I saw Paranormal Activity. On Monday I went to Kharkiv to meet with my friend Karina. The meeting with her University staff went pretty well. Things looked up but I just couldn't get my hopes up. You always expect something to go wrong. I then went to my friend Christina Volodomirivna's office. She is the one who agreed to register me and also happens to be in a pretty high up position in the Kharkiv educational administration. Meanwhile I got a call from my Regional Manager telling me that I had no option but to COS (Close of Service [we sometimes use “COS” as a verb]). I then pleaded to let us at least try going to the passport office because one never knows until one tries. 

I went home that night and called my Counterpart. She was aware of the situation and had better integrity than me. She refused to go through with the process due to the discrepancy in my paperwork. She had a lot more to lose than me because she and the school would be responsible. The consequences that they'd face, if there were any administrative action, would be much more severe than mine. And with that phone call it became clear. I would have to COS. Now I have less than three weeks to get everything done: paperwork, grant, medical & dental appointments, and goodbyes.

But even with all this, there just may be a silver lining. Once I COS, Peace Corps has no business with what I do with my life. Therefore, I can leave the country and reenter as a private citizen, “visiting” and leaving within the 90 day period, which is actually better than extending to December. This is what I originally wanted: to extend just long enough to do ABC Camp in the summer plus maybe one more (Harry Potter Camp) and have enough time to say my goodbyes and plan my next steps. But for now, my next step is to pack up and leave my apartment, because I have until the 15^th to be out of here. And meanwhile, I wait to hear back from the immigration office to see if my plan to reenter is feasible.  

Humbly Digging Trenches

Last Tuesday I went to school donning my work clothes to work on my school's HIV/AIDS memorial garden, part of my project funded by PEPFAR (President's Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief). We planted red roses in the shape of the HIV ribbon, painted benches with statistics and ribbons, and will erect a memorial stone in honor of those that died of HIV. Though the plan was to have the garden ready by the Last Bell Ceremony for the previous week where we would have an unveiling ceremony, there we were still working. Actually, there were two last bell ceremonies, split up thus because of the UEFA cup that is to take place this June in Ukraine, making for a pretty awkward ceremony. The schools in Ukraine have been moving their last bells and graduation ceremonies up so that it would not coincide with the UEFA tournament. My garden would miss both deadlines. We were supposed to work on it on Monday. Actually, we were supposed to work on it all of the previous week, but one of the school groundskeeper's mother had passed away and the other was sick.

So there I was, diligently stabbing the soil with a shovel, digging a small trench along the 138 meter perimeter of the garden for the borders while blisters slowly formed on my palms, thinking about all the uncertainty and mishaps that I'm drowning in. I and my school staff have been burdened by my visa situation. I had to leave the country a few weeks ago in order to re-enter and get a new visa. Within about a month of my re-entry, I need to get myself registered. Ukraine passed this law recently requiring foreigners to register in their place of residence. As we can't own any property here, it takes a landlord or host family to do this. Nobody is willing to register me because to register someone as a retiree requires one to give up one's government subsidy. Almost everyone in my town is a retiree. Even the ones that aren't retirees have this misconception that if one registers someone to their residence, that person can somehow claim ownership of the property. In short, it is going to be an ordeal.

A camp that I was supposed to work at in June got postponed to an indefinite date due to a food poisoning outbreak. It is the same school that I trained at two years ago in Obuhiv. It was supposed to take place from June 1-10. Up until today, when I called the director to see if there was any news, I had no clue when to expect to go.

My neighbor, Viktor, just passed away a few days ago. My only interactions with him consisted of hellos, good days, and the numerous times he came to my door begging to let him borrow cash for “bread”, which we both knew was for beer. Sometimes he'd do the low bow, putting his head to the ground, reminiscent of the buffoon, Fyodor Pavlovitch from The Brothers Karamazov. The other day I was walking back from school to find the funeral procession taking place outside of my apartment building. I stood there and witnessed the sad scene taking place.

My landlord had told me some weeks ago that he wants to move back into his apartment, effectively kicking me out. Amid the frenzy of looking for both an apartment and someone to register me, last week I asked my neighbors if I could move in with them and they agreed. Natasha and her mother Yeva would take me in happily. A few days later I found that though they could still allow me to live with them for the remainder of my extension they wouldn't be able to add me to their apartment registration because their documents were outdated. Natasha had a sister that passed away about 10 years prior and they never updated their registration document. Well at least I had a place to stay. That is, until just a few days later, they notified me that Natasha's dad from Russia is moving back in with them. Once again, I'm homeless. Now I'm taking it day by day, waiting for a call telling me that someone's found an apartment for me and that someone is willing to register me. And with each passing day I get a little more nervous that I'm going to be deported. My visa expires on the 30^th of this month. I'm torn. My plan is to stay and I'll do everything I can to do so. But going home is going home.

Digging those trenches felt so symbolic of my current experiences. Two years into my service, ready to extend, I find myself jumping through hoops to get registered. People coming and going. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Like graves, I dug those trenches. Toil. Uncertainty. I dug knowing that I'd never really see the roses flower until I came back, if I ever come back. I just realized that we planted the other red flowers in order to have something to show until the red roses actually bloomed. I won't be able to see the final results of my project.

The toil felt like one of the few certain things to me at that moment. I literally didn't know (still don't) whether I'd have a place to live in the coming weeks or if I'd get a call to come to Obuhiv suddenly. All I knew was the task in front of me, the raw flesh oozing pus from my palms, my shoulders and arms burning from the monotonous work of digging. It was humbling. Not in the way that people misuse when they get a Grammy or an Academy Award and say, “Wow. Thank you. This is truly humbling”. No. I felt utterly humbled, humiliated, downtrodden. And I really mean it. When all your plans fall through and you have to take everything day to day, that is humbling. When you find yourself digging trenches literally and figuratively, that is humbling. When people around you are dying and you realize that one day someone will be digging a hole for you as I was doing at that moment, that is humbling. I was reminded of the first two chapters of Ecclesiastes.

And I can't help but think that maybe that is me thinking most clearly. In light of Truth, I was put in my place.

“Now listen, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money,' Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, 'If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that.'” - James 4:13-15