Foreword

I have the pleasure to present the readers with Lidia Muraru’s second book. She is a Romanian Christian who has become very familiar to the Romanian Christian Community when she left the country, for a period of time, more precisely to India. Lidia, from our point of view, has become a pioneer missionary for the Christian young generation.
Beginning in the year 2000, Lidia made several missionary trips to the country of millions of gods, India. Once there, she faced another kind of world than that which she was used to knowing, and which Romanians generally know. Her ministry is full of risks and challenges. It has not been finished yet, and has begun to show its fruit. I am certain that they will be even more visible in the course of time. But the real dimension of her ministry cannot be measured in earthly units of measure, as its real impact is truly known by God only. What we have noticed in the past years is that other Romanians followed her example. Some of them being part of her team in her trips over there.
In Lidia Muraru’s first book published by The New Hope Publishing House, “Love’s Flood," we have discovered the roots of Lidia’s special calling for a special ministry. In this “India Diary” we are seeing how God carries out the next stage of His plan for Lidia’s life. He sends her to perform a marvelous ministry as a missionary. I am positive God has given her a special gift too. If we add Lidia’s gift of a journalist (one of her professions) we are presented an image of a Christian prepared, not only for doing mission in India, but also for catching clichés of Indians’ everyday life as suggestively as it can be. It is a life with all sorts of strange and unnatural customs, and also, with religions and beliefs which like in Paul’s case, “provokes one’s spirit within” and tests seriously one’s faith in the true God.
This second book of Lidia’s, published by the New Hope, gathers together the articles published in “My Diary” devotional magazine keeping most of the form and contents that were published in several issues of the magazine. Lidia’s stories are only sketches of the complex life of India at which she is an active participant, but their great quality is that through the lively used language makes us be with her at the events or state of mind she is describing.
Our hope is that this book will captivate the Christian youth’s interest, and that its reading will help them to support in prayer Lidia Muraru’s missionary ministry.

Tinu Leontiuc
The New Hope, Timisoara




I have learned…

I have looked over the world
learning from the autumn
to let it fall
as its leaves do,
over the ages,
over the days and years together
like this…
to let it flow from my soul too.

I have learned from the winter
laying over the world
like this…
as it lets itself falling in drops
of snowflakes
I have dropped too
from my soul,
my lamentations.

I have written in words
learning from the seasons
from their wisdom
like this…
I have let myself to fall,
to flow,
to lay myself over the world with my words,
… my soul.

Lidia Muraru





Pro-India


India is an idolatrous country. There are more than 33 millions of known gods. The reincarnation philosophy is predominant in Hinduism. The Christian percentage of the population is only 2%. The Hindu people comprise 83%, 11% for Muslims, another 4% includes Buddhists, Siki, tribal religions and others. India is considered to be a subcontinent. Its population exceeds 1 billion people. The Caste System is still obeyed as a social organization. India is one of the poorest countries in the world. The average age is 60 years. Misery, disease, poverty, and lack of education are hard to imagine for foreigners.
The dire poverty of those in the inferior castes is utterly unspeakable. Idolatry and the faith in reincarnation lead to a philosophy of “fate." They are doomed by gods to whom one is to submit humbly without any resistance. The caste system makes the equity of human values impossible. The poor must die poor, and the rich make wealth by keeping the inferior castes in slavery. Marriage is respected only among the members of the same caste. Christians are considered as “the degenerated”, being expelled from any caste. Conversion to Christianity is forbidden, and they used to kill the missionaries.
Several aspects of their culture are good to be mentioned so that we will have a clearer image of what Indians’ life is like :
* The animals are considered as gods. Any animal is seen as a human individual with another exterior aspect/form. Vegetarian food is justified by the “non-killing” of human life in any phase of reincarnation cycle. The “holy” cow is given the right of a god.
* The more rats in the house, the more that house will be “blessed."
* Monkey is one of the gods. When it dies, they make a “funeral” and they bring sacrifices. On the other hand, one can see hunger and death at every step. Some have fallen in the streets where they spend their days and lives. The old and the children especially are abandoned by their families, being “doomed” of the gods to endure their “karma”. Starvation, disease are only “maya,” that is, illusions which must be neglected or forgotten.
I was in India several times where, through God’s grace, I had the opportunity to serve the Indians. Of course, there is much to say about these trips. I believe that everything is reduced to the Honor, Glory, Victory, “Applauses” which belong to my Father, the One Who has protected and kept me as the Apple of His eyes, in the purest love. He deserves everything! It is for His love that I wish to make public the great Salvation, the great Calling, the great Commission of which I am a part.
It was difficult, extremely difficult, I was in the pit of death among the corpses of sin, idolatry, dire poverty, and misery. I was there where only God’s hands could help me escape. Courage, strength, patience, all the needed resources came along from the Lord, the One Who gives abundantly to all those who have told Him : “Here I am, send me.”








A Day on India’s Battlefield


I arrived to my destination in India at a late hour. The small probability that someone would await me faded rapidly. I take my luggage returning myself abreast of those who were waiting. A stale smell was wafting in the air. Fatigue is lying heavily on my backbone causing many pains. It’s crowded. Lots of people are sleeping stretched out on the ground. Someone had vomited between the chairs. I see an old woman staggering and she falls backwards with a strange shout. Some women are running to her aid, leaning her against a chair. I look for a place, and take a seat near two young men. Here I spent the entire night waiting for the morning to come so that I could travel safely towards the railway station. My eyes smart, my head twitches, but I am gathering my strength so as not to sleep.
Eventually the day is breaking. I am bargaining with those who ask me three times the charge for the ride. After more than half an hour, I am horrified at the sight before me : misery, beggars, idols, sin and terror.
I make efforts to start off . I struggle to make myself a way through the crowds. I am pulling the luggage with the medicines, school supplies (the essentials of a missionary) after me. Tickets are hard to be found, reservations being done beforehand, therefore I am must look for a hotel. I secure my pieces of luggage waiting for a possible transport to a town where I was to visit a Korean family, who are old acquaintances.
The cost of the room surprizes me,( but without too many comments, after a cold shower in a narrow, old, strange looking bathroom I return to my wooden bed covered with a worn out blanket having an old-like smell, trying to ignore the rats which were strolling about my luggage and the ants which had invaded my bananas and the juice on the table.) NOTE: This whole section needs rework.
I am trying to tame my view deepening myself into the words : “thank God for all things.” Like this, that is by praying I make my soul, my mind, my spirit and… my body quiet. I am falling asleep but just for a short while.
I suddenly wake up astounded at the noise of the strident knockings of angry fists. Someone is yelling at me to open the door. Asking who it is and asking for some minutes to put on my street clothes instead of my pajamas, puzzled, I unbolt , opening the door. Stupefaction ! Three scowling, armed soldiers are looking me up and down. My mind is overwhelmed with assumptions.
I knew that persecution of missionaries in India occurs. I had left Romania ready to die, but should my journey be that short ?
- “We want to check your room and luggage,” a firm baritone voice interrupts me from my thoughts streaming.
The three men, without asking for permission, invade the room (too small for all of us) and I am obliged to lean myself against the wall.
-“The passport, please”, I am asked. Meanwhile some hurried eyes are looking around.
-“What are you doing here ?” I am asked by one of them while he was browsing my ID furiously.
I smile as if a joke was made, at the bitter, terrible thought that occurs to me : “Maybe I will be sent to Heaven this night, or to the airport to return to Romania. These people can send me back.”
All of a sudden I am assaulted with all kinds of questions : Where do I go? What problems do I have? What did I do last time in India? What do I want to do this time? What do I say about the Hindu temples? What do I say about the poor people, whether I wish to help them and how? What do I know about the celebration that was to take place over two days (purification of the soul for all I knew) and other questions I am trying to answer while smiling and trying to control my voice and my English.
At one time I am asked to open my luggage. This troubled me. I had my Bible in there (in English version too) and Bible study materials that could raise suspicion.
“Lord, give me light, save me!” And I open my mouth saying the answer.
- I do not understand why you are doing this to me. I am not sure whether it is right and normal for you to behave like that with a tourist that loves India. My luggage went through the airport, it was all checked, everything is in its place, there is nothing bad on me. If you want to check my luggage at once, do as you wish, but know that it is a mean thought and gesture.
The man in front of me is surprised and he does not resist my sight. He is puzzled and disarmed. He is making his way to the others speaking to them in Hindi. I hardly understand what is happening, but I see them making for the door, one after the other putting their guns on their shoulders.
-“Have a nice day and we apologize for disturbing you” the oldest of them is telling me in a boring smirk.
“A good day” and put the bolt behind them.
I am rushing to my bed, realizing that I am shivering and a feeling of fear and insecurity is trying me. I am checking again to see whether the door is really locked. My God is with me. I am starting to pray, thanking Him for protection and inspiration. Then, I am starting to write my diary on which, behold, these drops were fallen.







“Prayer” to a god


I am at the end of the earth. The ridiculous is at home. Dirt, sickness, poverty, misery… It is as if all at once have met to reign here. Death is common to the eye and it hurts me so much catching sight of it that I have come to discipline my human sensitivity in order to advance through the crowd of dead bodies swallowed by sin. Through all of these one can find here and there bits of jokes, smiling in the face of adversity trying to paint in a tinge of smile for a short present moment, the bitter reality.
Here I am, in the land of gods, India. Their temples are found everywhere. Tens of thousands of gods are spread over the crowded roads, and I am forced to take a roundabout way. There is a famous temple in front of me. The mob flows inside of it. I am carried by the wave of people before I decide whether to go there or not. At the gate of the building we are asked to leave our footwear outside so that we do not “profane” the place, getting in exchange of our sandals some plates engraved with registered numbers.
I am stepping barefooted. The pavement is hot and dirty with the sense that I am stepping over the back of a just skinned snake. A little girl carefully holds her plate with rice closely to her thin body covered with a sort of an old dress that lets her back uncovered under the harsh hole. Perhaps it is just a helping of her daily food. A lot of children are beggars in the markets or they are working hard at the rich’s husbandries for only a handful of rice. Our little girl has not forgotten to bring her god some food from her own. She is stepping carefully onwards, worshipping profoundly, bending herself before a statue that was four or five times bigger than her revealing an old monkey face, severe, holding a golden club in the front paw. Its flagging ears remind me of the bell of a hermit’s solitary world.
I feel the little girl’s fear to the backbone. She seemed paralyzed, hypnotized at the terror that stood in front of her. It was as if she woke up from a nightmare and offered the plate to the god quickly. She is worshipping once again. She puts it slowly aside taking some of the her portion of rice and bringing it near the monster’s body.
She is staying quite long doing her worshipping ritual under my merciful eyes struggling with myself more and more with every moment that passes and now it goes too slowly. My soul is boiling! I wish everything disappeared like a lightning, everything that my eyes are witnessing which I close now and run escaping through prayer. “Lord, forgive us all : them for all they are doing, us the others, for not doing what we should. ”
The little girl left… The food of the god is in front of it without being tempted to eat. It is still and motionless. Perhaps it is not hungry! Yet, because of the little girl’s sake maybe it will lower itself to have a taste. A moment, two, three… I am waiting smiling trying to control myself so that I should not break the ridiculous created atmosphere that was produced and have somebody embarrassed.
But how could one help laughing when, all of a sudden from that god’s “throne” there appeared families of rats, smaller or bigger, older, more colored, of all kinds and qualities and having their tails stained with blood because of the beatings which are starting again now beside the god’s image helplessly left. There is nobody to protect it. Other mice appear. It’s like an anthill. My eyes have never seen such a squeak and fermentation. The rice disappears faster than I could imagine. The food of the god finds its place in the mice’s bellies.
I am looking at it all thinking like this : if that god could speak I would hear it crying desperately : “Lord, deliver me from the rats, Lord, deliver me from these starvings, for they always invade me leaving me hungry. Lord, I will die of starvation. What am I going to do ? Lord … !” And the temple would shake.
But here it is the just a helpless, poor god under the stir of the rats. It is luck that its image was not made of rice as it would not have been left anything of itself!
This prayer to a god makes us laugh, but who can smile at the sight of all those who are worshipping the gods?
Lord, forgive us all : forgive them as they do what they do, forgive us for not doing what we should for their salvation.


Yell and Echo


“I am an Indian from Mahala." It is as if I have been silent for a lifetime. Today I will cry out breathing the moan of death nestled in each and every cell within me. I was born on a neck of land : India. Who ever knows whether this is a single country, or if it is a continent if hundreds of languages are being spoken here, and the colors of our bodies vary from black to the vague white? It is a crowded world.
Of every six people one of them is born among us bringing an extra burden to us. The earth cannot find its quietness anymore under the weight of our feet. We are transforming it in the thick dust, turned yellow and dirty, which corrodes our lungs as we inhale it and spits it out with blood and puss. The fields do not give their sap anymore swallowed by the drought and the hot summers with raised temperature up to 50 degrees Celsius degrees. Swallowing not only plants and animals but also humans alive, making them incurably sick.
The clouds pass us by, and whenever one is on the sky it brings heat behind it, taking vengence by pouring the specific monsoon of the season. Flooding begins and the storms bring about its victims. Epidemics cut off ruthlessly. The swollen and foamy rivers gather, scattering everything in their way.
Behold the hut in which I live. The straws that cover my head, the four bricks that hold my coals (out of cowpat) burning so that I can bowl my rice, the clay-made bed, a dirty and shabby blanket, the only room for the too many children. Is it not the place of poverty which stretches out its sticky body, ruling at ease?
The water is poison without boiling it, the handful of rice is mixed with stones and sand, squashing my teeth, making me disgustedly spit out the only dish I can afford. And I must not forget that I also have to feed the gods from my portion. They demand, all thousands of gods demand. My worship is crying out desperately even in the voice of my first born whom I gave as sacrifice. Their place is the temple. It is a palace built with hard work to give shelter to the elephants, the monkeys, the snakes, and the other graven creatures' images.
Here they burn incense to the gods unceasingly. They bring them their everyday food which becomes food for thousands of rodents, swallowing a fourth of the annual harvest approximately. The cow is holy to me. It has the right to help itself from wherever it wills.
The markets stretch the stalls with vegetables. Accross the road are the restaurants where the animals enjoy their everyday food, undisturbed, just in the salesmen’s eyes who are being given as a reward for their generosity the portion of excrements just beside their stalls. Heaps of garbage hardly make way to the streets. Insects and mosquitoes of the kind feed on my body as though sucking my marrow too. I am a human being, but I am left as a skeleton. I am getting old prematurely. My skin is getting dry on my bones wrinkling my ugliness. Children have no access to any education. They have never seen crayons, story books, toothbrushes, Christmas gifts, lights, fireworks. Their weak bodies covered with a rag call the diseases which cannot be sent away because of the shortage of medicines.
I am a man, but my belief says that I am abreast of animals. I do not care if I die. I will be transformed into a new appearance, going on my life with a bit of luck and aid from the gods, perhaps to get to their temples and have the happier life of a rat. I have two legs but the animal instincts are not at all domesticated, making me urinate and spit in front of anyone without any shame.
I work like an animal. I draw the yoke in the place of the ox protecting it. I live for the rich, building bricks from dawn to twilight to receive my payment only to buy my rice, my daily bread and perhaps the hot radishes or some seeds to boil. The chewing tobacco turning my teeth red makes my stomach inactive as well as the life I am left to live. At the sight of the leprosy I am hypnotized. Even the trees are strangled, squeezed of their vigor under the choke of parasite plants around them, fading them away, stripped of the green that died out all at once.
A gleam of hope… To cry out, to speak my words, then be quiet again, perhaps for good. Now, I am waiting to be just the echo which will turn back in the same shout into my ear that has never heard about God who can save me. I have breathed and moaned. That’s all I could do.” That was all?



My God and her Gods


Yesterday I was at my pastor’s house (in which I live) enjoying my devotional time. It is one of the places which brings me the quietness and the spiritual charge I need in order to resist the multitudes of demons I deal with daily.
At one time I hear footsteps behind me. A girl aged 17-18 was slowly getting close. She asks for permission to stay next to me. I make some place moving off my guitar which I was holding now on my arms as a holder for my open Bible and striking up a conversation at the same time :
-I am Lidia. What is your name ?
-I am Ismita (a famous Indian name). I heard you singing and I want to hear it sitting next to you. What are you singing ?
- I am praising my God, I am talking to Him, I am worshipping Him.
- Who is your God ? Are you a Christian ?
I start speaking to her introducing my God to her, striving to be as simple as I can in my words, asking her who her god is. I knew she was a Hindu.
- I have many gods : Ram, which is strong, his wife, Cito, the cow, the elephant’s spirit, the monkey’s spirit… (and she continues to enumerate many other names). Ram is in heaven and after I die I will change myself into a star and live in his house.
- My God is Almighty. He created the heavens and the earth. Do you know that your gods are worshipping my God ?
We spent a lot of time, each of us talking and presenting her gods and my God. I was asked to keep singing. I saw interest on her face. She started singing with me. My heart was filled with peace and hope that one day, perhaps right away, she will meet with my God. The next day she invited me to her place to show me her gods. She has lots of them. I was surprised when she began crooning in Hindi one of the songs I had sung in the previous day : Jesus is good, He came down to earth to die for me. A tear hid under my eyelid ready to fall… Lord, let her accept You as the only God, even if it is well known that this will bring her total rejection of her family.



Christmas in India



It is warm. No trace of snow. The stir of the common day announces nothing special. The streets are crowded and dirty, just like before. In shops, only in few, one can see little Christmas trees made of colored paper, hung carelessly in sight. Santa Clauses and little bells cry at the careless passers-by in like manner to remind them there is a celebration. (Waits), lights dances, snow, adorned trees, fruit, cakes and pound cakes smells, happy families, packed churches, all of these are only memories, a dream that force me accept the poverty of a country without Christ.
A tear is hiding in my soul and a knot in my throat stops my breath. Lord, I am here to let there be Christmas, let there be Light. You came down to earth in a stable for me, now I am going to stables to bring Your Birth.
In the vast outskirts on the river’s shore, in huts made of straw, on its narrow streets with dust that makes one’s feet dip into it deeply chopping one’s burning heels, I am walking down along with three Christian young men to tell the poor that Jesus was born to die for them too. A carol, two carols… David, a former Hindu priest is looking for simple words to make himself clear speaking about Jesus, the heavenly gift, and the significance of Christmas. After the message, we hand out booklets and New Testaments to the few ones who know how to read.
We are overwhelmed with deep peace looking at those who are scrutinizing the divine pages and at the children who are hastily swallowing the doughnuts and candies received as Christmas presents. Unexpectedly it is getting dark. Today it is Christmas. For whom ? It is like an old story. Yet, today Christ’s Birth was proclaimed, for the first time to these Indians. They received a Christmas present for the first time.
Some children stick to us till we arrive at the entrance of the town. Their little dirty hands stick to our clothes desperately. A painful, merciful weeping throbs into my whole being. My prayer becomes a silent groan wondering myself whether there will ever be someone to come to them and offer them Christmas presents. Even if there will be no one to come to them, Lord, make what was sowed today fruitful .



Bihar



I am in India again, in Bihar near the boundary of Nepal and I am ready for the third time to pay the price of the ministry I have been called to do : the mission. In what follows I would like to show you some information which I read in the book India, The World’s Leading Guidebook to India which will help you understand closer to reality what it is the world in which I am living for a while.
Bihar is the poorest state in India. It lies in north-eastern of India bordering Nepal. Strikes, demonstrations, vengeance, war between castes and violence characterize this area. It has the biggest percentage of illiteracy. Banditry is customary. Because of the lack of laws and because the state does not involve in people’s protection few tourists are coming here where one can enjoy some sights : Buddhist panorama, hot springs, waterfalls, several lakes. There are sanctuaries with wild life, but in order to visit them one must have an escort. Band's attacks can take place anytime.
Budgaia is the only place where strangers can be met. It is one of the famous Buddhist centers. If you are a white woman, alone and smoking you will engross people’s attention. Expect that anybody will “stare” at you. Here the biggest cattle market takes place. The town museum has some stone and steel carvings and terra-cotta figures. Also, the longest fossilized tree can be found here. It is 200 million years and 16 meters in length. The botanical garden can enjoy praise with its goat kid having three ears and eight feet.
In Bihar we can also find the Hanuman god having a beautiful altar near the railway station. The oldest mosque is also known to be here. Gul Zarbagh is a former opium warehouse. The pay desk is quite a joke. If you don’t have several hours to wait for your ticket purchase, you should pay extra for it, or you should look for somebody to take care of this.
Wars between castes, strikes, demonstrations, and rapes give Bihar a horrifying name. Few tourists are passing through. Tourist attractions are recommended to be visited along with an escort because of the possibility of bandit attacks. Due to the dire poverty, the rented buses and cars are a sure prey for vagabonds. They stop vehicles by force.
The percentage of illiteracy has always been an alarming one : from 31 millions of illiterate people in 1951, it grew to 58 millions in 1991 when the percentage of the educated was like 38 % of which the percentage of educated women was only 23.19 %. The average of educated people in Bihar is now of 47.53 %. The percentage of teaching women to read and write is much below the national average of this process which is 54%. The caste system is a force which is to be obeyed all over the country. It controls all the political, economical and social relations between individuals.
Extremism and the cult of violence is spread throughout in Bihar. The violent conflicts and slaughters at a high level are now commonplace due to some economical and social reasons.
Women’s lives are quite affected by theculture of violence. Women are not safe either at home or in society or at work because of the terrible collapse in administration and because of the total erosion of civic values. There has been a sudden growing of crimes against women especially since the government of Janata Dal took the power.
Wars between castes, fights between bands, kidnapping, rapes, women’s murders in revolts, all of these are current.
These are only a few of the things that characterize Bihar. In this dark, idolatrous world, where an extra god does not matter at all , I have chosen to serve God in spreading the Gospel especially to the poor from the inferior caste.
In 1998 I participated in a disciple forming program and education in a team from South Korea. Between October 2000 – March 2001 I took part in some projects of educating children, social and medical assistance in the outskirts lain along the Ganges, working in a team of Indian teachers.