cannot fall down these stairs, I screamed inside my head. The boy shifted a little, opened his mouth
and made some noises, but otherwise did not move or even seem to recognize that anything was
happening. He was fairly light, and the blankets were clean, but I could feel a bony shoulder
thrusting against my left hand. The descent out of the bus took only five seconds but felt like an
eternity. The woman had opened the wheelchair by the time we exited. Soon it would be over.
“Poleka poleka!” she crowed at me. I tried, but was too close to the end. I nearly dumped
the boy into his seat, and he hissed a little with signs of a smile around his lips. His mother
proceeded to fix his blankets and pillow without a word of thanks, and I escaped back to my seat. I
felt the eyes of the remaining passengers on me, but I buried myself back in my book. When I
reached Gostivar I told my host about the incident, and then proceeded to put it out of my mind,
telling myself that I had done well and could feel proud of myself.
Months later it was December, and I had nearly forgotten about the Roma woman and her
disabled son. I again found myself on the road from Gostivar south, this time to Ohrid. While we
were stopped at the station in Kicevo, I happened to glance out the window. A groan escaped my
mouth, and I immediately popped out of my seat and escaped to a spot in the back. The woman and
her son were back, now returning to Struga. I briefly wondered if this was their return from the trip
six months ago, but I was more intent on hiding. I felt guilty, but this time I had no desire to help
them. I had already done my part, though I knew that they would need help getting out again when
the bus got to Podmolje, in order to continue on to Struga. At the moment I was in the clear, as the
ticket collector carried the son ahead as the mother croaked out where to put him. I crouched down
as they took seats a few rows ahead of me. I spent the rest of the bus ride alternately feeling guilty
for not wanting to help or trying to convince myself that it was ok to be selfish sometimes. The
woman had money for her ticket this time, so at least I didn’ need to worry about that. As the bus
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exited the mountains and emerged into the Struga valley, I sensed the woman get out of her seat and
start scanning the other passengers for a strong young man to help when we got to Podmolje. “Da
me pomogas? Dechko! Da me pomogas?” she started asking. The man in the seat across from her
completely ignored her, head stock-still as if she didn’ exist. “Da me pomogas? Da me pomogas??”
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She made her way down the aisle, skirts and scarves swirling around her. I felt a sense of impending
doom, for a rare moment in my life completely unsure what decision to make. She asked a group of
girls in front of me for help, and they very earnestly insisted that the driver should help her. Then
she spied me and started asking me too. I sheepishly glanced at her and then turned away, curling
into something of a defensive fetal position. My biggest concern was that she not recognize me
from months ago. But the girls came to my rescue. “He doesn’ understand you!” they protested,
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having heard me speak on the phone in English earlier. Again they told her that the driver would
help, and she withdrew. I relaxed, and when we got to Podmolje the driver did indeed help. I
breathed a great sigh of relief as the bus pulled away.
Everyone I’ve told this story to has told me that I needn’ feel guilty about not helping the
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woman and her son. Someone did eventually help them, and I had helped them previously. But I
can’ help but let a little voice wonder—don’ I have some kind of duty to her, as, say, an American?
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Aren’ I supposed to show some kind of even hand to all peoples, regardless of race, color, or creed,
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to help in any way I can? I have been disgusted by the way I’ve seen Roma treated in Macedonia
more than once, but here I was participating in it. As of now, I still don’ know how I feel about this
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incident.
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