4-year-old Aloshya looked different than the other children waiting for us at the Changing House in Gorky Park, Moscow. His head was too big for the rest of his body.

His skin was tinged blue. A woman, whom I assumed was his mother, was holding him. My interpreter Andre noticed me noticing Aloshya. 

“He is a water head baby,” he whispered.  “A hydrocephalic.”

I was there at the invitation of Alya, the woman who ran the Healthy Boys and Girls Club of Gorky Park.  I had met her in an apartment in the outskirts of Moscow—a meeting arranged by my Soviet friend and journalist Andre, whom I had just met two days before. “She’s an amazing woman,” he told me.  “She does healing work with story like you do.  I think you would really like her.” 

That was an understatement.  The moment our eyes met, I knew this woman was special.  She appeared to be in her mid to late 40’s, her skin was clear and her eyes were penetrating.  Alya did not speak English and my Russian was limited to a few phrases so Andre served as our translator.

“About ten years ago, I had cancer,” she said.  “And I healed myself through diet, meditation, exercise and thinking positive thoughts.  I now teach these things to others.”

I was astonished because in the mid 80’s, these kinds of ideas were discouraged in Soviet-controlled Russia. I found it difficult to be allowed to visit orphanages and hospitals serving the needs of special needs children because they were off limits to foreigners.  When I asked about alternative therapies, I was greeted with a polite, “We do not have such things here.”  People found Alya and the Healthy Boys and Girls Club through a complex underground network.  If her activities became too public, Andre confided in me, she would be shut down. The club met weekly deep in the forest of Gorky Park, which is comprised of some 300 acres.  Each week she taught families new ways to think, eat and how to heal themselves. 

“You are a healer, too,” she told me gently touching my face. “Let me tell you a fairy tale.  About you.”

With that she sat me down on the couch next to her and took both my hands. Andre translated her words into English. My eyes never once left her face.

“There was once a young girl who could heal people with the sound of her voice.  She did not understand the power of her gift but whenever she opened her heart to another and told them a story, they would feel the sound of the words in their bodies and they would experience a healing. People tried to silence the girl and her gift. They tried to encourage her to do other things that seemed more acceptable to them. She tried, my, how she tried. But she could not silence the gift that was in her.  Even though some people mocked her, and others tried to torment her, and still others told her that the gift she possessed was worthless; she continued to offer her gift to all those who came to her. 

As she grew older and wiser about the ways of human beings, she came to understand that the world needed her gift more than ever.  That gave her the courage to leave her own village and even her own country.  It gave her the courage to travel across the waters to strange and foreign places where she could bring her gift to the people that needed her, especially the children.  She used her gift of telling stories to transmit the spirit that was working through her.  The spirit that connects us all. She understood that her gift was not hers but that she belonged to something bigger.  She learned to listen to her dreams and to follow them.  And because she said, ‘yes’ to the gift that was inside her, the seeds of peace were planted. Where there had been no hope, now there was hope; Where there had been conflict, now there was resolution; where there was pain, there was now joy; and where there had been loss, there was now forgiveness and acceptance. The way was not easy and the girl, who was now a woman, was greatly challenged.  But she persevered. When she came to the end of her life, she felt deep gratitude for having not faltered in the expression of her purpose.”

By the time Alya finished, tears were streaming down my face.  I felt fully exposed in her presence.  She did not know me and yet through this story I knew she did. I was without words. I knew the gift she had given me was exactly what I needed at that moment.  In founding Young Storytellers for Peace in 1984, I had taken on the biggest challenge of my life.  I did not feel at all adequate for the task. I lacked many of the skills and the necessary networks to support my dream. Yet at the core of my effort was the realization that we were engaged in the work of global healing and that I needed to stay the course.  In the telling of that story, my story, Alya filled me with the courage I so needed.

Lost in my own thoughts, it took me a moment to register her next words. “Would you like to see me doing my work with the children and families?” she asked. My heart missed a beat.  Andre had already told me Alya was very protective of the families that came to her for help. To be invited into this private circle was both a privilege and an indication of the trust we had between us.

I wanted to say “yes” immediately but I realized that the delegation of Citizen Diplomats from the US, of which I was a part, were leaving the very next evening  by train from Moscow to Leningrad.

I told Alya. She smiled, patted my hand, and said “We meet tomorrow during the day.  You can spend time with us and still meet your travel schedule.”

 See her do her work?  I was ecstatic! 

“Can I bring anyone from my group with me?” I asked. 

The moment the words came out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back.  I knew how private and protective she was, and now I was asking to share her work with others?  What was I thinking?  What if she says “no” to my request and takes back her invitation to me as well?

“You may bring three people” was her reply.

I practically danced down the street as Andre escorted me to a taxi stand.  

This trip to the USSR in 1985 was quite different than the first one the year before. Most of my time was spent in meetings making plans to bring my Young Storytellers for Peace to Russia the next year–1986. I was meeting with Soviet Peace Committee members, representatives of Pioneer Palaces, and coordinating with the English-Speaking schools where the children would tell their stories. 

In between these very official meetings, I was engaged in yet another round of official meetings with Soviets as a member of our 80-person delegation.  What my first trip had given me were unplanned, unofficial moments where I got to connect with ordinary Russians at schools, in parks and on the subways. I had a chance to practice real citizen diplomacy. I engaged in spontaneous exchanges which I could talk about in my keynotes and performances back home.  These stories bypassed all the assumptions that Americans had about “those Soviets.” They went straight to the heart of our common humanity.

 “Why, they are people just like us!” people would say to me after a presentation. In that moment I knew something had changed for them. I knew full well that my stories influenced that change.  Nothing made me happier.

On this trip, however, I had not had any such heart-opening, assumption- changing moments that I could bring back to the US. That is, until I met Alya.

So, when I returned to the hotel, I knew I needed to select my three companions for Gorky Park carefully.

We had some heavy hitters in our delegation of eighty people including: Indian guru Swami Satchedenanda, traveling with three devotees who attended to his every need; Dennis Weaver, the actor, and Mike Farrell the actor (of Gunsmoke and Mash fame), the futurist Barbara Marx Hubbard; and Dr. Patch Adams, the Boston pediatrician who used clowning to connect with children. (A film was later made of his life featuring Robin Williams).  I didn’t choose any of the heavy hitters.  Instead, I chose my roommate Nancy and two other friends from Seattle.  In making my choice, I was being protective of my new friends and myself.   Truth be told, I did not want to share what felt like my special moment with the “stars” of our delegation.  I wanted my own story to tell and I knew Nancy, Linda and Jack would support me in that decision.

The next day the four of us went by cab to Gorky Park. Waiting at the entrance was Andre.  We walked for over a mile into the woods when we came upon a clearing.  There was an open-air theater compete with wooden benches and a makeshift stage.  Andre pointed and said, “That’s where you can tell some stories later.” 

There was also a hut in the clearing. It looked like the witches’ gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel. Andre called it the Changing Hut.  Outside the door were dozens of pairs of shoes in varying sizes.  Inside, members of the club were trading their street clothes for T-shirts and shorts. I was impressed.  It was mid-March and still cold.  They eyed the four Americans with curiosity and interest and several walked over and greeted us warmly.  Alya called everyone together into the clearing.  There must have been at least 50 people, half of whom were children.  Alya led us through a series of heart pumping exercises. The she instructed us to imagine we were being transported to another planet and we had to make friends with those who lived there without using words.  Sounds and gestures were okay. That worked great for me.  I couldn’t speak Russian anyway except for a few feeble phrases. 

We found ways to make each other laugh, to express our affection, and we found ways to let each other know we cared.

“Now,” said Alya, “Each of you go into the forest and make friends with the trees, the flowers, the bark on the ground, the bugs; let the whole earth know you are here to make peace.”   We fanned out into the woods around the clearing with the littlest of the children tightly grasping their parent’s hands.  We hugged trees, sniffed bark, and sunk down into the moss on the forest floor. I understood that Alya was helping us to connect not only with each other but the environment in which we found ourselves.  I kept thinking how much I admired this woman. She was doing extraordinary healing work for the whole planet. Lucky me, I got to experience it, half a world away from home!

Alya then instructed us to run along a tree-lined canopied path to Gorky Pond which was about a half mile away.  Parents hoisted their little ones onto their shoulders while the older children set off sprinting down the path.  My friends and I followed and before we knew it we were standing at the edge of the water.  “Everybody in!” shouted Alya and immediately everyone whisked off their outer clothing down to their one-piece swimming suits and conservative swimming trunks and jumped into the water.  I had been forewarned about this activity the day before, so I came prepared.  Thinking my two-piece swimsuit might not be appropriate “citizen diplomat” attire, I wore my long-handle underwear over my bathing suit.  I’m sure the long sleeve top and ankle length long johns made me look a little strange. Unfortunately, once I got wet, the nude-colored long johns immediately revealed what was underneath.  Instead of making me look more modest—I just looked silly.

 I discovered the water was cold, very cold. I was convinced it had only thawed the night before!  I would not of my own volition have gone swimming in March in Russia. No way.  But deferring was not an option, so not only did I go in—I ended up staying in for what seemed like an eternity.   It was freezing. The children joyfully swam circles around me, chatting away in Russian while Andre translated.

 “Do you think I could die of hypothermia?

“Not a chance,” he said.  “Besides, the children need their time with you.”

Oh great!  I’m freezing and for the good of US/Soviet relations I need to just suck it up, smile and pretend I can feel my lower extremities which are now numb. I stayed in the Pond far longer than my temperament or my body wanted.  When I made my way onto the bank, I couldn’t even talk over the chattering of my teeth.  “I think it time you changed,” Andre said. 

Change? I wondered. How?  We were in the middle of the forest and I did not see any changing rooms. Not to worry. One of the women came up to me and placed what looked like a cotton skirt over my head and tied it tightly under my chin.  I looked like I was wearing a giant tea cozy. The fabric came down past  my knees.” Look at that!” laughed Andre, “You have your own private changing room!”  And, indeed, I did.  I slipped my wet clothes off and put on my dry clothes all the while being completely discreet.

The changing skirt was still tied around my neck when I made eye contact with Aloshya.  I marveled at how different he looked.  His purpled tinged skin had turned to pink with the playing, running along the trail hoisted on his father’s shoulders and the dip in the pond. His mother was holding him and when his eyes locked onto mine, I started walking toward him. At that very moment, my two women friends started heading towards him as well.  My friend Jack noticed and immediately reached for his camera.  My friend Linda held out her arms . Aloshya responded and his mother, as if on cue, placed him in her waiting embrace. Aloysha’s mother seemed delighted that the Americans had singled out her son. Many Russians had not seen any Americans during the Cold War era—at least not up close so this was a big deal.  His mother stepped back so we could move in close to him. 

Aloshya was making a series of sounds as he touched our faces with his chubby hands. Andre had already told me he was unable to communicate in words and that his condition was terribly painful. “He suffers from headaches that are so bad, he often has to spend entire days in darkened rooms. His parents heard about Alya and started bringing him to the park a year ago.”

Aloshya wore thick glasses–the large horn-ribbed type.  And even though his head was oversized for his body, the glasses were oversized for his face.  He looked very professorial. A miniature Harry Potter.

He looked from Linda, to Nancy and then his eyes settled on me. I looked into his eyes and, in an instant, I felt a bond. I heard a voice in my head saying, “Speak to this child in his own language and let him lead the conversation.” So, when he began to utter a series of sounds, I immediately mirrored those sounds back to him. His eyes widened.  Like he wasn’t quite sure what was going on.  So, he made more sounds. Almost on cue, my friends Nancy and Linda imitated his sounds along with me.  We became a chorus. His eyes got even wider. Then he started to giggle and out of his mouth came a series of complex sounds both in modulation and pattern.  We mirrored them back, perfectly.  By this time, he was laughing with joy. We were talking with each other in Aloshya language.  Complicated, nuanced, musical. Then, I heard that same internal voice telling me to change the pattern. To not imitate him. I conveyed this message to my two friends through touch so on the next round, they remained quiet and I purposely did not repeat his pattern.  I changed it.  He looked at me quizzically. He waited for a few seconds. Then, with absolute authority, he repeated his previous pattern over and over (the one I’d changed) until I finally gave in and imitated him perfectly!   When that happened, he clapped his hands in delight, threw his head back and laughed so loud, we could feel his joy reverberating off the trees.

Aloshya was the king of the mountain and he knew it.  We were his subjects and we knew it. We had stepped into Aloshya’s own fairy tale and he was scripting it sound-by-sound, moment-by-moment.  Meanwhile, Jack was capturing the unfolding with his camera.

Suddenly I was aware we were not alone. And we weren’t. When the Americans entered Aloshya’s world of patterned sound, the Club members began gathering around us in a circle. Many of the adults had tears streaming down their faces. It was in that moment that I realized which story I needed to tell later: Dawn Strider by my friend and prolific author of children’s books, Jane Yolen.

When we returned to the clearing with its open-air theater, the Club members filled the bleachers.  Andre, as my interpreter, stood to the side of me.  We agreed that I would say a few lines, pause, and then he would translate and  imitate my movements and facial expressions.

I began to tell the story.  It was about a giant who was feared by the villagers because he was different. His size and misshapen head, his strange way of speaking, fill them with dread.

Worse yet, the villagers became convinced that if they were to actually meet him, face to face, they would be turned into stone. So, the giant walked the earth by night so as not to frighten the people. No one would look at him, let alone befriend him.  Then he met Dawn Strider, a young boy with golden curls who brings forth the sun to the village each day.  Dawn Strider is not afraid of the giant and so the giant captures the boy, puts him in his cave and as a result, the world is left in darkness.  The trees lose their leaves and the flowers lose their petals.

Finally, a lottery is conducted and it is a young boy who is charged with the task of going to the Giant’s cave and demanding the sun back.  He does this and when the rock rolls away from the giant’s door, and the boy sees the giant for the first time, he is convinced he has been turned to stone. And then, he discovers he’s not.  

Dawn Strider emerges from the cave, smiles at the boy—the boy smiles at the giant and the giant smiles back. In that moment the sun that had so long been hidden from view came up over the rim of the world.  From that day forward, the giant was able to walk by day because the people are no longer afraid of him. He now spends his days giving rides to the children in his outstretched hands.

It had been a grey day in Gorky Park. Intermittent rains and thick clouds had been our companions since we arrived, but at that very moment when I said the words, “the sun came up over the rim of the world” suddenly, the clouds parted and the sun shone through.  Not just anywhere.  The shaft of sunlight centered on exactly where I was standing. Some people gasped. I stopped talking and we all turned our eyes upward.  Americans and Soviets alike. We had become one with the story and the story became one with us.

When it came time to say goodbye there were hugs all around especially for Aloshya.  I held his enlarged head in my hands, kissed his face and told him in my own language how much I loved him.

Andre led the four of us out of the forest as our friends sang to us in the distance.

It was another four months before I could return to Moscow. 

My Young Storytellers for Peace program was gaining momentum. Newspaper articles were being written about the impending trip to the USSR, including one in the Christian Science Monitor. NBC sent a film crew to Seattle to do a clip for the Nightly News with Tom Brokaw.  Even President Reagan sent word that he and Nancy Reagan wanted to meet with me and the children before our journey. The children were busily practicing their Russian phrases, rehearsing their stories and the children and I were heavily engaged in raising the funds for our trip.

On this particular sojourn to the USSR, I carried a notebook filled with the children’s biographies so that the teachers at each of the three sister schools in Moscow, Odessa and Leningrad could match them with a buddy of similar age and interests.

When I planned my itinerary, I made sure to leave time to meet with Andre and Alya in Moscow.  I met them in the park adjacent to the Intourist Hotel.  In those days, ordinary Russians were not allowed to enter the hotels designated for tourists. The KGB were thorough in their investigations and we had been warned from my first visit never to name any non-official person we met when talking in our hotels rooms because the rooms were bugged. Our concern was not for us—I never felt any concern for my own safety during my 9 trips to the USSR but I was always concerned for the people who befriended us.  They could (and sometimes were) taken in for questioning.  There were always soldiers guarding the entrances to the hotels.

I found Andre and Alya at the designated bench in the park.  I had barely finished hugging them when I asked about Aloshya. When Andre translated my question to Alya, her broad smile faded. “He has transitioned,” she said. “Transitioned?” I asked.  It took me a moment to digest the words. Andre added, “Please notice Michale, that she did not say died, she said transition—she believes that death is another dimension of life.” 

“Tell me what happened, Alya.” 

“We were on holiday in Yalta on the Black Sea.  Most all the members of the Healthy Boys and Girls Club were there. We were following our program—meditating, sharing our dreams when we awoke in the morning; swimming with the dolphins, exercising, playing games and of course, sharing our meals. Aloshya had been complaining of severe headaches for some weeks.  I could do very little to ease his pain.  And then one morning, during our dream sharing, one of the children said she had dreamt that the dolphins had come and taken one of the children.  It was a curious dream and I felt unsettled by it.”

“Later that very morning Aloshya was sitting with his parents by the water’s edge when he started gasping for air. Immediately, we gathered round him and did everything to help him.  As we were frantically trying to save his life, nine dolphins suddenly appeared about 30 feet from the water’s edge.  And they stayed there, circling in the water.  When Aloshya offered his last breath, those nine dolphins swam out to sea.”

Alya became very quiet and then she continued. “Several weeks later after we had returned to Moscow, the community came together for a Service of Remembrance for Aloshya. It is our custom to offer up a song, a story, a poem, or a prayer for the family. As each person spoke, to a person, they talked about that day in Gorky Park with the Americans. How the Americans had held Aloshya and talked to him in his very own language.  How, in the storyteller’s story, the giant whom the people once feared could walk by day because he was accepted by them. How, just like in the story, that shaft of sunlight came up “over the rim of the world” in Gorky Park

Each person said they considered that day in the park with the Americans to be a sign, for them, for their community, for Aloshya.  And because of it, they acted.  They welcomed Aloshya into their hearts as their teacher.  They considered him a gift.  And they loved him, unconditionally, from that day forward. 

Alya finished by saying, “You see, Michale, I told you.  This is why you are here. This is why I invited you to the Park that day.  You are a healer. You helped heal us. You helped heal Aloshya.”

Alya wrapped her arms around me as I wept.  I wept for Aloshya’s family, for the Club members, and I wept for me.

 I looked at this woman who had taken her cancer and turned it into hope for others in an oppressive environment that could have silenced her. Alya said yes, to her calling just as I had said yes to mine.

As a result, Aloshya was able to live more fully and make his transition; cradled in the arms of a loving community, escorted to the next dimension in the healing company of dolphins, and leaving behind a story of transformation that was now etched into our hearts forever.

And my own personal story now had a new ending.

www.michalegabriel.com