Culture is not a fad - Ruxandra Gîdei

It's 2009. In our apartment in the Rogerius neighborhood of Oradea, preparations for a new week are making me nervous.

Conscientious - because that's all I knew how to be - I stuff notebooks and textbooks into a pink backpack. I check the schedule for the umpteenth time: Romanian language, math, geography, natural sciences... Yes, they're all here. I throw in the glitter pen I chew on when I'm stressed. And that's it – I finish with my last haul from the library – two illustrated books – just enough to make my backpack even heavier, until my shoulders slump forward and it hurts.

These days, discussions about politics, money, and prudence are heard more often than I'm used to. My parents, in particular, are getting more and more worked up, and on Sunday evening, when there's time for discussions, it's most obvious. Tomorrow will cut short the evening's anxiety for me.

Tomorrow it's my mother's turn to accompany me on my walk after school to the library. Tomorrow the walk to the center is long but pleasant, even though I can feel my notebooks bumping against my back. Tomorrow is like... a secret hidden under the bed, although I wish I had someone to share it with. If I asked about plans for tomorrow during a break, very few classmates would have told me: about a safe space, shelves, or stories, beyond what was written in red on the board as "mandatory."

From the library to home, tomorrow we carry in our arms and in my mother's bag another stack, more generous than the returned ones.

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Childhood melts into adolescence, and young adulthood comes as another rebound. I see her, the well-behaved little girl, and today it's clear to me. How much the system rewarded me for... what I knew - and what I could be: conscientious. That I found calm in reading and learning. And just for that, I received more.

Not far from Romania, beyond the cities, in neighborhoods tougher than anything Rogerius taught me, I see spaces that resemble the one where I discovered myself. There is room for conscientious girls, but also for so many people – young and old – for whom “home” sounds… different.

Maybe “home” means abuse. And then the library becomes an escape. Where, of course, you read about survival; victims who have experienced violence and escaped it; in poems, in memoirs. But also a place where you meet local authorities; NGOs that save your life when needed.

 Like the libraries in Hampshire and other areas of the UK, or dozens of refuge libraries in Italy.

Maybe "home" is thousands of miles away, where you can no longer return, even though you carry your longing like a wound. At the library, you learn to string words together in your adopted language, discover stories in your own language, and find a community that knows what it means to start over. In Western countries and Northern Europe, this is what libraries offer as a basic service.

And sometimes, "home" is unbearably hot. Or flooded. These phenomena are becoming more frequent and more violent. At the library, you can recover; you can organize with your neighbors; or you can simply exist, without consuming - without producing - anything.

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But back to Romania. Today. Politics, money (for the few), prudence (for the many) are weighing us down again, just as my parents felt in 2009. Everyone, yes, but the burden remains heavy. And it is precisely there, in communities forgotten after the transition, that it hurts the most when perhaps the only place of its kind disappears - public, accessible, welcoming (or with the potential to become so).

And they are disappearing. The rate is hundreds of libraries (and other cultural spaces, absent from statistics) every year. They disappear most quickly in rural areas. Most often, because it is more efficient and convenient. The responsibility lies with everyone: Do you want to go to the library? Well, surely you don't mind a 5 km trip instead of a single one. You take a minibus - no, you don't - you pay for a minibus ticket.

How is this NOT unfair?

In my doomscrolling sessions, I see this discourse over and over again - that culture is a luxury (along with the spaces that host it). I also see how far we are from acknowledging a banal truth:

that democracy and culture cannot be separated. That the well-being of a community also comes with access to culture. Yes, in other parts of Europe, culture appears in strategies to reduce inequalities. Alongside public health or civic education. And again I see the well-behaved little girl from the Rogerius neighborhood, who was nothing more than a lucky girl.

Who do libraries and cultural spaces actually belong to? Once upon a time, I would have seen the portrait of a man who:

-        loves to read - and has been doing so for years

-        develops kyphosis from carrying a heavy backpack after each visit

-        and would have signed a Faustian pact without hesitation, just to pour all the titles on the shelf into his mind with a funnel.

But in villages in the Czech Republic, Estonia, Lithuania, Scotland, or Ireland, those who step foot into the library (and other cultural spaces) are not always readers. Or not at first. But they enter freely, or very cheaply. They meet people in a safe place. And sometimes, the shelves become attractive too. When discussions about one book naturally melt into others: about community; mental health; agriculture; or how much weight you carry on your shoulders as a single parent.

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The path we are on- the path we are continuing on, in fact... does not look promising. For years, accounting calculations and short-term efficiency have determined mergers, closures, and cuts to what is alive. Too often, money spent on culture seems like an expense, even though so many studies show that it is an investment that, in the long run, saves villages, towns, and lives. Above all, when the economy of cities seems to be booming, rural areas are left behind. Access to culture – or lack thereof – is one of the symptoms of deepening inequalities.

I wish I had a simple solution. Today, we could sign a petition that would transform every village in Romania into a vibrant cultural center tomorrow. But until then, there is something to be done: we must see culture differently - and demand it from those in positions of power. Culture... not as a luxury. Not as a whim. Not as an afterthought. But exactly as it is: a guaranteed right. And more: a condition of democracy.

We can still get to know those who, through culture, are fighting to prevent greater inequalities. Grassroots activists, librarians, or cultural workers - perhaps even in our own neighborhood. Just a few organizations:

Cultura'n șură, which brings theater to Romanian villages;

Școala de la Piscu, a museum-workshop for endangered crafts;

BookTruck, the mobile library that brings stories to the villages of Cluj

Or EduCab Hub, which connects cultural centers with private partners

Private initiatives, yes, but also proof that it's time to ask for more. For elected officials, culture should be present whenever we talk about democracy. Justice. Safety. Health. As European initiatives, such as the European Pact for Culture, are already demanding.

Culture is for everyone. For the conscientious students with heavy backpacks, who can't wait for tomorrow to come, with its walk to the library. For the elderly who are left alone, whom libraries bring together in storytelling clubs. For women who have escaped abuse, for whom healing is a writing session at the library. And for single parents, who find a community there - and resources to raise readers.

When we view culture as anything other than essential to communities, we are simply perpetuating an injustice.