I stepped into this world when the sun was rising on a serene Sunday at the end of the winter, in Bucharest. Perhaps my whole life, beginning on that day at the threshold of the seasons, was meant to be a holy celebration. It hasn't quite been like that, as many moments of that day, the 27th of February 1972, were far from untroubled. It must have clouded over towards noon or evening, who can say. Later on, as I began to understand the world around me and ask questions, I was told of the blinding light that filled the maternity ward where I was born, and reached my mother's heart.

I was a happy-go-lucky child, just like any other. Many of you would say that not all children are blessed with a happy beginning in life—and rightfully so! What I’m saying is that no matter how hard a child’s life might get, in their own little bubble they are bound to always be happy because over there everything is beautiful. Everything is untainted and everything is possible. This is why you will never hear me saying that I had a miserable childhood, although from the outside my first years of climbing the ladder of life might well look like a struggle. Indeed, from the outside, my brother and I were often looked upon with pity—the kind that weighs on you, judges you, and simultaneously smudges and washes you clean. Oh, I have never accepted anyone’s pity—a stranger’s pity, I mean. I welcomed my mother’s compassion because coming from her it was filled with love. It meant protection and tenderness. It meant warmth from the depth of her heart. Other people’s pity starts as unwanted attention and can become altogether nasty at times …

My brother Marius—one year, one month and one day my junior—and I grew up like Siamese twins, always entwined. We used to play together or on our own, but always in one another’s proximity, each of us with our toys. We had a few dear friends as well, neighbours from our block of flats who would visit and play with us. And, of course, Mihai and Flory, our siblings, were always around us. Mihai, my mother’s son from her first marriage, was more of a spiritual support, as we never lived together. He was brought up by grandma Stefania, my mother’s mother, in her house.