Moon Over Mongolia

I was born and raised in Berlin, but once the wall came down, my city became too small and in 1995 I moved to New York. For the last 20 years, I have been a cinematographer for feature films and documentaries, living an independent, adventurous life. I have connected with people, who’s language and culture I didn’t understand, all over the world. In 2008, I was hired to shoot a documentary about homeless kids in Mongolia.

Mongolia is a large, beautiful, semi-nomadic country, sandwiched between Russia and China. The political turmoil in the early 1990’s and the consequent separation from the UDSSR caused a total collapse of the country’s economic and social system. Undereducated and poor fell through the cracks, but children suffered the most. In 1992 an estimated 4,000 children lived on the streets, due to poverty, abandonment and a rapid urbanization. Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia’s capital, is considered to be the coldest city in the world. To escape the cold during the prolonged winter, the children sought shelter in the city's underground sewer and heating system. They became known as “Man Hole Children”.

When I arrived in 2008, the number of street children was considerably reduced, but a society of great inequality had emerged.

On my last day of our shoot, I met Baaskaa, a 16 year-old boy who had lived half of his life on the streets. I interviewed him in his underground makeshift home and although I couldn’t understand him, I was immediately captivated. Baaskaa’s heartbreaking story was familiar. Growing up with his abusive and alcoholic father, Baaskaa was so often left hungry and unattended that he ran away. On the street, Baaskaa supported himself through begging, collecting recyclables, washing cars and the occasional factory job. Despite his past, Baaskaa had held onto his innocence and showed a fire that inspired me. Afraid my documentation wouldn’t have enough impact to change his situation, I decided to help.

Once home, in New York City, I started calling care centers, orphanages and NGOs, but no one wanted to take in a teenage boy. Within weeks, I returned to Mongolia and finally, with the help of some locals, we set him up with a herder family. Baaskaa blossomed in the countryside. His foster dad treated him like a son and taught him husbandry and farming. Despite having never attended a school, Baaskaa had taught himself to read and write by studying billboards. When the new school year began, we enrolled him into a vocational program where he studied to become an excavator operator.

Inspired by Baaskaa’s success, I decided to take on two more kids, Nasaa, a girl and Baanii, a boy, both 12-years old, who I had met at a temporary care center.

The teens couldn’t have been more different from one another. Baaskaa, outspoken, curious and adventurous, was a natural leader. He picked up English quickly and became the go-between for his “new siblings” and me.

Nasaa, still illiterate and socially awkward, had become a warden of the state at the age of eleven. Her mother died when she was a preschooler and her aunt had taken her in. When Nasaa repeatedly ran away her aunt dropped her at a care facility and terminated their relationship, faulting Nasaa. The aunt neglected to share that she severely beat Nasaa, never allowing her to leave the house or attend school.

Nasaa moved in with a sheep herding foster family. Within two months, the family demanded Nasaa to be removed, because she couldn’t control her anger and the family didn’t know what to do. During her first year, Nasaa changed families three times before she settled into a cow herding family.

Baanii was the quite one. At the age of two, his relatives had left him at an orphanage. During grade six, a teacher teased him about being an unwanted orphan so unrelentingly that Baanii ran away.

Baanii joined Baaskaa’s family. The foster dad was happy to have another helper, since Baaskaa was off to boarding school. But Baanii was often lost in the mix, answering all questions with “I don’t know”. Eventually, I realized he was hiding in plain sight.

Hoping to gain a better understanding of the complex impact of the teens’ difficult upbringing and sensing an unprecedented access into the hierarchy of the nomadic culture, I picked up my camera again and documented their progress.

At the beginning, I traveled twice a year to Mongolia to oversee the teens’ development. I bought them live stock, clothes and financed their education. I hired a social worker to visit the kids once a month and facilitate communication between the foster families and me.

Only over time did I learn that Mongolia had no official foster system. Within the traditional nomadic lifestyle, children are often passed from one relation to another and sometimes parents lose touch. In 2010, a large international organization operating in Mongolia, introduced foster care to lawmakers and government agencies, but implemented from the top and without the necessary education to prepare people, the idea lost traction.

If I could have, I would have adopted the kids, but long distance fostering was my only option. Like many of the foreign NGOs, I was well meaning, but unprepared and naive. I poured effort and finances into the kids, without fully understanding the environment I was operating within.

By the end of 2010, I sensed things were not as rosy as it seemed. Baaskaa, now 18, had completed his vocational training but was still working on the farm. Baanii looked lost and barely spoke. Nasaa was still withdrawn and illiterate at the age of 14. Knowing things needed to change, I increased the number and duration of my visits and decided to continue filming and to include myself, since my actions changed their lives and my character illuminates what it means to get involved.

In 2011, the kids finally opened up. The boys felt trapped and longed for opportunities. Baaskaa wanted to work in construction, but didn’t know how to find a job. Baanii longed to return to school, but had no support from his foster family. Initially surprised by the boys’ emotional outburst, Nasaa timidly admitted that she too, was treated like a maid. Utterly embarrassed about my cluelessness and ignorance and in typical American fashion, I set out to fix things.

Baaskaa immediately left his foster family and never looked back. He worked in construction, or any other job he could find, supported by a community of friends he met during his vocational training.

Baanii enrolled the following fall in a high school. In 2012, we located his mother. After a tearful reunion, the mother withdrew, in fear of losing her current family. In 2014, Baanii graduated, despite the fact that he had reentered school according to his age, not grade level. Through his own wits, strength and persistence, Baanii was accepted into a good university, where he is currently studying to become an engineer, a well-respected job in Mongolia. He has created his own circle of supportive friends, who welcomed his “American mother” at graduation, without questioning the value of our relationship.

Nasaa left her cow-herding family and moved in with the boy’s foster family, since we were out of options, bringing along the two cows I had bought her. Over the years, her herd grew to eight cows, making her a wealthy woman. I hired a home-school teacher, and finally, at the age of fifteen, Nasaa started to read and write. In 2015, I located Nasaa’s brother and it turned out that she had a large, welcoming family. She still lives with her foster family, but stays with her brother over the weekend, and once a week she goes to therapy and a special school in the city. She has become a beautiful, cheerful young woman, mastering her daily challenges. In 2016, she became an aunt.

Mongolia’s economy faltered again and undereducated youths were often exploited and taken advantage of as a result. Leaning heavily on his friends, Baaskaa, disappointed and disillusioned, became withdrawn. Then and still to this day, he longs for my presence, but rejected all my attempts to help. His fear of change is so overwhelming, that he can only repeat what he knows, no matter how hurtful. He sets his goals so high that he can only fail, which confirms his “secret” beliefs that he is incapable of doing anything, while the world is out to get him. Consequently, he primarily lives in a fantasy world, which acts as his security blanket. Despite his ongoing efforts to push me away, I never gave up. Often blinded by his intelligence, humor and wit, I too struggle to differentiate between our dreams and realities. Having high expectations, I initially failed to see that I burdened him more than motivate.

In 2013, out of ideas, I brought him to a film shoot in Bangladesh. There, with a mother who provided structure, breakfast, lunch and dinner, he allowed himself to open up. We laughed, fought, I forbade, gave in and then we compromised. Additionally, he trained to become a camera assistant and was part of a large film crew, who saw him as a colleague and the cinematographer’s son. Far away from home, he allowed himself to strive and become the kid he had always been.

After two months, we had to separate again and return to our respective homes.

I worked hard during the last eight years as a long-distance foster mom, but I was also naïve and somewhat self-absorbed, not considering the bigger picture. My love for Baaskaa, Nasaa and Baanii is unwavering and I truly mean well, but my actions are often disruptive. I come and go, introducing foreign ideas, which may be beneficial, but have no grounds once I am off again. It is ineffective to expect that a culture, unaccustomed to perceiving children as individuals, will adapt to cherishing and supporting them overnight, simply because there is a need.

And let’s not forget, while I have impacted their lives – with the help of the local foster families, a large group of Mongolian supporters and my New Yorker friends, who helped finance my efforts - I am getting a lot out of this relationship. The kids forced me to look at my own abusive upbringing and together we have learned to provide for ourselves, to look inwards, instead of waiting to be saved. They have given me the greatest gift – love and an understanding that no matter what, you have to hang in, you don’t quit. Not on others and not on yourself. Together, we broke the cycle of abuse and neglect and created a family.

I am still traveling back and forth. Last year, Baaskaa became a father and I attended the birth of his son. We talk a lot about child education and I invite him to observe his baby closely, to understand how the lack of parenting and safety impacted his upbringing and current actions. Baaskaa still struggles, but his son gives him the strength to keep trying.

My documentary, The Roar of a Lion Cub, named after Baaskaa’s nickname, is currently in post-production. While I edit the film, fund raising continues, so I can hopefully finish the film by the end of this year. The film will become a valuable tool to understand what drives traumatized children and adolescents and show that despite a traumatic past, we can learn how to negotiate new territories of human connection, intimacy and belonging.

You can see a trailer of the film here: http://lion-cub.com/

If you want to receive newsletters, please email me at martina@lion-cub.com