When we got off the bus in Brașov, the first stop on our excursion through Transylvania, I expected to encounter dark stone buildings and grey cobblestone. As we walked through the Council Square, I was instead greeted by pastel houses and pointy roofs that reminded me of the quaint towns I picture when I think of Germany. In Sighișoara, Vlad Țepeș’ birthplace, the pink walls and terracotta rooftops around the city eclipsed the somber connotations typically associated with his name. Despite its Romanian name, Piața Unirii in Cluj-Napoca bears the mark of Hungary in Matthias Corvinus’ statue, a reminder of the region’s multinational history. The cities’ old towns told a common story of fortified churches, citadels, guilds and bells, of tourists admiring the centuries-old architecture with surprised gasps and photographs. With their vibrant colors and medieval character, symbolic of Hungarian and German influences, all of the Transylvanian cities we visited looked and felt different from Bucharest, marked by sober Neoclassical buildings and practical remnants of Communist rule.
Located in central Romania, Transylvania holds a special place in the country’s history. Unlike Wallachia and Moldavia, which were shaped by the influence of the Ottoman Empire, Transylvania belonged to the Habsburg Empire and Austro-Hungarian Empire from the seventeenth century onward. I was surprised to learn that Transylvanian Saxons were invited by Hungarian king to settle and develop Sibiu, Braşov, Sighișoara and Cluj-Napoca around the twelfth century, but as I observed the coats of arms emblazoned on buildings, the history of Transylvania came alive. As a region historically populated by Hungarian and German elites — whose heritage remains in the multilingual versions of town names, the Gothic architecture and Catholic churches — Transylvania experienced a uniquely close connection to Western Europe via language, religion and culture. Through its diverse cultural influences, Transylvania exemplifies Romania’s position in the crossroads of Europe, as a nation shaped by imperial influences while simultaneously attempting to consolidate its unique identity.
However, I found an unexpected reflection of Bucharest in every Transylvanian town we visited. In Brașov, Sighișoara, Cluj-Napoca and Alba Iulia, a statue of the Capitoline She-Wolf nursing Romulus and Remus stands proudly in boulevards and city squares. Much like the Statue of the “Wolf of Rome” in Bucharest, which celebrates the Latinity of the Romanian people, these statues were gifted by Italy, symbolizing Romania’s origin in “Mother Rome.” As the only country in Eastern Europe with a Romance language, Romania’s connection to the Roman Empire is often presented as evidence of the country’s intrinsic alignment with Western Europe, the beacon of culture and the organizing principle of civilization. In Transylvania, however, I believe that the Capitoline She-Wolf adopts a different meaning. By representing Romania’s Roman heritage, these statues assert the country’s distinctive Latin identity in a sea of Saxon and Magyar influences. Despite Transylvania’s unique history compared to Wallachia and Moldavia, the She-Wolf statues sprinkled throughout the country unite the regions on the basis of a shared historical narrative that withstood foreign influences, be it Ottoman, German or Hungarian.
In Transylvania’s collage of identity, I found an unexpected reflection of my own background. As a post-colonial country, Colombia has a myriad of cultural influences that manifest in the country’s music, architecture, gastronomy and language. Despite Spanish colonial impositions in the form of racial hierarchies and language, the Indigenous and African populations imbued Colombia’s burgeoning culture with rhythms, words and traditions from their own ways of life. This cultural co-creation serves as the basis for Colombia’s historical narrative of mestizaje, mixing, which to this day informs the country’s pluralistic identity and my own worldview. Transylvania’s multilingual city names are reminiscent of Bogotá, my birthplace, which is named after the indigenous Chibcha population in the region. In Sighișoara’s medieval buildings and souvenir shops selling Vlad the Impaler fridge magnets, I saw the Spanish colonial architecture in Cartagena which coexists with the history of African resistance expressed in the champeta rhythms that resound through the walled city. Much like the statues of the She-Wolf that unite Transylvania with the rest of Romania in spite of historical and cultural differences, Colombia’s pluralistic influences unite Colombians regardless of race and ethnicity. In this way, Transylvania and Colombia offer two examples of bricolage, creation using already available materials. By adopting elements of different cultures and simultaneously affirming their unique historical paths, Transylvania and Colombia achieved a unifying identity, which persists throughout time and space.