They tried to take me once. The boys came to school on horseback, they run us down… He rode in with his friends and took me. I barely got away. I begged him! They dragged me like this. They took me to his house. I was lucky he let me go when my friends Monica and Lacramioara came.
3
The Sick Lady
Margareta Avadanei, 49 years old, has a huge tumor on her left leg. She sits in her house like a monstrous doll that her scrawny husband moves from the window to the bed and back. He washes her and takes care of her. She had 400,000 lei (12$) help from the state that the mayor withdrew when records proved that her husband, Vasile, had received a 200,000 lei (6$) raise on his pension. She takes a fistful of painkillers, but they don’t have any effect anymore. She cries and her voice shakes when she tells her story.
What if I could at least go to the outhouse? What would that be like?! I lie on the bed and I can’t do anything. If this good husband of mine turns me over, I turn. If not, I don’t. It’s hard. I can’t go outside. Who will take me out? I stay in the house…my elbows are black from the windowsill. In the morning, he puts me by the window, just like this, all day. I can’t take the pain anymore.
I’ve been like this for 20 years. It started out like a rash. Then it started to grow. And it kept swelling up. Like blisters after you burn your skin. When I’d go to the hospital, they’d treat me, they’d give me some of that spray that heals. But now it doesn’t heal anymore. No hospital will even take me anymore. I keep going, but none will take me. They can’t do anything for me. And treatments are expensive.
I don’t have anything, no pension, no state help. Vasile has a medical pension. Money? From where? I borrowed money from a loan shark, and I’m in debt eight million lei (240$). I get four, I give back eight. Where am I supposed to get eight million from to pay them back? It’s a hard life for me, very hard. Where else can I go? They come and ask me, “Are you going to give us the money or not?” Where am I supposed to get it from? Vasile has a hole the size of a coin in his head. And with his stomach, and his bile, the poor guy. For a man to live with this kind of torture every day – it’s hard. Another man wouldn’t put up with everything I’ve been through. It’d be hard for him…
Where else can I go? Who else can I talk to? When my parents were alive, I had some support, but now… my parents are dead. Where else can I go? It’s hard. They said they’d give me that welfare so I can get treatment. They won’t even give me that.
What else can I say, honey, it’s hard! I sold everything in the house. I don’t have anything left. Open the door over there, so he can see! Everything I had, I sold. What else can I do? If I wasn’t indebted to those Gypsies, it’d be different. But now, I can’t be thinking about the treatment when they come to my door asking for money. What else can I do? What else can do? I’m dying here.
(*One month after this interview, Margareta Avadanei died)
4
Il Consigliere
Nae Butuc: A Don Quixote with only three front teeth, thin, and with the ends of his moustache moving up and down with every word. Although he is Romanian, he is the local head of the Roma party and the council member representing the Roma at the mayor’s office. You can always find him under his umbrella at one of Buhusi’s outdoor cafes. He says he is the protector and friend of the Mocirlans, their link to the mayor and the police. “A money lender, a loan shark, a crook, and a middleman for departures abroad – for a price,” he is described by Buhusi’s deputy mayor Vasile Zaharia, and even by some of the Gypsies in the community.
I’m fighting to change our image a little, because there are a lot of untrue stories about Mocirlans. It all starts with poverty. There used to be a community of Roma here, right next to our city, that lived with us in the factory. As Buhusi was a monoindustrial city, once the industry fell, everything fell – and from there started the westbound mass migration. I, being Romanian, was working for a company, in supplies and retail, where Gypsies were assigned the lowest-level jobs. That’s how I met them. After the Revolution, when the factory began to fall apart and they started to understand hardship, when everyone was creating parties and sub-parties, of course they were open to all those problems and organized their own party.
Now I am the Roma’s council member at the Buhusi mayor’s office, but I come across the same situations as any council member. There is a law, Law 430, that forces mayors to hire us: all community presidents have to be on the mayor’s payroll, so we can go to the communities and know how to talk to people in their language, so we can protect their interests…The problem is that mayors are not too sympathetic when it comes to these Roma communities.
It bothers me when I knock on the mayor’s door, and I feel he won’t help me. But he does help me, because he knows I have the Gypsies backing me and I can very easily start another Hadareni (a violent dispute between Romanians and Gypsies). These people are capable of anything to prove they’re right. When they’re wrong, they’re wrong. I’ll give you another example, to base it all on examples: I took five men to jail; five men that had been wanted for three years; after a few talks, they turned themselves in a month later. They went into the chief’s office on their own, drank a shot each, and said, “Chief, take us to jail.”
So, it’s very painful, but I did that too.
But when they’re right, they’re right. I have a very good friend who’s the manager of a security agency for the Bacau Hydroconstruction Company, that after all the floods, took up a four-year project along the Bistrita River.
He asked me to give him 35 people from Mocirla. Last winter, he worked with three of our people and he was satisfied. But these guys have full criminal records. Even in communist times they had trouble with the police. They were the scapegoats. For the times they’ve been right and for all the injustices committed against them, Hadareni should be a myth.
Their problem is this: what they did was six, eleven, twenty years ago. Romanian law stains you and doesn’t clean you. Do you understand, sir? The chief gave me an idea and I think I’ll take him up on it, but it’s going to be a little hard. Here it is: for everyone who has been in jail, I, as local Roma party leader, have to sue the Romanian government and win their rehabilitation. I have to do this soon. If I want to guarantee these 35 jobs, I have to do it. Thirty-five salaries in their communities mean a great deal.
These people are honest by nature. You just have to live among them. To feel them, to understand them. When I’m upset, I come here, I meet up with them, I talk to them, I joke with them, I climb up the hill on this side, they take me with them, I come back down on the other side, and I go home happy.
Mr. Catalin, let me explain to you because I know them best: evil and hate come from inside. For 100 years or more, I don’t know how long they’ve been here, they’ve been marginalized and stigmatized as Gypsies, Mocirlans, thieves, bandits, wretches, or whatever else they call them. At the factory, the work they did was for much smaller salaries than of the Romanians, because they didn’t have an education; very few of them made it. But the authorities didn’t take the person into account: Tincoi, or Aurel, or Catalin.
Now we have to be patient, very patient.
First of all, I help them become legal. Identity cards, birth certificates, passports for those who want to leave, all those things…from A to Z, starting with the departure. And when they get there, I keep in contact with them, I take their phone numbers. Everything.
When they want to come home, they call me, I send a driver, they come back. I have a contract with an agency in Bacau that is especially for them. I work very well with the police, I go to them almost every week. And when he can, the chief, Mr. Chirilou, who is an extraordinary chief, comes here.
If somebody has a problem here, with the mayor, with the police, with anything, I tell them what to do. But I don’t just send them, I go with them personally and take care of it. I am their president. When they make mistakes, I take them to jail. When they don’t, I defend them.
&nbs
p; (* Butuc was recently beaten up by some Gypsies and was no longer wanted in the Swamp)
5
The Young Mother
A woman with inquisitive eyes, with neck length red hair which reveals her round, yellow earrings fluttering in the wind, is sitting at the gate, hands on her hips, half hostile, half gentle. ‘It smells like food here, I just made a stew. It would be nice if I could live in the other house but the water got in and it smells like mould. Just don’t say that if you came to the Gypsies, we are less developed and we don’t know how to receive guests’. Gabriela Stan, 35 years old, is a tenacious tigress running her own home and her 4 children (the eldest is in 9th grade) with an iron hand. She returned from Italy two years ago to take care of her children, her husband is still there and he sends them money every month; she is hoping to leave as soon as possible to Sicily.
Why are those in charge not fixing these roads? I wouldn’t want a street like the main road but at least a bit of tarmac so the kids would not get stuck in the mud on their way to school. They should not discriminate us, because we are Gypsies and they are Romanians. We have the same heart, the same eyes, the same mouth.
This world is evil. Wherever we go, we don’t get priority because we are Gypsies. I used to work at a factory until I got fired in 1998. I got out on a decree. I also received 7 million lei (210$). My husband is still in Italy. I was there for two years. I returned for the children because they are all grown up now and I need to make a future for them. My husband stayed there. But I hope that we can all go back if we find some work for the children. I don’t know how we would have managed if we wouldn’t have left.
We only got the money from social care 3 or 4 times. Everyone would tell me that I have a cow, that I have a horse. I don’t know if the cow or the horse gave me money for the basics: meat, potatoes for the children, whatever, if the cow could only say „here”, and put some money in my pocket. People judge badly here. They are very envious. The mayor especially, he upsets everyone. This world is too wicked and I wonder why God is keeping us on the face of the earth.
While I was in Sicily, I worked really hard for very little money. Whoever loves to work wouldn’t say no, but whoever doesn’t… I used to make formaggio (cheese), just as you make cheese here, from morning till dawn I was burned by the fire, they were very hospitable people, but very close-fisted.
I got 150 Euros and my husband, Viorel, got 350 Euros as he was working more. They got paid more. And they wouldn’t like to hire one of their Italians, who doesn’t work like us, for 500-600 Euros. And I would get a gift every time they saw I was too smart, too clean and too exaggerated, so, in a way they wanted to see if I was Gypsy: but I would tell them my origin, I give you my word that I didn’t want them to know.
I don’t know, someone came with us and told my boss: ‘I think this girl is one of those who wear long skirts… And I said: this is not true. They would always ask about the long skirted ones. I don’t know, I have no idea. So I was acting smart. Because I worked together with the people in the factory and I know how people are. I wouldn’t tell them I was Gypsy because nobody would accept me. Many women left this place and started talking, swearing, doing what you’re not supposed to do, selling themselves for money, even for 5 or 10 Euros, so…
And they started calling us Gypsies. I was not ashamed that I was Gypsy, but I was afraid of losing my job. If those people found out, they would have fired us on the spot. But the Romanian is still a Romanian. You’re looked down upon because you are Romanian, and looked down upon even more because you are Gypsy.
When someone came and said ‘zingari (Gypsy in Italian) are dangerous, they ammazza persone (kill people)’, when I heard that…. I thought I would lose my job. And look, to this day, my boss does not know that I am a Gypsy, she calls me at home, she speaks to me, she sends money for the girl. Now my husband sends money, 500 Euros per month, but they are of no value to us, he works on a construction site and does really well, he never imagined he would be able to find such a good job. He has been there for 4 years and he already makes 1200 Euros per month and we hope he will find something for the children, but something less demanding, I mean, I wouldn’t want to work them too hard at such a young age.
Romeo, come here! He is the eldest, in the 9th grade. I have four children: Romeo is 16, Ionut 15, Cosmin 11 and Bianca 8.
I raise my hand at them sometimes, I hit Romeo yesterday. He wants to go out and do whatever he likes, but I don’t agree. I don’t like seeing him going around, like a bum, being messy, causing trouble. If you want to make a future for yourself you have to work. Romeo is in the 9th grade, he doesn’t even know how to write his own signature. I don’t even send Ionut to school. He fights with other children, doing crazy things. I told him: you are better off at home.
I wouldn’t want to break their bones from this age. All that we do, we do for them. We want to lift them up because they are children. I have a husband who’s too good to be true and four amazing children. I will work for my children.
My boss, the one I talk to on the phone, she promised me that soon it will be easier with all the paperwork… This is what we hope: to leave.
6
The Pub Owner
Coming down from Mocirla, a little to the left, there’s old Sava’s place. It used to be called “At the Happy Gypsy.” Now everyone just calls it “At Sava’s.” After last night’s scene, the pub owner should have bags under his eyes. But morning brings the same calm, rested face. When you see old Sava, a gentle, quiet man of 50, you can’t imagine that the night before, he flew out from behind the counter like a hawk among the brawlers and smacked some sense into the fiercest one. Maybe it should be pointed out that many of old Sava’s clients are wanted criminals…
“I threw them out, the bastards…They’re young, I’ve been in surgery. Otherwise, if I didn’t have this hernia surgery, I’d cane them. That’s their nature. When there’s a scene, Romanians don’t come running, but the Gypsies…A Romanian won’t jump to save you. Even if someone’s about to kill you, they won’t get involved. The Gypsies are united, they come running right away, they defend each other, even if they’re enemies. When a Romanian beats up a Gypsy, the whole hill comes running.
Well, they don’t get drunk every night. But, every now and then, I’ll call the police, ‘cause that’s the only way: they’re bad. Last night, my wife called the cops. They were disturbing the peace. They got off easy. They put it on their record and gave them a 2 million lei (60$) fine. But then they don’t come here anymore. They go up the hill. I told the woman, “Leave them alone, let them go to hell, ‘cause they’re dangerous. You’ll be one of their enemies. They’ve been to jail. They’re losers. You don’t know what to expect from them. They’re poor, they don’t have anything, but they’re mean too, let them go to hell!”
We keep coming down on them…and one day they’ll surprise you ‘cause they’re capable of anything, they have nothing to lose. The woman’s brave, but fights mostly with words. She doesn’t have a bad heart. But she can’t bring them down ‘cause they’re goddamn fierce.
I’ve had this booth for about 12 years. Before, I worked as a driver for a merchandise truck, for IRTA. But this new job, ever since I opened the shop, is a lot harder. You saw how easy it is to make trouble.
7
The Old Lady
A handkerchief is pulled over the teary eyes of a tiny, tiny, old lady, with skin like black, cracked clay. At 84, Iona Gruia is the oldest in Mocirla. At 14, she started working at the Felt Factory in Buhusi and didn't leave until she was old. Her husband died on the Russian war front. She lives alone, she has a 4 million lei monthly pension, she eats when she’s hungry, mostly beans and potatoes. At night, she doesn't sleep much, and cries over the ruined world. It used to be different…
Come on in, honey, come on in. Welcome. Excuse the mess, I can't cope anymore. I say it with fright and shame, honey: I'm weak now. And I don't have anyone to rely on. What am I supposed to do with th
e 4 million (120$) from my husband, dead on the Russian front? You buy food, honey, you buy anything, honey, and, it's hard.
In Ceausescu's time it was different. There was bread the size of my head, there was food, salami was 9 communist lei (2,5$) per kilo, fish 7 communist lei (2$) per kilo. Now there's so much hunger, honey. I make a pot of soup today and I'll have it ‘till tomorrow. What else can I do? I wake up in the morning, I sweep, I tidy up, I put another pot of beans on the fire 'cause I need to cook myself some food.
I send these girls down to the valley sometimes to buy food. I eat beans and potatoes most of the time, ‘cause there's no money for anything else. I'll make a bowl of beans, I'll have it for two days. Like I eat a lot?! You can't, when a barrel of wood is 2 million (60$). Everything's more expensive. I heard the cigarettes people smoke are 40,000 lei (1,2$)!
Poor Ceausescu didn't know what else to give, to widows, to orphans. He was good, the poor man. He would see you in a store and ask you: do you have money or not? No? Give her this, give her that; he'd fill your purse. He was good, honey, Ceausescu.
I was born in 1921. I was around during Antonescu's time. And when I was born, there were a lot of Gypsies in Mocirla like now. They worked in the factory. The factory was a pot of gold for all of Mocirla. My parents were at the factory too.
Romanian Gypsies Page 2