We Borrow the Earth: An Intimate Portrait of the Gypsy Folk Tradition and Culture

by Patrick Jasper Lee

  Romani gypsies have used the soil in many ways in their rituals and to break spells, throwing it over themselves or even into their mouths on occasion. Jack Lee threw himself on the soil when the objects fell from the mantelpiece as a means of protecting himself and asking the Earth’s forgiveness. Many Romanies who drop food on the soil will pick the food up and eat it, but if food is dropped on the floor inside a house it is considered to be mokado, or ritually unclean, and is thrown away. In early times when humans moved into dwellings the soil moved in with them, household dust being linked with good fortune, and its removal only ever being carried out as a ritual.

  Some gypsies have been rather preoccupied with cleanliness, which has been attributed to high standards of hygiene, but this is, in fact, a corruption of the old way when washing was a means of washing away magical impurities.

  For instance, gypsies’ modern habits of using several different bowls for washing have their roots in fears of magical cross-contamination, where bad luck will be passed on through the flow of water. Several washing bowls will be designated for different purposes, i.e. clothes can never be washed in a bowl that is normally used for washing dishes, and a man’s clothes and a woman’s clothes have to be washed in separate bowls. Children, who are considered to be naturally pure and therefore incapable of passing on bad luck, can have their clothes washed in anyone’s bowl.

  For the gypsies, magic has always been far more important than ‘dirt’ and dust; bad magic alone provides the greatest obstacle to general living.

  Contact with gaujos has often been considered to leave a gypsy in a mokado, or unclean, state of mind. (Interestingly, the word ‘mokkers’, as in ‘to put the mokkers on something’ comes from the word mokado.) But death, and its mokado effects, has always been given special attention in Romani lore, for there are no compromises when your time comes. You may walk about in your physical life dragging your soul and your past behind you, but at death you must relinquish all, particularly if you wish to become a wise and respected ancestor - and most Romanies prefer this option, as their fear of the Mulo is so great. The borrowing principle - accepting something and being able to let it go when nature demands - holds true once again.

  There is no doubt that Jack Lee knew all this, but he was only too aware that the old traditions were rapidly being devalued as gaujo magic was becoming stronger. Most other gypsies were experiencing the same discomforts. For instance, although many were still practising the death ritual, which requires the deceased’s belongings to be burned, buried or destroyed, it was humiliating for gypsies to have the great ritual blaze of a flaming tent or wagon brought under control by concerned fire-fighters! With fewer places than ever in which to conduct this old ritual, loved ones risked suffering the horrors of not having their needs met at death and were therefore susceptible to the Mulo.

  Such fears caused Romani families a good deal of anxiety, which many ordinary people failed to understand. The death ritual itself would, of course, have been much simpler in earlier times when gypsies moved about with fewer possessions. The decorative wagons, or classic gypsy caravans, first used in the early nineteenth century - which are the inspiration behind the holiday caravans we have today - and then the motor-drawn trailers brought gypsies more fully into the civilized world, but they also brought space for storage, which meant an inevitable increase in possessions. Understandably, the fewer the possessions, the less one needs to relinquish when departing from this world.

  Many resisted the horse-drawn wagon at first, as they did the motor-drawn trailer which took its place, preferring to stick with the prehistoric bender, which had after all served them and other Asian and European nomads for thousands of years. The decorative wagon was in fact favoured mostly in Britain, the patterning becoming very dense and colourful as a means of preventing bad luck filtering through to the inhabitants within, such as in the winding vines which were painted on most wagons, symbolizing continuous uninterrupted flowing life. In Europe the wagons remained plain and some gypsies there were inclined to live sedentary rather than nomadic lives.

  I believe that the era of the wagon was detrimental for the Romanies’ spiritual lives, particularly at death, as possessions were being passed on in the gaujo manner rather than being destroyed, which also meant that the old nomadic values of letting go were not properly adhered to and souls were becoming lost. Ownership was taking over in a very big way.

  There is far greater meaning in burning elements of the natural world, a few hazel rods and animal pelts and blankets, rather than 1001 man-made or factory-produced items which make up an individual’s personal world. In fact, I don’t believe it is possible to practise the old death ritual in the modern world with so many accumulated possessions. It is better by far to set aside a few treasured personal items, which must be destroyed and which will represent the sum total of the image of your physical self, which you will need to let go of; that is, after all, what the death ritual is all about. Needless to add, I have one or two personal items of my own which must be destroyed when I reach the end of my life. One’s personal drinking cup is usually among these, but it can be a rather strange request to leave in one’s will!

  My great-grandfather practised old ways belonging to an era which preceded the classic gypsy wagon, an era when clans travelled on foot with horses, donkeys, benders and an awareness of the borrowing principle and the ancient ancestral world. This, to me, is the tacho Romani drom, the true Romani way, as it should be followed. I have known many an individual who has wished to emulate the gypsy lifestyle by acquiring a piebald horse and decorative wagon and taking to the road, but these things will no more make you a Romani gypsy than putting on a white coat will make you a doctor.

  When Jack Lee passed away, the Puri Dai sadly carried out her own ritual. She made a fire in her back garden and stood with a few close relations burning some of his things. She thought it a very unfitting end to a man who was well loved and who was a great Chovihano of the old kind.

  Once the death ritual is over, the protective fires have been lit during the all-night vigil when the body is watched over - a rite linked to the Irish ‘wake’ - and the body has finally been burned or buried, there are other customs to observe, such as not using the name of the departed one. This can last anything from a few months to a few years. If your name happens to be the same as that of the deceased, you might well be expected to change it! This practise is not uncommon in other tribal societies, so important has it been to give the dead a clear road home. The spirits of the dead should remain in the next world and their bodies in their graves, and nothing should be done to encourage them to return. Similarly, for a short period following a death Romanies might well avoid food enjoyed by the departed one. Many gypsies planted thorn bushes on graves, as they contain a special power and must not be abused, being governed by the all-powerful fairy people or Bitee Fokee.

  Although the departed are encouraged to remain in the Otherworld, it has been common for Chovihanos to communicate with them, either guiding the ‘lost’ back to their rightful home or acting as a spokesperson for the ancestral world. Certainly my great-grandfather spent a good deal of time communicating with the dead, for there seemed to be many who had become lost and were wandering about this world aimlessly. But he also regularly communicated with the ancestor, the man I had been privileged to become acquainted with in the autumn wood in my teenage years and whom I communicate with regularly today.

  The gypsies’ ability to communicate in many ways with their dead was recorded by the old chroniclers, who described the craft as ‘ventriloquism’. This was the art of producing spirit voices, or more aptly, a state of trance. It was associated with sorcery and has also been known as necromancy. But most gypsies are not embarrassed to talk openly, alone, to their departed ones at the graveside, as that is where they consider such communication should take place, and as such, the grave, rather than the place of death, is seen as a portal to the new home in the Otherworld. I have vivid mem
ories of a friend of my grandmother talking to her husband quite as if his soul had melted into the gravestone itself, which has grounding, for some of the gypsies believe natural stones and rock to have great power. The stones of ancient circles have been called rakerimasko bara, or talking stones because it is believed that people used these to aid deliberate contact with their dead which, of course, one should not, according to ancient primitive tribal law, be tempted to do, due to the need to set the soul free. The stone is thought to help the soul travel up or down into the Earth - as natural rock may well have done in ancient times - and provides a medium for regular contact. Needless to add, Romanies would be especially suspicious when meeting an ancient circle of stones, ensuring they gave the stones a wide berth because, in such circles magic could be strong and the dead might be walking up and down right here on Earth, not knowing where else to go. Such stones might contain the souls of many who had passed through them down through the ages, those who had become trapped because of being deliberately held there by those who had built the circles.

  The Chovihano is trained to know good spirits from bad spirits and in my work as a gypsy medicine man I have laid many ghosts to rest, escorting the departed to places which are often referred to, collectively, as ‘the other side’. This is a place which some tend to speak about with great geographical exactness, when it is rather a state of mind, a place, I believe, which has been created out of modern perceptions of death, which I will explain more fully later. I also see the post-death world as many worlds. ‘There is always a world within a world within a world,’ the ancestor has told me and it is as well to remember that whatever world we believe exists always provides a gateway for another.

  I believe that there was a time on Earth when death was as important as life, when we didn’t choose to ignore it until it was staring us hard in the face. I believe life and death were once both intertwined for many ancient cultures. This is expressed in the Romani word meriben, which means ‘life’, but also ‘death’, and ‘existence’ and ‘soul’ as well. Perhaps this also illustrates just how much language can play a part in preserving our spiritual lives, for too many words can take the simplicity out of something sacred and can water it down considerably. Thus, if I say the word meriben to myself, it has the power to conjure up many sacred elements within life and death, preserving meaning, but in the English language, the word ‘life’, ‘death’, ‘existence’ and ‘soul’ can mean so many things they invariably need other words to clarify them.

  Being born into the flesh is quite frequently as important as departing from it within Romani lore and there are many customs for an expectant couple to observe during pregnancy and birth, and even during courtship and marriage. Adhering to these customs ensures a smooth passage through life for all concerned.

  When my parents decided to marry they eloped - with parental approval. This was normal. A couple runs away and returns again and nobody minds - for what purpose I do not exactly know, except perhaps to strengthen a sense of responsibility between the two people concerned. After all, they have to live with one another, so it is quite likely a dress rehearsal for survival in a sometimes anti-gypsy society.

  A couple may marry in church but will usually carry out their own ceremony, Romani-style. Few in the past have taken the Christian wedding seriously. In fact, just as you are not considered to be properly dead unless you have observed the old customs, so are you not considered to be properly married unless you have conducted your own special intimate ceremony, which can be as simple as holding hands and swearing to love each other. This is enough to seal a bond between two Romani gypsies. Marrying in a Christian church, like burial in a Christian graveyard, has merely served to reinforce the gypsies’ ‘standing’ in the gaujo community.

  To this day my mother looks back on her church wedding with great amusement, often recalling the ceremony as one might recall a trip to the circus. She has spoken in the past like an excitable child of the way she continuously giggled as the minister wrapped up her hands and those of my father in a cloth whilst speaking his ‘important words’, and how the name ‘Rosalind’ instead of ‘Rosaline’ was put on the marriage certificate, meaning, she believes, that she and my father were probably not legally married after all! This, to her, merely demonstrated the futility of religious custom.

  With more relaxed attitudes concerning marriage in modern times the official religious seal is no longer so necessary. Anni, my wife, and I also carried out our own ceremony, and my Puri Dai always said that if you cannot express your own love and affection for each other and mean it, how will a minister or registrar be able to do it for you? With today’s divorce rates, I think she had a point. Marriage or a close relationship is more likely to work in a community that attaches no rosy stories to what is otherwise a very serious pact between two people who are choosing to live together. Romanies are told that life together will be tough and are encouraged to enter the relationship with their eyes open, but they also observe the happy side and always know how to celebrate weddings and other special occasions.

  If a couple decide to end a marriage, they simply announce their intention to live apart and both are free to marry others. Some Romanies were appalled to discover that gaujo divorce involved much more than a simple announcement to live apart, and where divorce laws were deemed to have no value there were a few cases of bigamy.

  In North Wales, where my great-grandfather’s family lived, Romanies jumped over the broom to marry. This may well have been a Welsh custom before becoming a gypsy custom. The ritual for the gypsies involved laying a branch of flowering broom on the ground with the bride and groom leaping over it whilst holding hands. If their clothes didn’t touch the broom it was considered lucky. If flowering broom wasn’t available, then a broom handle would suffice. All heathland plants were respected by Romani gypsies and brought good luck, with heather perhaps being the best known for this. Divorce for Welsh gypsies simply entailed jumping backwards over the broom. Both parties were then free to marry others.

  Where there was unfaithfulness, however, things could be very different. Women who took lovers might well have a slit cut into their ears by the elders of their clan. Wives might be returned to their own clan in disgrace and given no mercy.

  As punishment for infidelity was more severe for a woman than for a man, we may naturally assume that gypsy laws are chauvinistic and very one-sided, but if we examine the magical implications of these laws, we see a very different picture. My grandmother said that contrary to what many believe, many women took lovers deliberately, holding power over their men in a magical way, because gypsy women possessed a unique magic since very early times, and most of their men knew it. People to whom magical power is absolute can easily be reduced to quivering wrecks if they believe that some unseen force has a hold on them and a gypsy woman only had to brush a man lightly with her skirt in a certain fashion to wield power over him and make him unclean. An unfaithful husband, therefore, could fear all manner of disasters crossing his path should his wife give him that fateful swish with her clothes.

  My own father once had a brief affair with a woman behind my mother’s back. He was good-humoured, had a good helping of gypsy charm and inevitably attracted the women. Once my mother found out about the affair, she tormented him in the old way, largely by making him believe that nothing would go right for him ever again - which it actually didn’t! He was always nervous if ever the subject was brought up in conversation, which my mother saw fit to do on a regular basis. His fears focused around what she had the power to do, if she chose to, rather than what she was actually doing. This was woman’s power in gypsy society. It cut deep and must have caused many gypsy males in the past to look upon even the briefest affair as a regrettable incident.

  Gypsy women were considered to be as magical, mysterious and as powerful as Shon, the moon, who is, after all, the original mother of the gypsy race. She has passed her ways down through the generations and both the moon and a menstruating w
oman carry great power. So the powerful gypsy woman could render people and things mokado, particularly around menstruation times. When a girl reached puberty, her powers became strong and didn’t lessen until after the menopause.

  In earlier days menstruating women often wore a mokadi poktan, menstruation smock, to let others know that they were menstruating. Menstrual blood itself always carried great power and some women used their own blood as an ingredient in spells and recipes when wishing to attract a man. A man who unknowingly ate a cake containing a woman’s menstrual blood would be loyal to that woman forever.

  My mother was always very open about her menstrual cycle and always informed the family when she was menstruating. This is because women usually refrain from touching certain foods, particularly meat, during menstruation times, purely because of their increased power. My mother never wore a mokadi poktan, as this would have been considered old-fashioned, but her openness certainly encouraged the males in the family to respect and understand women’s ways a little more.

  A man was always protected by fire, but if a woman passed between him and the flames of a fire her shadow might magically attack him. A woman who stepped over drinking water in a stream had enough power to stop a man from drinking from that stream, even if he was dying of thirst. And if a woman wanted to prevent a man from enjoying his dinner she only had to step over his plate and he might end up throwing the whole lot away, depending on what was going on in his life.

  Many of these customs still prevailed in my own family when I was young but were never carried to an extreme; they were in fact sometimes practised with an air of fun. Some do believe Romani gypsy women to have had a bad deal, but there is probably far more respect for women in Romani gypsy society than in gaujo society in general. In my own community, wife battering was unheard of, as was child abuse.