In a few days, we will reach the two-month mark since the demolition of my partner Pepi’s Romani quarter. Around 30 people are still living in tents among the ruins. After the heavy spring rains, they are now suffering in the dry heat. The only place to get shade is inside the tents but temperatures inside rise to 40°C (104°F). A few weeks ago the municipality took away the portable toilets, and in the 2 months after the demolition, there have been cases of strokes, pneumonia and other illnesses, including rashes, bruises, and injuries of the children because of the ruins.

“They are being made an example of,” a dear friend and activist said. “So that when other quarters are demolished, the people don’t protest.”

Racist sentiment and remarks skyrocketed after the demolition. Threats of violence, counter-protests agains…

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The beating of drums that dwarfs all noise from the city around you. The entire tribe gathering - people from several neighborhoods coming in. Decorations, food preparations, the women all in one room hours in advance to do each other’s hair and exchange and try on clothes.

And above all, the bride and groom - to-be. He is in a suit, she: in a traditional gown and professional make up and hair.

Outsiders know, when they hear drums and see a crowd, it’s a Romani wedding. And it does look and feel exactly like a wedding.

But it’s not.

What is the difference?

A traditional Romani wedding takes place over three days and nights; the bride changes three gowns, one for each day, carrying specific symbolism.

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One of the most fascinating things about the human race is how traditions can transcend borders. Have you ever heard of an obscure custom and when you look it up and dig a little deep you discover it’s practiced by many nations and communities - seemingly disconnected - over the world?

Of course, this also leads to some one-upping along the lines of “We invented it and you stole it.” And while it sure is intriguing to discover the origins of specific customs, we will not be focusing on origins and ownership today. We are, after all, a Romani publication, and in honor of the Romani spirit for celebrating other cultures, for our first article in 2025 we will talk about a Winter holiday custom practiced in multiple countries - including by the Roma.

The first person to enter your home

The custom (and the belief behind it) is simple and very intuitive.

On the first day of the new year, or - depending on the country - on Christmas or a another specific day during the winter holiday season, t…

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The Romani dance custom of fusing with the drums. This will be next to impossible to describe with words, so we have prepared a few videos to illustrate it.

Have a look at the 30-second clip below before we tell you more.

Other than the obvious focus on hips and waist, there are no specific steps here that can be taught, learnt, or even described. The entire point is to become one with the music. To respond to every beat.

It requires both control and surrender.

Dancing to the drums of a live band is part of every single Balkan Romani celebration in most tribes, including ours. When a person steps into it, the others clear the dance floor. It’s also common to do dance-offs or dance as a duo, as you’ll see in the next clips - but in all cases, the drums are treated with reverence and whoever does the fusion dance is treated as if they are responding to a summons - everyone else steps back.

In the clip below, you see Pepi’s niece Dancha and her brother-in-law Nicky fusing with the drums as a duo. Notice how they instinctively know when to go slow and when to go fast, as if they have become one with the music.

The band will regularly do drum solos with the idea that someone will “respond” and step into the center. But most often, the dancer feels it first and gives a signal to the band.

In the clip below, you see Lucy giving the signal to the band, and so they adjust the rhythm and continue with the drum solo. Lucy holds the drums as she’s fusing with them, something that is very commonly done as a way of grounding and connecting with the music, channeling its energy. Though “holding” is not the best word as she’s only touching them with the tips of her fingers. The point is to touch the drums, but to an outsider it looks like the dancer is holding onto them as they are driven wild by the rhythm.

The entire movement happens in the waist and hips. Not one single up do, ponytail, or braid becomes undone during these dances. The control of the movement is indescribable - and it is very easy to see it when the dancer “holds onto” the drums as Lucy does below.

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Most outsiders acknowledge, with horror, only the third type. Terms like “bride markets” and “child marriage” get thrown about a lot when the topic of Romani weddings comes up.

Stealing the bride is also a looked down upon “Romani tradition” even though this specific custom was common all throughout the Balkans (and beyond) until our most recent history.

How much is myth and how much is true?

Let’s start with the most scandalous tradition.

Buying the bride

In other words, this is not a purchase but a pledge. By giving money, gold, or something else of great value to the bride’s parents, her new family make their intentions and commitment tangible. She will not be used and discarded. She will be received and taken care of.

In their book, Marushiakova and Popov continue to explain that even in this case of so-called “arranged marriages”, in reality, both the bride and groom are consenting. In most cases, they have already decided to be together and this is when their parents put the wheels in motion about the arrangements.

So far, it doesn’t sound so bad, or at least not so outlandish compared to many other cultures that do - or have, until recently, done - the exact same thing.

Of course, not every arranged wedding is consensual and while these cases are exceptions, this doesn’t diminish the despair of a bride whose freedom and future are taken away. The song below provides a glimpse into exactly such a perspective.

And yet, this is not what critics refer to when they pass judgement on the Romani custom of “buying the bride.” They refer to the stereotype of young girls getting sold on “bride markets.”

Is there any truth here?

What we haven’t found written and published in print but is commonly known among the Roma here in Bulgaria, is that arranged marriages between very young children do happen within the subgroup Kardaraši.

The Kardaraši are known to be the wealthiest Romani group. They are also the group with the most recent connection to a Nomadic lifestyle, having been forced to settle less than a century ago. In the past, there used to be annual gatherings between tribes of Nomadic Roma where decisions were being made about trade, travel routes for the upcoming year, and marriages. Marriage was one of the several tools for survival and preservation.

The remnants of this life are still alive today among the Kardaraši. Marriage is still, first and foremost, a tool for survival and preservation.

The purpose of this custom is to preserve the wealth and endogamy. A suitable bride will, they hope and expect, give birth to children who will then inherit everything.

The Kardaraši are often described as barikané by other Roma, which can be best translated as “acting superior”, “elitist”. They are a distinctly separate group from the majority of the Roma and (are perceived to) live in a different reality: one of material stability.

The vast Romani population, by contrast, lives in poverty. And doesn’t care about money or gold when the time for marriage comes.

Stealing the bride

Martina was talking once with a friend from Egypt. He was in his early 20s and had moved to Bulgaria to study. “I was so in love with this girl,” he lamented. “But I didn’t have the money for the bride-dowry.” This had become a big problem for young men in the last few years, he explained. The financial pressure was big, earning opportunities were little, and so - they couldn’t get married.

So what does a couple in love do if they are part of a culture that uses dowries to legitimize a marriage - but they don’t have money?

We can tell you what the poverty-stricken Roma do.

If the bride is stolen, she remains “innocent”. The responsibility remains on the shoulders of the man and his family. This is why a “theft” or, more accurately, “abduction” must be enacted.

Once the bride-to-be is stolen, her parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, come to the house of the man and his family. To discuss. Because even in the case of a kidnapping, real or not, a wedding will not take place without both families talking it over.

These cases are exceptions and happen in rural areas. Even then, the boy and girl usually know each other. A real kidnapping is usually when the boy or a relative of his (a brother, a cousin,) tricks the girl into coming with them somewhere to run an errand or some other excuse. But instead, they take her to their home. Now, she’s “stolen.” Soon, word reaches her family and they arrive en masse to discuss.

In the book “The Romani everyday life in Bulgaria” by Alexey Pamporov, Martina read a horrifying story told by a Romani woman. She was abducted by an acquaintance and beaten all night until she surrendered. This was the man she ended up sharing a life with.

“Such a thing can only happen to a Roma woman,” Pepi said, “if she doesn’t have a strong family behind her.”

She had weak support and protection, in other words. No large clan to come to her rescue, so she was targeted by a violent man. In an average, typical case of such an aggressive abduction, the woman’s family will show up but not in the mood to discuss.

As a whole, these cases are exceptions and seen as unfortunate and undesirable by the vast majority of Romani people.

The much more common scenario is for a couple to fall in love and stage a kidnapping as a way to force both sets of parents to legitimize their union.

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Marrying for love

Pepi’s clan is one of the many Romani tribes that do not do dowries or abductions. They proudly marry for love.

But once you remove the layer of money and theatrics, you see that one thing remains the same across all Roma. A value that is fundamental to Romani culture.

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Perhaps the biggest point of contempt from outsiders when it comes to Romani culture is the unapologetic joy. What mainstream society likes to hide and downplay, the Roma put on display.

Love?

While we post vague pictures of silhouettes and anonymous intertwined hands to “soft launch” a relationship on Social Media, the Roma rush to change their profile picture with a photo with their partner, their handle (from “Mary” to “Mary and Tony Forever”) and announce to the entire world that they are in love. While mainstream married couples like to “banter” and “downplay” their feelings for each other, and “gently tease” each other when out with friends, the Romani treat their partners like royalty. They rush to fill their cup, to put a jacket or blanket on them if it’s cold, to remind them to eat, and if they talk about their partner to others, it’s never in a “gently teasing” way. It’s in a “singing praises” way.

Money?

In mainstream culture, it’s considered “poor taste” to discuss money. There’s an entire industry in mental health coaching about changing our beliefs about money and disentangling the concept of money from feelings of shame. The Romafeel no shame about money whether they have it or not. If they have it, they’ll let you know - which mainstream culture will see as “flaunting.” And if they don’t have it, they’ll let you know too.

But the most unforgivable offense that the Roma inflict on mainstream culture is the glamorous, loud, impossible-to-ignore celebrations.

Princess gowns, jewelry, professional hair and makeup, expensive restaurants, limos - all of it accompanied by a Romani orchestra beating the drums so loudly that you can’t even hear the traffic from the nearby boulevard.

And then they have the gall to claim they live in poverty?

They must either be lying or be the reason for their poverty - if they’re spending all this money on such nonsense.

Right?

Let’s explore why and how the Roma throw glamorous parties when they have no money while the middle-class us budget every coin and deify minimalism.

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Yes, they do live in poverty

To offset the most common question, nobody is lying about their poverty. Like we said, if the Roma have money, they don’t hide it. If they have a lot of money, they don’t save it in banks or under the mattress - they buy gold which they can easily pawn when they need the cash down the road. The golden rings, bracelets, neck chains all go on the fingers, wrists, and necks of their owners.

In our tribe, it is common to see women who work in street cleaning for minimum wage to be sweeping the streets wearing gold - one with golden earrings, another with a golden ring. They live in a crisis center or social housing, have no running water, no bed to sleep on, and no fridge. After work, they will go home, and if they or their husbands don’t bring in some money (most commonly by selling materials gathered from trash to scrap shops), then they will either go to bed hungry or pawn their gold to buy food.

Now that we’ve clarified this, let’s answer the big question. If they don’t have money, how do they pay for celebrations that are worth thousands and thousands?

The wealth is the tribe

Last year, Pepi’s sister Nana was about to turn 50. She called us a few weeks before her birthday and said she’ll celebrate it “properly”. This means, in Roma culture, an orchestra to herald the celebration, then a big party at a restaurant with live music. A week later, Nana asked us to borrow 200 BGN for some expenses for her birthday. And a few days before the actual birthday she called and asked us to borrow one of Martina’s golden bracelets - the only really big one.

We weren’t the only people she called. She elicited the support of many of her relatives.

On her 50th birthday celebration, Nana looked like a queen.

After the main meal in the restaurant came the key moment of every Romani celebration.

Holding a beautifully decorated box, Nana went from table to table to toast every single guest. And every one of them put money in the box.

The amount of money you put in the box is commonly understood. It should be enough to cover the food and drinks you consume at the restaurant. Nowadays, it is expected to spend 50 BGN (about 30 USD) per person. Couples either hand out 50 BGN each or one of the two people puts 100 BGN in the box. People who are very close to the person celebrating (and who can afford it) put more - it is very common for grandparents or beloved aunts or uncles to summon the singer and musicians and, to the beat of the music, to put 50 BGN after 50 BGN after 50 BGN in the box.

It’s a point of great shame to drop no money or a small amount of money in the box. So people who don’t have enough cash either borrow money from loan sharks or don’t go at all.

If you have 100 guests at the restaurant, you should end up with a minimum of 5,000 BGN at the end of the evening.

In our tribe, 100 guests is the norm.

Nana’s 50th birthday was a legendary celebration. When things started to wind down, people ate cake and started leaving, Nana and the restaurant owner sat down at one of the now-empty tables. Most of her 5,000+ BGN went to pay her bill to him.

Then, she paid back our 200 BGN, and a few more hundred here and there to other relatives. She took off the bracelet and gave it to Martina.

Nana left the restaurant with about 40 BGN, which she used to pay for a few taxis to take her and the remaining relatives back to her two-room social housing home so they could continue celebrating.

When you draw the line, several thousand BGN circulated in the air so that the entire tribe can celebrate Nana’s 50th birthday. She brought home no gifts and nobody grew richer or poorer. People spent 50 BGN each and danced their hearts out.

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Joy in being - not in having

The entire point of a Romani celebration is to honor someone. A new couple if it’s a wedding, a newborn, or the person having a birthday.

The Roma know it’s a big expense to throw a celebration. They also know the entire tribe will help cover it. Nana was a Queen on her birthday not because of the dress, hair, and jewelry but because of the one hundred people who celebrated her and loved her.

Then why bother with the gold and glamor? To outsiders, it might seem that it’s all for show. But where most people would say “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing poorly,” the Romani say “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.”

In other words, you either do it or you don’t do it. And if you do it, you really do it.

Nana didn’t ask for the bracelet as a gift. She thought it was beautiful but didn’t want to keep it. She wanted it on her wrist for the celebration, the dancing, the toasting, and then she took it off.

In fact, the bracelet itself became more special and beautiful by briefly adorning Nana’s wrist on her 50th birthday.

The reason all this “glamor” messes with the heads of outsiders is because of the gigantic difference in how material things are perceived in mainstream culture versus Roma culture.

In mainstream culture, you just have to grab. You have to own. To cling and cling.

Money is to be invested and budgeted not “wasted” on celebrations.

For the Roma, material things (including money) never outgrow their usefulness. A pile of cash or a golden bracelet can never be a God. This freedom from attachment allows the Roma to enjoy things as they are - but to their full extent. If they decide to celebrate, they don’t celebrate “just a little.” They celebrate to the max.

And when they celebrate, they don’t care about gifts. They care about their relatives being there with them. And they care about joy. In a life full of adversity and struggle for survival, the Roma practice a very deep kind of wisdom. Poverty doesn’t make them shrink like outsiders expect and even demand. It makes them grab onto moments of joy and beat the drums so loud that the sky can hear.

In the end, piles of cash swirl around for this wedding, that birthday, and on and on. To outsiders, the Roma do nothing but celebrate with money they don’t have.

Behind the curtains, the entire tribe foots the bill, gowns get swapped between cousins and sisters, cash is borrowed and later paid back, jewelry is borrowed and later returned.

Why?

So someone they love dearly can be celebrated as the royalty that they are in everyone’s heart.

“An entire tribe loves you.” “We all love you.” “To us, you are a princess. A prince. A queen.” This is the gift that the Roma give each other with every single celebration.

Let’s start with an important disclaimer. When we say “the highest honor in Roma culture is a child in your arms,” we don’t mean the children of strangers. Although, if a non-Roma child happens to get lost and ends up among Romani, it will be taken care of like royalty until its parents are found. But the Romani don’t go out taking other people’s children. We’ve explored the stereotype of the Romani kidnapping white babies a little bit in the article below and will explore it more in-depth in an upcoming article. Today, we will talk about something else: how the Romani treat the children of their own tribe like royalty.

Outsiders love to criticize the Romani for what is perceived as “over-the-top” grandeur. They claim to be living in poverty and yet wear gold on every finger, dress like Disney princesses for the smallest occasion, and hire limos to pick them up from the homeless centers they live in.

All this, to the Romani, is a fleeting expression of joy in a world filled with daily struggles for survival. The gold gets pawned within days. The princess gowns are worn for the 100th time, swapped between cousins and sisters, and often don’t fit. We’ll tell you about the limos in a different article. But our point is that all the criticism about material grandeur is mainstream society’s own projection. In mainstream culture, we hold great attachments to material things. We infuse them with our identity, we elevate and cherish them, we seek from them a sense of security and, often, superiority.

For the Romani, material things are dust in the wind. Yes, they know how to pull off a princess gown. Yes, if they wear gold they wear it as if they are swimming in it like Uncle Scrooge. But it doesn’t touch their heart. Just like they adorn themselves, they let go of all of it.

One single thing comes close to the internal sense of elevation that mainstream culture seeks from material items. One thing can truly make a Romani feel not just special, but more special than the others. Chosen and blessed. And it’s not clothes, or golden jewelry, or a car in the garage.

It’s a child in their arms.

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The first time we went to a gathering of the tribe with our baby daughter, she was 28 days old. On the way over, Pepi was telling Martina how that would be a great opportunity for us both to have a drink or two and relax. But Martina couldn’t imagine how that would happen. Our baby wasn’t with a sitter. She was there with us. We were going to a place that would be new to her, with a lot of people, a lot of music, and Martina was thinking the exact opposite: that she’d need to pay extra care and attention to the baby.

But she was about to discover that in Romani culture, parents are never left to fend for themselves. Because taking care of a child is not a burden but an honor.

Pepi’s niece Dancha was the first to greet us, hug us, and gently take our daughter into her arms. “Go relax,” she said. “I’ll take care of her.” Pepi handed Dancha our bag with bottles and diapers, and she went into the adjacent room. At first, Martina was anxious. After 5 minutes, she wanted to go check on the baby to make sure she was not crying or feeling abandoned. But before she could even get up she got a Facebook message from another one of Pepi’s nieces who was also in the other room with Dancha. The message contained two pictures.

Martina relaxed and decided to have a beer. 15 minutes later, she received a new message - this time from Dancha. It contained several selfies and pictures of her feeding our daughter. In those pictures, the baby was wearing other clothes - much ticker and warmer. Apparently Dancha thought it was getting chilly in the other room so she put on an extra layer of warm clothes that belonged to one of the other babies in the tribe.

Martina continued receiving pictures reporting how the baby was doing. Gradually, she stopped worrying about the baby and started worrying about Dancha. “She’s missing out on the party,” she told Pepi. We were there for the birthday of Dancha’s brother, and she was spending it in the other room babysitting. “Don’t worry,” Pepi said. That was not good enough so Martina sent a message to Dancha offering to swap places. “I’ll stay with her for a while and you come here to celebrate.” Dancha refused. “No, I want to take care of her.”

We spent about 3-4 hours there. Our daughter took two naps during this time, and both were immediately reported in a Facebook message. Dancha sat down to have a drink after we left.

This was the first of many celebrations we’ve been to together with our daughter. Every single time, it’s as if there’s an energy in the tribe that picks up the care. Sometimes one person, another time several people take turns, but always, absolutely always, the baby has been taken care of.

If the bottle with her water runs out, someone is rushing to refill it before we can even get up. People have gotten up from the table and left in the dark to go to the store to buy her favorite peach juice. If she spills something on her clothes, she’s immediately changed into other clothes, belonging to one of her many cousins. All this is done with a generous, loving, maternal energy of abundance. Anything the child needs, the child gets. And nobody wants to hear a “thank you” from the parents because this is not why it’s done.

The single reward they acknowledge, and only if the child decides to give it, is when she happens to turn to somebody and reach out to them. Then they take her into their arms, place her in their lap, and hold her until she decides to climb down. And for these precious few minutes, they hold a place of honor.

Our daughter is special to them as much as every other child in the tribe. The same way they take care of her, they take care of every single baby.

Most outsiders know that respect for the elders is a big part of Roma culture. It governs how they call each other, how they speak to each other, how they make big collective decisions. If someone is even a little bit older, they are always called “uncle” or “aunt”, bate or kako (which translates to “big brother” and “big sister.”) Calling someone older only by name is a sign of great disrespect.

But what most outsiders don’t know about Roma culture, is that love and devotion of even greater intensity flow from the elders down to the young ones.

Love for the children in the family, in the tribe, in the community is universal. But for the Romani, it is more fierce. It is categorically unconditional - not only from the parents but from every single aunt, uncle, and cousin in the entire tribe.

In June this year, our daughter had a seizure and was hospitalized. In the hospital room, just after we were admitted, Martina was waiting for Pepi to return with some essentials when she got a phone call from Dancha.

“We’re all coming, Marti,” she said.

“Coming where?”

“To the hospital,” she said. “Uncle Pepi called us and told us what happened, we’re on our way with three taxis.”

Soon, about 20 people were outside. Dancha with her husband and their two toddlers, her sister Vela with her husband and their four kids, her brother Little Pepi with his wife and three of their adult kids, their mother and Pepi’s sister Nana, Pepi’s brother Dimcho with his wife.

No visitors were allowed so they stayed under our window. We were on the second floor, so Martina opened the window wide and held our daughter so they could see her and she could see them. They started waving, making silly faces, singing songs, and soon she was giggling and howling with laughter. Vela and Dancha were wiping tears from their eyes. For a few minutes, during the seizure, we thought she had died, and when Pepi called Nana he told her exactly that: “We thought she died.” So they dropped everything, one of them pawned their phone so they could afford several taxis, and they stayed under our window to show her - not us but her - that she’s loved and cherished by an entire tribe.

It is widely known that the Romani “move in groups” and when a Roma person is admitted to a hospital, relatives arrive in the dozens. Later that day, in the early evening, Martina’s closest friend came to visit too. “I saw about 15-20 Romani crossing the street on their way out of the hospital grounds, were they Pepi’s relatives?” “No,” Martina said, “our 20 relatives were already here a few hours ago.”

Outsiders look down on this as too dramatic and unnecessary. Why show up in a crowd? Much better to give the person their space and privacy, maybe call to check in on them, discuss a visit in advance, and of course, not overwhelm them with too many people showing up at once.

It’s easy to think this way. Until, for one long minute, you think your child died, and then you’re in a hospital room with a whole clan under your window cheering her up and yelling out “We love you!” and “You’re going to be ok, princess!” Then you know it’s the exact right amount of dramatic, and very, very necessary.

We all love our children. But the Romani know something about loving a child that outsiders don’t.

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In the sphere of “first world problems,” few things are more daunting and stressful than the morning of a wedding day. Even outside of the “first world” bubble, like for our Roma tribe (which has been living in extreme poverty for generations,) weddings always entail a million moving pieces that have to be carefully choreographed. Hair and makeup, venue, camera and photography, live music, dozens upon dozens of customs and rituals, and countless planned and unforeseen challenges.

On the morning of a Romani wedding day, however, all this has to wait.

Until everyone eats soup.

The reception before the wedding

At around 8:00 in the morning, under the open sky, a fire is lit. A huge metal pot is placed upon it. An elderly woman from the tribe begins to prepare a rich, delicious soup meant to feed everyone.

Around her, the air is full of life. Relatives bring piles of ingredients to her side, place loaves upon loaves of bread to be served later with the soup, arrange long tables with dozens of chairs, and set up tents above.

Gathering so early in the morning “for the soup” is like a wedding reception before the ‘real’ wedding reception. Relatives who live far away, travel early, specifically so they can join in the morning soup custom. The jokes, banter, hugs, and festive mood begin long before the soup is served. While the elderly woman and her helpers are still cutting up tomatoes and meat, people are already playing cards, listening to music, and dancing.

When the soup is ready, it is carefully distributed on plates and served at the long tables.

Roughly around this point, another key element of the tradition comes into frame. A Roma orchestra begins playing.

The energetic charge of this early-morning soup custom is so powerful, that an outsider would be forgiven to mistake it for the actual wedding.

The drums overpower the traffic noise from the nearby boulevard, and even though only some drinks, bowls of soup, and slices of bread are on the table, the atmosphere is one of a Dionysian feast.

People eat, laugh, and dance.

It is only after the soup is eaten, that everyone proceeds to get ready for the actual wedding.

What is the meaning of the soup?

The soup is significant. It serves a very important purpose: it paves the way for a smooth wedding. And by “smooth wedding”, the Romani mean something very different than most others.

The soup is called “Kurban chorba” which translates to “sacrificial soup.” Its key ingredient is lamb meat, the purest and most innocent of animals. A lamb is sacrificed and roasted on Ederlezi, the biggest Roma holiday, which also begins with a very important early-morning ritual honoring the lamb’s life.

Having “Kurban chorba” at a wedding has been a tradition across the Balkans for a long time. Nowadays, at least in Bulgaria, the tradition has mostly died out and can sometimes only be found in rural villages. For the Romani, however, it is still alive and vibrant. Not only that, but the soup is not just part of the wedding - it heralds the wedding.

Everyone gathering to eat the soup also serves an important purpose for the Romani, beyond the obvious joy and fun. This is not meant to be “just a party” even though it is more of a party than most mainstream full-scale weddings.

According to the custom, if you sit down to eat soup to the drums of the orchestra, then you are obliged to attend the wedding later in the day.

The Romani begin the wedding day with a sacrifice before anything else and sit down to eat all together as a form of a promise to attend the wedding. This, in Roma culture, holds more power than any piece of paper or institution.

In our piece “Untethered Together: The unofficial and unscripted nature of Roma marriages”, we explained how the Romani don’t get married before a priest or any kind of person of authority, don’t respect pieces of paper telling them if they are married or not, and do not even exchange vows or promises at weddings. Two things make the marriage “official” in Roma culture: the presence of the tribe and the drums of the orchestra. And the only thing that makes it last is the understanding that the husband and wife need to show up for each other day after day.

All the blessings and all the good fortune for the newlyweds come from the tribe and the music. So for the Romani, the wedding holds a powerful charge. It has nothing to do with appearances and everything to do with upholding customs with a fierce, pure heart. Channeling the love of the tribe and the divinity from the open sky in order to bless the new family.

So in the early morning of every wedding, under the open sky, to the ancient beat of drums, the air carrying a tinge of smoke from the fire, the Romani gather to eat soup.

And with that, they give a promise: That the new family, their future children, and their future grandchildren, will always be surrounded by the love of the tribe.

In our tribe, 4:00 PM is the default proclaimed start time for every celebration. Birthday or wedding, at home or a restaurant or outdoors, the invite always says 4:00 PM.

“What time is the party?” Pepi asked his sister Nana in December last year. She was about to turn 50 and was planning a huge celebration at a restaurant.

“4:00 PM,” she said.

The day of, Pepi’s phone started ringing at around 12:00 PM.

“Where are you?” people asked. Nana, her son Little Pepi, her son-in-law Trayan, all called. He kept telling them that we were waiting for our daughter (then, just over 1 year old) to wake up from her nap and we’d be on our way.

We were at the restaurant at 2:30. Half the tribe was already there. Some blowing up balloons and adding final touches to the decorations. Some setting the tables. The musicians were tuning their instruments. We had coffee and chatted with one of Pepi’s sisters.

The celebration officially began at around 5:00 PM. And by “officially began” we mean, that this is when Nana arrived at the restaurant and the entire tribe welcomed her with music. When celebrations are hosted in a restaurant, the arrival of the person who is being celebrated is a sight to behold - and a topic for another article.

But the question of when celebrations begin is fluid and, to the Romani, of little consequence. The start time they announce when they invite people serves the purpose of gathering the guests in the same place for the celebration. The expectation is never that they’ll arrive at this said time. The expectation, and reality, is that the guests start constellating much earlier (sometimes even from the morning to help with the preparations,) and in the same vein, some can even leave before the “official” start, or arrive very late. The point is to show up.

For anyone in mainstream culture, this might sound exhausting or downright horrifying. Imagine preparing an event for 100+ people and they start arriving hours before they were “supposed to.” The thing is, when Roma guests arrive they don’t expect to sit down and be “entertained.” They join in and help out. Preparations never lie solely on the shoulders of the host. The entire tribe is a family and, together, they make the magic of the celebration happen.

But many people who arrive early do end up mostly joking around with others, drinking coffee, and just hanging out. This is also part of the celebration: the slow burn.

Feeling the build-up.

Witnessing how the air electrifies even though everything is still objectively quiet and uneventful.

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Breastfeeding in Roma culture is unapologetic. But isn’t it darkly fascinating that breastfeeding can even be described as “unapologetic?” Any Roma person would squint their eyes at this phrase and ask “What are you apologizing for?”

The topic of this article can only exist because of the massive contrast with mainstream culture. For the Romani, this is not an item. They give it no thought. If you bring it up in conversation, they will move on from it quickly. Because, to them, this is a fundamental value, a truth that drives their entire culture. How long can you talk about the sky being blue?

In mainstream culture, we talk ad nauseam about this. And we believe we are slowly progressing, even though the resistance is strong. In comparison to the Romani, however, we are centuries behind.

Everything that is bad about breastfeeding

A few years ago, Martina was an unwilling witness to an exhausting tirade by a man who felt personally offended by the fact that he had witnessed a woman breastfeeding at the mall.

“I don’t want to be looking at this,” was his main argument. He was scandalized that the general vibe in our society then was to encourage women to breastfeed in public.

The women who breastfeed in public, at least here in Bulgaria, always cover-up. It’s never the exhibitionist show critics would have you believe it is.

The shame flows through our veins, and into the milk that feeds our children.

“Let the women sit in the other room and breastfeed,” reads a random Facebook comment by a random guy, intending to discredit any input or thought by a woman and put her where she belongs, the only place she is good for: in the inferior position of feeding her child. Out of sight.

“After I give birth,” said a then-pregnant acquaintance of Martina a few years ago, “I’m going straight back to work. I’m absolutely not going to be breastfeeding. No way am I doing this to my body.”

Doing what to her body? What she meant was, “I want my breasts to look a certain way and breastfeeding would hinder that.”

It’s a nuisance. A shameful nuisance that you have to hide. And if your baby gets hungry while you’re out in public, you still have to hide or brave the disdainful looks of passers-by whose day has just been ruined by witnessing you feeding your child.

A little dystopian, don’t you think?

So much is underneath these big and negative feelings about breastfeeding. Sapped instincts. Hatred of women and the mother. Hatred of the self. Hatred of the human body. And of course, the obvious: confused, contorted, and mercilessly repressed sexuality.

This is so ingrained in our bones, that it can be impossible to imagine a world without it.

But we don’t need to imagine.

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The arrival of spring is among the biggest holidays here in the Balkans. It’s celebrated as St. George’s Day by Christians and as Hıdırellez by Muslims. Here in Bulgaria, we also hold military parades on St. George’s Day as he’s the patron of our army. Similarly in Greece, Albania, Bosnia, Macedonia, Serbia, this is a big day.

And yet, this is not what it’s most known as.

Here in the Balkans, despite military parades and other displays of pride and tradition, St. George’s Day remains the biggest Romani holiday.

What makes it the Romani’s holiday? The tradition has pagan roots and is followed both in the Christian and Muslim world. It did not originate from the Romani, nor do they claim that it did. The customs and rituals followed by the Romani don’t differ much from what other, non-Roma, households do to mark this day.

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How long does grief last? How long “should” you mourn a loved one who has passed away? And how, exactly, should you mourn them? What should you do? When is it appropriate to “move on”?

These questions have no answer. Or to be more specific, the answer is always personal to the individual dealing with a loss, and it is revealed to them over time. Nobody knows in advance how long they’ll grieve. Nobody knows what grief will feel like. Even if they have already lost someone before.

Modern-day societies have abandoned the ancient ways to process grief and make sense of death. We refuse to look at death and do our very best to suppress the tidal waves of grief because they tend to put is in paralysis when the culture around us demands that we keep moving.

We don’t know what to do about grief.

But the Roma do.

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Romani culture is very rich and ancient, an intricate web connecting countless tribes all over the world. While the fundamental value system is pretty much the same for all Roma, specific customs and traditions can vary from tribe to tribe. In this article, we are describing a custom of our tribe, which is followed on the 39th day after the death of a family member. Some tribes have the same custom while other tribes have different traditions for the 39th day.

In Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Romani, as well as many pagan traditions, it is believed that after death, the soul wanders the Earth for 40 days. On the 40th day, it makes its final departure for the afterworld, so many rituals and customs take place on this day, to facilitate the last goodbye.

In Romani culture, these customs take place on the 39th day: the last day when our loved one is still among us.

The last supper

In the early afternoon of the 39th day after the death of a family member, the tribe starts gathering for what they believe is the last time their loved one will be at the table with them. Specific meals are prepared for this last supper and for the following day when a priest comes to the home of the deceased to help their soul pass over. But before this final transition, the departing soul has not only a final few hours together with the tribe but also a window for a final farewell.

In the evening, a candle is lit for the last of the traditional vigils.

This time, however, a tray with raw white rice is placed next to the candle.

The candle, like in all of these vigils, can burn quickly or through the entire night, depending on how long the dead person wants people to stay.

The tray with rice stays next to the candle and before midnight it’s moved to the highest possible place in the home, so no human or pet can reach it.

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Between midnight and 3:00 AM

After midnight, the soul of the dead person makes its presence known. This window closes at 3:00 AM when “the night breaks,” according to Romani customs.

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Marie-Louise von Franz, a Swiss psychologist who worked with Carl Jung, has shared infinite wisdom in her books and lectures, but one quote is particularly striking.

She continues to explain that every living being is as connected to life as it is to death. And our modern culture’s denial of death, refusal to face and accept it, is a symptom of sapped instincts.

The Roma have suffered many sorrows in their history, but sapped instincts are not among them. Like all surviving indigenous tribes, they are still connected with ancient wisdom which “civilized,” mainstream societies need books, therapy, and years of effort to recover.

One way this instinctual wisdom shows up in Romani culture is in the approach to death. And this is most evident in the beauty of Romani funeral rites.

What most people are scared to handle, the Roma embrace with a full heart: the very last chance to show love and care on this earthly plane.

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“We bury our people”

In mainstream cultures, people use the help of funeral agencies when a loved one passes away. It’s seen as a relief, an invaluable form of support in a moment when you’re so grief-stricken that you are unable also to organize the countless, heartbreaking, unbearable logistics of a funeral.

So much goes into preparing this final departure. Preparing the body, preparing the ceremony, preparing food for the attendees, preparing the grave, lowering the coffin, burying it.

When Martina’s father died a few short years ago, the circumstances were such that she had to deal with all the arrangements alone. The funeral agency experience was surreal - flipping through a menu to choose a coffin, the size of the coffin, the color of the coffin, flowers, food, timeslot for the cremation, and so many countless, endless other choices. She remembered how her father did the same for his own father when he passed away over 20 years ago. “They offered this, they offered that,” he complained then, “they almost offered throwing confetti in the air.”

The irritation here is not about the funeral agency being disrespectful. It’s about the impersonal element. How should they know how to bury your loved one if they don’t ask you a million questions? Because, in the end, you know this person. And they don’t.

The Roma have a deep aversion to this entire concept. It is unthinkable to them. “It’s an abandonment,” Pepi says. When a loved one passes away, Romani tribes pull together and they handle every single thing themselves.

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Saying “goodbye” is not part of Romani culture. The Roma just up and leave, without prolonged farewells or a song and dance about just why they’re leaving. This is the case both in everyday life, gatherings, big celebrations, and when you run into someone you haven’t seen in years.

The reason for this is simple: Why say goodbye when you’ll cross paths again? The invisible thread connecting the Roma is so strong that they never feel like they are separated, even if they don’t see or hear from each other for years.

There is only one “goodbye” for the Roma. The one when you know that, in this world, you will never cross paths with this person ever again.

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The first 24 hours

When a Roma person passes away, the custom is for the body to stay at home for 24 hours.

A coffin is prepared but it’s not used until the funeral. Instead, the lid is placed outside, at the front door. This announces not only the death but also that the vigil is taking place.

The body is placed on the ground, opposite the front door - so that there is no obstruction for the spirit to leave. No cats or dogs are allowed, to prevent the spirit from possessing them. In Roma culture, the dead have their say in how long they’ll stay to say goodbye but their way to the other world has to be clear.

During those first 24 hours, relatives gather to mourn and say their own farewell. If the person was a smoker, a plate is placed next to their head, so that you can share a smoke with them. You light one cigarette for yourself, and one for them and you place it on the plate. If you owed them money, you slip a coin in their pocket and whisper in their ear, “My debt to you is paid.” If you had anything to confess, to share, to ask - you tell them.

At sunset, the body is covered with a blanket after a cloth is tied under the jaw and around the head to prevent the deadman from smiling and taking somebody with them.

After these 24 hours pass, the funeral takes place.

But this is not the final goodbye.

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Mourning together

Does the soul immediately vanish after death? Many cultures in the world don’t think it does. In Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Romani, as well as many pagan traditions, it is believed that after death, the soul wanders the Earth for 40 days.

Within this 40-day window, the Roma hold daily vigils for several consecutive days. The number of days is chosen by the immediate family and the only rule is that it is an odd number: most commonly 5, 7, or 9 days.

An elderly man from our tribe passed away recently. “His wife will mourn for 7 days,” Pepi said. In this case “mourn” doesn’t refer to her internal feelings of grief. It refers to the custom of mourning shared with the entire tribe. When people in the tribe say, “She will mourn for 7 days,” this is an invitation to the vigil.

The surviving next of kin, in this case the wife, announces the number of days to several people and knows that the entire tribe will know through word of mouth.

Every one of these 7 days, at 6:00 PM she will light a candle. She will have food and coffee prepared. Relatives from the tribe will arrive and stay. Until the candle burns down.

The Roma believe that the person who died is there with them during these vigils. It is him or her who decides how long the candle burns.

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You can tell a lot about a culture by what it chooses to celebrate.

The Roma don’t celebrate military victories, conquests, or territorial expansions. They don’t have any, because they never lusted for any in their 1,000+ years of history.

But they don’t formally celebrate their actual achievements, either. They don’t proclaim loudly what they have contributed to the world. They don’t have a celebration for their unparalleled music, their unparalleled craftsmanship, or any of the innumerable ways they have influenced Middle Eastern, Balkan, and European cultures.

What they do celebrate, in the two main holidays that mainstream culture recognizes as “Romani holidays” is new life, renewal, and saints who have rescued them. The biggest Roma holiday, Ederlezi, on May 6th. And the Roma New Year, Vasilitza, on January 14th.

Who is Bango Vasil?

Vasilitza takes its name from the patron saint Vasil, who in orthodox Christianity is celebrated on January 1st, but used to be celebrated on January 14th. The Roma here in Bulgaria have preserved the old calendar in their traditions, so while they celebrate New Year with everyone else on January 1st, the real New Year, where all the important customs and traditions are being followed, is on January 14th.

So who is Vasil?

According to one legend, he was a saint who rescued a Romani tribe from drowning. They were crossing a bridge but the Devil destroyed it from under their feet, so they fell into a raging river. Vasil sent a flock of geese who plucked the drowning Roma from the water and brought them to safety.

Another legend portrays Vasil as a shepherd who saw two Romani boys drowning in a river, dove in head first, and rescued them. And yet another legend says that Vasil was a shepherd who gave shelter in his home to Roma fleeing from enemies.

Regardless of whether Vasil had superhuman powers to send a flock of geese and rescue an entire tribe or he rescued two boys with his own hands, what the Roma celebrate is the kindness. The act of recognizing the value of their life. The refusal to watch them die.

They don’t call him “Saint Vasil.” They call him “Bango Vasil” which translates to “crooked,” and “broken.” In all of the legends, Vasil is limping.

Why the focus on his limp? On the brokenness?

For the Roma, the sacrifice, the permanent debilitation, which came as a result of rescuing their lives, is what turns Vasil into their patron. It brings him closer to their human reality, one of constant peril, danger, and persecution. And now he’s an “other”, just like them - by the mere act of helping them.

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Forgiveness and letting go of the bad

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What can a wedding do without?

For the Romani, the answer is “a lot.” Roma culture is known for its elaborate weddings. The customs and rituals around a wedding are strong, strict, and ancient. However, it’s not always possible to afford a traditional wedding. So there are Roma weddings without a reception. There are weddings with a bridal dress borrowed from a cousin. There are weddings without more than most traditional customs.

But weddings without an orchestra? No. Not a single one.

If the family has very little money to spare for a wedding, they’ll spend it on the orchestra.

If they can afford a bigger wedding and have to book the venue, the cameraman, cars and transport, and countless other orders and deliveries… then the first thing they’ll book, the thing everyone else is coordinated around, is the orchestra.

Music is, for the Romani, a conduit for the Divine. They don’t have priests at their weddings. The blessings are bestowed, instead, by the music. Specifically, by “live music” - a singer and a band at the reception.

But if you are really strapped for cash and can’t afford both an orchestra and a sinfer, what would you choose?

The orchestra. Always the orchestra.

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Not of the quiet kind

The Roma orchestra is as ancient as Roma culture. One theory about why the Romani left their motherland, Ancient India, is that the Sasanian king Bahrām V Gōr asked the Indian king to send him 1,000 flute musicians so that they could play music for the poor. These 1,000 musicians then became the wandering Romani.

The Romani have played music at innumerable weddings, at innumerable courts, for innumerable audiences. Historically beloved and revered by Middle Eastern, Byzantine, and Balkan nobles and villagers alike, the Roma orchestra has been around for centuries, with its distinct, singular style.

Today, if you find yourself in front of a Roma orchestra, you will forget which century and country you are living in. The music is so loud and powerful that it engulfs everything around it - traffic noises, horns, and sirens all scatter to dust under the drums of the Romani.

Modern mainstream culture, of course, looks down on the Roma orchestra. It’s seen as too loud and primitive. And sure, there is no “elegance” in drums that engulf all noise and sense of time and place. These drums are unmistakable. When you hear them, you know what’s happening: “The Romani are celebrating again.” And you find people from mainstream society glued to the windows of their homes or their cars, unable to look at anything else.

And this is the thing about the Roma orchestra. This is the entire point. You can’t miss it. Everyone hears it. Even the Gods.

Declarations and unapologetic joy

One key area where the Romani differ from most mainstream cultures and sub-cultures is in the sense of pride.

Unlike everyone around them, the Romani are not prideful about lineages, wealth, belonging to this or that nation and country, not even about their own thousand-years-long rich history. This, along with their sense of identity, is very internal for them and nobody else’s business.

What they are proud of and boast about is anything that brings them joy. And you will know what this is because it will be announced with the drums of an orchestra. Weddings, a birthday, a new baby - all this is celebrated loudly, declared to the world.

Here in Bulgaria, mothers usually leave the maternity ward quietly - baby in hand, with the husband and maybe one or two grandparents, as a big exception a very close friend too. They get in a car and drive home to have a secluded welcoming of the newborn, get settled, and get comfortable.

The Romani bring an orchestra to the hospital’s gates. They arrive in scores and form an entire crowd. Then, they take the mother and the baby and go back to the tribe, where - again with the orchestra - they hold a huge celebration. The baby has a special room prepared where it stays with the mother and a few other women who make sure it’s taken care of when the mother wants to have a bite to eat, or relax, or join the celebration.

You know the expression, “I’m so happy, I want to scream it from the rooftops?” This is exactly what the Romani do when they are happy. They declare it with joy and with pride. But not the kind of pride that makes you believe you’re better than everyone else. No, the kind of pride that makes you want to connect to your fellow human beings even more.

When the Romani “beat the drums” they are announcing a celebration from their heart. The joy is so big that they can’t help but share it.

Making it “official”

The Romani don’t exactly trust mainstream institutions and structures, least of all with legitimizing the relationship with their loved ones. They don’t get married in churches, only get married in courthouses if they need it for bureaucratic reasons and have found no other alternative, they don’t care much about who - if anyone - is listed as the father on the birth certificate of a newborn, and they don’t use officiants to tell them that now this or that is “official.”

The “legitimizing” happens in the act of celebrating. And for that, you need two things. The orchestra. And the tribe.

If the entire family gathers and celebrates, but there’s no orchestra, it would be a fantastic party, but not a true wedding, or welcoming of a child. It would be considered a “gathering.”

It is a custom for the Romani celebrations here to have a cameraman to film the entire thing and then publish it. Martina and Pepi were watching a recording of a wedding that took place a few weeks ago in another tribe that we’re close to. The orchestra was there, the family of the groom each took the hand of the bride to dance in the traditional procession called horo, but nobody from the bride’s family could be seen.

“This is not a wedding,” Pepi said, “it’s a walk.”

What made it less of a wedding in his eyes? The absence of the bride’s tribe.

The link between the orchestra and the tribe is as strong as it is difficult to define. The orchestra is there to give expression to the joy. If it’s not there, the joy remains unexpressed. Unannounced. Hidden from the world. And if the orchestra is there, but the tribe is not, then whose joy is the orchestra expressing? Whose love? Whose welcoming? No ones. The music might still be loud, but it will be without fire.

To understand the power and connection of Romani tribes, listen to how loud they beat the drums when one of them gets born, or gets married, or has a birthday.

Watch how the entire tribe dances to these drums.

Listen to what they’re declaring: Pure love. And pure joy.

“Let me tell you something” is an opening line that will make the usually-loud people in our Roma tribe grow quiet, look you in the eye, and lean in closer.

The unspoken part of this line is “I’m about to say something that is important to me.” Or, as Pepi once said to Martina, “Let me tell you something, from the soul.”

It can be anything. “I had a fight with my husband.” “I miss my father.” “I have been feeling unappreciated.” “I have been very happy at home with my wife and kids.” “I’m hoping to start a new job and buy a car in the summer.” “Last month, I had a very difficult moment, here’s what happened…”

It can be big or small, happy or sad - those qualifiers don’t matter. The only thing that matters is that you want to share it. So, it will be heard with an open heart, and usually with someone’s arm placed over your shoulder with love and a tinge of protectiveness.

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In modern times, the word “tribe” doesn’t necessarily carry positive connotations. People see tribes as a conservative, restrictive force that the individual is in a natural conflict with. “Tribal thinking” and “tribalism” usually mean blind adherence to outdated tradition and hostility to the new and foreign. The tribe is a small box. The “real world” is outside of it. And the individual will always be disregarded inside the tribe because the tribe always comes first.

Is this take accurate? Is there really such a natural conflict between the individual and the tribe? Does it depend on the tribe?

Our answer comes through the Roma lens. The Romani, who despite thousands of years of assimilation and eradication attempts, have preserved their indigenous tribal culture. The Romani, who hold the tribe and family as the highest value in life. The Romani, who if you say “Let me tell you something,” will stop what they’re doing, turn down the music, put down the phone, inch closer, sit next to you, put an arm over your shoulder, and listen as if what you’re about to say is the most important thing in the world. Because, in that moment, it is.

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“Listen, listen, my brother, to what I am saying,” begins a traditional song performed by famous singer Rejo Tallava at Roma weddings.

So, what is he saying? What is he singing about?

It depends on the wedding, on the bride and groom, on the best man and maid of honor, on the guests.

The melody is always the same. The lyrics, however, change. After the opening line, “Listen, listen, my brother, to what I am saying,” anything can follow.

The one thing that is certain is that the words that follow are blessings.

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Who has the right to bestow a blessing?

In many cultures all over the world, we elevate select people to a role that connects us with God. Priests, popes, kings, and their variants. All of them, every single one of them, share one characteristic: the connection with God removes them from the rest of us.

They are somehow higher, superior, and more “pure” than the mere humans around them. Their role…

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Days before our daughter was due to be born, Martina woke up with a paralyzing headache. Her blood pressure was rocket high and kept climbing. Pepi called doctors and emergency lines and was told we must go to the emergency room.

Martina ended up staying 10 days in the hospital for observation and to make sure her blood pressure was stable, waiting for the baby to pick her moment to arrive. Thankfully, our daughter was born healthy and without complications.

But in that moment, on our way to the emergency room, when we quickly gathered documents and essentials, threw jackets on, and rushed out, in that scary limbo when Martina was stepping out into the unknown, in pain, and worried sick about her baby, Pepi said six magical words as he was pressing the handle to open the door.

Martina had heard Pepi say “God in front, I follow” countless times. He says this almost every time he ventures out. The stakes can be tiny or life-changing. It doesn’t matter. What matters is his unshakable belief that God is with him at every step.

For Martina, whose faith and spirituality still ebb and flow in search of a strong roof in her heart, these words always sounded beautiful and a little bit enchanting. But when she heard them on her way to the hospital, they - unexpectedly to her - brought her comfort and courage. And for the first time, they sounded true.

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What makes faith unshakable?

Pepi, a person who has had a very difficult life since he was abandoned in an orphanage as a 6-month-old baby, a person who has faced violence, brutality, and poverty, who has seen tragedies most of us cannot imagine, has never - not once - doubted the existence of God.

The same goes for his entire Roma tribe. Their faith in God is unshakable even though their lives are much harder than everyone else around them, even though the class divide is prominent in everyday life, even though their life is marked by daily struggles.

What does this faith look like?

The Romani don’t light candles in front of icons. They don’t follow prayers where the words are already laid out for them in advance. They don’t go to church in the traditional sense. Our Roma relatives have their own church, in the ghetto, in a building like any other. But they don’t need to go to this church in order to establish a connection with God.

God, to them, is not a concept. God is not something foreign, something to be explained, something to be translated. They don’t acknowledge intermediaries to God.

To them, God is always present. God is always here, listening, and ready to respond. God is always participating.

It doesn’t matter if you are illiterate and you can’t read the Bible. It doesn’t matter how virtuous you have been according to this or that standard. It doesn’t matter how you enter a conversation with God. None of this matters, because it is all human-made, a structure upheld by traditions, customs, and cultures that ultimately have no place and no power in the unbreakable link between one human soul and God.

All this sounds no different from any and every religious or spiritual teaching. We have all heard it and read it a thousand times.

The difference becomes noticeable in how the Romani weave it into the reality of life.

In August 2017, several houses from the Roma mahala (which translates to “neighborhood” but is most widely used as “ghetto”) were demolished by the municipality under the supervision of the mayor, dozens of police officers, and several reporters.

The mahala, in existence for over a century, became gradually surrounded by middle-class white-skinned neighbors who felt the Romani were encroaching on “their otherwise beautiful” neighborhood. So, in a tale as old as time, steps were taken to chase away the Romani.

A second wave of demolition happened in 2019, and one of the razed houses belonged to Pepi, his then-partner Nora, and their children. The families were placed in a “temporary housing center” and have, ever since, been hounded with bureaucratic curve balls and threats of eviction and child protection services. In the demolitions, many things were lost. Documents, birth certificates, diplomas, childhood pictures.

“They came at 5:00 am,” Pepi remembers, “and chased us out. You barely have time to wake up the children and leave, let alone figure out what clothes to put on, or remember which important items to take.”

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How would most of us react if our home is razed to the ground and we’re now left at the mercy of an institutional system that despises us? How would we respond to standing in front of a pile of rubble with nothing but the clothes on our backs?

We can show you how Pepi’s niece, Vela reacted when her house was razed in August 2017.

You can see her, visibly pregnant, walking straight ahead together with her husband and kids, not even looking back, with a journalist barely able to keep up, at the very beginning of this news report. Vela’s responses to him are flippant, sarcastic, defiant, and, even though she’s the one who’s had her life turned upside down, he’s the one repeatedly caught off-guard.

“Where are you going to take the wife and kids?” the reporter asks her husband, Nicky.

“To the sea, we’re going on vacation,” Vela answers.

“But you’re pregnant,” the reporter says after a quick look at her.

“I’m not pregnant.”

“What do you mean, look how big your belly is!”

“Don’t you worry about me.”

“Where are you going to live now?”

“Where am I going to live? Around the world and back.”

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You can see the anger but, try as you might, you cannot see despair. The Roma spirit does not break. It has not broken even after a thousand years of violence. Tragedy doesn’t subdue the Romani. It makes them laugh, it angers and energizes them, and they continue walking forward, straight ahead, just like Vela in this video.

What is their secret?

Faith. In themselves and in God. But not a God who stands far away in the sky. Not a God that needs to be appeased and who you have to beg to.

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The God who works with you

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