What would make you tap the “Go Live” button on social media? Something special? Something worthy of interrupting everyone else’s scroll?
In Bulgaria, going live usually signals something exceptional. A concert, a soccer game, the recent mass protests — in other words, for noteworthy things.
But the Roma? Yes, they go live when something important happens. Much more often, though, they broadcast moments that—to outsiders—feel perplexing.
The celebration live stream
As sure as the sun rises in the East, when a group of Roma sit down at a table to drink and celebrate, someone will take out a phone and hit the Go Live button. They flip to the front camera and position the phone on the table, leaning it against a bottle or a cup.
If they are sitting next to a beloved or special relative they will adjust the phone to include them in the frame. If there is dancing or something interesting happening, they will flip the camera to show it, and then position the phone back where it was.
These livestreams might last five minutes or an hour. They start, stop, and start again across the evening—casual check-ins rather than a single broadcast.
To outsiders, this raises questions. Is anyone even watching these videos? Who are they for? What is the point in them?
Let’s start out by telling you what these live-streams are not.
They are not curated. They are not scripted or shaped in any way. The Roma don’t perceive them as “content” released into the world.
They are not meant to be watched in full, though you are welcome to, if you have a few hours to spare.
They are not some kind of statement, declaration, or a “Look at me” cry.
So, what are they?
An invitation. Something along the lines of, “Sit with me for a few minutes.”
When Pepi is scrolling through Facebook and sees a live-stream on his feed, he clicks it open and now, he is there — with his niece, cousin, whoever happens to be streaming. It’s as if they are both at the table, listening to the same music, to the same chatter of relatives. Pepi usually types in some kind of joke into the comments or a “Cheers” or a “Have fun” and the person who is live-streaming sees it, thanks him, asks him how he’s doing. They chat for a few minutes. Pepi clicks out and then continues scrolling.
For both of them, this moment, as small and simple as it was, is very much treasured. This is the point of the live-streams: presence.
“I no longer can walk down the street to Sotir (nephew) and see how he’s doing,” Pepi explains. “I no longer run into him, ever since our houses were demolished. So when I see a post from him on Facebook, it feels as if I did run into him. And I learn he’s headed to work or to do some grocery shopping or he’s just hanging out in the sun and I can sit beside him for a minute.”
Social media, for the Roma, is like a village square. They don’t use it merely as a platform for grand announcements and theatrics. They use it as a tool to preserve the intimate sort of proximity that only exists in tight circles.
In our previous piece we talked about how the Roma post both the good and the bad on social media because they know their audience is comprised of relatives who care and want to hear from them.
The live-streams are an extension of this.
Among the Roma, when you see a live-stream of someone having a drink at a table it’s as if you ran into them. You might wave, you might stop to chat for a few minutes, you might join them.
This is what makes the Roma go live — not because something is happening, but because someone is there.
The “mundane” live stream
Celebrations are not the only time when the Roma go live. You often see live streams from street cleaning, sweeping the streets, off-loading containers, or sitting inside the garbage truck on its way to the depot.
Or, you see people going live, propping up the phone, putting on some music and just going about their business at home. Cooking, cleaning, smoking a cigarette.
All of these are stills from live-streams that ran for 15–20 minutes. What is being broadcast here?
