I first met my very good friend Lisa Eastwood on a video shoot in Woolwich Arsenal. The venue was a very damp and dusty caravan. That’s ironic, because five years later Lisa informed me that she is a Romany gypsy. I had no idea. She disclosed this information because she wanted to travel to Auschwitz in order to discover more about Roma history. Sadly, no one else wanted go with her.
During the Second World War, not only were six million Jews killed, but along with them and largely undocumented, other “unsuitable people” were murdered. Among them were between 250,000 and 500,000 gypsies. The atrocity became known as the Parajmos or “the devouring”. I have always been fascinated by the Holocaust and agreed to accompany Lisa on her pilgrimage.
We took a train from Cologne, lasting 15 hours in total. Of course, it was in no way as horrendous as the journey undertaken by the Roma all those years ago, but it was exhausting. Most of the adult Roma were rewarded with a quick trip to the “showers”. Some of the Roma children, however, were identical or fraternal twins and they were not sent to the gas chambers but preserved for experimentation. Many of the twins were literally sewn together, eventually dying of septicaemia.
We were able to go straight to our warm, comfortable hotel rooms and soaked away our tiredness in hot, fragrant bathtubs. Inevitably, this luxury felt wrong.
The following morning, we travelled on to Auschwitz. It was January and bitterly cold. Nothing prepares you for the bleakness of Auschwitz in winter. We passed through the gates with utter trepidation. We walked around the camp, but found no clues as to where the Romany were tortured and executed. We enquired at the gift shop, but no one seemed to care. The Romany people do not feature on any historical tour of the death camp. There is no recognition of the Roma, blacks or the estimated 15,000 gays exterminated by the Nazis. We were devastated.
Nothing concentrates the mind quite like having lunch in Auschwitz. It was a surreal experience. No one dares to complain about the terrible food they serve, but I could taste it all the way home.
From then on, things became very interesting. I took on board all that I learned and set out to document everything I could find about the often-ignored 200,000 gypsies or Roma who currently live in Britain. I was pleased that I even acquired a few new gypsy facts for my gypsy friend. It was the beginning of a fascinating journey.
Soon after this, I went to the Appleby horse fair. This annual gathering of gypsies and travellers has taken place in the Cumbrian town every year since 1750 and it can scare the hell out of the uninitiated. Gypsy children are dressed in full three-piece tweed suits and flat cap – all the same tweed. It looks like it has all been cut from the same bolt of fabric.
I asked them what they planned to do that evening. Between slugs from two-litre bottles of Red Bull, one of them, a little ruddy-faced scamp, told me. “We’re gonna get pissed, missus.” Many visitors find them intimidating. I held my nerve and found them utterly charming.
We were scheduled to meet Billy Welsh. Billy doesn’t appreciate the title “The King of the Gypsies”, but nevertheless holds court with aplomb. He lives in a caravan but that doesn’t make him ignorant – far from it. We came bearing gifts. I gave him a thank-you card and two bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape. Friends told me off – they thought I was being pretentious. But they were wrong. Billy looked at the label and smiled knowingly. We should never underestimate anyone.
Billy introduced me to his wife, Rachel. It turns out that most women in the gypsy community are called Rachel. As I was to discover, gypsy life is an old-fashioned regime. The men and women are segregated during the evening’s activities. Sadly, I didn’t get to talk to the women, but although very conscious of the old-fashioned sexism, felt ridiculously privileged to be talking to Billy. Although I wasn’t invited to a bare-knuckle fight (because the weather was terrible), I was invited to sit round a fire, made by the young boys of the camp. “Get the wood lads”, said Billy – and in a few minutes, the fire was ablaze. Children sang for us. It was beautiful.
We went back to visit Billy and his family in the north-east of England a few months later. On this occasion, the women were more forthcoming and I spent an unforgettable evening with them around a huge fire. I was even taught how to make “water bread” by a wonderful woman by the name of “Aunty Vera”.
An iron tripod was suspended above the fire and on top of it was placed a 100-year-old cast-iron frying pan. In the pan, the bread rose. We laced it with dollops of golden butter and it was utterly delicious. The wine flowed freely and the songs were plentiful. We were sitting in the middle of nowhere and it was immensely liberating. I was sad to leave.
These people really know how to live. While they try not to hurt anyone, they are constantly persecuted. If you are trodden down, the only thing to do is try to rise up and make sense of your persecution. Since arriving from India – to service the Roman armies, and bringing carpets, spices, pots and pans with them – these people have continued to fight for the simple and basic right to be themselves. They do not want to be a part of regular society, but they have an inalienable right to acceptance – just like anyone else.
Why are we so afraid of minorities when that is only what they are –minorities? If you believe the reactionary arguments, this country is overrun with threatening forces. To be blunt, that is complete bollocks. Such a level of ignorance is positively dangerous and must be challenged. We live in worrying times. It’s almost possible to imagine what it felt like to be an enemy of Hitler in the years immediately preceding the Second World War.
It shames me to think that many intelligent people – politicians among them, in Britain and elsewhere –are so quick to point fingers. The recent expulsion of the Roma from swathes of Europe has echoes of Nazism.
Britain has a long history as a tolerant nation. But perhaps our problems begin with faith schools. If people want to practice religion, let them do so in their own time, not inflict it on others. Secularism is the only way forward.
Gypsies have always refused to engage with regular society on the religious front. They may be onto something. The Roma retain their own beliefs, which they practice among their own, centuries-old communities.
There is much I discovered from my time with the Roma with which I do not necessarily agree. But much of what they do is really none of my business. We could take issue with them if we ourselves were affected as they are, but I’m not. Are you? There is a misunderstanding and great disrespect for these people, who come from a far older tradition and enjoy a greater depth of culture than many of us.
Lisa Stansfield is currently making a documentary of her year with Britain’s travelling community
