Roma Gypsy Quotes

Rohan’s head lifted. His eyes glowed as if brimstone were contained within the dark-rimmed irises. He spoke slowly, as if he were collecting words like fallen leaves. “This is probably a bad idea.” Amelia nodded shakily. “Yes, Mr. Rohan.” His fingertips teased a fresh surge of color to the surface of her cheeks. “My name is Cam.” “I can’t call you that.” “Why not?” “You know why,” came her unsteady reproach. A long breath was neatly rifted as she felt his mouth descend to her cheek, exploring the rosy skin. “What does it mean?” “My name? It’s the Romany word for ‘sun.’” Amelia could scarcely think. “As in … the offspring of a father, or in the sky?” “Sky.” He moved to the arch of her eyebrow, kissing the outward tip. “Did you know a Gypsy has three names?” She shook her head slowly, while his mouth slid across her forehead. He pressed a warm veil of words against her skin. “The first is a secret name a mother whispers into her child’s ear at birth. The second is a tribal name used only by other Gypsies. The third is the name we use with non-Roma.” His scent was all around her, spare and fresh and delicious. “What is your tribal name?” He smiled slightly, the shape of his mouth a burning motif against her cheek. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know you well enough yet.” Yet. The tantalizing promise embedded in that word shortened her breath. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Please, we mustn’t—” But the words were lost as he bent and took her mouth hungrily.

I’ve never been inside a gaming club before. It will be a novel experience.” “They won’t let you inside. You’re a lady. And even if they did allow it, I wouldn’t.” Lowering her hand, Amelia glanced at him in surprise. It was rare that Merripen forbade her to do anything. In fact, this may have been the first time. She found it annoying. Considering that her brother’s life might be at stake, she was hardly going to quibble over social niceties. Besides, she was curious to see what was inside the privileged masculine retreat. As long as she was doomed to remain a spinster, she might as well enjoy the small freedoms that came with it. “Neither will they let you inside,” she pointed out. “You’re a Roma.” “As it happens, the manager of the club is also a Roma.” That was unusual. Extraordinary, even. Gypsies were known as thieves and tricksters. For one of the Rom to be entrusted with the accounting of cash and credit, not to mention arbitrating controversies at the gambling tables, was nothing short of amazing. “He must be a rather remarkable individual to have assumed such a position,” Amelia said. “Very well, I will allow you to accompany me inside Jenner’s. It’s possible your presence will induce him to be more forthcoming.” “Thank you.” Merripen’s voice was so dry one could have struck a match off it.

So entrenched is our fictional image of Gypsies that we often brush aside real-world experiences as a mirage when they contradict the picture that we have absorbed and internalized.

Their flag has two background colours: green representing the ground below, and blue for the sky above. In its centre it depicted a wheel: this symbolized the image of the Romani people as travellers and, resembling the 24-spoke wheel known as the Ashoka Chatra which features in the centre of the flag of India, it served as a reference to the Roms' historical country of origin.

I believe that it is not beneficial either to idealize Romani culture or treat it as exotic. Romani culture is not simply Indian or Asian, though some aspects of it clearly reflect its historical origins in India, language being one of the most obvious. Nor is it inherently a culture of poverty or a culture of resistance or defiance against mainstream norms.

But I do hold the view that we need to rethink and revise our picture of the Romani people and to move away from the literary images and brands, and on to understanding the real everyday lives and aspirations of a real people.

I recall my Romani friend who drives from village to village to offer his services to potential clients and who claims, when asked about his origin, to be Irish or Italian. 'I make a living by denying who I am,' he says.

A decree prohibiting the separation of Romani families through the sale of slaves was adopted in Wallachia in 1850. The ownership of private slaves finally became illegal in Moldavia in 1855 and in Wallachia in 1856.

Claims for compensation for physical damage through sterilization and for psychological damage through incarceration were not recognized for this reason. Claims for lost possessions were rejected on the basis of a wholesale prejudice that Gypsies did not own possessions. Claims for compensation for lost income on the basis of a reduction of earning capacity (as a result of physical and psychological damage and years lost due to imprisonment) were rejected on the grounds that Gypsies were unlikely to have sought employment even under more favourable circumstances. Like the German Jews, the Roms had been stripped of their citizenship rights by the Nazi regime's racist legislation.

There was every proof that the persecution and genocide against Romani minorities had been carried out on the basis of racial ideology. Nevertheless, many Roms encountered difficulties reclaiming their German citizenship. As a result they were also considered to be ineligible for compensation payments, which according to the West German compensation law could be made only to German citizens. By the time their citizenship had been reinstated and compensation claims were filed again, claimants were often informed that the deadline for submitting claims had passed.

Many Romani activists are in fact of mixed parentage. They are often individuals who grew up within the mainstream culture, ashamed of, or afraid to acknowledge, their Romani family connections. Others are persons of Romani background who acquired an education and spent the early years of their careers capitalizing on their Romani connections by engaging in academic research on Romani culture or providing expertise to public services and institutions on Romani society. They feel a strong commitment to challenging prejudice and to improving the destiny of their people. But many years of their lives have been spent struggling for recognition and acknowledgement among their non-Romani colleagues and peers.

The thought of even more permanent separation of children through boarding schools or foster homes is even more troublesome, and Roms in countries such as Norway, Sweden, Hungary and Switzerland are still haunted by the memory of periods in the history of their communities during which the practice of separating Romani children from their families was encouraged by authorities as a means of forcibly integrating the young generations of Roms into mainstream society.

People are often surprised to hear that Romani is in fact a fully fledged language just like any other, that it has its origins in India, that it is related to Sanskrit, an ancient language associated with Indian scholarship and religion, and that it has been preserved by the Romani populations through oral traditions and in a variety of dialects for many centuries.

Is it a hallucinogen?” he asked. “Yes, there is a component in wormwood that can cause hallucinations. It is toxic if used too much,” I replied. I’d seen people die from overdoing it on absinthe. Even fairies. The gypsy folk that I traveled with in Europe used to brew it. It was the moonshine of the Roma.

If you’re assuming that my plans to leave are nothing more than a reaction to Miss Hathaway … I’ve been considering this for a long time. I’m not an idiot. Nor am I inexperienced with women.” “To say the least,” St. Vincent commented dryly. “But in your pursuit of women—or perhaps I should say their pursuit of you—you seem to have regarded them all as interchangeable. Until now. If you are taken with this Hathaway creature, don’t you think it bears investigating?” “God, no. There’s only one thing it could lead to.” “Marriage,” the viscount said rather than asked. “Yes. And that’s impossible.” “Why?” The fact that they were discussing Amelia Hathaway and the subject of marriage was enough to make Cam blanch in discomfort. “I’m not the marrying kind—” St. Vincent snorted. “No man is. Marriage is a female invention.” “—but even if I were so inclined,” Cam continued, “I’m a Roma. I wouldn’t do that to her.” There was no need to elucidate. Decent gadjis didn’t marry Gypsies. His blood was mixed, and even though Amelia herself might harbor no prejudices, the routine discriminations Cam encountered would certainly extend to his wife and children. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his own people would be even more disapproving of the match. Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa … Gadje with Gadje, Roma with Roma. “What if your heritage made no difference to her?” Westcliff asked quietly. “That’s not the point. It’s how others would view her.” Seeing that the older man was about to argue, Cam murmured, “Tell me, would either of you wish your daughter to marry a Gypsy?” In the face of their discomforted silence, he smiled without amusement. After a moment, Westcliff stubbed out his cigar in a deliberate, methodical fashion. “Obviously you’ve made up your mind. Further debate would be pointless.

Husband?” “I told them we were betrothed.” Cam took her arm in a gentle but adamant grip and guided her around to the other side of the yew, where they could not be observed from the house. “Why?” “Because we are.” “What?” They stopped in the concealment of the hedge. Aghast, Amelia looked up into his warm hazel eyes. “Are you mad?” Taking her hand, Cam lifted it until the ring gleamed in the daylight. “You’re wearing my ring. You slept with me. You made promises. Many in the Rom would say that constitutes full-blown marriage. But just to make certain it’s legal, we’ll do it the way of the gadjos as well.” “We’ll do no such thing!” Amelia snatched her hand from his and backed away. “I’m only wearing this ring because I can’t get the blasted thing off. And what do you mean, I made promises? Were those Romany words you asked me to repeat some kind of vow? You tricked me! I didn’t mean what I said.” “But you did sleep with me.” She flushed in shame and outrage, and dragged a sleeve across her sweating brow. Whirling away from him, she strode rapidly along a graveled path that led deeper into the garden. “That didn’t mean anything, either,” she said over her shoulder. He kept pace with her easily. “It meant something to me. The sexual act is sacred to a Roma.” She made a scornful sound. “What about all the ladies you seduced in London? Was it sacred when you slept with them, too?” “For a while I fell into the impure ways of the gadjo,” he said innocently. “Now I’ve reformed.” Amelia sent him a sideways glare. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me. One night can’t change the entire course of someone’s life.” “Of course it can.” He reached for her, and Amelia skittered away, passing a mermaid fountain surrounded by stone benches. Cam caught her from behind and jerked her back against him. “Stop running from me and listen. I do want you. I want you even knowing if I marry you, I’ve got an instant family, complete with a suicidal brother-in-law and a Gypsy houseboy with the temperament of a poked bear.” “Merripen is not a houseboy.” “Call him what you like. He comes with the Hathaways. I accept that.” “They won’t accept you,” she said desperately. “There’s no place for you in our family.” “Yes there is. Right by your side.

My name is Cam.” “I can’t call you that.” “Why not?” “You know why,” came her unsteady reproach. A long breath was neatly rifted as she felt his mouth descend to her cheek, exploring the rosy skin. “What does it mean?” “My name? It’s the Romany word for ‘sun.’” Amelia could scarcely think. “As in … the offspring of a father, or in the sky?” “Sky.” He moved to the arch of her eyebrow, kissing the outward tip. “Did you know a Gypsy has three names?” She shook her head slowly, while his mouth slid across her forehead. He pressed a warm veil of words against her skin. “The first is a secret name a mother whispers into her child’s ear at birth. The second is a tribal name used only by other Gypsies. The third is the name we use with non-Roma.” His scent was all around her, spare and fresh and delicious. “What is your tribal name?” He smiled slightly, the shape of his mouth a burning motif against her cheek. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know you well enough yet.” Yet. The tantalizing promise embedded in that word shortened her breath. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Please, we mustn’t—” But the words were lost as he bent and took her mouth hungrily.

Roma are defined (by Europeans) as the Indian Gypsies; and Jews are defined (by Semites) as the European and Russian Gypsies. Both are treated as illegal immigrants, however, The Lord has His own equation and judgement. And only Caesar is foolish enough to dare and confront it.

You won’t distract me that easily. Good God, sis, couldn’t you find someone of your own class to dally with? Have your prospects really sunk so low that you’ve taken a Gypsy to your bed?” Amelia’s mouth dropped open. She spun to face him. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing. Our brother is a Roma, and he—” “Merripen isn’t our brother. And he happens to agree with me. This is beneath you.” “Beneath me,” Amelia repeated dazedly, backing away from him until her shoulders flattened against the wall. “How?” “There’s no need for me to explain, is there?” “Yes,” she said, “I think there is.” “Rohan’s a Gypsy, Amelia. They’re lazy, rootless wanderers.” “You can say all that when you never lift a finger?” “I’m not supposed to work. I’m a peer now. I earn three thousand pounds a year just by existing.” Clearly there was no headway to be made in an argument when one’s opponent was insane. “Until this moment, I had no intention of marrying him,” Amelia said. “But now I’m seriously considering the merits of having at least one rational man in the household.” “Marriage?” Amelia almost enjoyed the look on his face. “I suppose Merripen forgot to mention that minor detail. Yes, Cam has proposed to me. And he’s rich, Leo. Rich rich, which means even if you decide to go jump in the lake and drown yourself, the girls and I would be taken care of. Nice, isn’t it, that someone’s concerned about our future?” “I forbid it.” She gave him a scornful glance. “Forgive me if I’m less than impressed by your authority, Leo. Perhaps you should practice on someone else.

As an old friend of the family—and particularly Miss Hathaway—I’ve taken it upon myself to help them.” The phrase “particularly Miss Hathaway” uttered with just a hint of ownership, nearly shattered Cam’s self-control. He, who had always congratulated himself on his equanimity, was instantly overrun with hostility. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should have asked first. As it turns out, your services aren’t needed.” Frost’s face darkened. “What gives you the right to speak for Miss Hathaway and her family?” Cam saw no reason to be discreet. “I’m going to marry her.” Frost nearly dropped the iron bar. “Don’t be absurd. Amelia would never marry you.” “Why not?” “Good God,” Frost exclaimed incredulously, “how can you ask that? You’re not a gentleman of her class, and … hell and damnation, you’re not even a real Gypsy. You’re a mongrel.” “All the same, I’m going to marry her.” “I’ll see you in hell first!” Frost cried, taking a step toward him. “Either drop that bar,” Cam said quietly, “or I’ll dislocate your arm.” He sincerely hoped Frost would take a swing at him. To his disappointment, Frost set the bar on the ground. The architect glared at him. “After I talk to her, she’ll want nothing more to do with you. I’ll make certain she understands what people would say about a lady who beds down with a Gypsy. She’d be better off with a peasant. A dog. A—” “Point taken,” Cam said. He gave Frost a bland smile designed to infuriate. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, that Miss Hathaway’s previous experience with a gentleman of her own class has now disposed her to look favorably on a Roma? It hardly reflects well on you.” “You selfish bastard,” Frost muttered. “You’ll ruin her. You think nothing of bringing her down to your level. If you cared for her at all, you would disappear for good.

My, Rómovia, už sme raz takí, ukradli sme slnku bronz, hviezdam žiarivé diamanty a ozdobili si nimi zamatové oči. Tmavej noci sme zobrali čiernu farbu na vlasy, ohňu plameň náruživej a ohnivej lásky, a víchrici temperament, čo vynesie vesmírnu loď na rómsku planétu!

Dětem ve školách bylo zakazováno mluvit romsky. Přišla jsem osobně do styku s iniciativními učiteli, kteří vybírali korunu pokuty za každé „cikánské“ slovo. Viděla jsem v jednom dětském domově dohola ostříhané děti za trest, protože mluvily cikánsky.

ethnic groups, but to say that we don’t divide each other into races would be to ignore thousands of years of human history. Not to mention the fact that white people drive a car like this: Fig. 3 While black people drive a car like this: Fig. 4 Despite increasing globalization and intermarriage, or “miscegenation,” there are still distinct and important differences between members of the different races. Since the subtlety and scope of those differences are far too complicated to be helpful to us in everyday life, we employ certain heuristics, or “stereotypes,” to better understand and more comfortably interact with those different from ourselves. Like the Maori. Such stereotypes are sometimes controversial, because they can oversimplify the differences between individuals. Every person is different, and it is rare for someone to fit a stereotype perfectly. Except for so-called “walking stereotypes,” like Carson from Queer Eye.2. Others don’t have any of the characteristics ascribed to their race in such stereotypes. It’s an imperfect science at best. For example, just because the Maori are, in general, lazy, selfish, and long-winded, that does not mean that noted Maori opera singer Kiri Te Kanawa is any of those things. In fact, she is only two of them, because she is a soprano, and sopranos tend to be very succinct. Even so, stereotypes can be very useful in our everyday social interactions and decision-making. They are actually a kind of survival instinct—a crude form of received inductive reasoning that can help us make snap judgments in situations where we don’t have all the facts. When entering into a business deal with someone of Roma descent, for instance, I am very careful of my possessions. Knowing the stereotype that gypsies are tramps and thieves,3. I am able to better protect myself when coming into contact with them,

And because I’m a widow, you assume I’m ripe to your trickery and silver tongue.” “I’m a Roma. You describe my specialty.

The term “Romani,” as used in this story, is in some sense an anachronism—in the nineteenth century, Romanies would have been known primarily as “Gypsies” (Cigányok in Hungary). Due to the negative stereotypes attached to the term “Gypsy” and the fact that it stems from a mistaken idea of their origins (it’s a corruption of “Egyptian”), “Roma” or “Romani” has been widely adopted as the preferred form of address. I chose to use “Romani” to acknowledge this preference and to reflect the difference between the way Gábor views his family and friends (and the way Anna comes to) and outsider perspectives. Where “Gypsy” is used, it refers strictly to outsiders’ perspectives of Romani life.

To jedyny w świecie lud, który chce tylko pokoju. Żadna wojna nie wybuchała przez Cygana. Nie chcemy walczyć, bo się boimy. Bo kochamy życie. Bo o co mamy się bić? Cygan nie wie, co to bój o idee. Taka mentalność to błąd, przez nią nie mamy państwa.