I’ve had “M.”’s phone number for weeks. A mutual contact gave it to me upon hearing about my interest in Roma (Gypsies) because M. is an outspoken Rom (not all Roma identify as such due to prejudice and other identity politics). But I’ve been busy and didn’t get around to calling him until Monday. I went to his house yesterday afternoon.

I walked into the Balkan living room and saw a thick, plush room-sized rug, tin plates and a colorful picture of a mountain range on felt/cloth hanging on the wall, sparse furniture (2 couches), a small coffee table, and a large TV. M., his wife and their two youngest (out of eight) were lying on the floor watching Will Smith’s Pursuit of Happiness. They moved to the couch when I came in. I took little notice of the only thing sitting on the table besides a pack of Marlboro reds and an ashtray: a book.

We started talking and I got to the point of my visit: I worked with Roma in the former Yugoslavia and now I’m Fargo for the same reason, bla, bla, bla. M. gave me a funny look, smiled, and then pushed the book towards me. It was the book about the research that I coordinated with Medica Infoteka in Bosnia from 1999-2000 about Roma, and specifically about Romani women in Bosnia, and it was the Romani version (we published it in English, Bosnian, and Romani). He opened to a specific page in the back of the book where we printed newspaper articles about Roma in Bosnia. The article he pointed to was about Kosovar Roma who were living in refugee camps in central Bosnia – and there was his picture because he was interviewed for the story. He argued then that Kosovar Roma refugees should be allowed to attend schools in Bosnia, which was not allowed. Then he reminded me that he and I met in that refugee camp in 2000. I felt red warmth rise from my neck to the ends of my hairs. I was speechless, and said so. Small world does not begin to describe this.

The book was well worn. It had no back cover and the front cover was so faded that it hardly resembled the original. I asked him if the Romani language in the book was understandable to him (I don’t speak Romani and so I was never able to evaluate the translation) and he told me that when he tells former Yugoslav Roma there’s a book about them in their own language, they don’t believe him and he shows them the book. I asked him what they say and he says most of them don’t read so he reads it to them and the response appears to be positive – even though the book is, in large part, about the high prevalence not only of violence against Roma but also against Romani women, including (but not only) by Romani men. I did not ask him specifically about his or others’ response to that last part but I will, in due time.

We continued to talk for another hour and a half (in Bosnian). I know many of the same Romani leaders he does and we talked about Roma in Bosnia and the former Yugoslavia, life in the U.S., and “over there.” I was so excited at times that I felt the need to cry, but I didn’t want to, so instead when he made a joke, I used the opportunity to get rid of the pent up emotion by laughing extra hard. Do you know that feeling? I was kind of gulping when I laughed and sometimes teared up.

For example, he told me how at meetings with Romani leaders, he insisted they speak Romani because it is the language of their brothers everywhere. The problem is that many Roma, especially in Bosnia, do not speak Romani. So these leaders sometimes found him amusing, sometimes annoying. M. also insisted on playing the Romani anthem (which I posted on this site earlier) and even brought his own cassette tape to ensure that it would be played, which the other leaders found to be slightly nationalistic and funny.

We also talked about Romani customs like the importance of marriage and the crazy high divorce rates in the U.S., love of (lots of) children and the challenges of raising kids anywhere, why Roma are considered thieves everywhere they live and how to address that as a group (e.g. the history behind centuries of persecution, forced migration and forced abandonment of culture). As we drank Bosnian coffee that M.’s wife made us (she and I do not have any languages in common so I was not able to speak with her), some of the older children started coming home from school. All of them went to the kitchen and at one point, everyone in the kitchen started laughing hysterically: one of the girls (maybe 9-10 years old?) was crying because one of the older girls told her that I was from Child Protection and came to take her away because she didn’t want to go to school. It was, quite simply, a brilliant twist on the age-old stereotypes that Gypsies kidnap children and take them away and they don’t send their kids to school (something M. insists his children do). Of course the young girl figured out the joke and eventually came out of the kitchen and showed her younger brother and sister the calendar she made in school and even smiled at me.

To be perfectly honest with you, I felt like I was playing a part in a romanticized, fictional-feeling documentary film today. Jednostavno, ne mogu doci sebi [I simply can't believe it].