Ágnes Diósi
Brought Up to Be Different
Elza Lakatos, Journalist
I come from an authentic milieu: I am a Vlach Gypsy. I am thirty-one. I grew up in a small village, Gádoros, in Békés county. I have four sisters, and I am the youngest. My family still stick to the old ways: the men wear breeches and kneeboots and always go hatted, the women rose-patterned skirts, aprons and kerchiefs.
As children we were brought up to be different; but where I grew up there were no Magyar Gypsies, no Romungros, and as for the Beashi, for a long time I didn't even know they existed. A deep prejudice was instilled in me as a child, which told me that Romungros couldn't possibly be honest, and that I shouldn't talk to them.
My father was-I don't even know what the official term was-a small farmer. Or, rather, a horse coper. We had lots of cattle and horses. My mother worked in a factory. It was my mother who earned the money the family lived on; my father always put back what he made into his business. I grew up in pretty poor circumstances. Bathrooms were unknown and the nearest well was in the street fifty metres from our house. Two rooms with dirt floors, a large lobby, a large yard: compared to the other Roma in the village, we were reckoned well-to-do. I remember daubing the ground with cattle dung. One of my sisters milked the cows and took the milk to the dairy market. I myself went gleaning, gathered corn cobs on the stubble-field. Though my father really spoilt me-I was his favourite-I did my part around the house. We lived in a village. I was twenty-eight when I first saw a Gypsy colony.
You could say I was brought up by my oldest sister. But when she was fourteen she started working in the Eperjes sack factory, doing unskilled work in three shifts. Mother had also worked there for a long time. She was considered a good worker, so she took her oldest daughter along. A bitter memory I have from my childhood is how badly I wanted a doll and how mother could not afford it. Someone gave her a small doll, with one leg missing, that was my only toy. Mother bought me second-hand clothes, or I got my sisters' hand-me-downs. I was thirteen when my sister went to work, she bought me my first new dress.
I didn't go to kindergarden. We were not taken in. In the first year at primary school, the teacher made me sit in the back desk, my classmates made fun of me and I developed a serious inferiority complex. When I went home after school, father used to help me with my homework, thanks to which I did well at school. If I failed to give the right answer he boxed my ears. While the other children were playing I was studying. My sisters went to special school. They were not backward, though they all had a speech impediment. It was, I think, due to the conflicts in the family, which I could not understand at the time, small as I was. Despite all this, my parents' relations with us were very close. The family ties were strong, the sense of belonging, of being sisters and having to help each other. I can still feel what it is to have grown up in such a family.
At home we spoke Romany and Hungarian. I remember how my sister, who worked in three shifts, wasn't allowed to go to the flicks. Once she painted her nails and there was a big row at home: she was a Roma girl and she must not do such a thing. Actually we didn't stick to the norms all that strictly; at the age of twelve my father allowed me to cut my hair short. Similarly, I could wear slacks because I was small, though they made remarks in the family: it wasn't the thing to do.
When I go back to Gádoros, I can see that they still live the way they did when I was a child, it's me who has changed. Actually, as a child I already sensed that I was a bit different. Among the Roma there is a prejudice against anyone who goes to Budapest to work, they can only be dishonest because they want to live where nobody can see them, and that they're self-important. When I'm there I try to behave as if I were the same as when I lived there. I take a basket and go to the market, like all the other Roma women; I stop to talk to them. I do up my hair in a bun, I wear a long skirt, I behave like the other Roma women; they do talk to me but I can sense them keeping their distance.
When I was a child, the Roma felt more solidarity for each other; they were one, all being poor. When as a child I passed a house where Roma lived, it was natural for the woman to call me in, put the pot on the floor and invite me to eat with her children. Out in the street the women would ask each other, are you all right for money, can you feed your children. If there was a row in a family, people could take refuge in our home for a few days, or as it was not uncommon, we would go to other people's. If a man made a good business deal he would call the musicians to his home, would buy sweets for the children, and we had to get up to celebrate and dance. To this day, I often think of how well I got on with those I grew up with.
Holidays were beautiful, especially Christmas. My father had ten brothers and sisters. At Christmas father would make us sit on the wooden-wheeled wagon-we also had a wagon with rubber-tyred wheels-and we would go to grandma's. All ten brothers and sisters would be there, singing and dancing. All their children were there. My grandma is a marvellous cook. She would roll out the strudel pastry on the kitchen table, she would make stuffed cabbage-I still remember these.
Already at school you could see I was different. My parents encouraged me to study. Primary school was tragic for me. I felt terrible frustrations. There was a strong hierarchy within the class, a great distance between the poor and the well-to-do. My girl friends came from the poor end of the village. Once the son of the schoolmaster beat me up, and the children told me I couldn't complain because I was a Gypsy. I was in the third year, and a class photo was to be taken. The girls passed round the comb and I didn't dare to ask for it because I was sure they wouldn't give it to a Gypsy. Imagine then the prestige I had gained by the time I was in the sixth grade, when the pharmacist's daughter came up to me and asked me to share my snack with her. It was a great experience because I felt I was accepted. I was the only Rom in the class. My teachers were of great help.
I was thirteen when my father fell ill with lung cancer, and we children also suffered because of this. My teachers knew he was bedridden for eight months, and when I didn't show up in school for two days they wouldn't consider it unaccounted for absence. I felt they loved me and that my classmates accepted me. When he died there was a traditional Vlach Gypsy funeral, though without a priest. Someone from the local council spoke at the graveside. My classmates came with a wreath. A fight broke out, the police had to interfere; I felt ashamed before my classmates. Yet I'm sure our teacher talked to them, because when a few days later I went to school, no one said anything about what happened. I received even more respect.
Father was thirty-nine when he died. He was treated in the Korányi sanatorium, but he couldn't be saved. It was terrible to see him suffer. He was a highly respected Gypsy. He finished primary school and his teachers wanted him to carry on studying, but he couldn't as his was a very large family. He was always considered a clever man.
Mother was also held to be wise, so much so, that once she even presided over a kris, a community tribunal. I've never heard of a Vlach Gypsy woman doing this. It was all about the divorce of my cousin. Her husband sent her away, and she felt he wanted to take all the property, which was no small thing as they were quite well off. He beat her, and she came to us. This was why the kris assembled. They were reconciled, the woman went back, and they have been living together ever since.
My oldest sister left the school for backward children after the fifth form and went to work in the sack factory. My other two sisters finished this school, the older even went on to learn a trade. The younger worked in Orosháza. She had always been sickly, an epileptic, and was given a disability allowance at the age of sixteen.
All Roma dream about marrying off their children decently, with a proper wedding. Though my sisters' suitors formally asked my mother for their hands, she didn't want to interfere. I saw a lot of girls in this small village marry in a so-called decent manner, and have had their lives ruined within a couple of months. There was for instance a girl who had a suitor from Budapest. They had met a couple of times, the parents struck the deal, they married and lived together for a few months. It was a failure. The girl's repute and self-respect are gone for ever. Such girls are branded in the eyes of the community.
My sisters chose for themselves. The oldest has four wonderful kids, the younger two-her husband is Hungarian. He has completely adopted our ways. This must come from the inside, how you respect the other. He loves his children, which helped us accept him.
When I was still studying in Békéscsaba, someone also asked for my hand in marriage. A boy from Csorvás wanted to propose, but mother told him not to come because I was studying. I was seventeen. A woman studying is suspect to the Roma, because they think she cannot remain chaste.
It was father's wish, even on his deathbed, for me to study. I somehow took a fancy for a secondary school in economics and commerce, in Békéscsaba. I decided to apply and I was accepted. I got into a very good crowd. I was a boarding student; it was the first time in my life that I was away from my family. It was the first time I had been to a town, and I was afraid of getting lost. Mother packed a huge amount of food, and I didn't dare to offer any of it to my roommates. We became friends in a few weeks. They didn't want to believe I was a Rom. Those four years were one of the nicest periods in my life. The community got hold of me and shaped me. It also initiated problems in my sense of identity. I had a difficult time to decide whether I was a Rom or a Hungarian, to find where it was that I belonged. I talked about this with my roommates, who said "even if you're a Rom, forget it, you're more of a Hungarian." At that time, when I met Roma,
I said hello but felt I was different. Not superior, but different. This was how I felt during those four years, but it was a wonderful period, I have only good things to say about it. I was immature when I went there, and if I had fallen into bad company I might never have made it to where I am now. There were eight of us in the room, six later went on to college. We went out together, to discos, every one had a boyfriend but me. When they asked me if I had a boyfriend I invented all sorts of stories. Once there was an unpleasant scene in a disco, where Roma boys treated me as if I were Hungarian, and I didn't make it obvious that they couldn't behave like that as I was a Rom myself. Then once I was outed and from then on I received respect.
I left school with good marks, and wanted to go on studying, but had little self-confidence. I ended up in Orosháza as an untrained kindergarden teacher. I'm sure they knew I was a Rom. They accepted me from the start. I was among intelligent people and I was also attracted by the work. The first time I set my foot in a kindergarden I was nineteen. I couldn't imagine what it was like on the inside. It was also difficult to get used to being called Auntie Elza. But it was also a very beautiful time of my life. I had a ten-month contract, I could have gone on to the kindergarden teachers' training college. But then I met a boy. He was a Gadzho but grew up among the Roma and spoke the language. He helped me re-establish my identity, though it was also a relationship full of conflicts. He enjoyed the subordinate position Romany women had with their men, while I had feminist traits and revolted against it. We lived together for two years. It wasn't good. He took on the ways of Roma men. He had a friend who humiliated his girlfriend in company by stubbing his cigarette on her body. He too tried to humiliate me in front of others. There was a moment when I felt I would either go crazy or quit.
After the kindergarden I worked in the booking office at the railway station. He also worked for the railways. I applied for a course. One requirement was a secondary school diploma. Four people applied. A colleague of mine who didn't have such a diploma made a remark: "this one's a Gypsy." This was typical of the atmosphere of the place, but I tried to ignore it. Another thing I found difficult to deal with was how the older ones treated their younger colleagues. They were offended by my youth and that boys were flirting with me all the time. I in turn provoked them, by the way I dressed. At that time I loved to put on loud colours and lots of make-up. When I broke up with my boyfriend I also left that job.
The next job I did was force-feeding geese. It was there I met Romungros for the first time in my life. Romungros and Vlach Gypsies sat in separate rows. But as time went by I came to like them, found very good friends among them. Till then I had always heard that Romungros were deceitful, and do not know what respect means. What Vlach Gypsies use as their argument is that those who don't speak Romany are not Roma. This was what I got from home and now I saw that it was not true. I dressed geese for five years. I consider it another good period in my life. It is very hard manual work, I still suffer from the consequences, I have troubles with my spine, it hurts too. To earn enough I had to dress 100-120 geese a day. It is a dirty, smelly job that affects your lungs. Ninety per cent of those working there are Roma. I could sense the cohesion of the community. When we went home tired and hungry and someone had a roll she would share it.
Mother was a very clever woman. When father died, he left two houses for us, cattle and some money, so we could buy a large home in Orosháza. When my sisters married and had their children it was always mother who helped them financially. Both bought their homes with the help of mother. One of them paid it off, and mother put down the deposit. The birth of the first grandchild was a marvellous experience. It is a Roma custom that grandparents look after and bring up the first child, which is what mother did with her first grandchild, she looked after her till she was twelve. Many families do this, so that the old ones do not live alone. That's why my sister agreed to leave the girl with her. She is fourteen now, and I sometimes ask her if she will give her first-born to her mother. Telling her this is the custom. She laughs and says, yes, I will.
Then completely by chance I got involved in this minority self-government thing. In the summer of 1991 a Rom from Orosháza came to me and said that he was forming a civil organization in the town and would I join? I agreed, helped to organize quite a few events, but I didn't really feel involved. But he already knew about the Minorities Act, and that as a representative in the minority self-government, you could organize a minority interest forum. It took me many months to understand what the Minorities Act was all about, to grasp what the notary was talking about, what charters, budgets, assemblies and such things are. Again, I was lucky, because I met very good people, in a tight-knit team. A few weeks after the 1994 parliamentary elections we had an event to which we invited Aladár Horváth, who heads the Roma Civil Rights Foundation and Flórián Farkas, the president of the National Gypsy Self-Government. Flórián Farkas did not come, Aladár did. This was the first open meeting I chaired, my first public appearance. This is another thing you have to learn. I prepared a lot for it. It went quite well. At that point I felt I needed to move on. I told Aladár I wanted to study, and asked for his help. He suggested the teachers' training college in Zsámbék. I was admitted, and started a correspondence course, which involved going from Orosháza to Zsámbék every other week. After a few months I felt I couldn't go on that way and asked Aladár if he could help me find a job in Budapest. He said the Roma Press Centre had just been formed, I should apply for a position. He told me to submit an application with questions I would ask if I interviewed him. They accepted me. I was able to come to Budapest to work and study. I knew no one but Aladár. I was scared I would get lost, I needed to take a taxi to the Centre. It takes a lot of courage. Something most Vlach Gypsy women and girls would not dare to do. Since I arrived I suggested to several Vlach girls I felt I could share a flat. It would be more economical. I told them I would help them find a job: they refused. All of them.
All this was another thing that was completely new to me. I didn't understand what it was all about, what they were talking about. Aladár and the others helped an awful lot. There was a period when I was working here, was a representative in Orosháza and attended the journalism course run by the daily newspaper Magyar Hírlap. I was up every night studying. Me and another person were the only Roma on the course. All the others were college graduates, clever people. I have only good memories of it. We had good lecturers, who taught us the very basics. Eventually I found my bearings. Zsolt Csalog and Gábor Bernáth helped me with the first news item. We went through it sentence by sentence. Everyone helped and encouraged me. At the time I had no idea what journalism was and if I could do it. I still don't feel very talented. But my writing got better and better, and here at the Press Centre they came to realize that I know about a lot of things the others don't. We were talking about this with Gábor, and what I found self-evident was absolutly new to him. He kept asking about those Gypsy girls who have lost their virginity; why are they worth less? I wrote a long report on the issue, which was cited specifically when we received the Tolerance Award. It was about how Roma traditions are in conflict with the laws of the majority. I had doubts whether by talking about this I was not betraying the Roma. But then the feedback was absolutely positive, so they didn't consider it betrayal on my part. The awarding jury also came to the decision, after a long debate, that such writings were needed.
I'm thirty-one and I would like a family of my own. I'm very glad I did not marry at the age of fifteen, in a "decent" manner. I'm still the simple Roma girl I was ten years ago. I don't wear make-up, I don't dye my hair. But I couldn't live the life of wide-skirted Roma women any longer.
I'm really lucky to have found this wonderful community. I've learnt a lot about the culture of others, about the Beashi and the Romungro. Here, there's no prejudice against the others. We have come to realize how similar we all are.
The past two years have been really difficult. My mother died, and my sister is seriously ill. I will look after her when she leaves hospital. A happy thing amongst all this unhappiness was that I met a boy who accepts me as I am. I'd like a baby very much, but I will marry him only after my sister has recovered.
Ágnes Diósi,
a sociologist, has written several books on the life of the Roma and on children at risk in state care.
