July 4, 2005 - still my best picture of Romania

The Roma enjoying a day in town

The Roma

Roma

A sensitive topic, one I have avoided for the last two years of these blog reports, is the existence of the ‘Roma Community’. As an introduction I shall tell you this story - many years ago I came across one of those short banner statements posted for uplift and inspiration that are probably sprinkled in junior high schools everywhere. This one was oddly different and has stuck with me ever since my days at the old Kempsville Jr. High. It is relevant and applies to this subject. It said simply: “All generalizations are wrong, including this one.”

The ‘Roma’ is the politically correct term for the distinct ethnic population most often referred to as ‘gypsies’. Originally the peoples were believed to have come from Egypt (thus gypsy), but now are understood to probably have emigrated a thousand years ago from India. They are a race of people who have never had a country, although they have those who claim to be King. They have a language, although they also are quite natural speaking the language of their ‘host’ country. Here in Romania, perhaps as many as 15% of the population are classified as Roma, although it is difficult to get a truly accurate figure because of the difficulty in estimating the numbers of a still semi-nomadic community.

What is interesting about the gypsy culture is their assimilation of some aspects of the general culture and then the rejection of others, but there is no such thing as a ‘typical’ Roma. Some are blending or have blended into the population of Romania while others have remained on the fringe. Some children attend school regularly, others have no formal education. Some remain within small family units, drifting with their horse and wagons from the suburbs of one city to another, while other families have settled into place in small towns. Some wear traditionally distinctive dress – black cowboy hats for the men and brightly colored skirts and scarves for the women, while others are indistinguishable from the general population.

The other remarkable thing about the Roma situation is their acceptance or non-acceptance by the Romanian ethnic majority. There is a general ostracization of the gypsies. Again, it is politically correct to say things about the admittance of the Roma society by the political establishment, in practice though, there is a high degree of discrimination.

From an outsider’s perspective there seems to be a certain pride in the Roma community in their separate culture. In some sense the discrimination shown to them helps reaffirm their separate identity, their clear difference, from the majority.

Yet the lack of education, the unclean living conditions, the semi-nomadic existence must be wearing on individuals within the culture. The discrimination of the gypsies is widespread in the general culture. When something is stolen, first blames goes to the Roma. When the trash cans are knocked over, it’s either the gypsies or their dogs that are accused. We as Americans can not speak without our own history incriminating us, but as I look back fifty years I recognize how far we have come in revolutionizing our attitudes. I fear that it will take at least an additional fifty years before the Roma have gained a fair status in Romania. It is odd that a country that prides itself in being ‘Roman’, feels so aloof from the ethnic people who share that name.

I have oversimplified a difficult subject. I hope that the following short vignette illustrates my point better than I have succeeded to this point.

As I was walking home from work one evening about a year ago I saw a gypsy horse and wagon parked just down the street from our apartment. This is in the center of a large apartment block complex in an area of the city of Cluj, but horses and wagons are not uncommon. The horse, a dappled gray, looked underfed, overworked and untended as it waited between the braces of the wagon. Two women and a young child sat in the wagon bed as they waited for their man to finish with whatever errand he was doing. I stopped and scratched the horse’s ears and took a few of the nastiest burrs from his mane. A teenage girl, perhaps fourteen, stood by the wagon and I’ll never forget the piercing look she gave me. She was as underfed as her horse and as unkempt, but the intensity of her steel gray eyes as they bore through me was unnerving. She didn’t say anything, although I am sure that she was tempted to either beg for money or swear at me for touching her horse.

It was much easier to stroke and comb the horse than the girl. The horse seemed to appreciate it; I am not sure that the girl would have. As she looked at me, all I could do was offer a smile and gave her horse one last pat. I have never noticed her or her horse since, and as tomorrow marks our last day in Cluj, I know that I shall not have the opportunity again. I doubt that either she or the horse will have reason to remember me, although I shall recall the way she looked at me, a mixture of distrust, unease, and bewilderment, as long as I will remember Romania.

Newly Made Haystack

Popa Ioan, sharpening his blade

Popa Ioan, Master with the Scythe

Popa Ioan, Master with the Scythe

On the very first day of our residence in Cluj, our landlord took us up to their retreat on the family farm in a village 60 km. west of the city. Now, with two weeks remaining in our stay in our apartment we were invited back for a weekend. The village is called Vale Draganului, which means, roughly, pleasant or dearest valley. It is an appropriate name.

The old farmstead has electric current now, although the road that leads to it is barely passable in a normal vehicle. The indoor plumbing hasn’t been installed yet, but the view out the open out house door almost makes up for the discomfort of using the Johnny house.

It was first of July and the middle of hay making season. The wonderful smell of fresh cut and drying hay scented the air. Romanians still make hay the old fashioned way, by hand with scythe, rake and fork. It is a slow, arduous job, but the family attacks the task together, and during breaks and after the long day is over, much discussing and tasting of the tuica makes the job a little easier. The familiar hay mounds are a symbol of the Romanian countryside. After drying the hay, it is hand raked and forked into grand piles with a sturdy wooden rod to center it. No guidebook is complete without at least one picture of the countryside and hay stack.

The picture which I hope to accompany this article is of Popa Ioan, a master of the village in the art of swinging the scythe. One of the secrets to good mowing, and it is amazing how straight and clear these folks can make the cut, is a sharp and balanced blade. We never see hand scything in the United States now, and years ago, when it was still occasionally used, the handle of the tool had an ‘S’ shaped curve. Here, the handle is straight. I wonder if it wouldn’t be more efficient to have a curved handle, but then I wonder why they don’t rig up the horse to a reaper – John McCormack invented it nearly 200 years ago – and mow the larger fields with horsepower rather than sweat power.

While the neighbors made the hay our host, Teo, and I walked up to the highest point overlooking the valley. It was a steep ascent through fields of wildflowers. The smell of the brushed flowers was almost exactly that of the honey that we had used to flavor our morning tea. The butterflies appreciated the windbreak that the few trees offered, but as the day was warm, we liked to feel the breeze as it blew from the plains of Hungary to our vantage point high above the valley.

I thought that it marked a circle, a near completion of our time here in Romania. We have a few duties to wrap up and then we’ll take a slow journey home through parts of Europe unexplored by us. Standing on the mountain top, amongst the flowers and the hay I wonder about this changing country of Romania. It won’t be long before the old men content to mow the hay with a blade will all be replaced by speedy drivers in their BMWs and Toyotas driving swiftly between job, home and vacation house. This country is in economic unstoppable development. Gradually the inefficiencies will be left behind, but what will replace them?

The sheep herder with his flock and the cow herder with his herd, answering our whistle from the top of the peak, will be gone. The mountain will sleep, unless it’s turned into a ski resort. Few will walk its steep grass except the rare hiker.