‘On that first Romani road lies the fate of my people.’ Leksa Manus*
Half bird, half woman, a chain fixed around my ankle,
my beak, sealed, I can no longer call myself Freedom,
the name I was given long, long ago when I fled the old
country.
‘Prastie, prastie, go free’ they chanted as I ran, then flew.
‘We come from a race of people that fled persecution; we made our
way on foot, carrying our belongings on our backs. We walked and
walked until we found new territories, but did we find freedom? It came
and went, like wind it raged, we felt it deep in our bones but then it was
gone and nothing could bring it back. What is it they say? Freedom is
given with one hand, then taken away with the other. It taunts
us, ‘you can, you can’t, you can, you can’t.’ We can’t have a fire outside
like we used to, we can’t have scrap in the back yard, we can’t pull up
along the drom when we’re tired. We can’t live the life we were born into
and go where we want to go.’
‘Prastie, prastie, go free.’
‘We used to climb onto the vardo, all of us chavies scrubbed clean in our
day togs, our bal tied in plaits, me brothers wearing their dikhlos, me Daya
carrying the small jook and sucking on peppermints. ‘Rya, let’s gel.’ Me
Dada, so smart in ‘is waistcoat, ‘is sovereigns on his fingers and a stadi on
‘is ‘ead. He took ‘old of the reins and off we went. Our kushti grai trotting
along the drom and all of us gillyin’. I didn’t notice the lines beginning to
show on me Daya’s face until she dropped down dead when the gavvers
forced us off the drom, and a posh woman took the baby away, ‘er ‘eart, it was.’
‘Prastie, prastie, go free.’
‘Freedom to breathe, to eat good grub, to go where I want to go, to live
where I want to live. Freedom, why do some ‘ave it and others don’t?’
‘I’d like to have a house with a big yard so I can pull the trailer on it and
travel in the summer.’
‘I’d like not to have insults thrown at me or get treated like dirt.’
‘We used to learn the Romani jib at our Daya’s breast but now it’s poggadi
jib, like everything else, broken.’
‘My ole mum wants to go back to ‘ow it used to be when she lived in ‘er trailer
but ‘er choice was taken away by the council.’

‘I’ve got a lovely ken but as soon as the blossom comes and the thrush begins
to sing, I wanna be back on the open road, it’s always callin’ me.’
‘Me and my sister don’t ever want to be locked away like me uncle was. We
wanna dress up and go places, we wanna be in the films, don’t we Kesi?’
‘Peace in the world, no racism, helping each other out, being left alone,
that’s what I call freedom.’
‘Freedom is the road. When they stopped us travellin’, they took it away.’
‘The birds of the air have their nests, the foxes have their holes, but the Gypsy,
his woman and the chavies have nowhere to lay their heads.’
‘We should all be free, to follow our path.’
‘Prastie, prastie, go free.’
Dik at the chiriclo,
away it flies, untethered.
Raine Geoghegan

Romani jib: Prastie – run; Drom – road; Vardo – wagon; Chavies – children; Togs – clothes; Bal – hair;
Diklhos – neckerchiefs; Daya – mother; Jook – dog; Gel – move/go; Stadi – cap; Kushti grai – lovely horses;
Gillying – singing; Gavvers – policemen; Poggadi jib – broken language; Dik – look
Note: I have used found words to express people’s opinions on freedom.

*Leksa Manus, Latvian Roma Poet