A battle rages, one I was born into yet I find myself able to walk away from. The battle is real but is my involvement?
The Rom, the world’s most hated men are oppressed and imprisoned, their house burnt down, their women and children beaten, dying for an accident of birth they seek asylum but are sent back to lands who would kill them whilst their murderers sip coffee around a UN table.
In the UK our lives are easier; deprived of homes, falsely arrested, our children are bullied in schools and told that they will never be able to get a job. But here it is for our lifestyle not our blood. Travellers and Romani alike, anyone who is unfortunate enough to be granted ‘Gypsy Status’. Perhaps far worse for them who haven’t qualified. Left in a no-man’s land.
I find myself in the awkward position that I am no longer a Traveller, separated from my kin I sit in kenna free from the pressures of my birth yet aware of the suffering. I paint myself a vanguard, crying for my burdens yet…
I can walk away from the battle at any time. Have I already?