A Gypsy rendez-vous
A Gypsy family on the outskirts of Paris. Image © F. Giovannangeli;
used with permission.s
Paris Kiosque - September 1997 - Volume 4, Number 9
Copyright (c) September 1997 Françoise; Giovannangeli - used with permission
It was back in 1427 that Gypsies are said to have first come to Paris.
During their three-week stay they were not permitted to enter the city, but
with their colourful clothing, gold earrings and tales of being chased from
Lower Egypt, they intrigued the locals, who called them "les Egyptiens".
While they continued to travel through France over the centuries,
modern-day Eastern European Gypsies, or "Rom" began settling around the
capital in 1989. For the most part they come from Romania, where Gypsies
form the largest ethnic minority. But there, the persecution Rom have faced
for hundreds of years has increased considerably since the fall of
communism.
Today, there are roughly 1,800 Romanian Gypsies in the Paris region. Still
dressed in long colourful skirts and headscarves, babies in tow, the women
and children are now a common sight wherever there are tourists. They
usually apply for refugee status in France, a procedure that can take
months -- and which rarely succeeds. In the meantime, the families live in
ephemeral camps scattered around the bleakest stretches of the suburban
"zone".
Last summer, I had the opportunity to visit a Romanian Gypsy camp with a
medical team on its weekly rounds. We set off from a clinic in
Gennevilliers, a suburb northwest of Paris -- Catherine, a nurse, Felicia,
a Franco-Romanian interpreter, another journalist and myself -- heading
straight out of modern French society towards a clandestine caravan
community in the wilds of the Parisian "grande banlieue".
French municipalities are required to provide camping areas for "les gens
du voyage", French or not, but the regulation is rarely enforced and the
Romanians, whose homes consist of old trailers salvaged from junk yards,
end up squatting wherever they can. The camps are usually located in
deserted areas with no running water, electricity or proper sanitation.
After leaving the freeway we followed a dirt road leading to a clearing
hidden from traffic by trees and bushes. Nearby was a group of caravans,
cars and makeshift shelters. Men, women and children came out to greet us,
anxious to exchange a few words with Felicia, whom they had clearly been
expecting.
Amid all the excitement a few rusty chairs were produced and we were seated
around a small white table beneath the branches of a tree next to a group
of caravans set apart from the others. The table was soon covered with cups
and glasses as beer was served and coffee prepared on a gas stove.
Catherine and Felicia proceeded to carry out checkups inside one of the
caravans.
France has its own, more established 500,000-strong Tzigane population but
very little solidarity exists between the two groups. Both belong to the
stateless Romani nation whose 12 million members around the world trace
their migrational history back to 11th-century India. These campers had
been raided by police earlier in the week and would soon have move on.
Vasile, a young father of two, chatted with us, and seemed tickled by our
curiosity. In broken French he proudly pointed out the different family
relationships, who the kids belonged to and so on. Then, for a few moments
the focus of the banter playfully shifted: how would we like to join the
community? As we laughed, squealing children raced around the clearing with
an empty stroller, while others came over to peer more closely at the
strangers. My camera proved a big attraction and everyone wanted to pose,
over and over again.
The hospitality and good cheer of these Romanian Gyspies was a warm
contrast to the images of our cold and brief urban encounters. Sitting
there with our hosts in the shade of a chestnut tree having a friendly
conversation over thick, black coffee was a somewhat surreal moment.
Soon it was time for goodbyes. As with our arrival, everyone gathered for
the send-off. After rounds of handshakes and promises to send photos, we
drove off. Looking out the rear window, I could see the entire group
cheering and waving their hands through the dusty cloud, which rose up like
a curtain across this no-man's land so close to Paris and yet so far.
Françoise Giovannangeli is a Canadian freelance writer who lives in Paris. She
can be contacted via
this link.
