Memory against systemic silence
The resistance of Rromani sexual and gender dissidents against antigypsist silence.
It is essential to discuss these two contrasting concepts—memory and silence—when considering the history of the Romani people in general and, of course, when addressing sexual and gender non-conformity within this community.
We start from the premise that, as a racialised group, it is non-Roma people (gachés or payos) who have written our history. More specifically, white, heterosexual payo men. Consequently, it is not we ourselves who have constructed the narratives upon which we can build our memory. This is even less the case when we speak of the memory of sexual and gender non-conformity.
One might think that initiatives aimed at reclaiming LGBTIQ+ history could break this colonial pattern of behaviour. So far, quite the opposite has been the case. This book is the exception that proves the rule. It is no longer news to say that the hegemonic LGBTIQ+ movement has, unfortunately, contributed to anti-Gypsyism by denying our existence within ‘their’ collective, forgetting us time and again or, worse still, looking the other way in the face of the LGBTphobia we suffer and downplaying our effective participation in the forums and struggles that have been established.
We will discuss this in more detail later, but just to give a brief overview, we would like to point out that we, as Roma people who are sexual and gender non-conformists, have found—and continue to find today—that, according to the dominant discourse in mainstream LGBTIQ+ forums, we are blamed for the discrimination we face if, in the process, we do not renounce or denounce our Roma identity, thereby thus, in a twisted way, from the status of victim to that of perpetrator. In this sense, this social movement—now institutionalised—has incorporated an ethnic dimension into the process of ‘normalising’ the LGBTIQ+ community, which is harmful in itself, as a means of categorising the ‘good’ gay man or lesbian and those of us who are not…; that is to say, determining who forms part of accepted diversity and who remains below the line of being, that is to say, determining who is dehumanised and lumped together without any nuance regarding difference and, therefore, dissent.
This is undoubtedly an objective challenge when dealing with processes of memory, because, as Romani people, we are also caught up in a clear intersectional process that makes it difficult for us to identify the key themes, specific points and points of reference within the memory of Romani sexual and gender dissidence. On many occasions, we have to provide extensive explanations and clarifications on this matter, both within and outside our community.
Furthermore, we have observed that many of the terms and concepts commonly used within the LGTBIQ+ community do not reflect our reality as sexual and gender dissidents within a racialised community in Western Europe—for example, terms such as ‘gay’, ‘lesbian’, ‘civil rights’, and the ‘deconstruction of the family as the primary oppressive institution’, and so on. This is why we prefer to refer to ourselves as dissidents.
Given the context outlined so far, before we turn to our collective memory, we need to explain some of the mechanisms used by the system of ethnic domination to shape and construct our identity, so that we can then address those episodes in our history that deserve to be remembered.
In truth, we are doing nothing more than what our ancestors did: fighting against oblivion, against systematic repression, against assimilation and genocide. Writing this chapter is, without a doubt, an emotional, difficult and courageous task. Memory and resistance are the tools we have equipped ourselves with as Roma. These pages are an expression of both. If they are not read in this light, it will be harder to understand them.
Payocentrism shapes and constructs Rromani identities.
It is very interesting to analyse how Western identities are constructed within our geopolitical context in order to understand how this affects the dissenting realities of each group. Without intending to write a history textbook, we wish to reflect on this important issue.
Today’s hegemonic identities were largely shaped from the 15th century onwards with the emergence of the first modern states. Let us pause for a moment to consider the Spain of the Catholic Monarchs. In the military, political and economic project that the unification of the Catalan-Aragonese and Castilian crowns entailed, official accounts usually overlook the project of ethnic supremacy implicit in that unification.
Faced with a cultural, linguistic and religious landscape of vast diversity, the unified crown chose to construct a unified identity that made no allowance for diversity whatsoever, and which drew its strength from that cherished homogeneity of identity. The powers associated with the crown (military, economic and political) understood that by constructing this identity, they were reinforcing their project and rendering it invincible.
This is how the established powers begin to lay the foundations for identities that would come to dominate, presenting them as a rejection of difference. As a result, these identities are constructed on a negative basis. Who is Spanish? Anyone who is not Moorish, not Jewish and not Roma; later on, this would also include anyone who is not Indigenous (the Indigenous peoples of the Americas).
This gives rise to an exclusionary and xenophobic hegemonic identity that absurdly and obsessively seeks to define itself in terms of its essential nature, rather than celebrating its diversity as a positive value. We continue to suffer the consequences of this process today, with a ‘Spanish’ identity that remains colonial, denialist, and deeply racist and authoritarian. But that is another matter entirely, one that could fill more than one book.
It is from this mindset that the atrocities committed against the Muslim and Jewish communities stemmed—expulsion in both cases—and subsequently, under colonial logic, the genocide and plundering perpetrated in the Americas; as well as the repeated attempts at extermination, assimilation and erasure of the Romani people from that time until the present day. The truth is that — allow us to use irony as a revolutionary weapon — in the case of the Romani people, despite the more than 250 laws drafted with the aim of making us disappear, of banning our language, to put an end to our professional and economic activities, and so on, which is in addition to the processes of assimilation or segregation and the despicable attempts at genocide we have suffered, it has not gone to plan…: we are still here, much to their chagrin.
This is a topic that could be explored at great length, but we want to focus on the strategies associated with this phenomenon before going on to examine how it affects the memory of Romani sexual and gender dissidence.
First of all, we need to give things a name. Firstly, because it is useful. Also because, when they are turned into nouns, they are categorised, acquiring a status within our cognitive universe—a point of debate, no doubt. In this way, they are brought out of the obscurity in which they existed before being named and thrown into the political arena.
We are talking about ‘Payo-normativity’ and ‘Payo-centrism’ as phenomena that place the fact of being ‘Payo’ at the heart of a community’s or a country’s identity; in other words, an identity constructed as a negation of what it means to be Romani. These are phenomena that categorise the ‘Payo’ as the norm, relegating the Romani to the margins, if not to marginalisation.
Being a non-Roma is what is desirable, what is regarded as normal, and what can be passed on to one’s descendants. Social, political and economic norms are constructed by and for non-Roma. Being Roma, on the other hand, is associated with the margins of society; it is seen as dangerous, antisocial and uncivilised, and as a threat to the established ‘social order’. It is regarded as undesirable, uncivilised and reprehensible.
The first point to consider is that the system of ethical domination requires the ‘other’, or alterity, in order to establish and reaffirm itself. This is the cornerstone upon which it relies to perpetuate its power.
Well then, white-centrism needs to project an image of the ‘other’ in order to construct itself within a never-ending cycle of schizophrenia that is not necessarily based on the reality or characteristics of the ‘other’, but rather on the values it wishes to project onto itself.
Let’s look at an example to make this phenomenon easier to understand. Let’s take the opera *Carmen*, a huge success and extremely well known to the general public. We’re going to analyse it without focusing on its undeniable artistic merit. We’re more interested in seeing how it portrays the Roma.
In this opera by Georges Bizet, a gypsy woman (Carmen) is portrayed as the main character, embodying values and behaviours that are now seen as a symbol of freedom, courage, struggle and defiance.
Conversely, if we analyse the role of Carmen—a Sevillian gypsy and cigarette seller from the early 19th century—and her behaviour and values, and compare them with those prevalent in Western society at the same time, we see that they are clearly at odds. The prevailing values for women at that time were a far cry from those displayed by Carmen. For the heteropatriarchal system, in that historical context, women were expected to be pious, religious, sexually inexperienced, obedient to male authority and, of course, removed from the world of paid employment.
The conclusions are clear: Carmen presents an image of a Romani woman in stark contrast to the non-Romani women of the time. Does this portrayal reflect the reality of Romani women in Seville in the early 19th century? Absolutely not. It reflects the non-Romani community’s neurotic obsession with asserting itself by highlighting Romani otherness.
Following on from this last point, it is curious how this lyrical work is contextualised through the use of an element that strikes us as key, yet which goes almost unnoticed within the work itself, reduced to yet another exotic detail, as if it were merely a prop. The cigarette-rollers in 19th-century Seville, most of them Roma, are an example of resilient women who, as a result of the economic, social and racial circumstances they faced, stood up firmly against the gender roles of the heteropatriarchy, even if they did not use that terminology. They were called ‘las echás pa’lante’ (the go-getters). They demanded labour rights, childcare facilities, and so on, to be able to balance their personal and family lives with their work, driven by simple necessity and a sense of coherence. They were working-class women. Undoubtedly, they showed that, whilst non-Roma women were in a completely different context and the beginnings of their struggle for emancipation were barely visible, the cigarette-rolling women rose up and organised themselves to win their rights. For us, it is precisely those cigarette-rolling women, those Roma women, who form part of our feminist memory.
One must not overlook the fact that the image of the Romani woman portrayed in the opera is so far removed from the one projected today, where anti-Romani prejudice leads us to believe that Romani women are submissive, obedient, sexually inexperienced, and so on. The question is obvious: could it be that the prevailing values for women today are independence, a supposed sexual freedom and not being subordinate to one’s partner, amongst others? Anyone who knows more than two Romani women will realise that this portrayal does not reflect the diversity, complexity and living conditions of the majority of Romani women in this country.
We would like to give a second example. This one concerns the supposed sexuality of Romani men in Spain in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
It is important to realise that the Romani people’s understanding of their history is based largely on an analysis of the laws enacted with the intention of repressing us. Obviously, this is a limitation for us, because we are unaware of fundamental aspects of our own history. The only accounts we are aware of that explain the history of Roma people must be situated within the realm of anti-Gypsyism, since, to varying degrees, these accounts have contributed through literature, journalism, music and other artistic expressions to stigmatising us and placing us in the position of ostracism in which we collectively remain today.
Well, continuing along those lines, the complaints filed with various judicial bodies across Spain in the late 19th and early 20th centuries raised widespread alarm and fostered the prejudice that children of both sexes should not be left in the company of Romani men, because, as recorded in those complaints and in the newspaper reports of the time, the low moral standards of the Roma enabled them to sexually assault these minors. Thus, the image projected of Roma men could be something akin to what we now recognise as pansexuality and paedophilia combined.
If we apply the same analysis as in the previous example, we are once again struck by the contrast between how Roma people were portrayed in that era and how they are viewed today. Nowadays, anti-Roma prejudice highlights, amongst many other things, the homophobia, lesbophobia and transphobia of Roma men. It is curious to note the evolution of Romani male sexuality, which, in barely a hundred years, has shifted from the most extreme laxity and permissiveness to the most extreme intransigence and conservatism.
We do not mean to suggest that there cannot be Roma men who are rapists, particularly when considering a historical context such as the one we are referring to, where male sexuality was expressed through overt and public violence with impunity, and this was not generally considered reprehensible. Even so, we wish to point out that for our people there are two values that are absolutely fundamental: respect for our elders and care for our children. We find it very difficult to imagine, as a general rule, Romani men assaulting children.
We, the Romani sexual and gender dissidents, question the circumstances described in these complaints and accounts. We believe they stem from the very same phenomenon we encounter so often today: anti-Gypsyism, whereby isolated incidents are taken and extrapolated to the whole, with the clear intention of shaping public perceptions of an entire people—the Romani people.
Of course, we must link this incongruous regression within the Romani community to the shifting values regarding homosexuality and transsexuality in mainstream society, which, in this case, assigns Romani men values that run counter to the dominant norms of each historical period.
Uniformity as a means of identifying otherness.
Another strategy employed by the system of ethnic domination is to attempt to ‘standardise’ those who are different. The aim is to construct their identity as a unifying totem for all of us who form part of these communities. This standardisation encompasses every aspect of identity, from the most mundane to the most significant. From the way we dress to our ideology, from our religious beliefs to the intellectual level of each and every one of us.
In this way, they have us categorised and pinned down on their semantic map, making it easier for them to construct the narratives about our identity that they need for ‘their’ non-Roma self-affirmation. From their perspective, this is an indispensable tool. Diversity is always complex and implies recognising that identities are immersed in a process of continuous and fluid change. If the systemic aim of anti-Gypsyism is to perpetuate power relations, it is obvious that Gypsy diversity is a difficulty that they have no interest in either recognising or supporting. The way they have of overcoming the undeniable existence of our diversity is to place ‘those who are different from the different’ in the darkest of caves, to conceal them, to hide them so that we never exist in the eyes of the general public. Furthermore, they need to blame their own people—the Roma, in our case—for this situation. Although it may seem twisted, the evidence supports this thesis.
It is clear that white supremacy demands that we Roma women all conform to a single mould. All of us, without exception. That is how they define us, and define themselves, as the antithesis of what they decide we are.
Underlying this is the implication that this strategy suggests we Romani women do not interact with the social, political and economic context in which we live. It asserts that our values—seen as archaic, brutal and harmful—are unchangeable, immutable and monolithic. According to this perverse theory, we Romani women lack the capacity for change, for adapting to our surroundings, to existing discourses, and so on. Once again, we encounter a way of defining us that clashes head-on with one of our defining characteristics: resilience, the capacity to adapt. Without these characteristics, we would have disappeared as a people. It is worth noting that this is recognised by all social researchers who have written rigorously about the Romani people.
This non-Roma obsession has reached such extremes that we are invariably lumped together with the most conservative sectors of the Roma community, so that we can be vilified and caricatured. In this way, they ensure that ‘any decent person’ would never want to be Roma or mix with the Roma.
However, to return to the subject at hand in this book, this strategy deliberately denies and conceals the various forms of dissent that exist. Not only those relating to sex and gender. For the majority of the population in this country (non-Roma), we Roma are seen as a troublesome and difficult group who do not fit into existing social dynamics and do not participate in the transformative movements that have changed this country. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Let these words serve to honour the Roma freedom fighters, anti-fascists, heroes and heroines who should be celebrated by all of humanity. We wish to remember here the brave men and women who stood up to the Nazi forces at the Auschwitz II-Birkenau extermination camp on 16 May 1944, managing to resist the attempt to gas them all: 6,000 Roma—men, women, girls and boys—fought with whatever they had—sticks and stones—and were the only group of people who managed to force the terrible and cruel SS to retreat, in the face of the fierceness and bravery of our people. Subsequently, all these Romani people were dispersed to other concentration camps and were all later murdered. We Romani women commemorate this event every year as Romani Resistance Day. The pain etched into this memory is transformed into anger and pride. Anger at the clearly insufficient recognition of this historical episode, which in a way makes those who promote it complicit with the murderers. Pride in being the heirs to that courage and the bearers of its anti-fascist values.
Nor can we forget, even if only in passing, all the Roma men and women—and there were many of them—who fought against fascism in the Spanish Civil War. Perhaps the best-known figure was Helios Gómez (1905–1956), a trade unionist, poster artist, artist, poet and Romani man who died after years of terrible repression and imprisonment in Barcelona’s Modelo Prison. He embodies one of the defining characteristics of our identity. We Romani women are anti-fascists by conviction and by necessity.
These events are completely unknown to most people and represent some of the most heroic chapters in our history. A history we have never written and which, we would reiterate, should be the heritage not only of Roma men and women.
We would emphasise that the intersectionality we experience as a racialised group means that we, as Roma women who are sexual and gender dissidents, cannot compartmentalise the injustices we face. For us, our remembrance also involves honouring those who serve as role models for our entire community.
Of course, by exercising our memory, we dismantle the homogenising strategy of payocentrism and the system of ethnic domination. Like any other, our people have their own dynamics, which include class, ideological, spiritual and religious conflicts, as well as those related to the heteropatriarchy in which we live. Furthermore, any people are diverse by definition. The anti-Romani strategy of trying to make us conform, whilst absurd and divorced from reality, is nonetheless successful. Unfortunately, every day Romani activists are asked about this. It really does get exhausting at times, but we will not give up. We owe it to our people.
The memory of Romani sexual and gender non-conformity as a revolutionary act.
As anyone can imagine, what has been described above has a decisive impact on the relationship between Roma sexual and gender dissidents and our own community, as well as the rest of society. Undoubtedly, anti-Gypsyism, as a structural and identity-based phenomenon, interacts with our position as political subjects. This aspect must not be overlooked in any matter that affects us, nor when we seek to reclaim our dissident memory.
If we understand memory not merely as a matter of justice, but as an attitude of rebellion and resistance, the position we Roma women occupy as political subjects is radically different as a racialised people. We cannot expect the same kind of response, conclusions or political action as those of non-Roma sexual and gender dissidents, or as those of white LGBTIQ+ people, who, whilst sharing the oppression of heteropatriarchy just as we Roma women do, as non-Roma, live and exercise ethnic privilege and operate from that position.
It therefore falls to us, dissident Romani women, to remember our families, our traditions and our people in a different light. Through our own eyes, through our own worldview, as we strive to escape the ‘whitewashing’ to which we are constantly subjected. We recognise that this approach is highly utopian, but not to try would be to fail ourselves.
Therefore, we are not talking here about gay, lesbian or transgender individuals, but rather about people who, through their attitude and public presence, have broken down barriers and resisted heteropatriarchal norms. They have used their bodies, their expressiveness, their art and their words to challenge and overcome the constraints imposed on us by heterocapitalism.
We are aware that talking about specific individuals—who, in turn, serve as role models for the entire Romani community in Spain—can sometimes cause difficulties with their descendants and families, no doubt due to the LGBT-phobic pressure we face as a Western society. Of course, we respect the memory of these families and wish to emphasise that our intention is to base our work on absolute admiration, respect and affection for them.
Respect for and care of Romani families is no mere anecdote. For Romani people, the family is the institution that has protected and cared for us when the State, in its various repressive forms, has attacked us, deliberately left us unprotected, and even sought to exterminate or assimilate us. It is unthinkable for any Romani person to wish to destroy or attack the family. Of course, relationships of oppression stemming from heteropatriarchy and heteronormativity do exist within Romani families, and we fight against and address these in our daily lives, but intersectionality entails these complexities. We will not act against the institution that has sustained us as Romani people, including dissidents.
In light of this approach, we reaffirm that the people we are about to discuss are our inspiration. We do so with respect and admiration. With the pride of keeping them in our memory. With the courage to highlight them for the dignity they demonstrated, despite in many cases living in an environment that was hostile and cruel to their life choices. They are the ones who have made us see that dissent manifests itself in a thousand ways and that understanding it in a single, uniform manner—the ‘paya’, the ‘white’ one—is a mistake, one into which we shall not fall.
We took on this challenge in the firm belief that, by doing so, we would reaffirm the Romani identity of all these women. Dignified Romani men and women, proud of who they are, just as we are today. Resilient, non-conformist.
The art world as a space for dissent as well.
Few public spaces have been left to Roma people since their arrival in Spain in the early 15th century. Undoubtedly, the overwhelming power and artistic value of flamenco, as an artistic expression born out of the suffering of the Romani people in the wake of the Great Round-up of 1749 (the first genocidal attempt in Europe), has placed generations of Romani men and women within this artistic sphere, we dare say, almost out of necessity. Of course, this artistic expression conveys values and shapes models of identity.
Sexual non-conformity in this sphere—flamenco—must be understood as the only form of expression available to the Romani people, since the worlds of business, education, the press and politics, amongst others, were completely closed to the Romani people until relatively recently. In fact, many remain closed to this day. We therefore interpret and value it as such. As the only avenue for expressing feelings and differences that has been open to us, and where everything takes on a value imbued with Romani symbolism.
Artists such as Bambino, La Paquera de Jerez, Carmen Amaya and Antonio Mairena have embodied four figures who have broken the mould. They have held their art and their Romani heritage aloft as a banner and, each in their own way, have forged their own paths in life, sharing them with those around them. They, and many others besides, serve as role models for us, for their bravery and their courage.
Aunt Carmen Amaya (1918–1963) is undoubtedly one such icon. A distinguished figure from Barcelona. Daughter of Somorrostro. This gypsy woman broke the mould with her strength and her art. She established and transformed the roles in gypsy dance. A muse for many lesbian circles due to her powerful physique. Her expression was full of ambiguity and beauty. They called her a force of nature, a whirlwind. She triumphed all over the world. A pioneer in having her own company, which she ran at a time when women had to seek their husband’s permission to work for a wage. She used that very strength to declare that she had feet and that she danced with them, adopting a style of dance previously reserved for men and wearing trousers whilst performing. Although from today’s perspective this may seem a minor detail, it was not. The most iconic gypsy of her time dared to break the mould in something as symbolic as clothing. She knew how to challenge the patriarchy and its norms to assert herself through her strength, her art and her freedom, both on and off the stage. A lover of freedom to the utmost, she applied it to herself and knew how to live her life showcasing that very freedom.
For today’s flamenco scholars, Antonio Mairena (1909–1983) is an undisputed authority. In fact, he established the term by studying and categorising the ‘palos’ of flamenco, alongside the work carried out in this field by La Niña de los Peines. Uncle Antonio, as a result of his research, affirmed in his conclusions the Romani origins of this immense art form. Undoubtedly, he was one of the pioneers of debates that continue to this day. One of the greats of Gypsy flamenco singing. In addition to the art he treasured, Mairena went down in history for daring to write and give lectures on flamenco, bringing this art form into intellectual circles, a place where it had not been before. Uncle Antonio Mairena was one of the most recognised figures both within and outside the Romani community. His life was certainly not an easy one, but his enormous heart helped him to live out his unique way of loving with dignity and respect. He will always remain in our memory for all he had to endure and the dignity and grace with which he bore it. A giant among giants, our Uncle Antonio.
Bambino (1940–1999) was a truly great Romani artist. One of the greatest. He was the sort of artist for whom innovation was the very essence of his creative process. His expressiveness, his voice and his art left their mark on several generations during the second half of the 20th century. Uncle Miguel Vargas, as he was known, was an icon of modernity and pride. A man of dignity, he faced everything that came his way in his artistic and personal life. What a wonderful, uninhibited and courageous expressiveness. For us, he embodies the dignity of someone who fights for who they are. Uncle Miguel, you will always be in our hearts and we take everything from you.
Strength and tenacity were embodied in La Paquera de Jerez (1934–2004). This Romani woman stood out for her powerful voice, and her art reached every corner of Spain. She shared the stage with the greatest artists and was respected and admired throughout the profession. A woman of overwhelming expressive power. She proudly displayed her unmistakable feather. Tía Francisca didn’t have it easy in her personal life either, but her naturalness and conviction in everything she did enabled her to live with dignity through every choice she made. A lesbian icon if ever there was one, Tía Francisca will always inspire us and we will always be proud of her.
The Roma activism that is never acknowledged within the mainstream LGBTIQ+ movement.
As we have mentioned previously, we dissident Romani women have been actively involved in the LGBTIQ+ movement since its inception. In fact, we continue to do so today, albeit mainly through critical and self-critical perspectives on that very movement, due to the imposed ‘normalisation’ and the role of ‘pink capitalism’, which seeks to turn even emancipatory struggles into a business. We are always in dissent, perhaps as a historical inevitability, because we are Roma, because we are rebels, because we want to be free.
It is worth noting that in these spaces we see a shared determination among all participants to recognise that our struggle must be anti-racist or it will not be a struggle at all, to borrow the slogan.
Returning to the themes of memory, we must not forget a remarkable woman, a transgender and Romani activist of whom we are deeply proud. We are talking about our aunt, Myriam Amaya.
We must remember that back then, taking to the streets meant standing up to the dictatorial regime, facing down Franco’s police, at a time when everything was stacked against the rights of sexual dissidents, when being transgender was the worst possible position a person could find themselves in within the social order of National Catholicism, this Romani woman was one of the organisers, along with a few others, of the first Gay Pride in 1977, in the Catalan capital.
We do not believe it is a coincidence that the role played by this courageous woman in the first LGBTIQ+ demonstrations in Spain, in Barcelona, has not been given the attention it deserves. This is undoubtedly a result of the phenomenon described above—the invisibility of the Roma, a deliberate silence—in short, one of the many facets of anti-Gypsyism.
We do not regard this new ‘silence’ as coincidental. If Myriam Amaya was among the fifteen campaigners, alongside the widely recognised historical leaders of the LGBTIQ+ movement, and this is not widely known, we can do no less than denounce this fact and give our aunt the recognition she deserves.
Aunt Myriam hasn’t had an easy life either. She was born in Logroño in 1959 into a very humble family, with all the hardships that entailed. She grew up and came of age in Zaragoza, the city where she currently lives. At the age of thirteen, she began taking hormones, whilst living in Barcelona. Her strong determination to express her feminine identity led her to wear lipstick and high heels. Even as a child, she used to wear her older sister’s clothes. From a very early age, she devoted herself to the world of show business and cabaret, where she went on to work with renowned artists of the time, such as Sara Montiel and others who emerged with the burgeoning ‘Movida Madrileña’.
After her first few years in Barcelona, she joined the fight against the fascist regime – one might say almost out of necessity. It is chilling to read some of the few interviews she has given, in which she explains how the police repressed, imprisoned and beat up anyone who disrupted the Christian, prudish social order that the regime imposed and sought to keep static. Without a doubt, Aunt Myriam realised she had to step up. “From running away from the police, we moved on to standing up to them.” How few words it takes to sum up such dignity.
That police force which, at that very moment, was still murdering and torturing people. To that police force and that regime, they decided to say ‘enough is enough’. Together with their comrades, they organised that first demonstration, full of pride and dignity. Later, inspired by the experience in Barcelona, further demonstrations took place across Spain. Clearly, they were the pioneers. We owe them so much! And Aunt Myriam among them. We, the Roma sexual and gender dissidents, look to you as our role model. We shout to the wind that what you did, what our ancestors did, what we do, is our heritage. We demand that, through your example, Aunt Myriam, the Romani contribution to the LGTBIQ+ movement be recognised. How wonderful it is to have you among us and to learn from you.
Brave as she is, she has no qualms about admitting that, like so many other transgender women, she has turned to prostitution to make ends meet. That said, Myriam has enjoyed the unconditional support of her family ever since she was a child. Through thick and thin. She has managed to convey to those around her the dignity with which she has faced life.
She is still active in Zaragoza today, involved in a host of awareness-raising and advocacy activities, and always with that critical spirit that sets her apart. She told us shortly before this chapter was published: ‘We must defend what we have achieved, although, to be honest, it hasn’t been much. There is still a long way to go. But we must encourage young people to do so, by explaining to them what we had to go through.’ There you have it.
The legacy of Aunt Myriam and the other people mentioned in this chapter is, of course, carried on by today’s Roma activists, organisations and dissident artists. As for the activists, Demetrio Gómez, Noelia Heredia, Qurro Cabello, Jennifer Rubí, Juan David Santiago and myself are a testament to this, with different approaches and perspectives, but often collaborating in a spirit of brotherhood and sisterhood. The collective expressions of sexual and gender dissidence and Romani feminism are also examples of this: Ververipén, Rroms por la Diversidad and Gitanas Feministas por la Diversidad. In the arts, particularly in flamenco, we continue to find a source of advocacy, expressiveness and visibility, with living and highly successful artists such as Antonio Canales, La Negri and La Kaita, amongst many others.
It is worth noting that, as a transnational people, Romani sexual and gender non-conformity is significantly present across Europe and the world. There are dozens of Romani activists with whom we work regularly: David Tišer (Czech Republic), William Bila (France), Sandra Selimovic (Serbia), Iulian Stoian (Romania), Isaac Blake (Wales), Daniel Baker (England), Gianni Jovanovic (Germany), Azis (Bulgaria), Vera Kurtić (Serbia), amongst many others. In this account of our history, we could not fail to mention them.
And of course, above all, the tens and hundreds of Roma people – whether dissidents or not – who stand with us, which is none other than the side of the Roma people.
Let us conclude with a wish. Perhaps because, on so many occasions throughout our history as Roma women, we have had nothing but hope and our resilience. There you have it. To all of you:
Memory and dignity! Let us stand firm against injustice!
Bibliography
Rodrigo Andrés and Joana Masó (2018): (Re)visiones gitanas. Bellaterra: http://www.ed-bellaterra.com/php/llibresInfo.php?idLlibre=1408
Demetrio Gómez (2018): Miryam Amaya, 40 Years of Roma Sexual Dissent in Spain. Baxtalo’s Blog: https://baxtalo.wordpress.com/2018/08/13/miryam-amaya-40-anos-de-memoria-de-disidencia-sexual-romani-en-espana/
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Author: Iñaki Vázquez Arencón
Notes: This is an adaptation of the article produced for the project “Gypsy Memory through Gender”, implemented by Unión Romaní Madrid, the Asociación Nacional Presencia Gitana and La Fragua Projects, and funded by the Ministry of Territorial Policy and Democratic Memory.
Original article from: The Book of Good Love
Cover photo: First LGBTIQ+ demonstration in Spain: Barcelona, 26 June 1977.
