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Dream 1, Dream 2
Dream 1
I am in my Romany Quarter
In Gorica, on Dajanli Osmanbega Street.
I am happy.
Ragged children around me,
The happy, tattered, neighbourhood Romani children
All around me.
I am happy.
I have many glittering candies
Dirty little hands reach for them
Warm black eyes yearn for them
Pretty red mouths devour them
All the Roma are in the Quarter
No one works
As usual.
The surroundings are beautiful.
Women’s bright Turkish pantaloons sweep by
As do men’s old, colourful shirts
Barefoot children running barely-clad,
with warm Romany hearts,
among the garbage,
amid the poverty.
Dirty, dusty, poor, bright, and happy.
Many Roma sit on the ground,
Conversing, laughing
Inside, each listens to the music of his neighbour
Suffocatingly loud
Whose stereo is the loudest?
I laugh.
Girls dance,
Youths watch.
The old people drink coffee, sitting on the floor by the doorway
Whiling the day away, Romany style.
In front of Shecho ‘s house sit ten Roma
They form a large circle seated on the ground.
What are they doing?
I approach and see a large pan between them
Filled with roasted meat and freshly-baked bread.
They tear the bread by hand,
And eat red tomatoes,
while quaffing down strong whisky,
Together.
Like true Roma.
They see me and call out,
"Sit down sister! Eat with us!"
I sit and eat
Along with them.
I am happy.
Dream 2
I go home.
The door is open.
No one is home.
Mother! Father!
No one responds.
Sisters! Brother!
No one answers.
The house door is open.
Perhaps they’ve gone to my uncle.
I go and check.
They’re not there.
My family is gone.
There’s no one.
I re-enter my house
I sit down.
I prepare coffee and drink it alone.
I see everything as it was:
Soup on the stove,
Roasted meat in a pan,
Salad and baked bread on the low Turkish table
I eat the soup prepared by my mother
And go out the door
The sun is scorching.
Maybe they went to the Turbe.
I pass through the upper part of the Quarter
Leading to the Turbe.
There are no Roma in the Quarter
I pass by the homes
Of Alija, Lafita, and Husica,
Nura and Selma.
I look inside, wanting to see Meha and Safija Sejdic
Their cab sits in front of the entry.
Smoke rises from the stovepipe
They’re cooking for the grandchildren again
But there are no Roma.
I get up and proceed.
On my left are garages
and on their roofs, old auto parts
and scrap iron.
Water gushes from the taps
Someone’s pipes are broken again.
I walk slowly because I really want
to observe the Quarter.
Once more my gaze follows the houses,
now to the right
I pass the house where Bajro and Grozda Tahirovic lived.
Now Refik and his family live there – Kosovar Roma.
New Roma have come to the Quarter.
I go on and come to the tiny house
of old Muste and Zejfa
A brother and sister who never married
They know how to fight and swear like no one else on earth.
They are the best.
But there are no Roma.
Between these two houses lies the way to the small home
Of Bajro Pujpica and Ljubica Besic, Ema and
Ramo Mrvica and Celo Tahirovic.
I continue on.
Here lives Bajro Tahirovic, and beside him
Mejra and Tale, Hajra and Bugar Sejdic,
Raba and Ramiz Besic,
and the home of the family Hasanovic.
But there are no Roma.
The Quarter is empty.
I go on, crying.
I see the Turbe.
Father’s car isn’t here.
I leave behind the house that belongs to
Iso and Hajra, and the son Kemo.
They aren’t there either.
I look down and among the shacks
where Kaja and Paso lived, Cina and Musa,
Tuna and Trajan with their children.
So much garbage around the shacks!
Ripped, old, dirty skirts and dresses,
Filthy, tattered shoes, spoiled food and paper.
Continuing on, I see a tent.
A ripped, pathetic, poor man’s tent.
Kaja sits before it, as usual.
A fire burns
In front of it, a piece of sheet metal
And on the metal sits a Turkish pot
black coffee inside.
Good little Kaja.
She kisses me.
In the shade of the tent sleep five children
I sit and drink coffee with Kaja.
I want to ask about my family
And where they have gone.
Fear takes away my voice.
Menacing sounds of aircraft above!
I tremble with fright
My blood freezes.
Kaja and the children scatter.
Grenades! Bombs!
I awake startled
in a foreign land.
(Turbe: a meadow in which old tombs were left from the Turkish Empire)