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Paperback
First published February 13, 2020
"Drovane was worse than prison: at least in prison there are guards, and even the worst prisons on earth have some semblance of control and protection. But in Drovane the government and police left us to our own devices, and rarely ventured inside the borough unless it was to raid us for some stupid reason (I’m convinced they used Drovane as a training ground for new police officers), or when they had an unsolved crime and needed a random Gypsy to fill the role of suspect. This happened too many times to count as I was growing up.
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I think that’s what I hated the most in Drovane. I was always so painfully aware of my heritage. I am Romani. I am Gypsy. I am something to be spat at. I am not important enough for the government to keep me safe from danger; instead, they inject the danger into our neighbourhoods themselves by relocating the worst types of criminals into our boroughs. I am something to be hidden in grey, crumbling tower blocks so as not to disturb the idyllic White community in Slovakia.
They would not employ Gypsies in the cities surrounding us. They would not allow us to earn a living. They would refuse us entry to shops, doctors’ offices, dentists and even public toilets. This was in the mid-nineties, and even today in some parts of Europe, it continues. We were supposed to starve to death, die of pneumonia, waste away until there was nothing left of us. But we refused."