CONTEST: Write us a poem!

The Porrajmos

Porrajmos,' a Romanes word meaning 'the devouring,' is the term used by the Romani people to refer to the gypsy holocaust under the Nazis. Nearly a million died because of their race.[On a personal note, my Uncle Jaime (actually my second cousin) was a porrajmos survivor who had his parents, brother and sister murdered in Auschwitz. This poem was written following a visit there.

Linda Marshall

I, a stranger, walk the trail of tears
Shared by my race.
Like them, I carry an alien face.
Even after all these years
Our deaths remain unmourned, ignored.
The crowd of tourists thronging round
At Auschwitz now seem almost bored.
With so much horror in the TV news
Can tears of pity for the past be found?

I, trembling, try to take stock
Of thirteen years of madness and cruel death:
Auschwitz, Chelmno, Bialystock;
I catch my quivering breath.

Here and now, in this dreadful place
I stand alone,
The only representative of my race
And hear the drone
Of others thinking 'only my death matters.'
They should remember what the poet Donne said:
'Each man's death diminishes me.' Idle chatter
From increasingly bored tourists fills my head,
And I escape to a much earlier time,
To relive in myself the vicious crime.

I am alone and frightened as I stand
Watching the familiar uniform
Of the SS driving us from our land,
And then, like a huge swarm
Of stinging wasps, on to the train they led us,
And made us promises of work and homes,
And even dignity. Oh, how they bled us!
Our blood soon reddened the mighty ocean's foam.

I am a gypsy girl today,
I, waiting for the train to take me
Into the darkness where they soon will make me
Abandon earth for ever. I must pay,
I and my people, for what they call the crime
Of being homeless, wandering the road,
Passing our time
In our hand-painted vardos, with our load
Of kipsis and other goods to sell.
For this they sentenced us to hell.

I, a gypsy, out of India, wandering,
I, betrayed, stripped, beaten, raped and slain;
I, who but yesterday was dukkering
The vast of a rakli, slaughtered on the plain.

I am surrounded, cursed and spat upon,
Lied to and about;
My blood is slowly oozing out:
I shall never bear a son.

The heroes in black are raising their fists
And punching and kicking me into the ground;
There is no strength left in my wrists,
Nor any help to be found.

I, naked, dripping with sweat and blood,
Am dragged, too weak to scream, towards the shower;
They do not want to wash me clean of blood
But to destroy me in this evil hour.

And now they bundle me into the room
Which now I know will be my bitter tomb.
The gas pours in; I try to catch my breath,
But there's no cheating this unwelcome death.

Not a bird sings as I pass away,
Not a flower blooms as I am cast aside;
Just yesterday I should have been a bride,
And gladly married miri ro,
Yet here I am and now to hell I go,
Or death at least. Divvel, pray for me now!
I'll soon be fertiliser for the plough.

I am a single voice
Mourning the loss of 800,000 folk
Who, under the bitter yoke
Of tyranny, were slain.
We had no choice;
Death was the only way to end our pain.

Out of the thousands who died
Mine is only a single cry
For the old and the young,
The women and men,
Who were led out to die
Again and again:
I am only their voice.

Here, in Auschwitz, Chelmno, Bialystock,
I watch the crowds of tourists flock.
The holocaust deniers spin their lies;
The special pleaders will not grant our place
Beside their own. 'Gypsies are not a race,'
Or so they, lying, say, and with insincere sighs
Try to round down the numbers of our dead,
And almost blame us. Oh, the bitter bread
We eat even today! The evil names
They call us as they try to bring us shame!
Yes, I'm a gippo, pikey, call me what you will:
Love always conquers hate, and always will.