Love can wait Klaas Burger Adata A-i-R Plovdiv, 2018
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26/6 Jenny has just sent me a video of Filippa standing for the first time, her little hands holding the white bars of the playpen. It hurts that I’m not there now. It has been years since I had this feeling: I stayed with my grandparents for one night. From within, I remember this sad ache rooted in the sense of distance between me and my home. I can still recall the dusty air of the room, lying awake in the big bed, a boy, 4 years old. Of course, Jenny and me, we discussed this before I wrote my proposal for Adata AiR. We agreed: she will manage to take care of our daughter, while I go to Plovdiv. But at this moment I hate the 2000 km distance between me and the both of them. Suddenly I understand: when you have a family and migrate for work this must be a common feeling.
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Under the bridge over Adata island.
27/6 I walked towards Adata island. There, I start to understand the aim of this residency better: from distance, the island looks like a beautiful jungle. But walking down the crumbling concrete stairs you feel it is just the result of city planning. The island is used like all other urban dysfunctional spots: for rough sleeping, sex, drinking, survival. It’s a scary place. And it’s full of mosquitoes. Going there helps me understand the island as it is framed in the open call of this residency: ‘...not only the geographical spot but rather the state of isolation and alienation that has characterized our society for a long period of time.’ On the walk back from the island, I hesitate, ‘Why not make the walk to Stolipinovo? It's just double the distance.’ 3
But hey, preparations for this residency didn’t work as I hoped. Language was problematic. So in the end, unless the way I tried, the only images in my mind are the ones Google showed me: heaps of dirt in between badly maintained socialist apartment blocks. Moreover Wikipedia called the neighbourhood a ghetto suffering from bad infrastructure, illegal housing and severe problems with regards to electricity, water supply, sewerage and waste disposal. Scary like Adata island. So I sit down on a small concrete wall at the side of Maritsa Boulevard. A taxi stops, the driver gets out of his car to pee in the thicket. A guy cycles along the road, on the back of his bike a big crate filled with tools and cloths, on top of it a microwave. With my eyes I follow him, slowly moving into the direction of Stolipinovo. ‘OK, I'm going to walk,’ I decide. Suddenly a lot of questions come into my mind. What about street dogs? Yes, I’ve had this fear of dogs since my brother was bitten by our neighbour’s dog. What about dirt? Will I be able to talk to the inhabitants? How many of them know other languages? Behind me I hear the sound of a horse approaching. I turn around and see a cart in full speed in front of a red Opel Astra. With stretched arms the guy holding the reins smiles and watches the car behind him. Then he moves to the side of the road and the car passed. Entering Stolipinovo I have a great afternoon at the riverside. Using Google translate I talk to a Turkish speaking guy named Can in a white 1990’s Mercedes E Class with German number plates. I’m offered a coffee by a barber with both Turkish and Bulgarian names. Using a hair clipper, he gives me a new haircut ‘mit Übergang’: really short on the sides, longer on top. I meet Ilmi, who came from Germany to Stolipinovo to pay his wife and children a visit. He is in a hurry. I will meet him again in a few days. Then bus 26 brings me from Izgrev Square to the city centre. 4
Ilmi.
30/6 A little before 2 PM I return to the café next to the barber shop on Izgrev Square. I ask for a coffee. The woman inside shakes her head: ‘No coffee.’ She presses both her hands together and moves them to the left side of her face. Then bends her head sideways: the international sign for sleeping. Indeed, in the dark behind her I now see the owner of the café lying on a sofa, taking a nap. I nod to the lady, smile and take a seat on the terrace under a big Carlsberg parasol. With my shoulder blades I feel there’s a crack in the backrest of the black plastic chair. Smelling like a mixture of burned plastic, coffee, waste and dust, the sun is shining brightly on the neighbourhood. A simple horse cart rushes towards the bus station. A young boy is holding the reins. Two children are sitting behind him. They yell to another boy on the sidewalk. While the cart 5
disappears, I listen to the Chalga music coming from behind the café: it sounds like a party. A pretty new black Audi drives by, turns on the street and is parked in between two much older cars. Two boys step out of the Audi and walk into the barber shop next to me. Big money amongst poverty. Suddenly a hand puts a coffee on the table in front of me. I look behind me and see the smiling but sleepy face of the owner. It’s 2:15 PM, Ilmi still hasn’t arrived, so I call him. ‘Sorry, I’m taking a shower. I’ll be there in a minute.’ I drink some coffee and wait. Just when I have drunk the last bit of coffee, a guy with black sunglasses crosses the street. I feel stupid because I’ve kind of forgotten his face after our last meeting. But yes, of course, it’s Ilmi. Seeing him, my memory gives the proper signal: recognition. I stand up, we shake hands. He calls for a coffee and takes the plastic chair at the other side of the table. I open my laptop. Ilmi starts talking immediately. ‘Bulgaria is a catastrophe: no jobs, bad education. So people are poor, they start selling drugs. You know, you have to feed your family. So I made my own choice and went to Germany.’ ‘Does no one try to change things?’ ‘There are some good politicians. But many are nationalists. In Turkey they’re called MHP. They say the country is not meant for others. Here in Bulgaria it’s Turks or Gypsies. In Turkey it’s the Kurds. But it’s all the same. When people don’t want integration, you can’t do anything. Sometimes politicians show up before elections. They give some money so people vote for them. But they never return.’ Ilmi is speaking at high speed now. My hands are hardly able to follow his words on the keyboard. ‘Ilmi, wait, wait. Please slow down, tell me a little bit about yourself. What’s your age? How did you grow up?’ He takes off his sunglasses and watches me with dark eyes. ‘I’m 39 years old now. Already in kindergarten people said: “Dirty Gypsies.” If you go to a school, in one you’ll find Gypsies or Turks, in another Bulgarian children. Here in Stolipinovo there was this boy, who had attended school for eight 6
years, he was still unable to write his name. The teacher just said: “He didn’t want to learn a thing.” Why does no one tell this teacher he should do a better job?’ ‘Did you go to school here in Stolipinovo yourself?’ ‘I was born here, but my mother married a second time. So, she took me to Semcinovo. Over there it’s slightly better, classes were mixed. After primary school I came back to Plovdiv. Yes, I was lucky, because I went to a good school. But then, what to do? Soon, I have to go to Germany again for work. But I can’t bring my wife and children with me.’ ‘What about your children? Do they attend school?’ ‘Yes, my children are doing well at school. Education is very important.’ From the corner, I see a garbage truck appearing. It drives by without emptying the full waste containers on the other side of the street. Leaning against the scorched metal of the last container, a man stretches his arms to reach inside. ‘You see this man?’ Ilmi asks. ‘People have to do this to survive. It’s really hard to live here. They are unemployed, isolated from regular Bulgarian society. They get some social security money, and that’s it. The isolation is not going to change.’ ‘Is there no one in the neighbourhood who tries to organise things, to make a difference?’ ‘There are some people, but many of them are just like these fucking people in parliament: filling their own pockets. Yes, I am really angry. My passport says I am Bulgarian, I want the same rights like everyone else. But when I go to a bank to open an account, they ask me: “What do you need this account for?” They just have to give me this account by law. But no, I look like a Gypsy and Bulgarian people believe Gypsies are stupid.’ Ilmi drinks from his coffee. ‘In Germany there are many foreigners. How come so many Gypsies from Bulgaria work there and follow language courses in German schools?’ He takes another sip. ‘After Communism ended, the mafia came into power in Bulgaria. They run the country. For example, this public prosecutor started to run a criminal 7
organisation. A high politician collected some, I don’t know, 80 million leva?!? To collect such an amount of money he should have been working for 500 years, at least. So when you want change in Stolipinovo, there should be a law that’s equal for everyone. And after this there should be jobs.’ Ilmi points to a guy, stepping out of the barber shop next door. ‘Watch this boy. He is 18 years old. When he goes to town, he won’t find a job, because he’s from Stolipinovo. What should he do,’ he sighs. ‘This country has been broken for 30 years. So people are living in poverty. Right here, people didn’t pay the electricity bills. It was easy, nobody came to tell them they had to pay. But after ten years people suddenly said: “Gypsies don’t pay for electricity.” So for some time, there was electricity only for two hours a day.’ I watch the bright fluorescent lights inside the barber shop. ‘Now, it’s more fair. When you pay, you get electricity. But it’s expensive when you only make 400 or 600 leva a month. During communism it was better. Of course, there was discrimination, but it was better.’ ‘Can you explain this, Ilmi, how it was better?’ ‘It’s a long, long, history. Long ago Bulgaria was part of the Ottoman empire. But when the war ended and this region became Bulgarian, fascism was on the rise here. They closed hundreds of mosques. When the communists saw the growing amount of Turks and Roma, they started to kill some of us. Many of us, 200.000 people, were deported to Turkey and other countries.’ ‘But then, how it was better? This sounds worse.’ ‘We had jobs.’ Ilmi is quiet for some time. ‘You know, people here drive without a licence. They drink while driving. Why doesn’t the police check them? Only when there is an accident, they say: “This drunk Gypsy had an accident.” Or when someone steals: “This Gypsy has stolen something.” Or: “Why hasn’t this lazy Gypsy got a job?” During nights there is a lot of loud music over here. Why doesn’t the police come to stop this?’ 8
A man crosses the street and walks towards our table: big nose, tanned skin. He carries a fishing rod and a sports bag. I wonder what’s inside the bag: a fish? Ilmi shakes hands and introduces the man to me. I feel his big hand in mine. ‘This is Som. It’s his nickname. Do you know this kind of fish? It’s a big one. You will find it in big lakes, not in the Maritsa river, waiting in the mud for prey.’ I take my phone and search for the fish I think he is talking about: a catfish. I smile, because I do see a slight similarity to the man’s face. Ilmi takes the phone out of my hand and shows the picture to Som. Som nods. I point to an empty chair, but Ilmi shakes his head. ‘No, he won’t stay.’ When Som has left, Ilmi says: ‘Did you see his hands were shaking?’ ‘Yes,’ I saw it when he was standing next to me. ‘He drinks a lot. When he doesn’t get his amount of alcohol, this is what happens. He went to Germany like me, but he didn’t find a job. So he started to collect deposit bottles. He made €6 or €8 a day. That’s the amount of money he goes to Germany for. It’s 16 leva. Would he have been able to make 20 leva a day, he would’ve stayed. But he hasn’t found such a job.’ Both of us are quiet for some time. Behind the café the Chalga music still plays. The door of the barber shop opens and some men walk out, all with fresh haircuts. Two of them get into the black car, the engine starts and the car drives away in the same direction of the horse cart some time ago. Another man walks towards our table. Flip-flops, FC Barcelona uniform. He calls for some soda and shakes hands with Ilmi. They talk for a while in Turkish. Then he looks at me, gives me a hand and starts to speak to me. ‘Hey, I am Georgi. I lived in Düsseldorf and now I live in München. Work is good, but I only earn €10 gross per hour. It’s not much, I pay €700 just for rent. But life is better. You know, I speak many languages: Bulgarian, German, Turkish and Romani.’ 9
Georgi stands up, shakes hands and leaves. Leaning back in the chair again I feel the crack in the backrest. Ilmi continues. ‘It’s hardest when you finish a job abroad and come back here. For example, I have €2000 cash in my wallet, but without a job. What should I do? So I open a shop here. But then: how much does the guy running this café earn a day? It gives him a headache, it’s only 10 or 20 leva. So people go abroad again. Women go abroad as well to make a living, 10 or 20% of them end up in prostitution.’ Ilmi stands up from his chair. ‘Come, I show you the blocks we live in.’ I close my laptop, stow it in my backpack and join Ilmi. Again the smell of dust, dirt, smoke and some traces of coffee surrounds me, when I step out of the shadow of the Carlsberg parasol. Together we walk in between the houses that look exactly like the pictures on Google. ‘That’s why I love Germany,’ Ilmi says, ‘because there, the laws apply equal for everyone.’
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5/7 Before coming to Plovdiv, Asen was the only one who replied, from the many people I contacted. We agreed to have a meeting as soon as I arrived. But when I called him, I found out he was unable to speak English. Vanya made the appointment for this meeting at the terrace in front of the old mosque in the city centre. Lina is here to translate. It’s noisy and hot, so we sit under one of the big parasols. Asen shows me numbers about Stolipinovo: 0,1% of the people received university education, 6.9% finished high school. All other people have had primary education or less. 25% of the people don’t speak Bulgarian. ‘So there is a big lack of awareness about rights and obligations,’ Lina translates his words. ‘And it’s not going to change quickly. There is no awareness about ethnosociality in Bulgaria. In Plovdiv one third of the people are Roma or Turkish. You can easily talk to more than 90% of them. But the common thought is that they are stealing and begging. This is exactly what the media show. Therefore people think of Stolipinovo as a zoo, from an outsider’s perspective.’ Again Asen speaks for some time. Lina translates: ‘There have been so many negative stories in the media. So people don’t have the power to show the positive side of the neighbourhood. Also leadership is hard, because of divisions within Stolipinovo, based on religion and different identities. On top of that, education is another issue. Parents are poor. Children don’t have proper clothing, books nor shoes, so they feel ashamed sending children to school.’ I ask Asen about his opinion on what I should do. Lina translates his words: ‘People are tired of strangers who just watch and go. Doing this they contribute to the problem. You should do something small, but do it. You should represent the European point of view. This helps to change the perception of the Roma community in Bulgaria.’
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6/7 Anni, an anthropologist from Plovdiv University, studied, as she calls it, ‘…the Roma neighbourhood.’ I meet her in her office next to Club Fargo. ‘How come you use these words?’ I ask her. I tell her about my experience with the neighbourhood, how I’ve met people who call themselves Bulgarian, Turkish, Christian or Muslim. As I found out, only a small group identifies themselves as Roma or Romani speaking. ‘I had to use some restrictions, it’s not an ethnic label, but it’s considered a Roma neighbourhood from outside,’ Anni answers. Anni explains to me the economy in the district. ‘Work is organized through informal networks. The Plovdiv cleaning department employs people from the ethnic neighbourhoods. Besides this many people go abroad. Women go to Istanbul or Ederne for the suitcase trade.’ Since 2010 she has researched Stolipinovo. ‘For example, we worked with this woman, aged 45, identifying herself as both Turkish and Evangelist. She travelled to Germany, Spain, France and Greece to work as a cleaning lady in Turkish restaurants or other similar jobs. She travelled by microbus, sometimes with her husband, sometimes in a group, sometimes on her own. At the border dark people are treated more suspiciously. So it really depends who you’re with where you can go. Depending on the network she used, this lady was able to travel to different places.’ At the end Anni smiles. ‘Right now I am taking a break in my research on “Roma” labelled places.’
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11/7 I watch a documentary on YouTube about a research on long term unemployment in Marienthal, Germany. The research was carried out between 1931 – 1933, after the local factory, the only employer in the village, went bankrupt: ‘The basic knowledge is that one becomes socially and politically inactive through long-term unemployment. Unemployment does not mean that people tend towards politicization and radical change in social conditions, but that they end up largely in a rather anti-social disinterest in politics as well as social events.’ In Marienthal people stopped visiting the library or participating in the theatre association and even the village park was neglected. It was because the time structure collapsed: when there are no borders in time anymore between work and private life, people start feeling they can't add anything valuable to society, resulting in isolation, a loss of hope, alcoholism and young people leaving.
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The birth party.
13/7 I have been hanging around a lot on the streets of Stolipinovo, these days. Being there is much easier now. I have met many people, some of them introduced me to others. I took a walk with Milko, Emil introduced me to another Asen to whom I asked whether it would be possible to rent a room in Stolipinovo, to start living here. He liked the question and invited me to a celebration. Right there, at this party because of a new born child, while my plastic cup is filled with Mastika over and over again, I met so many people. Some of the men have just arrived from London for the summer vacation. I forgot most of the names. Although, I remember a small girl named Steffi who speaks English perfectly. A guy in a grey Hyundai brought me home. The next day I recognize many faces, especially in this part where everybody speaks Romani.
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Women at work in the tailoring workshop.
17/7 Arriving at the bus stop, I search for the place Bul. “Tsarigradsko Shose” 102. But I don’t see any numbers. Next to a fence I see two women in red shirts smoking a cigarette. On their chests the logo of the local supermarket nearby. No, they don’t speak English. I unlock my phone, open Facebook messenger and show them the address. It’s a little down the road, I understand from their gestures. So I walk past the shop, an office building and a car repair service. But again, no number 102. So I call Maria, who runs the tailoring workshop I want to visit. ‘Are you at the car tyres?’ Surprised, I look in front of me: four tyre storage racks belonging to the company. ‘Yes.’ ‘I will be there in 30 seconds,’ she answers. 15
Waiting for her, I watch the worn rubber in front of me. A white line is drawn on some of them, on others red numbers. From my left, two women appear. The blonde one looks like her profile picture on Facebook. ‘Hello Klaas, I am Maria, this is our trainer.’ I shake hands with the other lady first, a pair of glasses under short brown hair. ‘We worked with a new group this morning. But she will leave us,’ Maria explains. We shake hands and walk towards a gate behind the racks. Upstairs, Maria opens the door to the workshop. A row of 10 sewing machines stands on a tiled floor. Large windows under a white ceiling create lots of light. I can imagine the sound of women sewing: a mixture of noise from the machines and jokes, teasing and a sigh after a mistake is made. ‘In here, I don’t talk about them as Roma or as women from Stolipinovo. It’s just us, the names we have. It’s quite easy to relate to each of them. We are interested in new clothes, we are all women, so we become very close.’ Maria takes a seat behind the desk in front of the row of sewing machines. ‘Please, take a chair.’ I take one from behind the second machine and place it in front of her. Now the desk is in between us. I take my laptop, open it and start typing. ‘We Bulgarians talk about Roma as a group. When they are capsulated, then we think they are dangerous, because of all these things that are told they are doing as a group…’ Maria is quiet for a moment. ‘When I go to employers, all are willing to hire Roma women. But these women don’t have labour skills, they have never worked before. So I train them. Six employers offered jobs to women from our group and many of these women are still working for them. So you see, the women change when they are here. They start to feel more confident. After one or two 16
months they are able to do something with their hands. They are surprised by this.’ Maria smiles. ‘One of them said: “My parents don’t believe I can do this.” So I invited her to bring them here. They were really proud. So, these women become really motivated. When they are students, they think it’s possible to skip 30 minutes. But in the end, they want to stay longer, to learn, to work even more. They find out staying at home is boring. Some of them start dreaming, about driving a car, about having a driving licence.’ Maria walks towards one of the windows and opens it. Back at her desk, she continues, ‘Some of these women have never been to school. I talked with this woman, aged 37. She graduated when she was 12 and the next 25 years, she didn’t do anything. And everyone around her didn’t do anything.’ ‘How do you mean “anything”? Something must have happened in these years. Didn’t she for example become a mother?’ Maria watches me from behind her desk. ‘What? Do you want to teach me something?’ Her fierceness shakes me. I search for words. ‘Did this woman say this herself? What are her feelings related to these 25 years?’ ‘These are her words. A lot of these women are single mums. They turn 40, their children grow older and suddenly they find out they have to take care of themselves. So they start to want something. You should see them when they graduate. You should see this picture. They were sitting on the bench downstairs, they looked so…’ Maria thinks for a moment. ‘…empty. I felt the same when I graduated: what will happen to me now this is finished? You feel frozen. They never had this feeling of being in control. Everything is decided for them. You should marry this guy, get this child, they never felt the positive effect of choice.’ Maria inhales. ‘I tell them: “I will give you the opportunity to learn something and after this I support you to find a job. I just want you to come, to be motivated.’ Again, she watches me carefully. 17
‘Today one of the women asked me: “Can’t you find me a job as a cleaning lady?” I said: “No, this is what I offer you.” I think they feel it somehow, the simplicity of it. You know, some of them really end up in bad situations. But this can happen to anybody. So this doesn’t matter. People ask me about my feelings towards them. But my feelings don’t matter. This is what I offer.’ I ask Maria how she started working with these women. She tells about how she visited some social enterprises in Europe as part of a governmental service. ‘Plovdiv is considered the industrial star child of Bulgaria. International IT-companies are investing their money right here. People from all over the country come for jobs. But nobody is looking after these, I don’t know, 10,000 unemployed persons from Stolipinovo. To me this is really a stupidity. Go to a politician, don’t even try to talk about Stolipinovo. Just forget it exists…’ So Maria started this social enterprise herself in Plovdiv. ‘In the beginning the women act like consumers. One of them said me she has to pay the doctor a visit. All stand up to go with her! “What are you doing?” I asked. “She can visit the doctor on her own.” Another one wanted to go to a wedding for four days. But in the end they come to me: “Can I skip one hour because I have to take care of my daughter and no one else can help.” So in the end they feel responsible.’ Maria opens her bag and takes her phone out. After looking at the screen she puts it on the desk. ‘Some of them have this style of complaining about poverty and suffering. I try to stay away from that. Of course, when I can do something, I will. Now one of these girls is scared the kindergarten doesn’t want to take her child, because she signed a contract that during holidays she will take care of her. I will talk to the kindergarten to change this, because she wants to be here. I try to make it work from the moment someone asks for something she needs to be here.’ She stands up. Walking towards a big white table in the back of the room, Maria says: ‘I want to show you something.’ She takes the second paper from a pile of large sheets. ‘They gave us some feedback in a session with our social worker.’ 18
She points to the words written on it. ‘To learn something new. To get a job.’ Maria looks at me. ‘It’s what they liked about being here.’ She continues tracing the writing with her finger: ‘Four hours of training per day is ok. We met different experts. We had enough breaks. There are rules for trash.’ She watches me again. ‘Here are more comments: Some scissors disappeared. I want to learn how to work on bigger pieces. And this one: It’s good we made real stuff. It’s good the trainers are showing us our mistakes.’ Maria smiles. ‘This one: Maria doesn’t behave like a boss, but as a friend. We found a place to discuss our problems, that’s why we keep coming.’ Walking back to her desk she says: ‘For them this is the first time they gave feedback like this. Institutions treat them like “You’re from the ghetto, you’re not entitled to an opinion.” Next to this there is family, maybe a husband… In their lives there aren’t so many people who treat them equally.’ She takes her phone and places it inside her bag. Walking towards the window to close it, she says: ‘I have to leave.’
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Lubcho, Sando and friends.
18/7 I met him a few days ago, at the party, a guy wearing sunglasses. Two days after I saw him prepare a barbeque together with some other familiar faces. ‘So many parties, now. I am not used to this,’ he smiled. Lubcho is his name. This afternoon he has time for a talk. He offers me a seat on the sidewalk, next to a shop. Across the street, two men are welding a fence, a boy is grinding the steel: one of the many iron workshops here. ‘I’m a good boy, working for my family. I’ve been married now for four years. I have a daughter aged three,’ he tells. I show some pictures of my daughter and ask about his marriage. ‘I married young, when I was 20. After that, you don’t get the life you want to live.’ 20
Lubcho sighs and introduces me to Sando. ‘This is my cousin. He is from London. He speaks English better than I do.’ He talks to Sando in Romani. ‘Most people marry at a young age,’ Sando says. ‘Then your life changes. You have to put family in first place. That happens a lot here. People don’t care about education.’ ‘Why don’t people care?’ I ask. ‘It’s a ghetto. When people are young, they want to go out, drink, smoke, meet girls. They fall in love and start a family. Suddenly, they regret it, because without education you have to work like a slave. Especially here in Stolipinovo. I grew up in London, it’s very different here.’ A car drives by. It’s a grey Ford Sierra station wagon, noisy, like the exhaust pipe is leaking. When it’s quiet again, Lubcho goes to the shop. ‘Explain the difference,’ I ask Sando. ‘Here in Stolipinovo we are equal, created by God. We don’t divide. In this aspect, it’s better here than in London. Over there, when they see you’re Bulgarian or Roma, they look at us like we’re not human. But here, we’re completely torn apart from Bulgarian society. Considering jobs and education, London is a lot easier.’ Again a car is passing. This time it’s a big black car. It stops in front of the iron workshop, a guy gets out and walks towards the two men working on the fence. They start talking, the boy stops grinding. Sando continues, ‘In Stolipinovo, you make money the way you want.’ He points to the other side of the street. ‘These guys for example started an iron workshop. But in London I have the chance to go to university now.’ The street in front of us gets busy. From the left side of the street two men and a woman are approaching. She is wearing a long skirt. One of the men carries a shopping bag. The other one has some leaflets in his hand. I can’t read the Bulgarian text on the cover, but I recognize the lay-out: ‘The Watchtower’, the magazine published by Jehovah’s Witnesses. 21
From the right a short guy walks towards me. Directing his gaze at the three, he asks in neat English: ‘Are you with them?’ ‘No, I am here with them,’ I point to Sando and Lubcho who just returned with some water. ‘I want to ask you something; not so many people like you come here.’ I am surprised by the way he approaches me, so I shake hands with him. He introduces himself as Peter, ‘…this is what they called me in England,’ gives me his phone number and says: ‘Can you please call me when you are finished?’ When it’s quiet again, Sando continues. ‘My dad was the first one to leave Stolipinovo in 2007. Not because he didn’t have money, but he wanted to get out. Now he is settled in London. We started living there years ago.’ He rubs his nose. ‘Right now, I’ve got a girlfriend here. Our parents know, we can’t be together without getting married. When I want to see her, I have to stay here. When I go to London we are separated. But if I stay here, I won’t be able to get a degree and this will be a problem in the future. Now that I have the chance to go to university, I don’t want to miss it. So I have to choose between love and university.’ ‘You’re in love,’ I smile. ‘It’s a mutual feeling,’ he answers. ‘Love can wait.’ ‘Yeah, love can wait. But I don’t like the feeling of missing someone.’ Suddenly Steffi is there, the girl I met at the party, 6 years old. ‘Hey, Steffi, how are you?’ In her hands she holds a yellow brush. ‘You know my sister?’ Sando asks. ‘He was at the party,’ she says to Sando. Watching me: ‘I don’t feel well. My tummy goes bumbumbum.’ Steffi touches her belly with the brush. Then she hits my knee with it and hangs against Sando’s leg. ‘I’m hungry.’ More people come to us. I am introduced to Iwan, Asen and others. Lubcho asks Iwan to buy kebabs. When he returns we share food on the sidewalk. 22
I call Peter. I recognize his face among the people on the street the moment he waves to me. ‘I want to talk to you in private.’ Peter used to have a kebab restaurant in London, but the place burned down. He didn’t have insurance. ‘I lost everything. I want to go back to London. But I need €150 for the flight. I can borrow it here, from a local boss, but then I need to pay back €240 in 15 days, or they will threaten my family. I don’t want to work with them. Can you help me?’ His question burns inside me. I get 280 leva a week as part of Adata AiR. From a Dutch perspective this is not enough, I need €1,250 a month to make a living. But here in Stolipinovo it’s a lot. ‘You are not the first one asking for money,’ I tell Peter. ‘When I start giving, it will ruin the reason why I came to Stolipinovo. It will make me into a competitor of the guy you don’t want to borrow from. I don’t have the power nor the money to do this. I am here to learn about Stolipinovo, about people who have to migrate for work and to prepare for next year, when Plovdiv is European Capital of Culture. So from this perspective what happened to you is very important to me. But I cannot help you with money.’ Peter nods. ‘May I introduce you to my family?’
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26/7 I am glad I called Francien, from Fairwork, a Dutch organisation dealing with the exploitation of migrant workers and prostitution. She connected me with Dragomir, who introduced me to Evgeni from the Autonomous Labour Union. To visit him in Varna, I rented a car. I quote from the great book about migration in Bulgaria Evgeni gave me: ‘The irregular migrant and the poverty migrant are the battleground for re-establishing the borders of the state: its power politics, social engagement, and dimensions of citizenship are all tested and established through these figures. On the opposite end, the so-called “mobile elites” feed into the imagination of a globalizing borderless world, forming a complete distinct conceptual framework.’ When I return the car to the rental service, also a Western Union Money Transfer office, I talk about the purpose of my trip. The guy at the counter gives me a full insight in his perspective. ‘70% of my clients is Gypsy. They can work here in agriculture or construction and get 500 or 600 leva. If they have a license, they can be a driver. But most of them can’t read, and when you can’t read, you can’t get a licence. So they go abroad, for work, for prostitution or to get social money in Germany or… Where you’re from?’ ‘The Netherlands.’ ‘They are doing the same everywhere, they take money from the government for the kids, although the support is not high.’ ‘Don’t you get this money?’ ‘Yes, of course, we get the same for our kids.’ ‘Do you think the situation of these people will change?’ ‘Change is in progress, because the influence of European trips improves their attitude. Our Gypsies cheat, lie and don’t go to school. You should go to police station number 6, the one in Stolipinovo and ask for their opinion. But the Gypsies who come back, are well dressed, clean and educated. So the European Gypsies are inspiring the Gypsies from Stolipinovo.’ Listening to him, I think: ‘Love can wait.’ The future will show what kind of love will come. 24
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Thanks to Vanya Grozdanova, Gina Kafedjian, Lina Atura, Svetlana Kuyumdzhieva, Stanislava Tasheva, Ilmi Osmanov, Asen Kolev, Emil Mirazchiev, Asen Karagyozov, Vasil Karagyozov, Milko Stoyanov, Lubcho Sandov, Sando Boshnakov, Taip Shaban, Shevo Ivanov, Enver Ivanov Aneliya Avdhieva, Huub van Baar, Maria Shiskova, Francien Winsemius, Dragomir Dimov, Evgeni Nikitin, Silver and Maelle, Misho Blasov, Maria Stoeva, Boris Zafirov, Fani Zakalova, Rosita Borisova, Liliana Angelo, Vasilka Stoianova, Zoya Pervanova, Claire Skinner, Jenny van den Broeke, Marieke Dekkers and all other people who helped me or whom I met on the streets of Stolipinovo. 26
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