Observar críticamente las imágenes que damos por obvias y reales es un reto que no solemos afrontar. Sin embargo, conocer cómo se han fabricado históricamente las representaciones sobre aquellos colectivos marcados por cualquier clase de discriminación y reflexionar sobre la carga de prejuicios implícitos son los primeros pasos en el proceso del reconocimiento de una auténtica igualdad de derechos. Sin el esfuerzo de limpiar la mirada social mayoritaria de presunciones sobre la forma de ser de los “otros”, no hay ley que valga. Se trata, es cierto, de un trabajo incómodo, porque nos enfrenta con los límites de nuestra propia intención de vivir en una sociedad inclusiva y justa. Es también un trabajo complejo, porque no siempre son evidentes los objetivos, incluso desde la lucha contra la discriminación. La historia de cómo, después de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, los países aliados asumieron el horror de la violencia masiva perpetrada por el nazismo muestra una jerarquización victimaria bien expresiva en este sentido. Una imagen puede ayudarnos a entrar en los sótanos culturales de nuestras actitudes políticas. Entre las fotografías más conocidas y reproducidas del terror nazi está la de una niña que, con la cabeza cubierta por un pañuelo, se asoma asustada al exterior del vagón que la llevará a Auschwitz, instantes antes de que un soldado selle la puerta. En realidad, no es una foto fija sino un fragmento de una breve película que fue obligado a filmar Rudolf Breslauer, un prisionero judio de Westerbork, el campo de concentración de donde partía el tren.

Can citizenship rights be denied to significant groups in a society that regards itself as civilized and self-governing? Is it possible to exclude such people in the name of freedom and reason? Is it plausible to explain classifications that differentiate between first- and second-class citizens as “natural”?

This is the paradox inherent in modern politics, born of the revolutions that ended the Ancien Régime in the western world. Throughout the nineteenth century and at the beginning of the twentieth, liberalism inspired a representative form of government that appealed to citizenship, yet marginalized many social groups, including natives, women, immigrants, workers, slaves and nomads. In the Hispanic dimension of the Atlantic world that this book deals with, modern politics was based on exclusions explained as natural and necessary. In both Europe and America, a distinction was made between the responsible citizen and those “others” in society, potential “enemies within”, who had to be controlled and supervised.

Sometimes, the most “innocent” images are the most dangerous.

Confirmation of this statement can be found in the children’s stories that have for many years employed characters taken from the world of the gypsies in order to indoctrinate children and teach them obedience. During the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries, some of the teaching designed to inculcate the values of the official culture and promote family discipline was carried out through stories in which rebellious children—those who dared to disobey their parents and leave their comfortable homes—frequently ended up being stolen by bands of gypsies and vanishing into thin air.

These kidnappers, described as living on the fringes of civilized society, represented all the evils of barbarism—pagan, immoral, uncouth and criminal—in contrast to the alleged virtues of the national culture. Heading the long list of illegal actions attributed to gypsies in these stories, that of child stealing is a hackneyed theme that appears over and over again in European children’s literature.

Las imágenes más “inocentes” son a veces las más peligrosas.

Eso podría afirmarse a propósito de los cuentos infantiles que a lo largo de muchos años han venido empleando a personajes tomados del mundo gitano para adoctrinar a los niños con el objetivo de enseñarles a ser obedientes. Durante los siglos XVIII, XIX y XX, una parte de la pedagogía orientada a infundir los valores de la cultura oficial y de la disciplina familiar se ejerció a través de historias en las que frecuentemente los niños rebeldes -esos que se habían aventurado a desobedecer a sus padres y abandonar la comodidad de sus hogares- acababan siendo robados por bandas de gitanos que les hacían desaparecer de la noche a la mañana.

This woman of stunningly light eyes was called Teresa Gabarre.

So says, at least, her “anthropometric card”, a document required by French State to all nomad people, ever since a law passed in 1912 and still applicable in 1968 made it mandatory. This is an example of how were treated in liberal and democratic states, before and after the Second World War, a largest transnational Roma community who found in trip its economy and its way of life.

In 1945, Walter Winter, a German Roma (actually, Sinto) who survived Auschwitz along with his brother Erich, came back home. At Cloppenburg “the lads with whom we had gone to school and played football were now local authority civil servants”, he remember in his Memoirs, Winter Time.   But this fact didn’t make easier the hard effort to recuperate their property, families and lives after so much suffering: Walter and Erich were send to several concentration and extermination camps (Auschwitz-Birkenau, Ravensbrück and Sachsenhausen), before been forced to serve as soldiers on the Russian front in April 1945. Miraculously, both of them survived.