Genocide against Roma in World War II

My name is Maja Manojlović from Petrovac na Mlavi and I am a big fan of aviation and books.

My mother often quotes Forbes: "When you stop dreaming, you stop living," I am guided by her words, I am moving towards the realization of my dreams. I graduated from the Aviation Academy and am currently studying air traffic at the Faculty of Transportation in Belgrade.

When you all fell asleep filling the heavenly dark attic, tears rolled down your cheek as a reminder that you existed. There are lamentations beside me over Roma graves, among these butchered pieces of skin. This weight of sobbing is heavier, and the shadows wildly scream memories, louder than the screams of a newborn child. The gases vibrate in the air and make this moment of your helplessness look like an eternity. How much soot could you grab with your lungs? You are unsuccessfully snatching yourself from those nets of rest, tearing those strings with which you are bound; and yet you are suffocated because you have found yourself between their fingers. They did not know that the murdered children's hopes came and with Pandora's hands around their bodies they painted contempt, crippled words poisoned with anger. You lasted until the trumpets drove you to the ground, leprous, angry and hungry, isolated from the whole world. Like a red bridge over a sooty dream pit, which gently collapses in the beauty of death, you stood on a portrait of time painted with blood from your lungs. You weren’t born to survive massacres and accidents, and you last stretched between decades like tendons. When you all fall asleep, and now you are calm and blue, do not long for a world that has sunk into dark troughs - there has never been a place for all of us here. And I will tell you, you who were, and no longer are, a thousand eyes are closed reading your epitaph that sounds stronger than your mother's prayer.