Budapest, the capital of Hungary. A two-faced city. Along the left bank of the Donau is where the rich live, in the hills of Boeda. On the other side, in Pest, is the real life. That’s where the work gets done. That’s where the schools and pubs are, and that’s where the streets are paved with sadness and pleasure. The gypsy quarter Pest is particularly infamous. Broken down houses, burnt out car wrecks and boys that hang around in search of a drugs dealer. If you don’t have any business there, you give it a wide berth. ‘Over my dead body! You can’t drag me into that ghetto,’ says a Hungarian friend. ‘They’ll drop a fridge on your head from the fourth floor.’ The fact that the fate of the Roma-gypsies remains at the bottom of the political agenda has been subject of discussion for years. The gypsies are discriminated against. ‘But they ask for it,’ is the opinion of most Hungarians. When gypsies are discussed, people are quick to pass judgement. But to find somebody who knows the Romas, speaks their language and shares their feelings? No, those people are scarce in Budapest. Bar a few exceptions. Such as social worker Géza. For years he has been working with young gypsies whose parents have vanished from sight. The mothers often have ended up in prostitution, the fathers have taken to drinking or are in prison. The children of block 5B on Illatos street live with their uncle or aunt for the time being. In 180 square feet. A kitchen and one room to sleep eight. Time after time there are promises from the government to improve things, but the Romas have given up hope and distrust any outside interference.

And all of a sudden some Westerners appear who give cameras to our children. ‘Why? So that our own children can capture our own mess? Get lost.’ Therefore, after the first photo workshop, the Home/Life photo project is about to fail. The fourteen participating children have each made 36 photos, and the rolls of films need to be collected in the Roma ghetto. ‘You want Ildiko’s roll of film? Let’s see some money first!’ yells Ildiko’s stepmother from behind the railing on the third floor of the former military barracks. The next workshops take place in the bedroom of Anna, a Roma mother who does like the project. In particular Ildiko Farkas and Attila Bogár show talents. Ildiko has made portraits of her friends cooking a meal in a little home-made courtyard kitchen. Attila convinces with journalistic photos of life with the stepfamily: women smoking in bed, a father sleeping off his hangover, a friend crying on the kitchen floor. ‘The stepparents must never get a chance to see these prints,’ warns social worker Géza. ‘The children would be beaten up.’ During the last meeting the children write the captions for their photos. ‘This is a place on top of an empty house,’ writes Ildiko. ‘We are pretending to cook. And we’re playing mummies and daddies. My best friend Fruzsina always plays the mother.’ Fruzsina says: ‘Ildiko is my best friend. If she cries, when she is beaten, I comfort her.’ What they want to be when they grow up? Anna is a role model. ‘She is young, but already has a child!’