This instrument was long known as the “Gypsy Violin,” a term historically used for instruments linked to Romani musicians. Today, the word “Gypsy” is recognized as outdated and pejorative; instead, it is understood as reflecting the Romani musical tradition from which this violin emerged.
In my early childhood, I was placed with peasants in the depths of my native Hungary. These villagers respected their Romani neighbors and treated them with sincere esteem. This example shaped my life, and I continued to live by it.
In 1956, my family fled Hungary during the Soviet occupation. France welcomed us, and I lived there for nearly half a century before making Aliyah to Israel. In the south of France, my children attended music conservatories, and my daughter’s violin teacher was a member of the Romani community. Through him, we formed a bond with other Romani families who often visited us to talk, trade, and sometimes bring instruments.
One day, they showed us a violin with a castle engraved on the back and a rough frieze carved on its top. They told us it had belonged to a member of their community who, during the war, was arrested with Jewish families and deported to Auschwitz. He never returned. No Romani musician wanted to play this violin, and knowing that we were Jewish, they offered it to us so it might have a home with a family that shared in that suffering.
This violin later made its journey to Israel with me. When I learned about Violins of Hope and the sacred work of master luthier Amnon Weinstein, I felt its true place was among these instruments. I donated it in memory of the Romani who, like the Jews, were persecuted and exterminated.
Though the violin itself is not of great material value, its story and its silence carry immeasurable weight. Today it stands among the Violins of Hope as a reminder that the Romani, too, were victims of the Shoah.
— Sarah Yakobovitz, Jerusalem, October 10, 202_
