Sérgio Monteiro

Sérgio's family has been in Portugal for generations—longer than most Portuguese can trace their own lineage. But being Roma (Cigano in Portuguese) means being permanently "other." His grandparents lived in caravans; his parents were pushed to informal settlements; he was relocated to social housing that feels like a ghetto by design.

He grew up with the looks, the muttered comments, the shop owners watching him. His children experience the same. His daughter is the brightest in her class—her teacher told him she could go to university. What university would want a Cigana? What employer would hire her? The ceiling is visible from birth.

The Chega phenomenon terrifies him. Ventura's rhetoric about Roma isn't subtle—he's called for their "integration or expulsion," linked them to crime, made them convenient scapegoats. For Sérgio, every Chega vote is a message: you don't belong here. The country your family has lived in for five centuries doesn't want you.

He sells at weekly markets—household goods, textiles, whatever moves. It's traditional Roma work, increasingly squeezed by supermarkets and regulation. The informal economy sustained his parents; formalization is making it impossible. Construction work when markets are slow, but employers are reluctant to hire Ciganos.

Family is everything. His extended family spans multiple towns, connected by marriage and blood, supporting each other through what gadjos (non-Roma) never understand. When his son needs dental work, the family collects. When his cousin is in trouble, everyone appears. This network is survival, and it's also what gadjos see as "clannishness" that justifies exclusion.