Chapter one – Returning to my roots

I had a bad dream that started on the Island. I dreamed that dream for years, first on the island and then in Kostur after I returned home. It was a dream that frightened me without knowing exactly how and why it frightened me. And so I sat in my tent motionless, petrified, without life, without a soul, not knowing where to look or where to turn... I dreamed that dream for years, I dreamed about the man who castrated me...”

The old man’s face began to twist as a sign of the pain he was feeling deep inside and after taking a loud and violent breath, he continued:

“From then on until today, everyday I thought and hoped that one day, my people would take revenge for all the evil inflicted on us... But, as it turned out, our people have gone silent and will not speak about what was done to us… they will not speak about the atrocities committed against our people by the Greeks, nor will they tell the world about us…”

Krsto Krapov looked at me with a sober and disappointed look on his face as the sharp look in his glowing eyes began to fade.

I felt I needed to say something so I said: “The kind of people that keep secrets like that will certainly feel isolated and distant from everyone and will believe that all governments, no matter what kind, will be a threat to their lives.”

The old man suddenly looked at me with animated eyes and said:

I have never been one of those who hides things… who is filled with hatred, anger and helplessness. When I have something to say, I say it. When I have nothing to say, I keep quiet. But there is something that did appear in the people of Kostur not too long ago. We split ourselves into freedom fighters and Communists (people in love with their bondage). Long ago this split did not exist in Kostur, America, Australia, or Canada, in Tashkent and Europe, and not in Belgrade, Sofia, Athens... No one hated us as much as we have come to hate ourselves because of this split. We continued to hate ourselves even after we realized the split would have devastating consequences for us. Urged by outsiders who we befriended and who we followed at their beck and call, we joined them and they helped us hate ourselves and our kind until there was nothing left of us at home. But we continue to hate ourselves in favour of ideology outside of our homes… still as freedom fighters or Communists... We learned well how to hate from Karavangelis, the Bishop of Kostur. The Ottomans were amongst us for five centuries but never did find the time to teach us how to hate one another… we learned that from the Greeks… And in the end, the Greeks gave us new

names, which forced us to forget ourselves and to fight against our own heritage which took us centuries to build… They taught us to hate our grandfathers and great grandfathers and the very seed to which we belong…

We Macedonians have been pushed to the brink of extinction by everyday cruel Greek deeds and laws that hang over us like huge boulders ready to fall. Our families and homes have also been targets… everyday they push us to exile… cast us out of our homes… without a care for the pain and suffering they have caused us….

Well, this is what has been happening to us since our country was occupied by the damned Greeks!!!”

The old man’s voice was getting more penetrating as pain flowed through his thoughts; as he traveled through visible and invisible time in his mind. He was not doing this just to ease his own soul, he was doing it because something hidden deep inside him was boiling and rebelling and he wanted to tell the world…

His eyes looked strange. They were very bright like they had their own source of light deep inside.

I stood there and listened. I listened to this old man who had suffered for over half a century. The silence was indeed unbearable. It was especially unbearable because something very important, something of historical significance was being told. A stranger was unweaving his life’s story before me. But we were not strangers. Our common experiences and our mutual love of our homeland made us friends and brought us close together. I remember what my grandfather used to say: “Once and for all, fear must be defeated and victory over fear is the beginning of wisdom...”

How late am I?

I bowed my head. Whatever his story was I was very sorry for him and as such I forgot my own problems. Yes! But was it just me? Was it just the people of Kostur!?

Again, half a century later, one is able to grasp the misfortune but only to some extent. When a person passes that step (and we have long passed it) misfortune will destroy that person (it will destroy the person’s ancestral roots). The person will then become indifferent like us, the people of Kostur.

That was a time when love was very short and forgetting about it was endless. It was a time when the Greeks were forcing us to accept falsehood over the truth.

And maybe that’s why there is nothing more difficult to talk about than our own suffering... When I looked at him again I saw how downtrodden he was.

I asked myself, “Is it honourable to cause suffering to others, even when the deepest human wishes inevitably lead to it?”

I did not notice but I too had tears running from my eyes as I listened to him.

He shook his hand and looked at me with compassion. With a raspy voice he then said: “Cry, empty the poison from your soul. Take it out so that it doesn’t burden you all your life...”

In the end we will not remember the insults of our enemies but what is eating at me now is the silence from our brethren, the people of Kostur and all of Macedonia who are drifting around the world; the people who built their silk nests out there and who abandoned their home and birthplace. The people who left us, the ill-fated, to endure the pain of the loss of our fatherland...

But they are the ones who suffer the most and will suffer all the way to their graves. Those who are far away from their fatherland, from this country, who spent their youthful years in their fatherland and who left part of their love there, will endure the pain the most. They will remember when spring was a time of love. They will remember that spring was a happy life for love-sick bachelors who could hardly wait for its arrival…

Now, all the survivors who have left their homeland will feel the loneliness and nostalgia for home sweet home and their love for it will forever burn into their souls. They will want to sing the age-old song that was sung by many Kostur generations...

“Lepi chupi i zalubeni bekiari: Tvoite ochi Leno mori…”

A wild roar came from the crowd of people from Kostur who were in the mood for a song.

O Krsto! Let them sing our song!

Sing “KRENA MATINATA” a loud voice ordered!

Krena Martina, mori mamo, fati planinata, Tana – na – na – na – na – tanana – na – na, oide na Lokvata. Tamu se sobrale, mori mamo, od pet sela detsi, Ai ot pet sela detsi, mila mamo, ot tri sela chupi. Chupite D’mbenski I chupite Smdetski ne se teku lepi, Glaso mu se krena, mori mila mamo, mnogu na daleku, do Soluna grada. Lepite detsi, mamo mori, Enash te opuvle, mori mila mamo, I te opianve. Aj enash shom zapee, mila mamo, umo ti go kreve

The entire crowd joined the dance which continued deep into the night and the songs were heard all the way to Mount Vicho…

Shcho si tolku Leno mori, gailelia…