Front Matter - Part 05

I remember one day a stranger arrived in the village and asked the people to gather around him. After many did he began to speak incoherently in Greek. He went on and on for many hours. I could hear people whispering: “When is he going to stop talking? I want to go and do my chores…” People were afraid to leave because they didn’t know who he was. About six hours later he got tired and stopped. Everyone left. Later we found out that he was a mental patient... I also remember my father complaining about having to go to church Sunday morning and listen to the Greek priest speak and perform liturgy for several hours while his livestock remained unattended and without food and water. People faced jail time if they didn’t go to church regularly or to Greek events put on by the Greek authorities. Survival in the village, especially under those conditions, meant that on top of working hard, everyone had to follow these Greek imposed rules or else there would be severe consequences. I was six years old in 1959 when I started my first summer job. My father had purchased ten lambs in an effort to grow his herd of sheep and it was my job to take them to pasture in our meadows in the mountains and look after them for the rest of the day. I left with them in the morning and returned home in the evening. Unfortunately something happened one day and we lost all of them.

The loss of the lambs was devastating to our family. Even more devastating was the loss of our grain crops that year due to a wet period and prolonged rain during the August 1959 harvest. After harvesting the wet wheat my mother made bread from the flour, which not only tasted foul but was hard as rock. Being unable to feed his family, my father wrote a letter to my uncle in Canada, his youngest brother, the one I told you about earlier, explaining the situation and asked him for help. He sent us one hundred dollars with which we purchased flour to get us by until the next harvest.

From the moment I was able to understand and follow instructions I helped out with all sorts of chores during all seasons. In my early years, during the winter I helped feed and water our livestock, brought wood from the woodpile outside for the fireplace and woodstove inside the house and fetched drinking water from the Oshchima spring. During the other seasons I helped with the planting, watering the garden, fields and meadows, harvesting crops and hay and looking after the livestock.

Everything was done by hand including cutting and collecting wood from the forests for cooking and heating, which was then transported home by horse and donkey. We harvested hay to feed the livestock, grains such as wheat, barley and rye, and other crops such as corn, beans, potatoes, walnuts, apples, plums, wild pears, etc. We sliced and dried some of the apples and plums in the sun to preserve them for winter. We also had a large garden in which we planted onions, leeks, garlic, peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, zucchini, squash, etc. We often dried both sweet and hot red peppers to preserve them so that we could cook with them during the winter. Hot peppers were a regular part of our diet. In the fields that needed watering we planted corn, beans and potatoes. In the dry fields we planted wheat, rye and barley. Before plowing with our oxen, the fields and garden were fertilized with manure from the livestock, which we collected over the year and composted in big heaps along with organic table scraps.

Everything was done by hand, including milking the sheep and making feta cheese, butter, cottage cheese, etc. Before my father left for Canada we owned two oxen, sheep, three dogs, one horse, one donkey, a pig, a couple dozen chickens and a cat. The village had no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no running water and no indoor toilets – no television or radio (until about 1965). We cooked and stayed warm using firewood. We used a kerosene lamp for light in the night. We fetched drinking water in ceramic jugs from a spring about half a kilometre outside the village. Everything that was harvested was processed by hand and set aside to feed the family and livestock year round.

At the end of the year we slaughtered our pig, which we had fattened with slop made of table scraps, garden greens, flour and water. Every spring we purchased a piglet from the pig farmers, fattened it and then slaughtered it before Christmas. The pig fat was melted and used year round as cooking oil. Everything was processed and preserved, even the pig’s intestines – that were used to make sausages. Since we had no refrigeration, the meat was pickled in salt brine, just like the green tomatoes and green peppers we picked from our garden at the end of the season. We harvested apples, potatoes, beans and corn by hand. We spent many evenings removing the corn from the cob and the beans from their pods. We collected the grain plants, which we harvested by hand using a sickle and processed them on a threshing field using our horse and donkey to stomp on them. Everyone participated. More than ninety-five percent of the food we and our livestock subsisted on was grown in our fields, meadows and garden and was processed and preserved by hand using traditional methods. We only purchased our piglet, salt, sugar, olives and olive oil. Our grains were ground into flour in the local village water mills.

There were two mills operating during my time and only one was working when we left Oshchima for Canada. Life was great for me. I was a happy child even though I had to work hard. Everyone had to work hard but being born under these conditions this kind of life was normal for me and everyone else. The village was quiet and peaceful. The food was natural, organic, nutritious and wholesome. Our water, which came from a spring, was pure and clean. Everyone knew everyone else in the village and neighbours often got together to do chores and socialize. My grandmother was the champion at removing the dry corn from the cob. The bean pods were allowed to dry in a warm and dry place and were then beaten with a long birch twig until they split open. The beans were then removed one by one by hand. The old women in the village gathered together and spent a lot of time socializing, separating beans from pods, corn from cobs and other such activities, while looking after the young children, teaching them how it was done and making a fun activity out of it.

There was very little time for play because most of the children in the village worked all the time. Also there weren’t many toys to play with. Most of the toys from my early years were rusty old, empty sardine cans and used bullet shells left over from the wars. A year before leaving for Canada I raised a pair of pigeons to which I added two wild pigeons I’d captured in the woods. I was told they wouldn’t survive in captivity but they did. When I was four years old my sister was born. I was too young to remember but, from what I was told, August, the month she was born was the busiest month of the year. That’s when most of the crops were harvested and my mother had to work right up until her birth and afterwards.

She gave birth to all of us at home without any medical aid.

Initially Oshchima had a single room public school and one teacher who taught all grades (1 to 6) simultaneously. Prior to 1960, a house was temporarily used as a school. One of its rooms was converted into a classroom and used for teaching until a new school was built in 1960. The new school was heated by a potbelly stove fueled with firewood. Students were responsible for providing the firewood and managing the stove, on a rotational basis. Sometimes a generous resident, usually a parent, donated some firewood. Each student was responsible for bringing a log or two of firewood from home daily. Failing to do so usually resulted in punishment. A student was delegated the task of bringing coal embers from home to school for a week. In the morning the student filled a perforated tin can, with a long wire handle, with coals from the fireplace at home and brought it to school to start the fire and warm up the classroom before class began. Leftover wood at the end of the day was taken to the teacher’s residence for his or her use.

When I first started school, classes were held in a room in the above-mentioned house. A couple of years later we were moved to the new school. Initially we had two separate classes taught by the same teacher in the same classroom but as more people left the village and emigrated overseas all grades, 1 to 6, were combined into one class. Other than the teacher punishing us for every little infraction, school life was great. Our teacher used a long birch twig and hit us on the head if we didn’t pay attention, or strapped us on our open hands for more serious infractions; like not having done our homework or being caught speaking Macedonian in the yard. We were taught to speak, read and write Greek, rudimentary arithmetic, geography and our pride and joy, Greek history, of course. The teacher taught us that Greece was a democratic country, the best country in the world. There was no better life anywhere in the world. The teacher taught us about our glorious ancient Greek heritage and the Greek heroes who freed Greece and the Greek Province of Macedonia from the dreadful Ottomans and the terrible Bulgarians.

Our teacher taught us patriotic songs which we sang out loud and with much pride. Like I told you earlier, I took those songs home and sang them with pride every day in front of my parents, while emphasizing my Greek-ness and yelling “Greek I was born and Greek I shall die!” Of course I didn’t know that we were Macedonians and that part of our country had been forcefully invaded and occupied by Greece. Neither did I know our true history, the genocides committed against us or about our mass evictions from our homeland. All I knew was what I was taught and all I was taught, it turned out, was Greek fiction.

As it also turned out, I was one of those so-called “terrible Bulgarians” the Greeks were talking about… Like I said, one day, when my parents had had enough of my shenanigans and insults, they decided to tell me the truth about our Macedonian identity. My mother spoke first. My father was reluctant and said that I was too young to keep a secret and that I would unwittingly betray them. My mother made me swear that I would keep this secret to myself. All she told me was that we weren’t Greek and those heroes that I admired so much were nothing more than cut-throat thugs who killed many of our people, including relatives on both sides of our family… At that time I knew nothing… Not that we were Macedonian, not that there had been Macedonian uprisings, not that Macedonia had been invaded, occupied and partitioned and not even that there was a so-called Greek Civil War. In fact, the Greeks called it a “bandit war” and it wasn’t classified as a civil war in Greece until the 1970’s.

In school and in public the Republic of Macedonia was called Serbia and we were taught that the people living in Greek (occupied) Macedonia were Greeks and those living in the Serbian (occupied) Macedonia were Serbians. I believed what our teacher taught us. I believed that my mother was Greek and my uncles, my mother’s two brothers, who had left Zhelevo during the Greek Civil War and who now lived in the Republic of Macedonia, were Serbian. That’s what I had been told…and that’s what I believed before I found out that we were Macedonian. I kept what I had found out a secret and continued my Greek education but did things with less enthusiasm and graduated from public school with honours (9 out of 10). After I graduated from grade school I didn’t bother to apply for higher education because my father had already made arrangements for us to leave for Canada so there was no point. Later I was told that even if I had applied chances of someone like myself, being a Macedonian and belonging to a family that had fought on the wrong (losing) side of the civil war, had no chance of being accepted.

Life in the village for me was wonderful and I very much enjoyed every bit of it, especially going to the mountains, tending our livestock and exploring new places further and further away from home. I didn’t have many friends because people kept leaving the village and emigrating mostly to Canada, the USA and Australia. When I was born the village had over 60 residents and by the time we left Oshchima only a few families remained. As the people of Oshchima were leaving, some gave us their homes and properties to look after. By the time we left Oshchima we had accumulated many fields and meadows, including seven houses and several barns which we used to store our crops and feed our livestock. I kept my pigeons in a room in one of those houses.

After finishing grade six, I took over some of my father’s responsibilities looking after the farm; especially the sheep. At age 12 I became a full time shepherd looking after the entire flock 24 hours a day, taking the sheep to graze in the mountains in the summer and, after my father left, milking them twice daily with my mother and sister. I did this for over a year. Milking was at minimum a three-person job, two to milk and one to guide the sheep to the opening of the corral. After my father left for Canada, my mother and I did the milking and my eight year old sister guided the sheep.

In the summer sheep grazed in the mountains and were milked at designated corrals. The milk was particularly aromatic and tasty when the sheep grazed on healthy green thyme which grew in abundance in Oshchima. Sheep rested in the shade during the hot day and grazed in the early morning, late afternoon and night. Very late at night I brought the sheep home for only a few hours for some rest and to milk them early in the morning. We also milked the sheep in the evening but that was done in the mountains at various corrals.

During the summer I stayed with the sheep almost twenty-four hours a day. Even though I was very young, I wasn’t afraid of the dark and enjoyed the stars and moonlight during bright nights, all alone with my trusty dogs and vivid imagination. From very young we learned to be productive and responsible and took our tasks very seriously because our lives depended on them. It was hard work, looking after the sheep day and night, grazing during the night and resting during the day with only a few hours of sleep. We milked the sheep twice a day, very early in the morning and in the evening. Sleep for all of us in the summer was a luxury. One day during a late summer afternoon, after milking, and as the temperature of the air cooled down, the sheep began to leave the shade to graze on the slopes of one of our mountains. As the sun was setting the sheep went higher and higher up the slopes approaching the mountain peaks bordering the village Zhelevo. I followed closely behind and watched my shadow grow longer and longer as the sun dropped lower and lower towards the horizon. As I peered eastward I noticed a glare from the corner of my eye. I looked and there on the upright rocks of the adjacent mountainside I saw the reflection of the sun. A stone was burning, shining like a mirror, reflecting the sun back at me, or so I tried to convince myself. As I stared at the light I began to see moving images… people in a bustling community. There were rows of glistening houses painted white. People were sitting in rows conversing and enjoying the warmth of the setting sun. I saw an old woman with a white kerchief on her head cleaning vegetables for her family’s dinner. As I watched, a feeling of loneliness engulfed me. I wished I was there with them, listening to their conversation and stories, enjoying the aroma of supper cooking and listening to the sounds of the village before it went to sleep.

As I continued to watch and enjoy the fruits of my imagination, the images began to lose their beauty and slowly turned murky and distorted. I struggled to recall them but they continued to escape me, melting away, vanishing into dark shadows. I could no longer look. I turned away for a moment and my eyes caught the bright red aura of the setting sun. The sun was slowly disappearing behind the mountain. It was setting and trying to hide; gone, the day was gone. As I looked harder and harder I could only see large shadows engulfing the valleys, then the hills, swallowing the terrain whole with everything on it. The thought of darkness gave me shivers but I wasn’t worried. Soon I’d be home safe, with my family in our house illuminated by the familiar light of our faithful kerosene lamp. As my imagination drifted further and further away, an eerie feeling came over me pulling me back, reminding me that home was the other way and far away. I was afraid now, my heart was pounding. Everything looked dark, unfamiliar, unrecognizable, menacing. I was all alone left to the mercy of the night.

Startled by footsteps rustling behind me, I quickly snapped back to reality and turned to look. It was my faithful dog that had come to join me; it was time to feed him. I had two sheep dogs and they were both there with me waiting for their dinner. I lowered my food bag from my shoulder and took out my supper. It was bread and cheese as I recall. I also had food for the dogs, a baked bun of bran each.

I was no longer afraid. Life as a shepherd wasn’t always fun. Many days I had to work in the rain and stayed wet all day long. The worst days were when I had to walk long distances in pouring rain, in wet grass on treacherous terrain, especially at night when it was pitch black, not being able to see the sheep and only guided by the bright flashes of lightening. I was almost struck twice by lightening. One time I was so startled I threw up for hours. But in this job one had to take the bad with the good.”

“Thank you, I thoroughly enjoyed that. That’s what I needed to hear… something positive… I enjoyed that so much I didn’t want to interrupt you… I hope you don’t mind but I need to go. We went overtime today and I’m afraid my wife, who doesn’t know I’m with you, will either think I’m having an affair or lying dead somewhere in a gutter.”

“Sorry about that. I guess I was trying to make up for last Friday… I’m just joking, I plain forgot about the time. That for me was also therapeutic. It was nice to think back on the more innocent times. For years after we left for Canada, I kept dreaming of being back in the village…” and with that we both left.

“See you next Friday…” he said and quickly disappeared. Part 12 – Who are the Grkomani?

The next time we met Stefche said, “I started reading one of your books… the book about Oshchima… I found it very informative and I think I can learn a lot from it… However you said nothing there about the Grkomani… positive or negative… I need to know more about them… about my family. What can you tell me about that…?”

“I hate to burden you with another book but what I know I’ve already written. To be honest, the Grkomani for me were on the other side of the fence and I don’t know much about them. For more information you should read my book: ‘Dismantling the Greek Myth A Collection of Essays’ which can be found at this link: http://www.pollitecon.com/Assets/Ebooks/Dismantling-the-Greek-Myth.pdf.

This is what I wrote about the Grkomani in one of the chapters. Let me read it for you:

‘Plainly put, in this context, a ‘Grkoman’ is a Hellenized Macedonian. But in the eyes of the genuine Macedonian people, a “Grkoman” is simply a traitor. The “Grkomani” are a product of Greece’s forced assimilation policy designed to Hellenize Macedonia and the Macedonian people.

To truly understand the ‘Grkoman’ or ‘Bulgaroman’ phenomenon one has to imagine an ‘occupied’ people in a world where the conditions for survival are ‘created’ by the ‘occupier’. In order to maintain control of the occupied, the occupier needs to know when and where to act and for that he needs reliable information. This information must come from the inside and must be accurate. So, to gain such information the occupier needs to enlist the services of insiders in the occupied world. Unfortunately, the only insiders who are willing to provide such information are those who are either disgruntled individuals or individuals that can be bought in exchange for something they desire such as sums of money, social status, free education, a better job, power over others, etc. However, to prove his or her loyalty the insider or collaborator is expected to commit some act, usually a criminal act, against his own people. This way the occupier will be assured of the collaborator’s loyalty. So how will a collaborator react to a situation where the occupier is threatened? In such a situation the collaborator will fight for the occupier in order to maintain the status quo. I am not implying that all ‘Grkomani’ are collaborators but I do question their actions. If these people have committed no harm to the Macedonian people then what are their motives for siding with the occupiers? So my hope here is that many of these ‘Grkomani’ are ignorant of their real identity or are taking advantage of the situation for some small personal gain. Thus, no harm done and there is hope for them yet. But for those who have done serious harm, good luck to them! Some day we will see them at the Hague. To be loyal to family and friends is fine but it should not stop people from thinking for themselves and finding out who they really are.

I have been told that loyalty to family comes first and I can’t say that I disagree with that. If your parents or grandparents saw themselves as other than Macedonians, for which I am sure they had a reason that does not change the fact that they have a Macedonian ancestry which, when the time comes, will be recognized as such. So where does that leave you? You can argue with me that, that will never happen just as many in the past have argued that Macedonia will never be free of the Romans, Byzantines, or Ottomans or you can reconsider where you stand and make the right choice.

The Republic of Macedonia’s independence has created a problem for Greece. Greece took the 19th century road but somewhere down the line forgot to take a turn when the whole world was turning. Yugoslavia was whole at one time populated by ‘South Slavs’. In fact Yugoslavia was touted as the Switzerland of the Balkans. But where is Yugoslavia today? Who would have thought Yugoslavia, the Switzerland of the Balkans, would disintegrate to its elemental level? Who would have thought that Yugoslavia was populated by other than ‘South Slavs’? Believe me; Greece is not far behind. Its belligerent behaviour towards its minorities, especially the Macedonians, will not serve it well! So if I may summarize, I see the ‘Grkomani’ falling into three categories; 1. Those who are truly ignorant of their own ethnicity. The ones who learned to speak Macedonian from their predecessors and think it’s a ‘Greek dialect’. They call themselves Greek because all their lives they have been told they are Greek.

2. Those who know they are not Greek but pretend to be Greek because there are advantages to ‘being Greek’ or because they are afraid of being harmed if it is discovered that they are not Greek.

3. The ones who in the past, in the name of Greece, have committed crimes against their own people and need the Greeks to protect them from prosecution. These types will do anything to keep themselves safe, even help the Greek cause against the Macedonians in order to maintain the status quo.

If the man who called me on the telephone falls into the first two categories I would be more than glad to help him and I am sure I speak for every Macedonian when I say ‘welcome back’. But if the man falls into the third category I want no part of him and I will not hesitate to expose him and the crimes he has committed. It is people of the third kind who helped the Greeks make the dreaded ‘black lists’ and sent so many innocent Macedonians to their death and to the Greek concentration camps.

It is people of this kind that made so many Macedonians permanent refugees. It is these ‘sold out’ Macedonians that today are so vocal and against the Macedonians gaining their human rights. Another thing that this man mentioned, which sounded peculiar, was the number of Macedonians living in Ontario.

‘Did you know,’ he asked ‘that 600,000 Macedonians live in Toronto, or, well, I mean in Ontario and roughly 3,000,000 in Greece?’ I did not know that! I didn’t bother to ask where he got his figures, but then I remembered a friend from Australia sent me the following article, part of which I would like to share with you. ‘Some Greek community leaders say there are 700,000 Greeks in Australia, implying that one in 25 Australians is Greek by some way or another, but are they? Another interesting perception is that outside Greece Melbourne is the second largest Greek speaking city in the world, but here again is it? Not by birthplace, or even by parental birthplace. The 2006 census recorded only 109,989. The 1991 census recorded 136,331.

Not by Language. The 2006 census recorded 252,216. The 1991 census recorded 274,974 Australians who said that they spoke Greek at home.

Not by Ancestry. The 2006 census recorded 365,145. The 1986 census, when this question was first asked, recorded 311,942.

If there are indeed 700,000 Greek Australians then that suggests that most Greek Australians were not born in Greece, do not have Greek born parents, do not speak Greek at home and do not see themselves as people of Greek Ancestry.

According to various Greek Community sources however, which continuously convey information to the Australian authorities, there are still 700,000 Greeks in Australia.

According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics the real figure for the Greek Australian population lies in the 365,000 range. Information relating to the three census questions all point to this figure. Another misconception portrayed in the Australian Greek media is that Melbourne is the third largest Greek City outside of Greece.

But is it?

In Canada the Greek media portrays Toronto as the third largest Greek City in the world. In the USA the Greek media portrays New York as the third largest Greek City in the world.

The Australian Bureau of Statistic has shown that Victoria has a population of 5.3 million of which 3.9 million live in Melbourne and 128,164 Melbournians are of Greek ancestry.

Despite the census being conducted by government bodies, the Greek media has still managed to convince various authorities in Australia, Canada and the USA that the third largest Greek city in the world is situated in Melbourne, Toronto and New York respectively! How can that be?’ (Zoran C.) We know very well that ‘Greek’ as an ethnic entity does not exist but to maintain the impression that it does, Greeks will resort to anything and everything possible from claiming that people of the Christian Orthodox religion are in reality Greeks to anyone who has a ‘Greek sounding name’ is Greek.

Just pick up a Greek community telephone book in Toronto and you will find Macedonians, Spaniards and even Latvians represented as Greeks. As long as it sounds Greek, it must be Greek! But then if you think about it, it all makes sense. If Slavs, Macedonians, Albanians, Christian Turks and Vlachs can be ‘instant modern Greeks’ then why not other people with ‘Greek sounding’ names? After all ‘Greek sounding’ is almost Greek; isn’t it?

How more fake is a Greek-sounding name of a Latvian than a ‘Hellenized’ Greek sounding name of a Macedonian? I would say they are about equal! ‘Hellenizing’ other ethnic groups, to most Greeks, is equivalent to subjecting them to a ‘civilizing’ process!

And what is wrong with that?

There is nothing wrong with it except ‘fake Greeks’ have no heritage and cannot be the descendents of the so-called ancient Greeks. Unfortunately being upright and honest has never been a Greek forte so to cover up their artificiality they resort to not only changing people’s name but erasing timeless place names and replacing them with alien ones to suit their purposes.

But how were the names changed?

One method was by the direct replacement of the existing names by their ancient predecessors. The usual source was Pausanias’ description of Greece, written in the second century AD. When the names stemmed from (ancient) Greek toponyms but had been adopted to the local dialect (i.e. they had been ‘altered’), they should be reformed in accordance with the phonetic and morphological rules of Katharevousa. (Marousi, derived from the ancient Amarynthos became amarousion). Sometimes toponyms were replaced by names that really existed; other times they were changed randomly and hastily. When non-Greek toponyms were adopted, this was done in a total arbitrary fashion, sometimes on the basis of misunderstood morphology (for example, a wooded village might be called ‘tree-less’ (adendron). In other cases, the result was the unsuccessful translation of the non-Greek name. Names that had acquired a commemorative value, particularly since the Revolution of 1821, were often replaced by obscure, antiquated denominations (Tripoly in place of Tripolitza, Aigion in place of Vostitsa, Kalamai in place of Kalamata, Amphissa in place of Salona, Lamia in place of Zitouni, Agrinion in place of Vachori). Even national heroes had to change their names. For example, Rigas Valestinlis had to change to Rigas Pheraios because his village of Valestino was near the site of ancient Pherai. Still, despite apparent chaos, frequently comic results, and general incoherence, the process followed an internal logic: the creation of a ‘Hellenized’ toponymic environment.

Who decided to change the toponyms?

It might have been expected that this would have been done at the initiative of the state: An instruction came from above, from the center to the region. But it did not happen exactly this way. The government used to appoint commissions composed of university professors of history, linguistics, folklore, and archeology. The 1920 commission, set up after the acquisition by Greece of Macedonia, Thrace and Epirus, was constituted by the same persons who had created the ‘scientific’ study of the Greek nation – that is, the creators of the country’s history, archives, and the Museum of National History (Spyridon Lambros), of its folklore (Nikolaos Politis), and of its linguistics (Georgios Tajiadakis).’ (‘Hellenism Culture, Identity, and Ethnicity from Antiquity to Modernity’, edited by Katerina Zacharia, pages 232 and 233)

I hope this gave you an idea of who the Grkmani are, at least how Macedonians see them. I have no idea how Grkomani see themselves.”

“I don’t know how they see themselves either since they don’t want to talk about it. All I can tell you is that I’m not a Grkoman since I don’t fit in any of the categories you described of what a Grkoman is. I see myself as a lost soul… Someone who was left completely ignorant of reality… I have to blame my parents for that…” “I too have to blame my parents… I was a happy Greek child when I was very young but they had to spoil it for me… telling me that I was a miserable Macedonian which made my life a living hell… I’m joking, of course, because I prefer to know the truth than live a lie. Your parents must have known they weren’t Greek because of what the Greeks call that small anomaly; they spoke another language, a Slavic language, the language of their worst enemies. Imagine how they must feel?”

“But why do they persist in pretending to be Greek?”

“Well, if you put it that way… there are two kinds of Greeks; the ones who pretend to be Greek and all the others who are completely ignorant of their real identities… I feel sorry for them both.”

“Why feel sorry for them? They have made your life… and mine too, a living hell?”

“Because they too are victims. They are victims of the Great Powers. The Great Powers and their trickery have shaped them this way. They made them behave this way. They made them hate us… The Great Powers created the mess we are in when they divided the Balkans into divergent and polarized identities using the same people as the raw material.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, as you know, the people in the Balkan region from the Mediterranean Sea in the south to the Danube River in the north and from the Adriatic Sea in the west to the Black Sea in the east lived without borders for over two thousand years, since Philip II expanded Macedonia to cover that region. Since then, this entire region was known as Macedonia until the 18th century. It was a multiethnic, multicultural world but without borders. It was predominantly populated by Slavic people whose language and culture somewhat diverged over the years, but nonetheless, all those people lived without borders. More diversity was added as the region was invaded by other groups such as the Romans, the Ottomans, the Vlachs, the Albanians, etc. But then came the European Great Powers in the 19th and 20th centuries and not only carved up the region into small countries but gave each a unique identity. This is how modern Greece was created from the Slavs, the Macedonians, the Albanians, the Vlachs, the Turks, the Latins, etc., who lived on those lands. These people were used as raw material to create the Greeks.”

“And, based on what you told me earlier, the Greeks are now creating more Greeks out of everyone whose name sounds Greek. And they are doing this all around the world…”

“I actually said the USA, Canada and Australia…”

“Yes I know but why stop there…?”

“And it’s not just people…”

“How do you mean…?”

“Well, we now have Greek coffee… Greek yogurt… and even Greek gods… At some point some Greeks were claiming that even Jesus was a Greek.”

“Yes, you’re right… How humiliating…”

“Yes but very lucrative too… I don’t mean their claims about Jesus but about the products they claim to be Greek. And as for the ‘Greek gods…’ the English are to blame for that… They are the ones who invented the idea that they were ‘Greek gods” instead of Balkan gods and continue to promote them as Greek at every opportunity…”

“If anything they should be Macedonian gods because they live at the top of Mount Olympus, which is located in Macedonia right?”

“Right, but we don’t want to be like the Greeks and rob the Balkan people of their heritage…”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to say any more about that but if you want to learn more about these so-called ‘Greek gods’ you should read my translation of the book: ‘Prehistory - Central Balkans Cradle of Aegean culture’ which can be found in this link: http://www.pollitecon.com/Assets/Ebooks/Prehistory-Central-Balkans-Cradle-of-Aegean-Culture.pdf.”

“Thank you again for everything. I think now is a good time to stop and go home. It’s getting late. See you next Friday…” and with that we both left. Part 13 – Problem solved

The next Friday I walked into the restaurant and Stefche, sitting in the usual place, was beaming with a wide smile. “I’m buying dinner tonight…”

“What’s the occasion and what are you smiling about…? Did you win the lottery?”

“Better! I’m moving to Australia…”

“What?”

“Yes, you heard me right! I’m taking my family and moving to my aunt in Australia. I called to ask her some questions, like you suggested, and one thing led to another. I ended up telling her everything. I thought she would be furious with me but she said she’d never been happier. I had no idea she identified as a Macedonian… and her husband too. He’s also from the Greek part of Macedonia and knows a lot about our history… Oh boy, you can’t believe how happy that made me feel…”

“You can’t just drop everything here and go to Australia just because it makes you feel good? What about your family, your wife and children…?

“My wife is all for it, she could use a fresh start in life. My children are teenagers…”

“You said you were in your late fifties, how can your children be teenagers?”

“Well, actually I’m sixty years old now, I was born in 1963 and we left the village for Canada in 1965. I didn’t get married until I was forty-two. I married a younger woman and my children are fifteen and thirteen.”

“You old dog… Good for you. But how do you manage teenagers at your age…” “Actually I don’t. My wife is parenting them most of the time. I just work and make the money… Speaking of which, my aunt who is now in her eighties offered me a management position in her company and I’ll finally be working regular hours sitting at a desk. She also has a job for my wife and a place for us to live.”

“What about your parents…? They must be in their eighties too. Who will look after them when you’re gone?”

“That job will be relegated to my sister. I looked after them all these years… It’s about time she did something…”

“Does she know that you’re going?”

“Yes… She sympathizes with me… She says I had a hard life here and deserve a break…”

“What about your friends? What do they say?”

“Sorry to say, I have coworkers but not many friends. I haven’t told anybody yet.”

“I’m your friend and I will miss you. I agree with your decision… you have to do what’s best for you and your family.”

“Yes I have to do that. There I can send my children to Macedonian school, if they want to go. It’s a private school. My aunt offered to pay. I might even enroll and learn a few Macedonian words myself…”

“It’s kind of late for you… But, if you want to learn some Macedonian words the way they were spoken in Oshchima I have a…”

“Not another book…?”

“Yes, another book. It’s a dictionary and it’s called: ‘English – Macedonian Dialectal Dictionary Based on the Lerin-Kostur Dialects As Spoken by Oshchimians’ which can be found at this link: http://www.pollitecon.com/Assets/Ebooks/English- Macedonian-Dialectical-Dictionary-based-on-the-Lerin-Kostur-Dialects.pdf.”

“Thank you. You never disappoint… I don’t know what to say… You have been a true friend.”

“You too... I wasn’t sure about you in the beginning but I’m sure now… When are you leaving?”

“As soon as possible… I live in an apartment and as soon as my lease expires we’re gone. I’m sending my things to Australia by cargo. We have very little in terms of material goods. We’ll be flying. I’m sad to say this but this will be the last time I see you.”

“Please make sure you write the moment you’re settled in Australia… and all the best.”

“I will…”

After that Stefche took me inside the restaurant and introduced me to his coworkers. He told everyone that I was his Macedonian friend but no one seemed to care. I’m sure everyone already knew we were Macedonian. They must have overheard our conversations enough times.

After we had finished our dinner for which Stefche paid, even though it was my turn to pay, we hugged each other and parted ways. I felt both happy and sad. Happy for him that he’d found what he was looking for in life and sad that I was losing a friend. I was sure I would miss him and the conversations we’d had.

If there was one thing I learned, it was that there was hope for us Macedonians… Hope that some day the Grkomani would find their way home… We would learn to respect one another and again live together as Macedonians, just like we did for many generations before… before we allowed strangers to come between us and divide us. Part 14 – Life in Australia

Some months later I received an e-mail from Stefche. He did as I asked and wrote me. I felt nervous opening it. This is what he wrote:

“My dear friend Risto,

Greetings from Australia.

First, I would like to thank you for opening up a new and wonderful world for me. I am very happy… My whole family is happy to be here, especially my aunt. I never did tell you, she has no children of her own so she adopted me as her Macedonian son. How weird is that? But I am happy to be her son.

We are well liked here, not just by my aunt and uncle but by the entire Macedonian community. My aunt took us to the Macedonian church and introduced us to all her friends there, as a Macedonian. They all like us. I had no idea what it would be like to be a Macedonian in the Macedonian community.

I found people here who know of you, just like in Canada… Young Macedonians too.

I love my new job. People look up to me. I have to wear a suit, which initially made me nervous, but I’m getting used to it. My wife who didn’t work in Canada also loves her job. Now she now has money of her own and she loves that.

My children love it here too. They met young Macedonian boys and girls at the Macedonian church. They were nice to them and love to hear them speak Canadian English, they thought it was cool. Imagine that? Now they want to be enrolled in the local church school so that they can learn Macedonian. That’s what they tell me but I know they like to be with their friends. I might also enroll them in some of the cultural programs.

I have a lot of free time here. I’m free during the weekends too, not like in Canada where I had to work practically every day, especially on weekends. I also want to tell you that I often get together with my uncle and his friends and we have discussions about the ‘old country’ and the wars and I seem to know more about that than they do. I thought you would like to hear that.

Many here want me to say ‘hello’ to you and are inviting you to come and visit Australia. So please take some time off your writing and come and see us.

Best regards, your friend Stefche.

P.S. I told my wife about our Friday meetings and she wants to thank you too. She says you changed my life and that I’m a happier person now.”