On the Road of Time – Chapter 3

On the Road of Time – Chapter 3

Kostur, compared to ten years ago, has become unrecognizable. The old, timeless market by the lakeshore has been turned into a city park. The only thing that has not changed is the fish market. The stores selling fish have remained as they were a long time ago. They were and still are operated by the fishermen from the village Mavrovo. The city stadium is gone and in its place is a new, recently built square. Part of the square substitutes as a market a couple of times a week. The place is clean and neat and a city government building has been added to it. Thanks to the European Union no doubt. The winding road along the coast has been widened, paved and crammed with café’s, taverns, restaurants and small shops. There are seventy Orthodox churches in the city, most of which are older that five hundred years and built Byzantine style. This makes the city an exquisite tourist attraction. At the end there is a small square and in front of it, standing high up on a monument, is a statue of Bishop Karavangelis. Painted on the chest of the statue in black paint is the word “executioner”. Beside Karavangelis’s statue is a headless statue of General Van Fleet, the Unites States general who commanded the Greek government generals during the Greek Civil War. But that’s not all; there are also other surprises and skeletons in Kostur. We ordered coffee at the café (built of wood and decorated with many items made of plastic) next to the lake. “Two Turkish coffees please,” I said to the waiter. “If you want Turkish coffee, go to Turkey,” he replied angrily; a pale looking young man possibly suffering from insomnia. “We only serve Greek coffee here,” he added strongly as he swatted a fly on the table with a towel. After we drank our “Greek” coffee and the free water offered at this café, we left and went to the City Centre. There were many stores side by side at the Kostur Centre, exhibiting mostly fur in their display windows. The fur trade was the oldest trade in the region and only the people of Kostur had the right to practice it by decree from the Sultan. But in the last thirty years or so the fur trade was taken over by the surrounding villages and towns, mostly by Russians. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russians with big money (only they know where they got it) came to Kostur and the surrounding region and built shops and on them they hung billboards with the inscription “SHUBЫ” (sheaths, furs) and since then the famous and renowned Kostur fur traders have become Russian employees and wage earners. Out of curiosity we entered one of the stores. We looked at the fur coats and admired them without touching but were surprised and astonished at their very high prices. The talkative clerk, a middle-aged man, followed us around explaining and praising the merchandise in an attempt to make a sale and when we stepped further away from the door, in an almost whispering voice, he asked in Macedonian: “Are you from Serbia?” “No,” I said. “Serbia is further up, to the north of where we come from.” “Oh…” he said. “And you?” I asked “I am from here, from Macedonia… Greece is further south…” he said quietly and with his hand pointed to the south. When we exited the store he asked: “From which city are you…” “We live in a city but we were born in a village here,” I replied. “Which one?” he asked. I said, “Polianemon.” “I know it,” he boasted. “Its old name is Krchishta. Am I right?” “Yes you are right. And that’s where we are going,” I replied. “What will you be doing there? There is nothing there except wind after which the village got its new name!” he yelled out loud, stunned. “Nothing, believe me, there is nothing…” “That’s okay Sir, then we will see nothing…” I answered. “Χρηστε και Παναγια!...” (Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary) he said in Greek and crossed himself.

The once terrible, potholed and narrow road leading from Dolno Papratsko to Krchishta has now been widened and paved with asphalt. The road ended where the threshing fields once used to be. On our way we made a stop at a place called Vishomo. Close to there, where the land rises and widens, is a church and all around the church there is nothing, only emptiness. The village Krchishta used to occupy that emptiness. As I stared at the desolate space where my village used to be, I was overwhelmed with a certain sickness and chills ran down my spine. The village was here but now it’s gone, only its name remains, a name given to it a long time ago, a name that means the “crackle” of chestnuts. I remember the old people saying that the name Krchishta was given to the village a very long time ago. As I recall, a story was told that went something like this: During the Ottoman War against the Poles, which took place in 1689, a Beg (Ottoman officer) distinguished himself as a good fighter during the attack and capture of the city Hochim, so the Sultan rewarded him by giving him five villages and their residents, houses and land. So this Beg, in order to enlarge his fields, ordered the villagers to destroy the chestnut groves and their homes and relocate to a sandy, barren and less productive place. There he ordered them to build new houses for themselves, a house for himself and a mosque. The villagers did as ordered and, in respect of God, would not destroy the village churches. So the only buildings left standing, as markers of where the villages once used to be, were the five churches: Sveta Petka, Sveti Atanas, Sveti Giorgi, Sveti Jovan and Sveti Ilia. These church buildings survived the test of time, rebellions and wars. There was a grove of tall oak trees to the left of the road from where we were standing. “There,” I said to my wife pointing at the oak trees, “is where the village Dolno Vishomo used to be and under the oaks was the church, Sveta Petka. We walked across the road to the oak grove and stood under its magnificent shade. Unfortunately there was nothing left of the old church, not even its foundation. The only things we found were a couple of rocks, some broken ceramic tiles, remnants of the old church and part of a burned candle stuck in the ground amongst the tiles. It was quiet in the grove except for the sounds made by the rustling leaves of the oak trees in a gentle breeze. A flock of ravens flew over us and disappeared beyond the forest. The sight gave me pain and chills. With a heavy breath we crossed ourselves and silently walked away and headed for my village. The wide road ended where the village threshing yards used to be. To the left there was a wide metal door and behind it was a wide yard divided by a fence, behind which calves were mooing. There were many calves. On the opposite side was a house. A dog, tied to a post, was barking. A young man came out of the house. He greeted us in Greek and asked, “Are you looking for someone?” “Yes…” I said, with tearing eyes as I looked over the entire yard… “For who?” he asked. I got a lump in my throat, my knees got weak and my chin began to tremble. “My name is Lefteris. Please come in,” he said inviting us inside the small house. “First we will walk over to the elms,” I said, “and then we will return…” We left the car outside the farm (for fattening calves) and at a slow pace we walked on the street so that I could show my wife the village. After taking a few steps I closed my eyes to the emptiness, overgrown grass and weeds and in my imagination replaced them with the homes of the Nanovtsi, Damovtsi, Purdovtsi, Laskini, Popovtsi, Donovtsi, Liapovtsi, Pindzovtsi, Penovtsi, Shkoklovtsi, Trajkovci, Nakovtsi, Pandovtsi, Filiovtsi, Guliovtsi and other families. I imagined the fifty-four houses that existed here, in several rows, under whose roofs once lived over four hundred souls. I tried to imagine the feeling of the fifty or so other souls, who at the time were pechalbars (migrant workers) overseas, gone beyond the great waters, who never got a chance to return to see their homes and to visit with their families.

I spoke at great length, telling my wife about each house and the people who had lived in it, about the streets, about the time of the Greek Civil War during which forty-three people were mobilized from whom twenty-nine were killed. I told her about the fifty-four children that were taken to Eastern European countries and about the seven families who fled to Kostur and Rupishta and all the other families that were exiled and scattered around the world. “Well,” I said to her, “this emptiness was once a village and this void was once filled with life ...” “And here,” I said, “where we now stand was the house where I was born…” “Here,” I said, “was the large wooden door that was locked from the inside with a thick wooden lever. And there was the garden and behind it was the outdoor oven. Here is where the steps that led to the second floor used to be.” “Here,” I said, “is where my mother Fimka brought eight children into this world of whom three were given rifles, four were collected and sent to the Eastern European countries and one, the youngest, died in Albania. My brother, her third born son, left his soul in Gramos just before reaching his eighteenth birthday. So Fimka was left alone and, abroad where she lived, every night she dreamt the same dream - that some day soon all her children would again be together and have a meal at the same dinner table...” My thoughts had taken me back to a time gone by, but then, for a moment I returned to reality, to the emptiness which again reawakened more memories, seeming like they were tied together by a chain, flooding back, pushing, scratching, pounding, squeezing, burning and creating sorrow. To calm my spirit I kicked some soil with my foot and out came a broken ceramic tile and underneath it, in the ashes, was a broken stone. I picked it up and blew away the ashes with my warm breath and then placed it near my heart but I could not feel my heart beating, it felt as if it too had turned to stone.... I took my photo album out of my backpack; a photo-album to which I had been adding old photographs year after year and from the photographs life began to sprout. Who were those people in the old photographs? What had happened to them? Who went where and who returned from where? Where are they today and what happened to them in the past? Where! The images of the people in the photographs seem to float, to come alive, to reflect on the life which now appears to me only in spirit and in shadows. Through the photographs I was able to see the people with their joy, sorrow and pain of what once was. What once was, is now gone. The families are gone. The houses are gone. Everything is gone. Only the ghosts and the shadows of the ghosts remain... I look at the images in the photographs and imagine the people leaving, taking the road to banishment. To what country did they go? To what unknown latitudes of the world did time take them? When did they leave? Under what circumstances did they leave? Did they travel one behind the other? Did they leave quickly, en masse? Time… What is time and what are people in time? Time kills. Time wounds. Time heals. Time forgets. Time leaves no footprints. Time destroys. Time is a killer. Is time a witness? Time passes. Time brings concerns. Time remembers. Time tells. Time verifies. Time accepts and rejects. It is said at this and this time. During the time of great upheaval. During the time of war. During the time of so and so plagues. We are here. At the empty, naked, scarred place. Time has passed, it has expired. And here, now, at this time, today, at this moment of time, we are in a moment of time. We are at the time divided between now and yesterday. Time… Whose and what kind of time?... We are here in time past, time without people and without homes; we are here in time present without life, only empty fields and flocks of crows. Time. Whose time? What kind of time? Time for what? Time measured with what? Time marked with what and how? Time lost. Time brings.

Time brings what? Time of happiness. Time of hunger. Time of fear. For victims, lies and curses. Time for cursing, lies and betrayals. Time for cursing and waiting. Time compressed between times. What kind? Time for remembering. Remembering what? Time for existence, time for endurance, time for safeguarding time. Here time was measured with time for digging foundations, for carving stones, for building walls, for laying roof tiles, for plowing and sowing, for living, for reaping crops, for celebrations, for holidays, for growing and aging, for happiness and sadness, for life… After that time came time for war. It was a time of bad times, a time of great promises and many lies. It was time to separate the children from their mothers, it was time for eradication. It was a time of silence of the church bells. It was a time without faith in God. Where did time stop? Now there is only time for recollection of time past so that time past is not forgotten. Here now there is only now. Will it last only that much, as long as we remain bowed over the burned out places and foundation remains of our homes? Time remains in us forever preserved and baked in our memory. Time over which the fog and dust of forgetfulness whirls and glides. It is time for the fog to lift. It is time for the dust that rests in time to be blown off. It is time for ripening. It is time to change time. In the middle of the emptiness, a remnant of the bad times, the only building preserved was the Church of Sveta Bogoroditsa (Holy Virgin), which survived the Greek Civil War with only its roof, bell tower and altar demolished. The church was built in 1875 about which my grandfather spoke: “Then, in Ottoman times, when our village was a chiflik (feudal estate), priests from Bulgaria and from Greece began to arrive. To us, the Christians from time immemorial, some said that we were Bulgarians and others told us that we were Greeks. We did understand some Bulgarian, but Greek not a single word. Both groups promised us many things, they even promised to liberate us from the Ottomans if we agreed to attend their sermons given in the Bulgarian or Greek language. So the moment they mentioned “liberation”, the village was divided in two. Some wanted to be liberated by the Bulgarians and others by the Greeks. Half the village was received by the Bulgarian priest and the other half by the Greek. The families that were accepted by the Bulgarian priest, to the others, became known as “Bugaromani” and those accepted by the Greek priest, to the others, became known as “Grkomani”. Kostur, very early had fallen under the auspices of the Greek bishop, what was his name? Oh, I remember it was Karavangelis, right? No, no, at that time it was not him. I guess. Now who was it? He had comings and goings with the Ottoman authorities, and our Beg was a close relative of the Kaimakam that’s why he did not allow the “Bugaromani” to build a church in the middle of the village. They were kicked out of the village and were told they could go and pray in the old church of Sveti Atanas outside of the village. Their justification for not allowing the church to be built; Russia was about to declare war on the Ottomans, apparently to liberate Bulgaria… Then a man was sent, carrying the symbol of the bishop from Kostur, asking the village to send someone so the bishop could speak with him. Such a man was sent and after offering him coffee and a lokum (Turkish delight) the Bishop got right down to business: “You are saying that there should be a church built in the village centre, but not higher than the Mosque?” “That is exactly right Father Bishop!” the man answered. “And that’s the way it’s going to be, my son,” said the bishop, “that’s the way it’s going to be! Here kiss the cross and cross yourself…” replied the bishop, leaning over and taking a sip of coffee and leaning towards the man asked: “Money? I say money because you need money to build a church and not just wishes and prayers. Do you have money or are you expecting the Bulgarians to give it to you?”

“The Beg, Father Bishop, does not want the Bulgarians in the village – in the Chiflik…” replied the man. “And that’s the way it is, it’s God’s will. Let Him be the glory of heaven. And money, my child, you are telling me you have no money? But if you turn our way, perhaps money could be found. That’s the way it is. Turn our way and maybe with God’s help money could be found in my treasury…” said the bishop. “And in what language will liturgy be conducted?” asked the man. “Well my child, in the language of who provides the money,” answered the bishop. “We will think about it Father Bishop. It is not that easy. I am saying that the “word” and the “voice” are important things, Father Bishop. Our grandfathers left us a sign that in older times liturgy was conducted in the Slavonic language, the language of Kiril and Metodi, that is the way it has always been…” said the man. “Well, if that’s the way it is my child then go beg the Bulgarians. They swear by Kiril and Metodi… Now go and think about it with your fellow villagers and come back in a few days…” replied the bishop.” The Beg was in close contact with his people who were in collusion with the bishop and found out about the conversation. Then one day the Beg called my grandfather to his estate and told him the following: “Be careful, both the Bulgarians and Greeks want your souls and not your faith. They give money to buy souls. We Turks are what we are. My great great great grandfather came here nearly three hundred years ago. He did not and neither did any of my later ancestors attempt to change your religion against your will. You have remained “kauri” (Christians) but you have not raised your hand against the empire. The Greeks and Bulgarians have raised their hand against the empire and what did they gain? They gained mutual hatred and foreign kings. Russia wanted to help them but the Port in Tsari Grad (Constantinople) sent its own people to the European kingdoms and there the Europeans whispered in their ears about “the meaning of Russia”. Those Europeans evaluated the situation from every angle and after measuring the benefits, they sent the Bulgarians and Greeks German kings. May you live long and may the Supreme Being extend your years and safeguard your memory so that you can mention me for many years. The Greeks and Bulgarians and those Serbians further to the north, in time, will take your language and your souls. And if they don’t succeed in that, they will do everything in their power to diminish you so that even your shadows are not visible… You will disappear. Remember my words – bad people will overpower you and the time will come when you plead with us Turks to be your friends. I am an educated man and I am giving you the benefit of my wisdom. I can see far and wide. I spent many years at school in Paris and now my sons are being educated there. My sons have written to me that the European kingdoms are spreading information that the Sultan is sick. You understand? The Sultan is sick, meaning the Empire is sick. You understand? You are building a church, build one but be smart about it. But on whose advice will you build it? On the advice of the Exarchates or on the advice of the Patriarchates? All they want to do is to purchase your souls. But your souls are Macedonian. Stay with us, with the Ottomans. The Ottoman Empire will give you autonomy, if you can understand me, and after that, if you are smart, maybe you can create your own country. I am saying if you are smart because you will need to be smart to create a country. The time has come for the large, old empires to collapse and for new small and large countries to be born. Today everyone is working against our empire. The Ottoman Empire will be gone and you will be gone as well…” This is what the Beg told my grandfather who often used to say: “Since the Pope came into existence his view has always been to the east, because that’s where the world expands and prospers… The Western kingdoms think the same way…”

In October 1912, the Greek army entered Kostur when it found out that the city had been abandoned by the Ottoman army. It was about the same time that the Beg and my grandfather had another discussion sitting by the fireplace until early morning. In the meantime the women were packing suitcases and crates and loading them on wagons. Then, after shaking the ashes out of his tobacco pipe, Asan Beg said the following parting words to my grandfather: “The time has come for me to go. The vine which my great ancestor began, receiving this place for showing bravery against the Poles, ends here. I was born here, I grew up here, I was married here and I went to war from here for the glory of Allah and the Sultan. For three hundred years the Raya (Christians) have remained under the shadow of my ancestors and myself. And you have remained Christians for those three hundred years with your own language, faith and name… thirty years ago with my permission, but with Greek money, you built a church in the middle of the village. Since then you have been divided into Patriarchates and Exarchates. You have created a great divide between yourselves and you have done that with their help, with the help of those who pretend to be your friends. How many times have I told you – to be smart about it, to use your good judgment. Under my authority you have not been slaves with regards to your language, faith and souls. Under the authority of your new masters you will be a slave with both your soul and language, even if you become a collaborator and a spy for them. In this fake world, outside of God, nothing is permanent…” Asan Beg got on his white horse and before leaving he said the following to my grandfather: “Goodbye Christian, goodbye and remember not to be a slave anymore…” Asan Beg, riding his horse, took the lead of the ten loaded wagons and took to the road for Kapeshtitsa and from there to Bilishcha in Albania. After that we heard that he left for France where his sons were studying at the time. He left and after that he was never heard of again, as if he had drowned. The church bells were ringing in Kostur, the Grkomani got out their Greek flags and hung them in their windows and on balconies. Without firing a single bullet, the Greek army entered the city and celebrated its great victory. A few days later Greek officials, escorted by the gendarmes, arrived in the city. They carried great big ledgers and in them they entered Turkish and Macedonian names as Greek adding to the old ancestral names: “os”, “is”, “u”. So that Damovski became Damopoulos, Petrovski became Petridis, Filiovski became Filipou… Did Asan Beg predict all this? They say that the church Sveta Bogoroditsa has been renovated; it was not the same as I remembered it when I was a child. The wide enclosure of the porch in the yard, under which two sides had been lined with stones, was now gone. The belfry above the two wide halls where the faithful sat after service and where the women served food and drink from baskets for soul, health and prosperity was also gone. The church bell now hung from a beam in the ceiling. The icon of Christ with open arms hanging from the ceiling, protecting the parishioners was also gone. The throne was gone and so were the faithful, all gone… On the altar, tossed in the corner and laden with dust was the christening vessel and beside it were icons, neglected, left there for the worms to make a meal… I stood in front of the large icon of Sveta Bogoroditsa, lit a candle and crossed myself three times and while staring into her eyes, I whispered: “Bogoroditse you did not protect the living in the past but please do not forsake their souls…” Lefteris was waiting for us in front of the large metal door leading to the farm that fattens calves. With a warm smile on his face he invited us inside the house. His home was poorly built with clay bricks and covered with sheet metal. An old woman greeted us at the front door. She wore slippers and a wide colourful dress and had a kerchief on her head, tied at the back.

“This is my mother,” said Lefteris and after the introduction, led us to a room. There was a hand-woven carpet on the floor, but all around the room, looking stubby, were the clay walls. In the middle of the room was a sofra (low table) and at the sides were cushioned wall benches. There was a door to the left leading to the kitchen. The woman greeted us one more time, seeming like it was a tradition to greet and shake hands with guests twice and after her second “καλος ηλθατε” (welcome) she sat us down on the benches. She continued to speak to us in Greek but I could detect she did not speak Greek with the proper accent. It seemed like she detected my surprise and said: “We are Prosfigi (refugees [Asia Minor settlers])” and then began to lead us along the road which led her parents with two daughters and four sons, from Turkey to Revani, now called Dipotamia. She said and repeated that she was born eighty years ago and that she had lived in great poverty, but for the last ten years, since they came here and opened the farm for fattening calves they are doing better. Also they now have access to the majority of the fields here, which year after year, through state auctions, they have been able to acquire through bids. She says that the fields are not hers; they belong to those who had to leave because of the war, which she remembers well. She also thanked God for the soil being fertile and for the state purchasing their crops. She said they were not poor now as she pointed to the yard where two tractors, a combine, a passenger car and two trucks were parked. I got the impression that she saw my surprise and hastened to explain why they had not built a new house. She said that the land did not belong to them and then asked: “How can you build a house on land that does not belong to you?” The hostess suddenly interrupted our conversation, tapped her forehead with her palm and said: “I am sorry I got caught up in the conversation and forgot to be hospitable.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a dish full of lokumi (Turkish delight) and a tray of glasses full of water. “Welcome and help yourselves. And will you have some coffee?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied “And please make it Turkish…” “Turkish, of course,” she said, “but the coffee you are used to drinking is not real Turkish. I don’t know if you know or not, but if you don’t know I will tell you that real Turkish coffee is not boiled on an open fire or by flames and certainly not by an electric element. Real Turkish coffee is made when you allow the coffee to simmer slowly, to roast and develop a froth on top and the entire room is filled with its aroma, you then set it aside to rest from simmering and slowly pour it in a cup. This is real Turkish coffee, not the kind served in restaurants and cafés.” “A relative of ours once ordered coffee in town,” she said,” and when he saw that there was no froth on top he complained to the waiter. The waiter took the coffee back to the kitchen and spat in the cup several times. And when he returned he said here is your coffee thick with froth. This is the king of coffee they serve in restaurants, boiled coffee. Real Turkish coffee is slowly roasted and you slurp it slowly when you drink it, inhaling each sip and then exhaling out loud with a long sigh. You then rinse your mouth with water to remove the coffee from your teeth and swallow the water so that the coffee will rest well in your stomach. Real Turkish coffee is very hot and sweet like a kiss...” concluded our hostess, laughing aloud when she went to light the fire.

And while the coffee was roasting on top of the wood stove, I looked into Lefteris’s eyes and asked: “Lefteris, what happened to the stones of the walls and foundations of our houses?” There was silence. So I asked again: “Lefteris, where are the stones of the walls and foundations of our Sveta Petka, Sveti Atanas, Sveti Giorgi, Sveti Jovan and Sveti Ilia Churches?” Again there was silence. So I asked: “Lefteris, what happened to the tombstones and slabs that were in the village cemeteries?” Then after a long and deep silence, torn by a painful sigh, he said: “They took them away with military trucks...” “Who took them?” I asked. “They, who wanted to build new houses…” he replied. I did not ask who “they” were who took our stones to build new houses for themselves but I did ask myself this: “Who gave them permission to do that?” And my answer was: “They who did not want anything to remain here; to remind people that foundations and churches once existed here because if they existed then someone else might ask to whom did these churches and foundations belong? Who were these people, what happened to them and where did they go?” We drank our Turkish coffee in silence and after thanking our hosts we bid them farewell and then left the void that was once my village. With us we carried our memories of the warm sunshine and blue sky, the green forest and the swishing sound of the wind, the aroma of chembritsa (thyme), the narcotic taste of mature forest strawberries and the wish that here, under the open sky and in the shade of the almonds, I failed to fulfil a wish to fall asleep and to dream of my childhood memories and of my most secret desires and sorrows. The bitterness of wormwood, burned like mistletoe, stuck to my lips. The church bell rang in the village. Was it sending us a prayer or calling us to prayer? Dolno Papratsko. Two houses and, a little higher, a renovated church. The land looked like it was tilled and the stones crushed. At one spot it looked like someone had torn down the walls of a house looking for its foundation. With heavy hearts we stared at the desolation and remnants of this old village as we passed through and after a few minutes of driving around we took the road to Osheni, now called Inoi. Inoi was the name of the village from which the newcomers were expelled. I remember Osheni to be a very poor village with houses built of clay brick and roofs covered with dried stalks of rye. The newcomers, the Prosfigi then, knew how to cultivate tobacco, corn and pumpkins. They brought these skills with them from their old Inoi in Turkey. Everything else they needed they bought at the markets in Kostur and Rupishta where they mixed with the locals, the Macedonian population and learned to speak the Macedonian language and not Greek. The new Inoi, in the past known as Osheni, now looks like a small city. Two and three story houses were built with carved stones and white façade walls and equipped with hydro electric power and telephone lines. The village has a gas station, a café, a pharmacy, streets paved with asphalt, a kindergarten, an elementary and high school and many passenger cars, tractors and combines. There is not a piece of land that is not plowed and if it is not sown with tobacco, corn, or pumpkins then it is sown with wheat. Moving on to the next village… In the middle of the village Aia Kiriaki (Sveta Nedela in Macedonian) there is a water spout with three faucets that runs non-stop with pure spring water. Above the faucets is a marble slab with the writing: “Για να ποτιζοντε η ριζες της ποντιακης ιστοριας” (For watering the roots of Pontian history). There is not a person who would not ask themselves: “What are the roots connected to the shores of the Black Sea doing here?” This metaphoric message is a burning reminder and an untamed memory of the longing for the homeland left for their descendents by the first Prosfigi brought to this village by force, which they never accepted with their hearts. The new generations born and grown here are only present in body but not in soul, heart and thought.

Their souls, hearts and thoughts belong to their ancestral home, a far away place located on the shores of the Black Sea which official Greece calls “χαµενες πατρηδες” (lost homeland). Even though it is a lost homeland, the Prosfigi still keep it alive with their jealously guarded memories and traditions passed on from generation to generation. The spring flows non-stop as the inscription on the slab above is a constant reminder of a lost homeland. The Greeks call these people “prosvigi (refugees) a constant reminder that they are outsiders and not like the Greeks themselves, subjecting them to ridicule and daily abuse with derogatory and demeaning words and anecdotes. The Prosfigi on the other hand continue to speak the language of their ancestors, a language Greeks don’t understand, not only at home but also in public places, restaurants and cafés. Here in Sveta Nedela the old memories of the Prosfigi have not faded, they are kept alive with the Macedonian spring that constantly pours water...