I HAVE RETURNED TO DIE IN MY OWN HOMELAND

I HAVE RETURNED TO DIE IN MY OWN HOMELAND

Voices were heard that Labro Linin, husband of the famous beauty Lina, had returned from America. He had no problem returning to his village Gabresh, nestled against Mount Malimadi. It was completely desolate... a wasteland. It as if he was the only resident in Koreshta. “When you travel alone, the road seems longer,” he thought to himself when he sat on the threshing floor, overgrown with grass, to have a good look at the wide valley, or “My beloved Koreshta”, as he used to call it.

That’s what he used to call it and grieved and pined for it. He sat there motionless, languishing for a long time and then, suddenly, as if he was the master of his own emotions, tears sprang up from the deep abyss of his soul and he began to lament. He remembered the young ladies returning from the water spring carrying colourful earthenware jugs and smiling and giggling as they passed by the bachelors. His thoughts then took him away, like a captive, far away to a different time. He forgot everything and, with a strong trembling voice, he began to sing:

“Lino mori Sevdalino, Lapka (iabolko) ke frlam po tebe mori chupo, Ti ke se svrtish da gledash, Ke ti go vidam litseto, Litseto belo, Lino mori tsrveno...” (Lina hey Sevdalina, an apple I will toss at you hey girl, you will turn to look, I will see your face, your beautiful face, hey Lina your rosy face…)

He got up and caught hold of the centre post. He looked toward the barn. The doors were wide open and gaping at him. He remembered the trampled straw under his feet but there was no smell of cow dung that coated the threshing field. The wooden pitch forks were all rotting. The threshing field was abandoned right in the middle of its use. The people left their jobs and their homes when the opposing army was coming...

That morning the sky above the Koreshta valley was colourful; blue with white clouds. Labro listened to the sounds of the river and to the songs of the birds. He then began to circle around the centre post… spinning around it, moving faster and faster. His awareness took him back, back to his youth, allowing him to peer through the

memories that had faded away, that were suppressed and that were beaten down by his suffering. But the man who passionately loves his father’s hearth needs to safeguard his memories in a secret hiding place, in the deepest recesses of his soul until he dies.

It seemed to him as if he had just seen Lina dressed in a bridal gown, riding a white horse. She wore a white wreath with long braided gilded silver threads, covered with a white translucent handkerchief. Her face was as white as snow and now Labro was losing sight of her through his sorrowful tears. Lina bowed before him like he was her husband and said her vows in our language (Macedonian). He stood before her, arms stretched out and Lina gracefully, as if floating on air, came into his embrace... he caressed her... and lost her as a passenger in the civil war, when she was cut down by an exploding grenade and lost both legs on Mount Malimadi. Lina was a great Macedonian fighter... asking for Labro while she was dying… refusing to surrender to death. She begged him to come but, there in that great love, Labro came too late, but it was not his fault.

He has now returned so that his bones can be together with hers. Labro knows that Lina is expecting him.

He stopped spinning, wiped the sweat from forehead and lay there like a wounded beast until sunset. When the shadow of the mountain began to cover him he felt like he was covered by a thick, black plaid woolen blanket. He sighed and said: “Eh, love is like a worm, it eats away at you every day, little by little, turning your life into crumbs... Love is a tyrant...”

He lay there thinking about how life was in that country when it was full of people, full of songs, full of richness and good health.

According to the elderly people from the village, Labro Linin was a nice modest boy, separated from politics and ignorance. He was interested only in his piece of land upon which he had grown up. He belonged to the Bochkarovski family which had old and deep roots here. Now he is an American and goes by the name Mr. Lem. He has come here to die on his piece of land, where he was born. He wanted to build a lighthouse. And that is what happened. He had

prepared his plans a long time ago explaining to the villagers what the structure would look like. They looked at him strangely. Some even told him that he was insane and that the only way he could save himself was if he jumped in the D’mbeni abyss. But when he started building the structure, even those who mocked him came and joined him. Mr. Lem, of course, paid double the going rate for their labour but most wanted to work for free...

The workers were all dressed in white robes and the exterior of the lighthouse was covered with white granite. “I want to turn my black suffering into white... Our roots are here, in this soil. They are deep and white. Capable of giving birth and sustaining life…” Labro Linin told the workers.

The foundation was dug deep. The walls were slowly and painstakingly being built, but only during the night, and the structure was taking a discernible shape. “We need to emerge from the darkness,” he explained. The unusual building was growing and passersby could not tell what it was going to be; a church, a museum, a monument, a hotel… Some even said it might be a space station. They kept guessing until the structure began to take the shape of a tall tower with three corners over the top of Mount Malimadi. The builders worked tirelessly. One day the workers announced that they could see Mount Pelister from the top of the structure. Mr. Lem wanted to see for himself. When he reached the top, in a loud voice, he cried out:

“People! Brothers! From the darkness here we can see our brothers over the border. Who now wants to see their fate?” he said then looked deep into the south and yelled out: “Now a person can see the devastation and the graves in this country.

Everything to him was depersonalized, wild...

“Who wants to tell their brothers, the world about this, let them climb up here!” he called out to those below who were waiting for him to descend.

“This here is our land! Look at it! It looks sad before our eyes. But it is the most beautiful land in the world. It is my native land! And I,

Labro, belong to it… Look at us… the kind of people we are! Like the ants we are all gathered together. We are with you, day and night, and now we are far from you… We care for you, we love you like a mother. Our land! Your people are scattered, chased away all over the world, but they cry for you.”

He climbed down the tower magnificently and proud. He then invited everyone who wanted to attend to do so. A little later ploughmen, reapers, shepherds, young and old began to arrive. Labro started the ceremony by climbing up the tower and lighting the eternal flame. That was all there was to the entire ceremony. People expected a speech but when he came down he wept with joy.

“Let it, let it people! Let the eternal flame burn over our Koreshta. Let there be one common light over all over our graves,” he announced.

Now all of Koreshta was illuminated with light. A nocturnal bird flew over Labro’s head. He followed its flight until it was lost against the light...

“Where is it hurrying to?” Labro was wondering and shaking his head. He was happy to see the bird fly, free from all restrictions. “Fly bird, fly! Tell the world about our celebration here today…” he yelled out loud.

All of Koreshta was lit, everyone in Koreshta danced, sang, dressed in folk dresses, which the people wore on special occasions.

There were voices amongst the people saying the Greco-philes, the son of the lame Kiratsa and Vane from the Durov family had left.

Someone saw them sneaking out of Beriki and running hard to get to Kostur to inform the government that the peace had been disturbed; many people have gone wild and have fallen into some kind of trance.

Right before dusk armed horofilakes (Greek policemen) arrived at the tower. They were looking for Mr. Lem, the American. The yellowish, pale horse-faced astonomos (Greek police chief) Mr.

Mitsotakis, was impatiently tapping his foot ordering the policemen to bring him Mr. Lem at any cost.

But when the policeman Parcalakis returned and said “I am pleased to announce that Mr. Lem has invited you to attend a dance at his place,” the Chief became even angrier. He jumped up to his feet and, with military steps, went closer to Mr. Lem.

“When will you scoundrels learn not to come back here?! You have long been written off in accordance with decree number 2536,” he sternly said to Mr. Lem and without pause yelled out: “Tell me!!”

Mr. Lem jumped up a little with the rhythm of the dance, turned towards the chief, looked him up and down and ignored his question. During the next jump he mockingly asked:

“What is your problem Sir?! You are welcome to join us… today is a celebration of my soul. I am paying for everything myself...” Mr. Lem then spoke to him in English and said: “Please, will you please join us. I am very happy that you came to my merriment... Sir, here sir, this is my hometown. I love everything about it, our dances, our language, our friends, our streets. For me, all these places are...”

Without letting him finish, the Chief interrupted Mr. Lem and said: “So, you are allegedly an American, eh? So go back and look for your hometown in America!”

“Sir, I feel great in America but America is not the first place I would have chosen to be. I chose America only because of my misfortune and, as much as I want to, it cannot be like my real homeland. This here is my homeland which I carry in my heart and soul, Sir!” he replied.

“You are a stranger to us!” said the Chief.

“Please Sir, don’t be like that… What do you think? This beauty here can so easily be erased from my memory...? “No! No! You don’t understand, Sir. The world today has a completely different understanding. You cannot take away something that is dearest to a man with violence. You, for example, why do you love your Crete?

To me that end of the world is alien. I would not even want to bother thinking...”

Again, without waiting for Mr. Lem to finish speaking, the Chief interrupted him and said: Mr. Lem! I don’t need to hear all that... I am asking you to say something in your defense.”

“What defense? I have not committed a crime. All I have done is return to my homeland, the place where I was born, so that I can die here. If I have committed some kind of crime by doing that then, please take me to the international court and take legal action against me,” replied Mr. Lem.

Chief Mitsotakis pulled out his sword and charged towards Mr. Lem yelling:

“Listen you! You don’t seem to recognize our authority here!”

“And you, Sir, you don’t recognize us in our own country, on the soil where we were born and lived for generations. So, what do you want from me? To recognize the destruction and desolation you left here?” retorted Mr. Lem.

After he calmed down a little, Mr. Lem said: “See this place here, this is Koreshta! This is where my roots begin and I came here to die! Right here! That’s all there is to it! I want my bones to be buried here and to remain here. If my bones remain here my family, one day, will want to do the same… This is exactly what my aims are, Sir. To rest in eternal peace in the country where I was born… This is how it is in our tradition… just like the eels…” explained Mr. Lem.

“I can’t allow you to do that! Because I am the authority here!” replied the Chief.

“You, Mr. Mitsotakis, may have more understanding of international law, but I am the owner of this threshing yard... As far as I know it is the same everywhere in the world, even in your Crete, right? And you, sir, you have no right to assault my guests on this piece of land. I have cultivated this soil. My father and grandfather cultivated this

soil before me. This is the soil where by grandfather is buried; a celebrated hero of Ilinden, brought down by bullets from your gendarmes. In 1921 my father was a soldier and left his bones in Asia Minor fighting Turkey for your Greater Greece! In 1939 my brothers put on Greek uniforms and fought the Italians on the Albanian front in defense of your Greater Greece; they never came back! Oh, my dear sir! After that you chased me away. That is why today I am celebrating the day of my soul. Every day you threaten and abuse people and you loudly proclaim that you are civilized? Do you hear me, eh? I married my Lina here. My children were born here… and you expelled them to the Eastern European Countries. See that road there, leading to the cemetery? My friends carried my beloved Lina in a white coffin along that road. You can see why I am so happy. Today I saw my entire country from that lighthouse... Do you hear me man, Mr. Police Chief? Here, have a drink… for the soul! Leave the politics alone...” said Mr. Lem.

But before Mr. Lem was done talking, the Chief jumped in and loudly yelled: “Don’t talk to me like that, Mr. Lem. You will be forced to...”

Mr. Lem got upset and yelled back: “Don’t you call me Mr. Lem! My name is Labro Bochkarovski! I am the son of Tsilo and Vesa Bochkarovski! Grandson of Ilinden fighter and leader Krsto Bochkarovski! I was born right there, in the corner of these ruins! I was forcibly evicted from my ancestral home! I am not a refugee and ashamed of coming back… I have been exiled by force…!”

The Chief again interrupted him and said: “Your documents, Mr. Lem. And I forbid you to speak that Slavophone language. For us you don’t exist.”

“I don’t have documents. I buried them in the foundations of the tower. I came here to die… on my land...” replied Labro.

“That can’t be! We need to extract you from our Ellada (Greece) alive. Remember, you are an American Mr. Lem,” said the chief.

“My dear sir, I worked all my life to build this lighthouse. It gives me great pleasure to die on his piece of land. It is my human right where I lay my life...” replied Labro.

“You still think this thing is a lighthouse?” asked the chief.

“Yes sir, I do! The hardest thing for me was to cross myself in foreign and alien lighthouses. Don’t forget! We too have heroic figures. Do you want me to count them? I have already picked out a place for all of them here. What do you think; they did very little for their people? They believed in the people...! We have saints too, sir, born of our people… and what wrong did I do by paying tribute to them before I die… it is our human duty and tradition. The winds did not bring me here you know… my heart did...” replied Labro.

“You mean you were involved in the revolution? Then you know what awaits you Mr. Lem?” said the chief.

The two men stood there facing each other face to face.

“Sir, our people say it is better to be killed than die of fear. This is my land and a grave for me is the safest place against my destiny...” replied Labro.

“So, that’s the way it’s going to he, eh old man?!” said the chief.

Behind them stood the Greko-phils Vane from the Durov family and the son of the lame Kiratsa, rubbing their hands.

“Shoot him, Mr. Chief! Shoot him because he bamboozled the villagers into building him this scenic white house!” said one of the Greko-phils.

And so unfolded the history of Labro Linin, a troubled man, full of thirst for righteousness, along with all the suffering of his ancestors; which seemed to be culminating in him. In a dignified outburst of pride, wearing a white robe, Labro raised his shaky hands skyward and set himself on fire.

He was standing while burning, refusing to fall down. This is how he surrendered his life to the land and the country he loved.