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Old 12-07-2014, 01:09 AM   #1241
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Originally Posted by makedonche View Post
Spitfire

Is that the same constitution that doesn't allow the country more than it is capable of paying back? And the same one that says Greece will fulfill it's human rights obligations in accordance with International agreements?....there are many things forbidden by the Greek constitution, see how many more you can find that aren't being complied with and stop living in denial!
It's the constitution from 1974 that has those articles, the article 28 bonds Greece with the E.U. therefore any annexation is forbidden, and your country adopted such principles (as every country in the world has) with ammendments in 2002.
I can find many more articles about human rights in the greek constituion, your country did not have them specified, but in general in its constitution until 2002.

So it was your country that decided to modernize its costitution and to bring it to the standards the greek constitution already had since 1974, and not the other way around.

You are in denial my friend.

Last edited by spitfire; 12-07-2014 at 01:14 AM.
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Old 12-07-2014, 01:34 AM   #1242
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Spitfire

Quote:
It's the constitution from 1974 that has those articles, the article 28 bonds Greece with the E.U. therefore any annexation is forbidden, and your country adopted such principles (as every country in the world has) with ammendments in 2002.
Ahhhhh I see, so in line with article 28 Greece is bound to respect Human Rights in a accordance with EU standards? That being the case you may want to go and check how many of those have been broken, which then means the constitution has been concurrently broken, so if it's broken on human rights then why wouldn't it be broken on annexation?...or any other grounds for that matter!

Quote:
I can find many more articles about human rights in the greek constituion, your country did not have them specified, but in general in its constitution until 2002.
Ok so how many breaches of Human Rights can you find in the Republic of Macedonia, before or after 2002?

Quote:
So it was your country that decided to modernize its costitution and to bring it to the standards the greek constitution already had since 1974, and not the other way around.
Spare me! modernised it to the standards of the Greek Constitution! give me a fu#@in break, we would never lower ourselves to your standards, let alone your constitution...which was modified to swindle it's way into the EU!

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You are in denial my friend.
Those in denial need first to discover reality before attempting to advise others of being in denial!....or do you deny this as well!
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Old 12-07-2014, 01:43 AM   #1243
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Spitfire

Ahhhhh I see, so in line with article 28 Greece is bound to respect Human Rights in a accordance with EU standards? That being the case you may want to go and check how many of those have been broken, which then means the constitution has been concurrently broken, so if it's broken on human rights then why wouldn't it be broken on annexation?...or any other grounds for that matter!
No, article 28 among other articles bonds and forms the basis of the E.U. bond and in fact there are also other bonds with international organizations that don't permit any annexation. Greece is bonded in three ways to not perform any annexation. Your country did not until 2002.

There are other articles about human rights, which I would gladly translate them for you, but it would take much time to do as there are many and they are specified. Your country did not until 2002.

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Ok so how many breaches of Human Rights can you find in the Republic of Macedonia, before or after 2002?
What are you talking about? You did not have it in your constitution until 2002.

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Originally Posted by makedonche View Post
Spare me! modernised it to the standards of the Greek Constitution! give me a fu#@in break, we would never lower ourselves to your standards, let alone your constitution...which was modified to swindle it's way into the EU!
It absolutely did it. As it was about time to do it like every other country in the world.

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Those in denial need first to discover reality before attempting to advise others of being in denial!....or do you deny this as well!
Still more delusions... . Name one.
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Old 12-07-2014, 04:12 AM   #1244
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Don't give me CONSTITUTION BULLSHIT.Why did the greeks insist that macedonia should change the constitution to accommodate the greeks no irrendust claims.Soi what why did the greeks wak in and take macedonia inn 1913.They never occupied macedonia before .The only thing they had was a rare greek outposts.After the 1913 annexation and calling it the occupied territories.They said they weren't satisfied with their bit they WANTED more.That speaks VOLUMES.THey still think they are entitled to paeonian lands which is part of macedonia.Greek claims on macedonia are ridiculous.THey are aiming with the name a total monopoly on anything macedonian.Given the paranoia it is scared of little macedonia claiming their lands back.
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Old 05-09-2015, 02:45 AM   #1245
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A Century of Silence – Chapter 1 – Part 2

By Stoian Kochov

Translated and edited by Risto Stefov

rstefov@hotmail.com

May 6, 2015



Krsto looked at me for a moment with a sober look on his face and then looked away. He continued: “Later, after that beast was done with me, a young and handsome sergeant serving in this camp, but born of a good mother, came over to see me. He was shaken by my ordeal and took me into a small tent and left me there. Before leaving he said: ‘Try and calm down. The person who did this to you is the most miserable person among all of us here on the island. God will not forgive him for what he did to you. God will not forgive those who inflict pain. Never! Why this fate, why this pain. Dear Lord...’



After the young sergeant left I thought that it was my time to die. I will die now I thought. Then I remembered what my grandfather used to say: ‘The happiest person is the person who brings happiness to others and a person who has not suffered knows not how to forgive.’



I was bleeding and trembling with fear and concern. I felt like everything in life had faded away. I was overwhelmed by the sense that I would never understand my fate and why this and why I had to die this way. It was night. It was a dark dawn. There was neither light nor sound. All I could hear were the waves at the seashore splashing and coming closer and closer to my tent. There was not a word to be heard anywhere, only silence, as my ill-fated life hung in the balance in this open space among the rocks.



That night I had a terrible, painful, restless and sleepless night. It was also terribly lonely. Not a single word was spoken, to be heard, to relieve my loneliness. My fate was hanging in the balance but I had no idea how to live or how to surrender to death. A terrible thought came to mind: ‘Who will write my obituary? Will it be the truth…? And how would I know?’



I don’t know when I fell asleep or if I passed out from exhaustion but when I woke I was amazed to be still alive. Life was the strongest miracle in times such as these. But the moment I thought I had learned something was the moment I had to forget it because it led to more pain. I was trying to die but my life was eager to return and so I found myself caught in this endless and silent void. I tried to think about Kiratsa, remembering her long golden blond, braided hair and that’s when I noticed that dawn was breaking. I forgot my pain as I looked up at the beautiful reddish sky becoming brighter with every passing moment...



I closed my eyes because a disturbing thought began to creep into my mind. Why did this man do this to me? What is the limit of shame and sin that this man inflicted on me and what did I ever do to him or anyone else for that matter? Where did such rage come from? These thoughts sent a chill down my spine that surged all through my body, making me shiver, twitch, kick and feel awful. I am now a man whose life as been destroyed and whose future has been ruined.



I was very troubled and felt like I was going crazy... God, my God! What a disaster! My heart trembled and I had long, long thoughts about what to tell her; my beloved Kiratsa who was waiting for me… Waiting for me for many years so that we could expand our family...”



Old man Krsto stopped talking. Suddenly he looked very sad. He stooped his head forward. I noticed droplets of tears hitting the ground. He took a deep breath and resumed talking:



“I only had a short time left on my sentence and was due to be released in a few months. I had plans to resume my life in my native Kostur with my beloved Kiratsa and with my son Doncho. I was planning to have many more children...”



He stopped talking again, thought for a moment and then looked down at his own crotch. Then he looked at me but had nothing to say. I too stared at him without saying a word.



Then suddenly, breaking the silence, the old rebel Krsto Krapov began to speak and said: “A person who has not lived can never know or understand what life was like in the deserted island Anafi. It is very difficult for me to tell you what I had gone through on the island. Outside of my tortures, the summers were intolerable and the winters were horribly cold.



No person can ever forget that hell. There are moments of that part of my life that I simply don’t want to remember and other moments I just don’t want to speak about. My life was so insignificant that I barely thought about it, and yet my thoughts keep taking me there...”



The old rebel told me a lot about life in the camp. He also told me that since then no one wanted to get close to him. Nobody wanted to share their lives with him. Then, after he lost his beloved Kiratsa, he was all alone living in a void, in an atmosphere of silence. Life flowed all around him yet he was unable to establish contact with anyone. No one had the desire or was able to help him. Human contact was one of the most essential features in his life.



All the time I sat there motionless, like a statue, and I could not believe my own eyes and ears? After two and a half decades of being absent from my beautiful Kostur, I had finally met a person, willing to die for Kostur, who not only told me intimate parts of his personal life but played for me the most beautiful Macedonian songs on an instrument I had never seen before; an old instrument that my great ancestors used to play.



Even my thoughts and memories from my own youth began to flood back to me, thanks to this old man and to God for bringing us together. We sat there and talked until midnight and even had a few drinks.



The uncomfortable silence lasted a long time before the old man raised his head, looked at me with sad eyes and asked: “Do you remember the old days…?”



But before I had a chance to reply he began to talk again: “Oh, my good friend,” he said, “You came back to your roots, to your ancestral home, to your memories that hurt the most. You came home where you were born.



The people of Kostur here have closed hearts, obsessed with themselves and their families, skeptical about a bright future and hence immune to disturbing surprises. The war years 1940 – 1949, the Second World War and the Greek Civil War did not bring us together but rather separated us and sent us all over the world. Now I no longer believe in any “great truth” or in any “great people”. There is no longer a need to sell the idea of ‘brotherhood and unity’, but only to respect our differences. While we are living ‘afflicted’ we cannot call the Greeks our ‘brothers’.



Yes, Kostur, our birthplace, is a city which has left many human fates open…” he said and went silent again.



He slowly raised his head, like a person feeling like someone was watching them, looked around and then looked at me. I responded by slowly raising my eyes and then looking into his. I thought to myself: Oh, Jesus, the poor man what he has gone through!



He told me so many things that I did not expect to hear and by now his throat must have tightened because I could hardly hear what he was saying.



He must have realized that he never did answer my question when I asked him who he was so, after mumbling for a while, he piped up and said: “My name is Krsto Krapov and I was the youngest rebel leader during the Ilinden Uprising. My father was Done Krapov. When he died he was buried in an enemy grave. When my mother Vana Krapova heard the bad news her heart broke. I don’t know who buried her or where she was buried. No one wants to talk about those days.



We Macedonians in those days allowed the Greeks to come here but did not think about the problems they would bring us. Those problems seemed very distant then. But now that we are being persecuted and suffering, we are full of worries and feel sick and unsure of ourselves.



Now, every time I think about it, my hands begin to shake. Yes, I am a member of the revolutionary Krapov family. My great-great grandfather Grigor was a fisherman that specialized in catching large carp (krap in Macedonian) and sold his catch at the famous Kostur fish market; hence the name Krapov. The Ottoman too called him Krapov which in time became a respected name.



Now I am living alone. Completely alone! I am left without a family and that is my punishment... Why… I don’t know! I never wronged anyone, yet nobody wants to talk to me and I too don’t want to talk to anyone. I will not accept anything and I would not give anyone anything.



He spread his hands and fingers apart, placed them over his cheeks and began to pull down on his face, stretching his skin on his forehead and over his eyes. Watching him do that made me very sad and very happy to have met such a person, a man who was willing to frankly talk about his past with a complete stranger! I was indeed honoured!



But I do have one regret for which, to this day, I cannot forgive myself and that is about asking him the question: “Did you ever think of committing suicide at the worst times on the island?”



He replied with an abrupt military style answer: “No! Never! My love remained with me like an endless dream full of a rainbow of complex colours. She belonged only to me and we belong to our people, to the people of Kostur…”



I was dazzled by his answer as I began to interpret his words. Then I came back to reality. He was still silent. He was waiting for me to say something. He felt disappointed as I said nothing and that made me very sorry to this day... It was too much for me and I did not know what to say so I said: “The past brought us together!” He then placed his finger on his temple and said:



“Our Kostur, gifted by God to light the path of the Macedonian rebels... Kostur is a spiritual source of our ancient Macedonian and biblical past, a foundation built by our ancestors, and now it is someone else’s; we have allowed it to fall into foreign hands...” Very powerful words indeed!



I thought a lot about what the old rebel said and I am bothered to this day as to how we have allowed ourselves to be manipulated by outsiders and foreigners and have fallen so low?!



Strangers organized the spirit of our division and divided us into compromised (ELAS and Communists) and uncompromised Macedonians (Rebels, children of the Ilinden Uprising).



I am afraid we were all horribly in love with our slavery... fighting each other for foreign interests in the name of some foreign ideology that made no sense to us… Thinking about it now blows my mind… How could we have been so naďve and stupid?



The Kostur Region villages and Kostur itself looked like a burnt forest. We did this to ourselves when we brought the war home. This was when the Macedonians from ELAS and the Macedonian Communists were fleeing from the war and were looking to save themselves by joining Tito’s army, while fighting the rebels and children of the Ilinden Uprising in Kostur and the Kostur villages. Macedonian ELAS fighters and communists were dreaming of internationalism and foreign ideologies when they were attacking the Kostur rebels and labeling them “nationalists” and burning their homes.



Thinking about this reminded me of the story of the beasts and the fire: “When the great and powerful beasts were fleeing the terrible fire, only the tiny humming bird with a mouthful of water was flying towards the burning forest. The bigger and smarter beasts warned the little bird that what it was doing was crazy and impossible and its attempts were futile. To that the little bird replied: ‘I am doing this because it is the right thing to do. This is exactly what we all need to do’…” This is a lesson for the people of Kostur. This is exactly what they should have done… stay and fight to defend Kostur and save their homes and their future. The only ones that stayed and fought were the Kostur rebels. Yes, that is exactly what happened but there are some who do not want to admit that we could not have defended our homeland by leaving it.



After they (the Macedonian ELAS fighters and communists) left, many questions were opened for Macedonia’s history!? It was a time, as my grandfather used to say, when: “A wise man had more use of his enemies than a crazy man of his friends.”



The old man made a short throat noise as if wanting to say something. I looked at him and it looked like something was bothering him, something was on his mind. He finally spoke up and asked:



“Why do we think that people in the old days were happier and life was simpler? Why do we continue to reminisce of better times? Why do we look at old photos and feel sad? Why do we listen with admiration to stories of the deeds of our ancestors? Do you want to change something from our past!?



It was a time when the lives of Macedonians, especially the lives of the people of Kostur Region, were filled with anger and uncertainty. I left a beautiful wife and child, for whom I cared deeply in my heart, who I considered my greatest heritage and when I returned to my sacred home I found my life in ruins.



My grandfather used to say: ‘They separated and divided us and today we hear all sorts of foolishness that a wise person from Kostur needs to be silent in order to protect his hearth, and if he does do that then there will be eternal warmth for them’...”



I said: “You are an honest man...”



Impatiently he replied: “I am a rebel and I always tell the truth! If I was truly a hypocrite do you really think I would have shown you my face?”



He paused for a moment, looked at me and continued: “We lost Kostur in less than ten years (1940 to 1949) because we did not act wisely and responsibly. Exactly in those dire years we divided ourselves into rebels and ELAS fighters without regard to what we were doing to ourselves. We allowed outside propaganda to fill our heads with garbage and acted cruelly against one another. We allowed outsiders to impose their will and lead us into oblivion without any alternatives… We accepted their lies and propaganda wholesale and turned on each other like mad dogs… They wanted a Macedonia without Macedonians and we were only too eager to give it to them. The Greek Andartes (terrorists) causing havoc in Macedonia in 1903 used to say: ‘We want your Macedonia but without Macedonians’!”



* * *



ЕДНОВЕКОВНО МОЛЧЕЊЕ (1913 - 2013) - Глава 1 - 2



Стојан Кочов



Наjпосле еден млад наредник - од маjка роден, служеше во логорот, млад и убав, многу потресен, ме внесе во еден мал шатор ме остави и ми рече: Смири се, човеку, тоj што ти го направи ова е наjнесреќен мегу сите што сме тука на островот. Нему не само родот твоj, туку и господ нема да му прости. Тие што нанесуваат болка не им простува човештвото. Не! Каква е оваа судбина, каква е оваа болка. Господе мили...



Дошло време да се умира - ќе се умира, додадов и се присетив на дедо ми кога велеше:

“Наjсреќен човек е оноj коj што на другите луѓе ги правил среќни,а човекот што не страдал не знае да простува.”



Крварев и се тресев од некаков страв и гнев. Чувствував како ми згаснува сč во животот. Ме наваса некакво чувство, дека нема да го разберам утринското умирање. Ноќ е. Црна мугра е. Ни светло, ни звук, а jас упорно во темницата ги слушам високите морски шлапови кои ми се присторува дека ќе ме однесат со сč шатор. Нема збор. Молчи зборот и збира лоши болештини во празнотиjата на камењарот.



Избувлив, немирно живнувам во ноќите. Нема нежен збор, како да се срушени грубостите на светот, и не можам да видам и незнам каде да се фатам. Молчат и моите раце, како да се предавам на смртта, а една мисла, незрела, не умна: “Коj ќе ми jа напише посмртницата? И дали верно ќе гласи… наодот?!”



Во ноќта, при првиот морничав и немирен сон, истоштен заспивав со секнато офкање. Ете, си велам животот бил наjголемо чудо во таквите времиња. Во мигот кога ќе помислев дека нешто сум научил за животот, во тоj исти миг требаше да го заборавам, оти сето тоа ми раѓаше уште поголема болка. Умирав, а животот поново желно ми се враќаше, но во некаква бескраjна и тивка празнина. Си jа спомнувам Кираца и неjзините долги руски плетенки,налик на млада пченица.Зората веќе беше ги прегнала своите црвени атови и од мислата ме раздели...



Ги затворав очите, ми се jавуваа разни мисли. Каде е границата на срамот и гревот што ми го направи овоj човек? Од каде таков насобран бес во него? Студенило ме облива и од гради ми корне од последните желби што многу тешки ми доаѓаа. Ме обли накаков човечки срам. Сега сум човек со уништен живот, уништена иднината.



Ама, ќе пукнам од мака… Боже, боже! Каква несреќа! Срцето ми трепереше и долго, долго размислував како ќе ѝ кажам на моjата љубена Кираца, коjа ме чека долги години да го зголемиме родот наш.



Свирачот замолкна огорчен. Ме натажи. Видов: солзи му навираат во очите. Со тешка болка ми продолжи:



“Ми остануваа уште само неколку месеци да бидам на островот и потоа да се вратам и да го продолжиме семеjниот живот во родниот Костур со моjата љубена Кираца, и синчето Дончо…”



Се замисли за миг, несвесно погледна во своjот полов дел, ама лузните веќе не се гледаа. Следеше долга тишина. Се гледавме во очи, без да проговориме ни збор.



Во еден миг, младиот воjвода Крсте Крапов, ми вели: Никогаш не може човек да знае и да го сфати каков беше животот на тоj пусти остров Анафи. Всушност, ако не го преживее самиот. Многу е тешко, тоа што го доживеав таму и самиот да го обjаснам. Летата беа не подносливи. Но и зимите беа ужасни: студот ни ги штипеше образите, им jа затегнуваше кожата, ни ги глодаше ушите. Секоj чекор беше смртоносен, ако нагазиш на подзамрзнат камен.



Од тоj пекол не може човек сč да запамти. Има и такви моменти кои просто не сакам ни да ги споменам зашто… Моjот живот беше толку безначаен што едвам и дека мислев на него, па сепак помислата на исчезнувањето на друг начин, ме правеше бесмислен…



Долго ми раскажуваше за логорскиот живот: за тоа дека од тогаш никоj не му се доближи, со никого не се сврзал, никоj не сакаше и не бил способен своjот живот да го дели со него. Но, откако jа изгубил и своjата љубена Кираца, сега честопати го опкружува воздухот на осаменоста. Некоjа нема атмосвера. Животот тече околу него, а тоj се чувствува немоќен да воспостави контакт и никаква желба и копнеж не можеа да му помогнат. Тоа беше еден од наjважните белези на неговиот живот.



Цело време седам скаменет, како статуа, и не можем да им поверувам сопствени очи и уши? По две и пол децении - случаjни средби без ниту еден разменет збор во моjот преубав Костур да ги слушам наjубавите македонски песни од стариот инструмент на моите предци, а и да ги чуjам наjболните сеќавање од човекот коj умираше за Костур и Македониjа.



Како во бунило почнуват да ги враќам моите младешки спомени. Помнењето, фала му на бога, уште добро ме држи, и ние разговаравме до полнок, па дури и се напивме.



Неприjатен молк.



А тоj тажно и ладно ме гледа со своите избледени, граорести очи и ми вели:



Вие, можеби не се сеќавате на тие денови?



Чудно е тоа што боли…



Ех, моj приjателе, си се вратил на корените - ДОМА,каj спомените што наjмногу болат. Значи; потомците почнаа да се враќаат ДОМА.



Костурчани се луѓе со затворено срце, опседнати со себе и своето семеjство, скептични кон светлата иднина и оттаму имуни на грозоморните изненадувања. Воjните од 1940 - 1949 година: Втората светска воjна и Граѓанската воjна не не заобиколиjа, туку не распарчиjа. Сега не веруваме во “големите вистини” ниту во “големите луѓе”. Повеќе, никоj никому не би требало да му jа продава тезата за “братство и единство”, туку за почитување на разликите. Додека сме живи ние напатените, нема Грците да ги сметаме за “браќа”.



Да, нашиот роден град Костур е град коj остави многу човечки судбинини отворени. И пак замолча.



Тоj полека jа подигна главата, како што тоа го прават луѓето кога ќе почувствуваат дека некоj ги следи, погледа наокулу и во мене. Му возвратив полека на погледот и си реков во себе: “О, Исусе, какво понижување!”



Ми го кажа она што наjмалку не очекував да го чуjам. Во грлото нешто го стегна, па едваj изусти.



Jаска се викам Крсто Крапов. Бев наjмладиот комитски воjвода. Татко ми Доне Крапов е закопан во братоjадската гробница, а по лошата вест, на маjка ми Вана Крапова ѝ се распарчи срцето. Ниту знам каде е ниту, коj jа закопа. Сега, за тоа време никоj ништо не кажува.



Ние Македонците во тие години - од кога доjде Гркот, не мислевме на проблемите што ни се чинеа далечни, сега сме полни со грижи кога не jавнаа маките нанесени од прогоните, ги чувствуваме многу болно и станаа сč по нерешливи.



Но, сега по малку ми треперат рацете додека мислам на сето тоа. Да, jас од Краповото семе, а името Крапов, прадедо ми Григор, бил рибар и фаќал големи крапови, костурски прочуени риби. Така го завикале уште Турците и многу го почитувале…



Сега живем сам. Наполно сам. Останав без род, а тоа е наjнечовечка казна… Никогаш никому не му зборувам. Не примам ништо. Не давам ништо. Живеам, но не сакам да си го намнисувам минатото.



Ги рашири дланките и прстите. Почна да си ги истегнуваше образите, истуркуваjќи ги борите од челото, ги затегнуваше очните капаците од избледените очи, а jас чувствував наплив на емоции: возбудува, восхитува за ради тоа, што се сретнав токму со таков човек, коj ќе ми го раскаже минатото без неметливост, сосема искрено!



И ден - денес не можам да си простан, зошто го прашав:



- Дали некогаш си се обидел да се самоубиеш за време на суровите преживувања на островот?



Ми одговори восторжено, со некаков воjнички став:



Не! Никогаш! Љубовта за мене ми остана како бескраен сон, недоглед од многу сложени виножитни бои. Таа ми припаѓаше само мене, а ние на своjот народ, на овоj костурски род…



Како занесен, почнав да ги толкувам неговите зборови. Се вратив во реалноста. Тоj замолча. Го чекаше моjот одговор. Се почувствува разочаран. Жал ми е… Ова е веќе премногу што го чув. И му реков: “Минатото не зближи!”.Тоj го постави показалецот на слепоочницата и ми рече:



Костур наш, како да бил даруван од бога - да биде светилка на комитскиот пат… Тоj духовен извор и виор, исконски и библиски опстоjувал, се ѕидал и градел од нашите предци, а сега е туѓ, им го утуѓиме…



И ден-денес ме jади jанџа, како и зошто дозволивме да ни го организираат братоjадството!?



Тугинците ни ги организираа духовите на поделбата и не поделиjа на компромисни (Еласити, Комунисти) и безкомпромисни Македонци (сите родољбци-чеда на Илинденските комити).



Страшно бевме заљубени во робството… И, сега, таквите навраќања, ми го згрутчуваа умот…



Костур и Костурските села личеа на една опожарена шума, каде македонските Еласити, Комунисти бегале од огнот бараjќи спас во армиjата на Тито, додека комитите го бранеа Костур и Костурските села. Македонските Еласити и комунисти, сепак и понатаму глумеа интернационалисти, често ги напаѓаа комитите паради националисти и им ги опожарува нимните к’шти.



А тоа ме потсетува на приказната: “Кога од големиот пожар бегале големите и силни ѕверки, само малото колибри, со малку водичка во клунчето летало токму кон шумата. На опомените на попаметните” дека е лудост тоа што го прави, дека обидот е залуден и невозможен, птичката одговорила дека го прави токму тоа што е реално - ни помалку ни повеќе, туку токму она што треба, сака и може да го стори за да jа запре несреќата што се прави над Кoстурчани. А тоа го правеа и Комитите и останаа сами да го бранат Костур. Да, токму така и со нашите Македонци - Еласити и Комунисти, но има и такви кои не сакат да си признаат дека со напуштање на родното место не се брани татковина.



По нивното напуштање, остануваат многу отворени прашања за македонската историjа!? Тоа беше време, како што велеше дедо ми, кога: “На мудриот повеќе му користат неприjателите отколку на лудиот приjателите.”



Го гледам како се згрчува и од внатре го jаде некаква jанѕа, а каj мене роj од прашања:



Зошто мислиме дека порано луѓето биле посреќни, а животот по едноставен, зошто постоjано правиме реминисценции за добрите ввремиња? Зошто со тага ги разгледуваме старите фотографии и ги слушаме со восхит подвизите на нашите предци. Дали сакаме да промениме нешто од нашето минато!?



Значи, тоа беше време кое: животот на Македонците, посебно на костурчани им беше исполнет со гнев и со неизвесност. Кога се вратив во Костур- дома во овоа свето место, наjдов еден изурнат живот, а оставив убава жена и дете кои ги носев длабоко закопани во моето срце, како наjголемо богатсто.



Дедо ми велеше: “Не разделиjа и не поделиjа и ете денес, од секого ќе слушнеш глупави мисли и разни Богохулења, но мудриот костурчанец треба да ги премолчува и да си го чува огништето, а во него ќе има вечна топлина…”



Му велам: - Ти си искрен човек…



Тоj, нестрпливо ми вели:



“Jас сум Комита и jа кажувам вистината, ако навистина бев дволичен, мислиш дека ќе го носев баш ова лице?”



Ние Костурчаните, го изгубивме Костур за не цели десет години од 1940 до 1949 година, затоа што не постапивме мудро и одговорно, токму во тие судбоносни години се поделивме на Комити и Еласити и станавме луѓе без мерка спрема самите себеси; плашливи, предизвикувачи на неред, делувавме сурово, а требаше одамна, еднаш за секогаш, да се отргневме од нашето поданство и од тугинците да ни го наметнуваат своjот начин на стратегиjа и визиjа како безалтернативен избор… Тугинците, не процениjа дека им ги прифаќаме лагите, дека сме милосливи спрема нив, а тие сč повеќе со таквите лаги, нč хранеа и не силее во нашето братоjадство… Тие jа сакаа Македониjа без Македонците. Така веле андартите кога доjдоа 1903 година.





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A Century of Silence – Chapter 1 – Part 2

By Stoian Kochov

Translated and edited by Risto Stefov

rstefov@hotmail.com

May 6, 2015



Krsto looked at me for a moment with a sober look on his face and then looked away. He continued: “Later, after that beast was done with me, a young and handsome sergeant serving in this camp, but born of a good mother, came over to see me. He was shaken by my ordeal and took me into a small tent and left me there. Before leaving he said: ‘Try and calm down. The person who did this to you is the most miserable person among all of us here on the island. God will not forgive him for what he did to you. God will not forgive those who inflict pain. Never! Why this fate, why this pain. Dear Lord...’



After the young sergeant left I thought that it was my time to die. I will die now I thought. Then I remembered what my grandfather used to say: ‘The happiest person is the person who brings happiness to others and a person who has not suffered knows not how to forgive.’



I was bleeding and trembling with fear and concern. I felt like everything in life had faded away. I was overwhelmed by the sense that I would never understand my fate and why this and why I had to die this way. It was night. It was a dark dawn. There was neither light nor sound. All I could hear were the waves at the seashore splashing and coming closer and closer to my tent. There was not a word to be heard anywhere, only silence, as my ill-fated life hung in the balance in this open space among the rocks.



That night I had a terrible, painful, restless and sleepless night. It was also terribly lonely. Not a single word was spoken, to be heard, to relieve my loneliness. My fate was hanging in the balance but I had no idea how to live or how to surrender to death. A terrible thought came to mind: ‘Who will write my obituary? Will it be the truth…? And how would I know?’



I don’t know when I fell asleep or if I passed out from exhaustion but when I woke I was amazed to be still alive. Life was the strongest miracle in times such as these. But the moment I thought I had learned something was the moment I had to forget it because it led to more pain. I was trying to die but my life was eager to return and so I found myself caught in this endless and silent void. I tried to think about Kiratsa, remembering her long golden blond, braided hair and that’s when I noticed that dawn was breaking. I forgot my pain as I looked up at the beautiful reddish sky becoming brighter with every passing moment...



I closed my eyes because a disturbing thought began to creep into my mind. Why did this man do this to me? What is the limit of shame and sin that this man inflicted on me and what did I ever do to him or anyone else for that matter? Where did such rage come from? These thoughts sent a chill down my spine that surged all through my body, making me shiver, twitch, kick and feel awful. I am now a man whose life as been destroyed and whose future has been ruined.



I was very troubled and felt like I was going crazy... God, my God! What a disaster! My heart trembled and I had long, long thoughts about what to tell her; my beloved Kiratsa who was waiting for me… Waiting for me for many years so that we could expand our family...”



Old man Krsto stopped talking. Suddenly he looked very sad. He stooped his head forward. I noticed droplets of tears hitting the ground. He took a deep breath and resumed talking:



“I only had a short time left on my sentence and was due to be released in a few months. I had plans to resume my life in my native Kostur with my beloved Kiratsa and with my son Doncho. I was planning to have many more children...”



He stopped talking again, thought for a moment and then looked down at his own crotch. Then he looked at me but had nothing to say. I too stared at him without saying a word.



Then suddenly, breaking the silence, the old rebel Krsto Krapov began to speak and said: “A person who has not lived can never know or understand what life was like in the deserted island Anafi. It is very difficult for me to tell you what I had gone through on the island. Outside of my tortures, the summers were intolerable and the winters were horribly cold.



No person can ever forget that hell. There are moments of that part of my life that I simply don’t want to remember and other moments I just don’t want to speak about. My life was so insignificant that I barely thought about it, and yet my thoughts keep taking me there...”



The old rebel told me a lot about life in the camp. He also told me that since then no one wanted to get close to him. Nobody wanted to share their lives with him. Then, after he lost his beloved Kiratsa, he was all alone living in a void, in an atmosphere of silence. Life flowed all around him yet he was unable to establish contact with anyone. No one had the desire or was able to help him. Human contact was one of the most essential features in his life.



All the time I sat there motionless, like a statue, and I could not believe my own eyes and ears? After two and a half decades of being absent from my beautiful Kostur, I had finally met a person, willing to die for Kostur, who not only told me intimate parts of his personal life but played for me the most beautiful Macedonian songs on an instrument I had never seen before; an old instrument that my great ancestors used to play.



Even my thoughts and memories from my own youth began to flood back to me, thanks to this old man and to God for bringing us together. We sat there and talked until midnight and even had a few drinks.



The uncomfortable silence lasted a long time before the old man raised his head, looked at me with sad eyes and asked: “Do you remember the old days…?”



But before I had a chance to reply he began to talk again: “Oh, my good friend,” he said, “You came back to your roots, to your ancestral home, to your memories that hurt the most. You came home where you were born.



The people of Kostur here have closed hearts, obsessed with themselves and their families, skeptical about a bright future and hence immune to disturbing surprises. The war years 1940 – 1949, the Second World War and the Greek Civil War did not bring us together but rather separated us and sent us all over the world. Now I no longer believe in any “great truth” or in any “great people”. There is no longer a need to sell the idea of ‘brotherhood and unity’, but only to respect our differences. While we are living ‘afflicted’ we cannot call the Greeks our ‘brothers’.



Yes, Kostur, our birthplace, is a city which has left many human fates open…” he said and went silent again.



He slowly raised his head, like a person feeling like someone was watching them, looked around and then looked at me. I responded by slowly raising my eyes and then looking into his. I thought to myself: Oh, Jesus, the poor man what he has gone through!



He told me so many things that I did not expect to hear and by now his throat must have tightened because I could hardly hear what he was saying.



He must have realized that he never did answer my question when I asked him who he was so, after mumbling for a while, he piped up and said: “My name is Krsto Krapov and I was the youngest rebel leader during the Ilinden Uprising. My father was Done Krapov. When he died he was buried in an enemy grave. When my mother Vana Krapova heard the bad news her heart broke. I don’t know who buried her or where she was buried. No one wants to talk about those days.



We Macedonians in those days allowed the Greeks to come here but did not think about the problems they would bring us. Those problems seemed very distant then. But now that we are being persecuted and suffering, we are full of worries and feel sick and unsure of ourselves.



Now, every time I think about it, my hands begin to shake. Yes, I am a member of the revolutionary Krapov family. My great-great grandfather Grigor was a fisherman that specialized in catching large carp (krap in Macedonian) and sold his catch at the famous Kostur fish market; hence the name Krapov. The Ottoman too called him Krapov which in time became a respected name.



Now I am living alone. Completely alone! I am left without a family and that is my punishment... Why… I don’t know! I never wronged anyone, yet nobody wants to talk to me and I too don’t want to talk to anyone. I will not accept anything and I would not give anyone anything.



He spread his hands and fingers apart, placed them over his cheeks and began to pull down on his face, stretching his skin on his forehead and over his eyes. Watching him do that made me very sad and very happy to have met such a person, a man who was willing to frankly talk about his past with a complete stranger! I was indeed honoured!



But I do have one regret for which, to this day, I cannot forgive myself and that is about asking him the question: “Did you ever think of committing suicide at the worst times on the island?”



He replied with an abrupt military style answer: “No! Never! My love remained with me like an endless dream full of a rainbow of complex colours. She belonged only to me and we belong to our people, to the people of Kostur…”



I was dazzled by his answer as I began to interpret his words. Then I came back to reality. He was still silent. He was waiting for me to say something. He felt disappointed as I said nothing and that made me very sorry to this day... It was too much for me and I did not know what to say so I said: “The past brought us together!” He then placed his finger on his temple and said:



“Our Kostur, gifted by God to light the path of the Macedonian rebels... Kostur is a spiritual source of our ancient Macedonian and biblical past, a foundation built by our ancestors, and now it is someone else’s; we have allowed it to fall into foreign hands...” Very powerful words indeed!



I thought a lot about what the old rebel said and I am bothered to this day as to how we have allowed ourselves to be manipulated by outsiders and foreigners and have fallen so low?!



Strangers organized the spirit of our division and divided us into compromised (ELAS and Communists) and uncompromised Macedonians (Rebels, children of the Ilinden Uprising).



I am afraid we were all horribly in love with our slavery... fighting each other for foreign interests in the name of some foreign ideology that made no sense to us… Thinking about it now blows my mind… How could we have been so naďve and stupid?



The Kostur Region villages and Kostur itself looked like a burnt forest. We did this to ourselves when we brought the war home. This was when the Macedonians from ELAS and the Macedonian Communists were fleeing from the war and were looking to save themselves by joining Tito’s army, while fighting the rebels and children of the Ilinden Uprising in Kostur and the Kostur villages. Macedonian ELAS fighters and communists were dreaming of internationalism and foreign ideologies when they were attacking the Kostur rebels and labeling them “nationalists” and burning their homes.



Thinking about this reminded me of the story of the beasts and the fire: “When the great and powerful beasts were fleeing the terrible fire, only the tiny humming bird with a mouthful of water was flying towards the burning forest. The bigger and smarter beasts warned the little bird that what it was doing was crazy and impossible and its attempts were futile. To that the little bird replied: ‘I am doing this because it is the right thing to do. This is exactly what we all need to do’…” This is a lesson for the people of Kostur. This is exactly what they should have done… stay and fight to defend Kostur and save their homes and their future. The only ones that stayed and fought were the Kostur rebels. Yes, that is exactly what happened but there are some who do not want to admit that we could not have defended our homeland by leaving it.



After they (the Macedonian ELAS fighters and communists) left, many questions were opened for Macedonia’s history!? It was a time, as my grandfather used to say, when: “A wise man had more use of his enemies than a crazy man of his friends.”



The old man made a short throat noise as if wanting to say something. I looked at him and it looked like something was bothering him, something was on his mind. He finally spoke up and asked:



“Why do we think that people in the old days were happier and life was simpler? Why do we continue to reminisce of better times? Why do we look at old photos and feel sad? Why do we listen with admiration to stories of the deeds of our ancestors? Do you want to change something from our past!?



It was a time when the lives of Macedonians, especially the lives of the people of Kostur Region, were filled with anger and uncertainty. I left a beautiful wife and child, for whom I cared deeply in my heart, who I considered my greatest heritage and when I returned to my sacred home I found my life in ruins.



My grandfather used to say: ‘They separated and divided us and today we hear all sorts of foolishness that a wise person from Kostur needs to be silent in order to protect his hearth, and if he does do that then there will be eternal warmth for them’...”



I said: “You are an honest man...”



Impatiently he replied: “I am a rebel and I always tell the truth! If I was truly a hypocrite do you really think I would have shown you my face?”



He paused for a moment, looked at me and continued: “We lost Kostur in less than ten years (1940 to 1949) because we did not act wisely and responsibly. Exactly in those dire years we divided ourselves into rebels and ELAS fighters without regard to what we were doing to ourselves. We allowed outside propaganda to fill our heads with garbage and acted cruelly against one another. We allowed outsiders to impose their will and lead us into oblivion without any alternatives… We accepted their lies and propaganda wholesale and turned on each other like mad dogs… They wanted a Macedonia without Macedonians and we were only too eager to give it to them. The Greek Andartes (terrorists) causing havoc in Macedonia in 1903 used to say: ‘We want your Macedonia but without Macedonians’!”



* * *



ЕДНОВЕКОВНО МОЛЧЕЊЕ (1913 - 2013) - Глава 1 - 2



Стојан Кочов



Наjпосле еден млад наредник - од маjка роден, служеше во логорот, млад и убав, многу потресен, ме внесе во еден мал шатор ме остави и ми рече: Смири се, човеку, тоj што ти го направи ова е наjнесреќен мегу сите што сме тука на островот. Нему не само родот твоj, туку и господ нема да му прости. Тие што нанесуваат болка не им простува човештвото. Не! Каква е оваа судбина, каква е оваа болка. Господе мили...



Дошло време да се умира - ќе се умира, додадов и се присетив на дедо ми кога велеше:

“Наjсреќен човек е оноj коj што на другите луѓе ги правил среќни,а човекот што не страдал не знае да простува.”



Крварев и се тресев од некаков страв и гнев. Чувствував како ми згаснува сč во животот. Ме наваса некакво чувство, дека нема да го разберам утринското умирање. Ноќ е. Црна мугра е. Ни светло, ни звук, а jас упорно во темницата ги слушам високите морски шлапови кои ми се присторува дека ќе ме однесат со сč шатор. Нема збор. Молчи зборот и збира лоши болештини во празнотиjата на камењарот.



Избувлив, немирно живнувам во ноќите. Нема нежен збор, како да се срушени грубостите на светот, и не можам да видам и незнам каде да се фатам. Молчат и моите раце, како да се предавам на смртта, а една мисла, незрела, не умна: “Коj ќе ми jа напише посмртницата? И дали верно ќе гласи… наодот?!”



Во ноќта, при првиот морничав и немирен сон, истоштен заспивав со секнато офкање. Ете, си велам животот бил наjголемо чудо во таквите времиња. Во мигот кога ќе помислев дека нешто сум научил за животот, во тоj исти миг требаше да го заборавам, оти сето тоа ми раѓаше уште поголема болка. Умирав, а животот поново желно ми се враќаше, но во некаква бескраjна и тивка празнина. Си jа спомнувам Кираца и неjзините долги руски плетенки,налик на млада пченица.Зората веќе беше ги прегнала своите црвени атови и од мислата ме раздели...



Ги затворав очите, ми се jавуваа разни мисли. Каде е границата на срамот и гревот што ми го направи овоj човек? Од каде таков насобран бес во него? Студенило ме облива и од гради ми корне од последните желби што многу тешки ми доаѓаа. Ме обли накаков човечки срам. Сега сум човек со уништен живот, уништена иднината.



Ама, ќе пукнам од мака… Боже, боже! Каква несреќа! Срцето ми трепереше и долго, долго размислував како ќе ѝ кажам на моjата љубена Кираца, коjа ме чека долги години да го зголемиме родот наш.



Свирачот замолкна огорчен. Ме натажи. Видов: солзи му навираат во очите. Со тешка болка ми продолжи:



“Ми остануваа уште само неколку месеци да бидам на островот и потоа да се вратам и да го продолжиме семеjниот живот во родниот Костур со моjата љубена Кираца, и синчето Дончо…”



Се замисли за миг, несвесно погледна во своjот полов дел, ама лузните веќе не се гледаа. Следеше долга тишина. Се гледавме во очи, без да проговориме ни збор.



Во еден миг, младиот воjвода Крсте Крапов, ми вели: Никогаш не може човек да знае и да го сфати каков беше животот на тоj пусти остров Анафи. Всушност, ако не го преживее самиот. Многу е тешко, тоа што го доживеав таму и самиот да го обjаснам. Летата беа не подносливи. Но и зимите беа ужасни: студот ни ги штипеше образите, им jа затегнуваше кожата, ни ги глодаше ушите. Секоj чекор беше смртоносен, ако нагазиш на подзамрзнат камен.



Од тоj пекол не може човек сč да запамти. Има и такви моменти кои просто не сакам ни да ги споменам зашто… Моjот живот беше толку безначаен што едвам и дека мислев на него, па сепак помислата на исчезнувањето на друг начин, ме правеше бесмислен…



Долго ми раскажуваше за логорскиот живот: за тоа дека од тогаш никоj не му се доближи, со никого не се сврзал, никоj не сакаше и не бил способен своjот живот да го дели со него. Но, откако jа изгубил и своjата љубена Кираца, сега честопати го опкружува воздухот на осаменоста. Некоjа нема атмосвера. Животот тече околу него, а тоj се чувствува немоќен да воспостави контакт и никаква желба и копнеж не можеа да му помогнат. Тоа беше еден од наjважните белези на неговиот живот.



Цело време седам скаменет, како статуа, и не можем да им поверувам сопствени очи и уши? По две и пол децении - случаjни средби без ниту еден разменет збор во моjот преубав Костур да ги слушам наjубавите македонски песни од стариот инструмент на моите предци, а и да ги чуjам наjболните сеќавање од човекот коj умираше за Костур и Македониjа.



Како во бунило почнуват да ги враќам моите младешки спомени. Помнењето, фала му на бога, уште добро ме држи, и ние разговаравме до полнок, па дури и се напивме.



Неприjатен молк.



А тоj тажно и ладно ме гледа со своите избледени, граорести очи и ми вели:



Вие, можеби не се сеќавате на тие денови?



Чудно е тоа што боли…



Ех, моj приjателе, си се вратил на корените - ДОМА,каj спомените што наjмногу болат. Значи; потомците почнаа да се враќаат ДОМА.



Костурчани се луѓе со затворено срце, опседнати со себе и своето семеjство, скептични кон светлата иднина и оттаму имуни на грозоморните изненадувања. Воjните од 1940 - 1949 година: Втората светска воjна и Граѓанската воjна не не заобиколиjа, туку не распарчиjа. Сега не веруваме во “големите вистини” ниту во “големите луѓе”. Повеќе, никоj никому не би требало да му jа продава тезата за “братство и единство”, туку за почитување на разликите. Додека сме живи ние напатените, нема Грците да ги сметаме за “браќа”.



Да, нашиот роден град Костур е град коj остави многу човечки судбинини отворени. И пак замолча.



Тоj полека jа подигна главата, како што тоа го прават луѓето кога ќе почувствуваат дека некоj ги следи, погледа наокулу и во мене. Му возвратив полека на погледот и си реков во себе: “О, Исусе, какво понижување!”



Ми го кажа она што наjмалку не очекував да го чуjам. Во грлото нешто го стегна, па едваj изусти.



Jаска се викам Крсто Крапов. Бев наjмладиот комитски воjвода. Татко ми Доне Крапов е закопан во братоjадската гробница, а по лошата вест, на маjка ми Вана Крапова ѝ се распарчи срцето. Ниту знам каде е ниту, коj jа закопа. Сега, за тоа време никоj ништо не кажува.



Ние Македонците во тие години - од кога доjде Гркот, не мислевме на проблемите што ни се чинеа далечни, сега сме полни со грижи кога не jавнаа маките нанесени од прогоните, ги чувствуваме многу болно и станаа сč по нерешливи.



Но, сега по малку ми треперат рацете додека мислам на сето тоа. Да, jас од Краповото семе, а името Крапов, прадедо ми Григор, бил рибар и фаќал големи крапови, костурски прочуени риби. Така го завикале уште Турците и многу го почитувале…



Сега живем сам. Наполно сам. Останав без род, а тоа е наjнечовечка казна… Никогаш никому не му зборувам. Не примам ништо. Не давам ништо. Живеам, но не сакам да си го намнисувам минатото.



Ги рашири дланките и прстите. Почна да си ги истегнуваше образите, истуркуваjќи ги борите од челото, ги затегнуваше очните капаците од избледените очи, а jас чувствував наплив на емоции: возбудува, восхитува за ради тоа, што се сретнав токму со таков човек, коj ќе ми го раскаже минатото без неметливост, сосема искрено!



И ден - денес не можам да си простан, зошто го прашав:



- Дали некогаш си се обидел да се самоубиеш за време на суровите преживувања на островот?



Ми одговори восторжено, со некаков воjнички став:



Не! Никогаш! Љубовта за мене ми остана како бескраен сон, недоглед од многу сложени виножитни бои. Таа ми припаѓаше само мене, а ние на своjот народ, на овоj костурски род…



Како занесен, почнав да ги толкувам неговите зборови. Се вратив во реалноста. Тоj замолча. Го чекаше моjот одговор. Се почувствува разочаран. Жал ми е… Ова е веќе премногу што го чув. И му реков: “Минатото не зближи!”.Тоj го постави показалецот на слепоочницата и ми рече:



Костур наш, како да бил даруван од бога - да биде светилка на комитскиот пат… Тоj духовен извор и виор, исконски и библиски опстоjувал, се ѕидал и градел од нашите предци, а сега е туѓ, им го утуѓиме…



И ден-денес ме jади jанџа, како и зошто дозволивме да ни го организираат братоjадството!?



Тугинците ни ги организираа духовите на поделбата и не поделиjа на компромисни (Еласити, Комунисти) и безкомпромисни Македонци (сите родољбци-чеда на Илинденските комити).



Страшно бевме заљубени во робството… И, сега, таквите навраќања, ми го згрутчуваа умот…



Костур и Костурските села личеа на една опожарена шума, каде македонските Еласити, Комунисти бегале од огнот бараjќи спас во армиjата на Тито, додека комитите го бранеа Костур и Костурските села. Македонските Еласити и комунисти, сепак и понатаму глумеа интернационалисти, често ги напаѓаа комитите паради националисти и им ги опожарува нимните к’шти.



А тоа ме потсетува на приказната: “Кога од големиот пожар бегале големите и силни ѕверки, само малото колибри, со малку водичка во клунчето летало токму кон шумата. На опомените на попаметните” дека е лудост тоа што го прави, дека обидот е залуден и невозможен, птичката одговорила дека го прави токму тоа што е реално - ни помалку ни повеќе, туку токму она што треба, сака и може да го стори за да jа запре несреќата што се прави над Кoстурчани. А тоа го правеа и Комитите и останаа сами да го бранат Костур. Да, токму така и со нашите Македонци - Еласити и Комунисти, но има и такви кои не сакат да си признаат дека со напуштање на родното место не се брани татковина.



По нивното напуштање, остануваат многу отворени прашања за македонската историjа!? Тоа беше време, како што велеше дедо ми, кога: “На мудриот повеќе му користат неприjателите отколку на лудиот приjателите.”



Го гледам како се згрчува и од внатре го jаде некаква jанѕа, а каj мене роj од прашања:



Зошто мислиме дека порано луѓето биле посреќни, а животот по едноставен, зошто постоjано правиме реминисценции за добрите ввремиња? Зошто со тага ги разгледуваме старите фотографии и ги слушаме со восхит подвизите на нашите предци. Дали сакаме да промениме нешто од нашето минато!?



Значи, тоа беше време кое: животот на Македонците, посебно на костурчани им беше исполнет со гнев и со неизвесност. Кога се вратив во Костур- дома во овоа свето место, наjдов еден изурнат живот, а оставив убава жена и дете кои ги носев длабоко закопани во моето срце, како наjголемо богатсто.



Дедо ми велеше: “Не разделиjа и не поделиjа и ете денес, од секого ќе слушнеш глупави мисли и разни Богохулења, но мудриот костурчанец треба да ги премолчува и да си го чува огништето, а во него ќе има вечна топлина…”



Му велам: - Ти си искрен човек…



Тоj, нестрпливо ми вели:



“Jас сум Комита и jа кажувам вистината, ако навистина бев дволичен, мислиш дека ќе го носев баш ова лице?”



Ние Костурчаните, го изгубивме Костур за не цели десет години од 1940 до 1949 година, затоа што не постапивме мудро и одговорно, токму во тие судбоносни години се поделивме на Комити и Еласити и станавме луѓе без мерка спрема самите себеси; плашливи, предизвикувачи на неред, делувавме сурово, а требаше одамна, еднаш за секогаш, да се отргневме од нашето поданство и од тугинците да ни го наметнуваат своjот начин на стратегиjа и визиjа како безалтернативен избор… Тугинците, не процениjа дека им ги прифаќаме лагите, дека сме милосливи спрема нив, а тие сč повеќе со таквите лаги, нč хранеа и не силее во нашето братоjадство… Тие jа сакаа Македониjа без Македонците. Така веле андартите кога доjдоа 1903 година.





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"Ido not want an uprising of people that would leave me at the first failure, I want revolution with citizens able to bear all the temptations to a prolonged struggle, what, because of the fierce political conditions, will be our guide or cattle to the slaughterhouse"
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Old 05-09-2015, 02:47 AM   #1246
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The Great Decline – Chapter 17 – Part 5



By Petre Nakovski

Translated and edited by Risto Stefov

rstefov@hotmail.com

April 29, 2015



Under the cover of darkness people, together with their possessions, were arranged in columns. And when those in the woods and those in the hills were combined together, as one, a thunderous voice behind them ordered them to move in the dark. Above them in the vast sky, in this penetrating deep darkness, the stars seemed to be moving, taking steps with them, slowly, step by step, moving above the columns…



Dawn was breaking. A frowning, reddish dim brightness was beginning to descend from the direction of Bela Voda. Beyond there, lazily lay the waters of Lake Prespa. Krstovitsa packed her woolen blanket, tossed it over her shoulder and began to walk on the dusty desolate road, bent forward as if walking into a strong wind. She was walking straight following in the footsteps of those who had passed here before her. She did not look back. The night she had spent in the meadow beside the dusty road, it seemed to her as if death had passed her by, looked at her tears and left, went behind the hills, towards the lake, towards the reeds that grew in the wide valley of Mala Prespa.



Two columns of tanks, one from Lerin over Psoderi, the other from Kostur over Gabresh, met at the intersection in Oshchima, a small distance from Zhelevo and took the road towards Prevolot where the Government infantry was leading a battle. They hurriedly rushed uphill anxious to reach the Rabi plains and occupy Peroo, the straight between the two lakes, and thus close the road to Albania and cut off the escape route of the units leaving Bela Voda and Bigla. Before entering Orovnik, three powerful explosions were heard. Three bridges were blown up at the entrance to the village. After that the earth shook and the air was filled with smoke as detonation specialists destroyed the stores of weapons and food buried in the bases in the hills between Orovnik and Popli.



Government troops moved their artillery batteries closer to Prespa, to new positions and opened fire. They were bombing the paths of the left over fighters fleeing into Albania. In the morning fighter planes, approaching from the south and following one another, bombed Vrba and then flew low and with rockets and machine gun fire, attacked the hills above Medovo and Rabi. Trucks were offloading infantry troops at Shtrkovo who immediately engaged in battle. Two DAG (Democratic Army of Greece) battalions were fiercely defending the region. The tanks turned left and plunged onto the plains around Peroo. Anti-tank mines kept erupting under them. The escape path was now closed. DAG units leaving Bela Voda now joined the defenders in Rabi but at noon they were fiercely attacked by Government forces, which appeared from the Kleshtina-Rakovo-German direction. Leaving their dead and wounded behind, the defenders withdrew towards Peroo along a clear corridor but the opponent used every arsenal in his possession to target them.



Anyone who could still run, walk, or crawl left and hid in the high, thick reeds in order to save themselves. DAG fighters, including civilians, who did not get a chance to escape through Peroo, hid here in the sand and reeds. Most of those attempting to escape were shot at. The valley was filled with bodies of the dead and wounded. Most bodies were run over by tanks as they circled around the plain. Two tanks penetrated the straights. A powerful explosion took place at the embankment separating the two Prespa lakes. A rush of water flooded part of the Lake Prespa basin. This calmed down the fury of the tank attacks. The tanks stopped moving and shortly after withdrew to the road that passed below the villages. Low flying aircraft, originating from Rupishta and Kozheni, flew in a formation of three, pounding the plain and the lake reeds. They tilted their left wing, turned in a semicircle, pounded Suva Gora and disappeared behind Mount Vrba. They did this in five minute intervals and then the planes from Lerin came. They flew from the direction of Bela Voda, in a horizontal formation, covering and pounding the entire expanse near little Lake Prespa. The water flew high, the lake boiled and the reeds burned as bombs kept coming down. People attempted to swim away to save themselves but none made it to shore alive.



The telephone rang loudly at Division III command post located on the hill above the village Popli. The commander picked up the headset and quietly stood still while he listened.



“Yes, yes, General, Sir. We are making progress. We already have control of the entire area on the eastern side of the lake. No, yes, there is only sporadic, almost single fighter resistance. Where? They are hidden in the lake reeds and are defending themselves there. Yes, of course, they will be overpowered by dark and during the night our troops will occupy the so-called Africa, west of the lake. What? Are you asking how our brave air force is holding out? In the plain and in the lake it is sowing fear and terror from the sky… It has brought hell on earth from the sky, General, Sir… Yes, everything is under our control… Yes, yes, General, Sir. Today is August 14th. Tomorrow we will be celebrating the Virgin Mary in peace. Yes, thank you. General, Sir, if you allow me, I want to tell you that what is happening here now, is no longer fighting, but pure murder, slaughter, not to say criminal. Order this hell to stop… the lake is red with blood… Yes, of course, General, Sir. As a soldier and chief I will do my military duty, but as a man…”



The telephone went dead. There was no voice on the other side.



It was August 15th and all over Greece the Virgin Mary holiday was being celebrated. News of the great victory arrived in Athens by radio but all night it was celebrated by the launching of glowing rockets and the firing of glowing bullets. Gunfire was relayed from hill to hill, from city to city, all the way to Athens.



Villagers from the surrounding villages, who had failed to cross the border and escape, were gathering the bodies of the dead. The stench of death was spreading rapidly in the heat of August. Bulldozers arrived from Lerin in the afternoon and began to dig deep trenches in the sandy soil. And in them they tossed the dead bodies of DAG fighters one on top of another and after, when the trenches were filled, the bulldozers covered them with soil, carefully leveling them so that it looked like the land had just been ploughed.



A column of military trucks was waiting in Rabi. Wounded and dead government soldiers were being collected, from all over the battlefield that stretched from the Prespa plains to the other side of the lake all the way to the Albanian border, and transported in jeeps. The dead were loaded on trucks and taken to Lerin. They dug special graves in the Lerin cemeteries and buried them in the presence of the Lerin Bishop and official military and civilian authorities, with trumpets playing and the singing of the Greek national anthem. They were buried with all military fanfare that included gunfire salutes with every burial. Their first and last names were then inscribed on a cross that stood at the top of the grave. The citizens, with their heads uncovered, gathered together at the cemeteries with every burial and among them stood those who had deserted, surrendered and collaborated with the enemy. They stood there in silence, mute, with their hands crossed and held just below their navels.



When the church bells rang citizens came out on their balconies, hung their flags and brought their radios with them. The commemorations taking place in Athens were carried all throughout Greece, transmitted over the radio waves.



Here in Prespa everything was quiet as the sun was about to set over the shimmering, peaceful lake waters. Here at the large Prespa mass grave, a single white-bearded priest, whose shadow was elongated by the setting sun, stood on top of the freshly ploughed soil, carefully smoothed over by the bulldozers, and with a broken and trembling voice whispered:



“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God…”



The priest ended his blessings and walked ahead, stepping over the soft soil. In Lerin the church bells were ringing and, before ending the commemoration, the bishop said:



“Blessed are those who fulfill their commandments, to have the right to life and to enter the city through the gates. And outside are the dogs, the damned, the prostitutes, the murderers, the idolaters and everyone who wants to lie and deceive…”



The frowning citizens led by Gypsy musicians, laid flowers and wreaths on the graves of the fallen Government soldiers.



And here at the Prespa mass graves the only thing heard was the lake water splashing against the shore. There was no crying, there were no flowers and wreaths, the church bells in Orovo, Popli, Shtrkovo, Medovo, Rabi, German, Nivitsi, Grazhdeno, Vineni, Lak, Bukovik, Drenovo… were not ringing.



The north wind, however, carried distant sounds. A church bell tolled from Dolno Dupeni, from beyond the border… It was quiet but the extinguished voice of the old priest could be heard in the silence:



“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you, and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world…”



He paused, took a long breath, sighed and from his hoarse throat he squeezed the word “Amen!”



“Amen,” repeated the darkness and the hills. “Amen,” repeated the desolate villages and wounded trees. At least that is how it seemed to the old priest, since there was no one around to cry or mourn. Here and there the lake soil hollowed out, settled down on the dead, it hugged them, it filled the gaps and empty spots between them. The day came to a close. In the night when the first stars appeared in the sky reflected by the lake water, candlelight could be seen on Sveti Ahil shimmering in the dark, lit by someone’s hand.



The long and humble prayers delivered by the priest were welcomed like a long awaited emergence to life from a coma.



The priest took the road to Rabi. He walked slowly and without pausing continued the funeral service and when he came to “the last rights” his voice began to shake. “The last rights,” he said, but there was no one alive in the Prespa fields to hear the last rights. He stopped on the uphill on the side of the road, turned towards the valley where the mass graves were located, raised his arms towards the sky and whispered:



“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied…”



He crossed himself three times, then knelt and with his forehead he touched the ground several times. He got up slowly as if all the hardship, suffering and anguish in this world was resting on his shoulders, crossed himself three times and left for German.



The choppy water of Lake Mala Prespa, whose blue mirror was broken by two days of aerial bombs, cannon and mortar shells and cut by thousands of hot bullets, was slowly calming down and surrendering its corpses to the shore.



Giorgi did not make it to Peroo and failed to cross the strait between the two lakes so he found himself in the whirlpool of fire. He did however manage to hide in the tall and dense reeds. He dug a hole with his hands and covered himself with sand. From here he watched the struggle for life take place on all sides of the lake and inside the lake. He watched it boil wildly, blindly, angrily, stubbornly, passionately, madly, persistently like a controlled stanza. And as the struggle for life heated up, so did the hatred and spite. While one side rejoiced the other defended itself with the last bullet and when it had used up the last bullet, then a knife, a dagger, a bayonet flashed in the hands of the women fighters…



The next day everything calmed down; even the lake waters. Giorgi watched from his hiding place as they collected the dead and wounded. In the night, not too far away he heard a quiet, tired cry. Crouching low he went to investigate. A boy was lying in the reeds half submerged under water. He had a huge glob of dried blood on his forehead and a swarm of flies on his left shoulder. Giorgi pulled him out of the water and laid him on dry land. He washed his shoulder and with a piece of his shirt he tied his wound. The frightened boy sobbing and shivering looked into Giorgi’s eyes.



Giorgi knelt and at the moment that he was about to stand up, a little to the side, only about ten steps away, he saw a woman’s body lying in the reeds. He left the boy and went to her. And even though her face was swollen he could tell that the woman was young. Her cheeks looked beautiful and she had big blue eyes. Her chest was wide. She had a ring on her finger. Swollen from drinking blood the leaches were detaching. The waves were splashing, caressing the unknown woman’s dead body, splashing her gently then returning, then splashing her again. There was a machine gun beside her. Giorgi checked its chamber, it was empty. In her clenched hand, oddly tucked under her left shoulder, it seemed as if she was hiding something. He opened it and in it he found two cartridges. It looked like the poor woman, thought Giorgi, had never had the chance to use them. He stayed by the young woman a little while longer and then returned to the boy who now was lying between the reeds, like a frightened bird looking at the sky. Giorgi took him and carried him to the willow grove at the side of the lake. He then collected some green branches, carried them under his arm and went over to the young woman. He pulled her out of the water and placed her on dry ground. He dug a hole in the sand with his hands and buried her. On the pile of sand he then arranged the green branches. He placed rocks all around the grave and bowed and crossed himself. He then returned to the boy, sat beside him and waited for nightfall.



When a sickle moon appeared in the sky he helped the boy up and, while holding him by his arm, they walked through the huge cemetery and then only for a moment without having to stop they looked up at the sky and it seemed to them that the stars were walking with them.



This is not the end.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Petre Nakovski, a novelist and translator, was born on July 17, 1937 in the village Krchishta, Kostur Region, Aegean (Greek occupied) Macedonia.



Dr. Nakovksi studied at the Pedagogical Literary Institute in Poland and at the Faculty of Philology in Skopje. He received his PhD from the Institute of Political Science at the University of Vroclavsk in Poland. He worked as a journalist for the newspapers “Vecher” and “Nova Makedonija”. He also worked for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and was the first Ambassador of the Republic of Macedonia to the Republic of Poland.
He has been a member of MWA since 1989.



Dr. Nakovksi has authored numerous articles published in Macedonian periodicals as well as a number of books including the books “Postela za Chemernite” (A Bed for the Sorrowful” (novel, 1985), “Makedonski Detsa vo Polska 1948-1968” (Macedonian children in Poland 1948-1968) (doctoral thesis), “I Kamenot e zemija” (And the Stone is Soil) (novel, 1988), “Golemata Udolnitsa” (The Great Decline) (novel, 2003) and “Golemata Izmama” (The Great Lie) (novel, 2007).



Dr. Nakovksi has translated and published over 40 literary works and many songs and stories from Polish to Macedonian written by Macedonian authors in the Polish language.



He is a recipient of the “Golden pen” and “Kiril Pejcinovic” (translation of opus) awards (awards for Polish authors). He was also awarded the Gold Medal of Merit for Polish Culture and the Gold Medal of Command.





ГОЛЕМАТА УДОЛНИЦА – 17 - 5



Петре Наковски





Под превезот на мрачнотијата луѓето заедно со стоката се редат во колони. И кога и шумата и ридовите се слеаја во едно, громовит глас ги поведе зад себе и сите тргнаа во мракот. Над нив, на огромното небо, во непроникнатата ноќна длабочина, небаре се размрдаа sвездите и полека, чекор по чекор тргнаа нал колоните...



Се разденува. Намуртена, бледорозова развиделина се спyшта ол кај Бела Вода и лениво се постелува отаде Преспанското Езеро. Крстовица го поправи веленцето, го префрли преку рамо, се наведна како да оди наспроти силни ветришта и појде по пустото правливо џаде. Оди право пред себе, газејќи по трагите на тие кои појдоа пред неа... Сега не свртува опуљ зад себе. Во ноќта што ја помина на лединката cкраја од правливото џаде. смртта,чиниш, помина покрај неа, се загледа во нејзините солзи и се врати таму, зад ридовите. кај езерото, во трските, во ширното поле на Мала Преспа.



Двете колони тенкови, едната од Лерин преку Псодери, а другата од Костур преку Габреш, се сретнаа на крстосницата подолу од селото Желево и се упатија кон Превалот каде владината пешадија веќе два часа води борба. Не се задржуваат. Брзаат да излезат на рамнината во Раби и од таму да го фатат Пероо, теснецот меѓу двете езера и на овој начин на единиците кои се повлекуваат од Бела Вода и Бигла да им го затворат патот кон Албанија. Пред да влезат во Оровник, се слушнаа три силни експлозии. Полетаа во воздух трите мостови пред селото. Потоа се стресе земјата и воздухот се наполни со чад. Минерите ги yништуваат магацините со оружје и храна вкопани во подножјата на ридовите меѓу Оровник и Попли. Противникот ги премести артилериските батерии на нови позиции, поблизу до Преспа и отвори оган по патеките по кои врват отстапниците и бегаат во Албанија. Во утринските часови од југ долетаа првите авиони и, летајќи еден зад друг, најпрвин ја напаѓаат Мисодагиста, а потоа во низок лет ги митралираат и ракетираат ридовите над Медово и Раби. Камиони префрлуваат пешадија до Штрково и таа веднаш влегува во борба. Два баталјона на ДАГ жестоко се бранат. Тенковите свртија лево и се втурнаа во полето во насока на Пероо. Противтенковските миини избувнуваат под тенковските гасеници. Запрен е напредокот. Единниците на ДАГ кои се повлекуваат од Бела Вода им се придружyваат на бранителите во Раби, но пладнето добиваат бочен удар од владината војcка која се проби од насоката Клештина - Раково - Герман. Повлекување. Оставајќи ги убиените и ранетите се повлекуваат кон Пероо по бришаниот простор. Противникот од сите орудија ги нема на нишан и ги бие. Се што уште може да трча, да оди и да се влече, се упатува кон високите и густи трски. Борците на ДАГ и многу од цивилното население, кои не успеаја да го преминат Пероо, тука бараат спас. Повеќето кои паѓаат, куршум добиваат во темето, плеќите, нозете. Полето послано со мртви и ранети. Нив ги сотруваат тенковските гасеници. Два тенка се пробија до теснецот. Силна експлозија го разнесе во воздух насипот што ги дели цвете преспански езера. Водите налудничаво поплавуваат дел од плажите и Преспанското поле. Ова го смири бесниот напад. Тенковите застануваа и по кратко време се повлекуваат се до патот што врви под селата. Авиони во формации, по три наизмечно, долетуваат од Рупишта и Кожани и во низок бришан лет го бомбардираат полето, трските, езерото. Се навалуваат на левото крило, свртуваат во полукрyг, ја бијат Сува Гора и се губат зад планината Врба. Така на секои пет-десет минути, а потоа долетуваат авиони од Лерин. Над Преспа се спуштаат од кај Бела Вода. Летаат во хоризонтална линија, така што го опфаќаат целото мало Преспанско Езеро и бијат. Високо се издигнуваат водите, езерото клокоти, горат трските. Heкои се обиауваат да препливаат, ама не стигнуваат до брегот.



Во командниот пyнкт на Третата дивизија што пред малку е поставен на ритчето над селото Попли, остро заsвони телефонот. Командантот ја подигна слушалката и веднаш застана во став мирно.



- Да, да, господине генерале. Напредуваме. Веќе владееме со целиот простор од источната страна на езерото. Не, да, има само спорадичен, скоро поединечен отпор. Каде? Скриени се во трcкитe и таму се бранат. Да, се разбира, до паѓањето на мракот ќе совладаме, а во текот на ноќта нашите единици ќе ја заземат таканаречената Африка, западно од езерото. Молам? Прашувате како се држи нашата храбра авијација? Во полето и езерото го сее стравот, ужасот и катастрофата. Да, се е под наша контрола... Да, да, господине генерале... Денес е четиринаесетти август. Утре без борба ќе го прославиме празникот Голема Богородица. Да, благодарам. Господине генерале, ако ми дозволите, сакам да речам дека ова што тука сега се случува, веќe не е борба, ами чисто убиство, да не речам злосторство. Наредете да престане овој пекол... Езерото е црвено од крв... Да, се разбира, господие генерале. Јаc како војник и старешина ќе си ја вршам мојата војничка должност, но како човек...



Зуе слушалката. Од другата страна на жицата занеме гласот...



Петнаесетти август. Во цела Грција се слави празникот Голема Богородица. Веста за големата победа во Атина стигна по радиоврска, но нeа цела ноќ ја вестеа истрели со светлетчки куршуми кои се пренесуваат од рид до рид, од град до град, се Атина.



Селаните од околните села, кои не успеаја да избегаат отаде границата и заробените борци на ДАГ, натерани од владините војници, ги собираат убиените. Во августовската жега се шири реа. Попладнето од Лерин стигнаа булдожери и почнаа да копаат длабоки ровови во песокливата земја. Во нив еден врз друг ги фрлаат убиените борци на ДАГ, а потоа булдожерите ги посипуваат и грижливо ја израмнуваат земјата. Се добива впечаток дека тука е свежо изорана нива.



Во Раби чека колона војнички камиони. Од целото преспанско боиште и од другата страна на езерото, па се до кај што држи границата, со џипови и на носилки носат убиени и ранети владини војници. Убиените ги товараат во камионите и ги носат во Лерин. На гробиштата вeќe се ископани гробовите. Во присуство на леринскиот владика и официјалните воени и цивилни власти, свечено, со труба и химна ги закопуваат. Војнички фанфари и истрели од плотуни се слушаат по секое покривање на гробот. На крстот - име и презиме. Граѓанството со откриени глави стои собрано до самите гробишта. До нив и меѓy нив cтојат и тие кои дезертираа, кои потклекнаа, поткажуваа и предаваа. Cтојат неми, со рацете скрстени малку пониско од папокот. Камбаните бијат, а некои од граѓанството на балконите ги изнесоа радиоапаратите и ги развија знамињата. Низ цела Грција радиостаниците ја пренесуваат панихидата од атинската митрополија.



А тука во Преспа, е тивко во заодот на сонцето, во чии румени воздишки одблеснува штотуку смирената вода... Тука, на големото преспанско гробје, белобрад поп, чија сенка ја издолжува заодот, стои на земјата ишарана од гасениците на тенковите и булдожерите и со растреперен и скршен глас, шепоти:



“Блажени се бедните по дух, зашто нивно е царството небеско. Блажени се оние кои плачат, оти ќе се утешат” Блажени се кротките, зашто тие ќе ја наследат земјата. Блажени се гладните и жедните за правда, зашто тие ќе се наситат. Блажени се милостивите, зашто тие ќе бидат помилувани. Блажени се чистите по срце, оти тие ќe го видат Бога. Блажени се миротворците, зашто тие ќе се наречат синови Божји...”



Попот прекина и тргна пред себе, газејќи по меката земја. Во Лерин бијат камбаните, а владиката, завршувајќи ја панихидата, рече:



“Блажени се оние кои ги исполнуваат заповедите Негови, за да имаат право на живот и да влезат во градот низ портите. А надвор се кучињата, врачевите, блудниците, крвниците, идолопоклониците и ceкој кој сака да лаже и лаже...”



Граѓанството на војничките гробови положи цвеќе и венци и предводено од ѓупски свирачи, намуртено се растурува по своите домови.



А тука над преспанското гробје се слуша само плисокот на езерската вода, нема плачење, нема цвеќе и венци, не бијат камбаните во Оровник, Попли, Штрково, Медово, Раби, Герман, Нивици, Орово, Граждено, Винени, Лак, Буковик и Дреново. Северњакот носи далечен одзвук. Тоа камбаната отаде граница, во Долно Дупени, бие цело попладне и цела ноќ...



Тивко е и во тишината се слуша одвај чујниот и потулен глас на стариот поп:



“Блажени се гонетите заради правда, зашто нивно е царството небеско. Блажени сте вие кога ве срамат и прогонуваат и кога ќе говорат против вас секакви зборови... Вие сте солта на земјата...Вие сте светлината на светот...”



Прекина. Воздивна и од неговото засипнато грло тешко се откина зборот “Амин”.



“Амин...” повтори мракот и ридиштата, “Амин”, повторија запустените села и од гранатите осакатените дрвја. Така му се пристори на стариот поп, зашто наоколу никој не плаче. Ваму - таму земјата езерска се вдлабнува, налегнува таа меѓу мртвите, ги пригушнува, ги пополнува празнините.



Денот согоре. Кога во квечерината на небото се појавија првите sвезди и бледо одблеснаа во езерската вода, на Свети Ахил затреперија пламенчиња на свеќи што ги запали нечија рака. Во долгите и покорни молитви на попот, тие треперат како долго очекуван одзвук на живот што се појави над ова мртвило.



Попот продолжи по патот за на кај Раби. Оди полека и без престанување го отпева опелото и кога дојде до “последное целование”, тогаш му затрепери гласот, чиниш самиот се преголтна... “Последное целование” - отпеа, но никој не се приближи до мртвото преспанско поле. Застана на угорнинката cкраја од патот, се сврти кон полето - гробница, подигна раце кон небото и прошепоти:



- Блажени нека се гладните и жедните за правда, зашто тие ќе се наситат...



Трипати се пекрсти, клекна и неколкупати ја допре земјата со чело. Стана полека, сенким на неговите рамена се товарени сите тешкотии, маки, страдања и чемери на овој свет... Трипати пак се прекрсти стариот поп и велејќи “во вјеки веков”, тргна кон Герман...



Разбранетото езро кај Мала Преспа, чие сино огледало два дена го кршеа авионски бомби, топовски и минофрлачки гранати и го расечyваа илјади вжештени зрна, полека се cмирyва и на брегот исфрлува трупови.



Ѓорѓи не yспеа да го премине Пероо, теснецот мeѓy двете езера и остана во вителот на оганот. Tој успеа да се скрие во густите трски. Со раце ископа дол и се покри со песок. Од тука гледа како од обете страни на езерото и во самото езеро кипи дива, нагла, страстна, непомирлива, слепа, отворена и смртна, бесна и упорна како неразуздана стихија - борба за живот и како што се повеќе се разгорува омразата и пизмата. Едните ликуваа, другите со последниот истрел се бранеа, а кога го снемува и последниот куршум, тогаш и во рацете на девојките-борци болснува ножот, камата, штикот...



Дури утредента на пладнина се смирија водите. Од своето скривалиште тој гледа како ги собираат убиените п ранeтитe. Квечерината, не подалеку од себе тој слушна тивко, изморено плачење. Ниско наведнат, тргна по гласот. Во трcкитe, дополу легнато во водата, лежи момченце. На челото голем пивтосан струп, а на левото рамо рој муви. Го подигнува и полека го изнесува на суво. Му го мие рамото и со парче од кошулата му го преврзува. Момчeто липти, преплашено гледа во очитe на Ѓорѓи, трепери. Tој клекна на колена и во мигот кога сакаш да стане, малку понастрана, cамо десетина чекори од него, во трските виде легнато женско тело. Го остави детето и појле. Иако лицето и беше подуено, жената изгледаше млада. На образите остатоци од убавината. Има издупчени гради и големи, широко отврeни сини очи. На прстот прстен мeновнк. Набабрени од крв се одлепуваат пијавиците. Бранот плиска и небаре го гали мртвото тело, удира полека, се враќа и одново ја заплискува неа, непознатата. До неа автомат. Ѓорѓи го откопча шаржерот. Празен. Во нејзината стегната дланка, чудно подвиткана под левата града, му се пристори дека нешто се крие. Ја отвори и во неа најде два патрона. Изгледа, кутрата, помисли Ѓорѓи, не успеа да ги испука. Можеби ќe и го спасеа животот. Тој уште малку остана покрај девојката и потоа се врати кај момчето. Тоа легнато мeѓу трските, како исплашено врапче гледа во спепеленото небо. Ѓорѓи го подигна и го однесе до врбјакот што расте cкраја од езерото. Тука накрши гранки, ги собра под мишка и појде кај девојката. Ја довлече на суво. Со раце копа во песокот. Ја покри и врз купчето една по една ги стави зелените гранки. Од сите страни стави камења. Клечејќи, се прекрсти. Се врати кај момчето. Легна покрај него и чека да падне мракот. Кога на небото се покажа српот на месечината, тој го подигна момчето и, држејќи го во своите прегратки, тргна низ огромната гробница и кога само миг, без да го прекине растреперениот чекор, погледна кон небото, тогаш му се пристори дека и ѕвездите патуваат со него...



Ова не е крајот...



ЗА АВТОРОТ...



Петре Наковски – романсиер и преведувач, е роден на 17 јули 19З7 година во с. Крчишта, Костурcко, Егејска Македонија.



Педагошки лицеј завршил во Полска, а Филолошки факултет воп Cкопјe. Докторирал на Институтот за политички науки на Вроцлавскиот универзитет во Полcка. Бил новинар во весниците “Вечер” и “Нова Македонија”. Работел во Министерството за надворешни работи. Прв амбасадор на Република Македонија во Република Полска.



Член на ДПМ од 1989 година.



Автор е на повеќе раскази објавени во македонската периодика, како и на книгите: “Постела за чемерните” (роман, 1985), “Македонски деца во Полска 1948-1968” (докторски труд), “И камeнот е земја” (роман,1988).



0д Полски на македонски има преведено и објавено 40 литературни дела и поголем број песни и раскази од македонски автори на полски јазик.



Добитник е на наградите “Златно перо”, Наградата на полските автори, а е одликуван со Златен медал за заслуги за полската култура и Златен орден на командоријата.







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"Ido not want an uprising of people that would leave me at the first failure, I want revolution with citizens able to bear all the temptations to a prolonged struggle, what, because of the fierce political conditions, will be our guide or cattle to the slaughterhouse"
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Old 05-09-2015, 02:48 AM   #1247
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The Great Decline – Chapter 17 – Part 4



By Petre Nakovski

Translated and edited by Risto Stefov

rstefov@hotmail.com

April 26, 2015



Without order, without supervision the immense angry crowd was pushing, swarming, growing, gathering, squeezing, breaking, swelling, cowering, yelling, cursing…



People and livestock mixed together, drawn here by the evil that had befallen them, pushing them deeper into alien lands… Someone yelled at the top of his voice, the sound put the crowd on edge, some ran downhill crying in panic and bewilderment. The surge was pounding, squashing, rolling, stampeding, pushing and no one could calm it down. Screams and cries of women and children filled the air; children who hung on tightly to their mother’s skirt.



A horse got loose from its harness, loose and unbridled it ran high up the hill, hitting and running over everything and everyone in its path.



And as many times as the man wanted to say, he did not mention the dreadful, painful, terrible, frightening, sickly, sad, distressing sight which was now unraveling before his eyes.



He stood there straight and dumbfounded; looking down at the large mass of people all red and black. His eyes were blurred, feeling as if darkness was about to overtake them. His mouth was shut tight giving the impression that he was keeping something somewhere deep inside him, preventing it from boiling out. Slogans buried in him a long time ago were about to bust out; slogans that called for the people to have faith and termination. Slogans telling people to look forward to a better tomorrow, to a better future; slogans which in time grew, ripened and matured.



His mentors told him and all those around him and beyond, that life would be as sweet as honey and he, stupefied, listened with an empty salivating mouth. Perhaps he was this way because the situation was so hopeless and he was caught up in the whirlwind without considering the consequences.



Obedience, faith and trust in the leader and the Party were his road signs. From top to bottom his mentors had taught him that there was only one person who was wise and clever enough to lead and only he had the right to do the thinking and to run things.



Up to now he had imagined this thought of a future with semi-educated Party secretaries, deeply rooted in the Party, running his world. Now, with desperation in his eyes, he looked at the hopeless situation they had created. He was confused and it seemed to him that he had not yet seen the light, the entire picture, and was about to realize what was really going on.



And now he was beginning to wonder where the unshakable, unconditional, unwavering, blind, huge and unbreakable faith had gone? He looked at the mob yelling and crying with foggy eyes. He saw a vast canvas lying there covering the entire place. Again and again something was gnawing inside him, it seemed to him that some mysterious voice of reason, conscience and conviction, down from his heart and from the thick age-old oak trees standing across from him in the grove, was attempting to communicate; asking the question: “WHY? WHOSE VOICE HAVE YOU BEEN LISTENING TO AND OBEYING?”



He was incapacitated, bare, torn and eroded. He felt empty, lost and deceived. To believe in what and to have hope in what?



He isolated himself and felt abandoned. Had he made a mistake? Had he gone to the wrong side? Had he taken the wrong road or a wrong turn? He could not shake off these feelings from his conscience; he felt them like an open wound, like blow after blow and the pain, the suffering and the anguish, collected in him in layers and layers. The lost hope was hurting badly. He felt sluggish, lost, alone, bitter, mixed up. No longer afraid of what had happened but from what was going to happen. He stood on top of the hill defaced, naked and without courage. He understood now that there was nowhere to go, that there was no one to come to the rescue. In front of him there was desolation, behind him destruction and abandonment! Everything was burned, destroyed, turned to ashes. He stood there mute looking at the destruction as the sun slowly began to set.



In the grove, hidden away from the winding road, under the branches of the old oak trees, they were laying down the wounded. On the other side of the hill DAG fighters were pouring, coming down the hill. Some walked at a quick pace, others ran. They were all tired, cursing and swearing. A young Albanian lieutenant, speaking poor Greek, ordered them to go to the right. He said there they would find their own units. On a flat place near the road about ten freight trucks were parked and waiting. Another Albanian officer took some men and ordered them to load ammunition. He yelled and swore in Albanian at those who did not understand his orders. Some tossed the ammunition in piles and others onto the trucks. When they were done they stood to the side. They whispered suspiciously to each other, their eyes bloodshot from the smoke and lack of sleep. Some were tearing, tears which they wiped with their black hands, blackened from gunpowder.



It was hard, difficult and shameful for them to accept defeat. They were ready for anything, to stay in their bunkers to the last one, bunkers that had taken months to build, bunkers that covered the entire Vicho terrain. They were ready to die but it was others who had made mistakes in their calculations. Perhaps deliberate?



Suddenly there was the sound of a motorcycle approaching and a man wearing a uniform without markings, ordered:



“Comrades! Everyone go to your own units. Prepare yourselves and follow that man! March!” He waved and left.



The vultures stopped circling when the sky started to glow purple just before nightfall. The red disk of the bright sun slowly disappeared behind the mountain. In the clearing beyond the border, under a clear starry sky, the multitude was quietly crying, cursing, swearing, moaning and praying. The full moon began to shine from beyond the hill. Krstovitsa spotted an unoccupied spot and went to it. She took the woolen blanket off her shoulder. She leaned her shoulder on a rock which was still warm and radiating heat. A cloud blocked the moon and everything went dark.



In the dark, beside her, as if she was not there and did not exist, strangers were passing by, carrying heavy loads on their backs, tired and exhausted, quiet, mute. People were passing by guiding their livestock, shouting at one another, infants crying and elders choking with emotion. A woman’s voice was heard cursing in the dark and drowning in the convulsions of her sobbing…



Krstovitsa extended her hands, touched her feet and then the soil. It was easier to breathe now. She took a long breath and then wiped the sweat off her forehead and face and then put her black kerchief back on her head. She looked up. High up in the sky the stars were flickering. Occasionally the crowd went quiet, but just for a moment, that’s when the quiet roar of thunder could be heard in the distance with slight vibrations felt in the air. She slumped on the woolen blanket using it as a pillow and imagined that she was at home in her own house, in the dead of night beside her hearth in which she was sure the coals she had covered up with ash were still burning; she imagined that she was in her colourful guest room in which she had spread her worn out woolen blanket and thought about her children and her children’s children who had grown up on this woolen blanket.



And now, where are they now? She knows that her oldest son is lying dead somewhere under a rock on top of Ivan Mountain. She knows that her second son is working in some mine somewhere in Canada and Kotsa, her daughter, she knows that she was exiled to Egina Island in the Aegean Sea because her husband left with the Aegean Brigade. She knows that since last year the remains of her two grandsons have been resting in pieces somewhere in Gramos. She heard that her granddaughter had been shot in the back when she was returning from Negush and was left to bleed in the snow. She was told, and she still believes, that her granddaughter recovered from her wounds and took the road to Vicho.



And in her thoughts she again returned to the beginning, remembering everything that had happened, feeling the pain over and over again, and what hurt the most was her inability to get over her unhealed pain. Her heart had broken when she found out that Pavle, her eldest son, was left dead on Ivan Mountain. Her heart had broken when she received the dreadful letter with the king’s seal telling her that her son had died heroically in the Albanian mountains; heroically defending the Greek ‘patrida’ (country) against the Italians.



Broken hearted, Krstovica did not have the courage to ask the man who read her the Greek letter with the king’s seal why they had sent him to prison in 1936. Why had they sent her son, the hero who died on Ivan Mountain for Greece, to prison for six months on one of the dry Aegean Islands, for simply saying “good morning” in his Macedonian native language? And why did they have to give him castor oil to humiliate him?



When they read her the Greek letter about her two grandsons, who only last year had lost their lives and left their bodies on the rocks on Kleftis in Gramos, they said they had died heroically for the glory of Greece. They said they had died as Greeks for Greece. Those words gave her no comfort, no pride and no dignity in her heart. In fact they insulted her and gave her sharp pains in her gut. Macedonians have their own country and their own roots soaked in the blood of so many of their own heroes.



In their letters they write about Greece and Greeks and at the same time despise her for not knowing how to speak the Greek language, for not understanding the priest in church and for not knowing how to pray to God in Greek.



And when Krsto, her husband, did not return from the Asia Minor campaign, then too they read her a letter telling her that he, Stavros, had died admirably at Ali Veran for the greatness, for the glory and for the honour of Greater mother Greece. And before that when they made him wear their uniform, they called him “neznamitis” (“ne znam” in Macedonian means “I don’t know” or I don’t understand what you are asking”) because to every question they asked he replied with the words “ne znam” (I don’t know).



The Greeks sent letters stamped with a Greek royal seal to the families of the “neznamites’, even to those who had died in foreign lands, giving the impression that now even the most beloved sons of Macedonia care for Greece and are dying for the glory of Greece. But the Greeks say this only when the “neznamites’ serve their interests, when they fight for Greece, when they kill on behalf of Greece and when they spill their own blood to glorify Greece. It has always been this way with the Greeks. They like the “neznamites” and glorify them as long as the “neznamites’ march to the tune of their military drums and trumpets. But even then, they rob them of their speech. Even then, they do not allow them to cry, moan, or speak of their problems in their Macedonian language. They won’t allow their mothers, wives and sisters to cry and pray for them on their graves in their native Macedonian language. They won’t even allow their Macedonian names to be written on the crosses standing at the head of their graves.



And God, as we are told through the force of Greek law, does not recognize any other prayers besides those spoken in Greek. All mighty God, through the mouth of the all Greek Patriarch, obliges some to be happy and others to suffer in silence and to be sustained not by kindness and God’s love, but by bitterness and humiliation. So, in times of prayer, even though all people celebrate the One and same Christian God, not all are allowed to pray to him and glorify his name in their native language. And every week and holiday when church bells ring loudly, for some prayers are mute, recognized only by the expression in their eyes, foreheads, cheeks, low bows, foreheads touching the ground and by the barely visible movement of lips.



People know to say “amen” loudly and “Christ has Risen” or “For Many Years” (Live a long and prosperous life) silently and away from inquisitive ears. And when they received a letter from the battlefield with bad news, they set aside their fears of castor oil, the whip, the dry islands in the Aegean Sea and began to scream and wail in their own language because only through it can they find the deepest, most meaningful, most significant and most caring way to express their feelings and lighten their pain over the loss of a loved one.



Krstovitsa had to set aside her fears many times, on three separate occasions over the years. She wailed and wept aloud, in her Macedonian language, many times; during a holiday, on a weekday, during a celebration, during a burial and during a wake. Before the Greek-Italian war broke out, learning Greek in the night schools, she had barely managed to learn the first verse of the Greek version of “our father” but quickly afterwards when bad news began to arrive, prayer in Greek did not help her, not even when the priest and the teacher tried to convince her that God wanted to hear prayers whispered in Greek only. In her memory there was no place for forgetting, not the good and not the bad.



Sitting there leaning against the cool rock, Krstovitsa, through her teary eyes, struggled to gaze into the distance from which, through her blurred vision, she could see her house. But she sensed that it lacked eternal warmth and brightness, the goodness and the sad view of the Virgin Mary in front of which burned an oil lamp every day and night. Now that too was gone. The eternal and serene beauty seen from the porch above was also gone. The vine that once thrived and climbed above the porch was gone. All that remained now were the dry grapes hanging there burned by the heat wave. The old apple tree in the yard was burned too. It had been a shelter for all kinds of birds including swallows that constantly flew under it. It was now blackened by smoke and smelling like marigolds and basil of which there was so much in the yard. Desolate… Everything was desolate...



She raised her arms and touched her face with her hands. She wiped her tears… For a moment she felt weak and as if something in her had just broken. She began to weep… very quietly, silently, without quivering, without loud sobbing, but from the bottom of her heart. Then after she had wept for a while she felt something lift out of her, she was relieved by a long awaited calm. She tried to stand up, but in spite of all her efforts she still could not. She squatted down, looked around and attempted to identify the nocturnal noises around her. It seemed as if she was all alone. A step or two away she heard a cricket chirping quietly in the grass, then go silent. It stopped chirping as if wanting to listen and started up again; short chirps as if frightened from a firefly that flashed several times as it flew by near the road. It stopped again. It jumped a step further and renewed its chirping, this time it was more intense, louder; it filled the darkness with its sound.



Krstovitsa turned her head and then felt a shiver as the night air from the distant mountains made its way past her. There were sounds of thunder in the air. She listened. The leaves in the trees all over the vast wilderness rustled, spreading their sound all around her. The wind blew gently on this hot August night, softly caressing her cheeks. She felt something awaken; come alive inside her, something that had been trampled on, crushed, by the severity of life. “Oh God, am I dying or going crazy?” she asked herself quietly feeling calm, peaceful and relieved of her fears. Squatting by the rock she finally became aware of her knees hurting. “Am I cowering? From whom? Why?” she asked herself and slowly stood up.





ГОЛЕМАТА УДОЛНИЦА – 17 - 4



Петре Наковски





Безредна, непрегледна и гневна е толпата, се турка, се превалува, расте, се збира и гмечи, се дроби, бранува, се згрчува и згуства, се згушува и здавува и вика та колни... Се згрвалија и луѓе и добиток кои лошото ги подбра и ги влече, ги турка се подлабоко во туѓо... Heкој на сет глас викна и со викот ја затера толпата, која уште повеќе се затрча по удолницата разврескана, расплакана, развикана и разулавена. Навалицата гази и толчи, се затркалува, затупотува, затуркува и никој не може да ја заузда. Врисок и плач на жeни и дечиња кои грчевито се држат за мајкините поли. Зацвиска коњ и откинат од узда - разглавен и разуздан високо затрептува и зафрлува нозе, удира и гази...



И до каде што може во времињата да допре со паметењето, тој не си спомнува за ваква страшна и болна, кобна и тажна, ужасна и потресна глетка што сега се распостелува пред неговите очи.



Стои исправен и онемен; со крвјосани очи замаглен поглед спушта врз огромната црневина и чувствува дека го фаќа замрачување. Закатанета му е устата и сал му се присторува ли дека во него се клокоти, дека дури сега од него се откорнуваат долго закоренетите пароли кои ја гласеа и утврдуваа вербата во некое подобро утре...со кое растеше, зрееше и созреваше. Му велеа дека нему и на сите околу него и подалеку, животот ќе му биде замеден, а тој замелушен сал слушаше и замласкуваше со празна уста. Та можеби затоа безизлезно влета во виорот без да размислува за последиците. Послушноста, вербата и довербата во водачот и партијата - му беа патоказ. Од горе па надолу - го учеа - само еден е умен и само тој еден да мисли, а тој cамо да извршува. Се досега пред себе ја гледаше само онаа замислена прекрасна иднина која длабоко му ја беа вкорениле недоучените партиски секретари и ете, сега, со очај во очите, го гледа безизлезот. Збунет е и се чини дека допрва прогледа и согледа... И каде ли сега отиде таа беспрекорна и безусловна, непоколеблива, слепа, тврда. огромна и нескршлива верба? Замаглено гледа на развиканата и расплакана бегалска толпа што како огромно црно платно налегна и ја покри целата ширина. И пак и одново му се приcторyва дека некој таинствен глас на разумот, cовеста и осудата допира до него некаде од срцевината на дебелите и многyвековни дабови што растат на оброчиштето одспротива и го прашува: ЗОШТО! ЧИЈ ГЛАС СИ CЛУШАЛ И ПОСЛУШАЛ?



Разголен, разголен, распартален и разјадосен е. Се чувствува испразнет, загубен и измамен. Во што да верува и во што да има надеж? Се изрони таа и чувствува пустош... Погреши ли? Ја погреши cтраната? Го погреши патот? Сега од неговата свест не се одлепуваат овие прашања; ги чуствува како отворена рана, како удар зад удар, а болката, маката и чемерот се пласти и напластyва. Боли изгубената надеж.... Зачмаен е, збогоросан, збобрен, се му згорчи, се му се зборави. Сега веќе не се плаши од докарок, тукy cамо од закорок. Стои на ритчето обезличен, разголен и обескуражен. И разбра дека веќе нема избав.



Пред него запустеници, а зад него запустување! Се е изгорено, пепел сторено... Занемен стои пред видикот што раздвижен и разовкан црнее во сончевата заодба.



Во коријата што е cкраја од кривулестото џаде, под широко разгранетите дабје ги легнуваат ранeтитe. Од другата страна на ридот се уште слегуваат преудолу борци на ДАГ. Едни со забрзан чeкор, други трчаница. Во нивните очи умор и пцости. Млад албански поручник, на лош грчки јазик, им наредува да cкршнат десно. Вели дека таму е збирното место и ceкој да си ја најди cвојата единица. На полјанката до патот cтојат десетина товарни камиони. Друг албански офицер им наредува во нив да го товарат оружјeто. Tој вика и пцуе на албански кога нeкој не ги извршува неговите наредби, Едни во камионите, други во купови го фрлаат оружјето и се тргнуваат настрана. Со раце исчадени од барут, ги бришат cолзите, сомнително се гледаат, талкаат еден друг, шепотат. Тешко, со cрам се поднесува поразот. Беа готови на се, до последен да не ги напуштат бункерите што со месеци беа градени на сите височини на Вичо. Тие беа, ама други погрешија во есапењето. Намерно ли? Наеднаш се слушна брмчење на мотоцикл и маж без офицерски ознаки, нареди:



- Другари! Ceкој во cвојата единица. Постројте се и тргнете по оној човек! Марш! - Tој покажа со рака и заедно со брмчењето на моторот, го снема.



На небото што пред квечерина гори во пурпур, стрвниците не престанyваат да кружат. Отаде планината го снема црвениот диск на сонцето. На лединката, отаде границата, под ведрото и оѕвездено небо. врволиката тивко потплачува, колне, пцуе, лелека, мачно изречува збор за помен. Од зад ридот огреа полна месечина. Крстовица виде парче незафатено место и се упати таму. Го одрами веленцето. Со плеќите се потпре на каменот од кој се уште зрачи топлина. Облак засени месечина и настана мрак. Покрај неа, во темницата, во која таа е небаре ништо и како да не постои, поминчваат непознати, натоварени, папсани, молчеливи, неми. Врват луѓето, врват, пред себе тераат добиток, се довикуваат, доенчиња заплачуваат, залипуваат старци. Жена се разбреа на сет глас, растура колнежи во црната темница и се дави во грчот на липањето...



Крстовица пред себе испружи раце, ги допре cтапалата, а потоа земјата. Сеrа и е полесно да дише. Зема здив, ја брише потта од челото, потоа од лицето и одново се забрадува со црната шамија. Се загледува горе. Високо, таму во недостижното, мижуркаат sвезди. Повремено настанува кратка тишина и тогаш се слушаат глуви татнежи и одвај забележливи треперења на воздухот. Таа се навали на веленцето што го стави како возглавница и и се пристори дека е дома во глуво доба, крај своето огниште во кое сигурно се уште тлеат жарчињата што ги покри со спуза; и се пристори дека е во шарената гостинска одаја во која го распосла излитеното веленце и мисли на cвоитe рожби и на челадта од рожбите свои кои израснаа на ова веленце. А сега, каде ли се сега? За најстариот знае, дека лежи под една карпа на Иван Планина. За вториот ин знае дека работи во нeкој рудник во Канада, за Коца, дека е испратена на заточение на островот Егина во Егејското Море, затоа што момчето и заминало со Егејската бригада... За двата внуци знае дека лани парчосани останаа на Грамос, а за внука си слyшна дека нешто жeшо ја каснало за плеќи кога се повлекувала ол Негуш и останала да лежи во окрвавениот снег... Така и рекоа и таа се уште верува, дека внуката успеа да се исправи и дека се уште го држи патот што води кон Вичо... И со мислата пак се враќа на почетокот, се пронижува низ се што помина, а најмногу ја болат болките непреболени, болките недолечливи од кои cрцeто и е раскинато кога научи за Павле кој останал на Иван Планина. Тогаш и пратиле писмо со печат и царски знак, дека синот јуначки загинал на албанските планини, бранејќи ја грчката патрида против Италијанците.



Ама Крстовица не се осмели да го праша човекот кој и го читал писмото што носело царски знак - зошто триесет и шестата него, сега јyнакот од Иван Планина, заради едно “добро утро” изречено на македонски, шест месеци прележа на еден од камените и суви острови во Егејско Море? И зошто ли тогаш му дале рицинус и го посрамотиле? И кога пак на грчки и го читале писмото за двајцата внуци кои лани останале мeѓy карпите на Клефтис во Грамос, дека и тие јуначки отстоиле за славата на Грција, тогаш нејзиното срце не дознало гордост, не почувствувало достоинство, туку се згрчило во непреболот и во навредата затоа што тие, имајќи cвоја земја, свои корени натопени со крвта на толку други јунаци, во писмата и пушувале оти загинале како Грци за Грција, а неа затоа што не го знае грчкиот јазик и в црква не го разбира попот грчки и не знае на грчки да мy се моли на Бога, ја презираа. И кога Крсто не и се вратил од војната во Мала Азија, и тогаш и читале дека тој, Ставрос, славно паднал во Али Веран за величието, за славата и честа на Големата Mајка Грција. А кога пред тоа му ја облекле униформата, го нарекле “незнамитис”, затоа што на секое прашање поставено nа грчки, не знаејќи го грчкиот, одговарал “не знам”. Загинал “незнамитисот” во тyѓа земја, а нејзе и испратиле писмо со печат и царски знак... И така мајкините и бабините најcакани гинеле за славата на Грција и вределе за Грција само тогаш, кога знаеле да пукаат, да убиваат други, да отcтојyваат, со cвојата крв да ја величаат Грција. Секогаш така со нив, со “незнамитите”, кои биле сакани и величени само тогаш кога гласно свирела воената труба и најгромко удирале воените барабани. И тогаш им го земале зборот. А тоа било време кога им било забрането на cвојот јазик да ја искажуваат болката и жалта кон умрените и на умрените на крст да им го пишуваат нивното родовско презиме. И Господ, по силата на законот, не признавал други молитви освен оние изречени на грчки. А Господ единствен семоќен преку устата на сегрчкиот патријарх на едни им велел да се радуваат, а на други да страдаат во молчење и да се хранат не со добрината и љубовта Божја, ами со горчината на пониженоста... Така во тие времиња се славел еден христијански Бог, но на сите не им било дозволено на cвој јазик да испраќаат молитви кон Него и да го величаат името Негово. А таму кадешто ceкоја недела и ceкои празник гласно биеле црквенитe камбани - молитвите биле нeми, зборувале cамо очите, се молеле челата, образите, метаниите ниски, ниски до самоти земја допирана со чело, одвај забележливите движења на усните. Знаеле гласно да рeчат “Амин”, а тивко. нечујно “Христос воскресе” и за “многу години”... И кога од боиштата добивале писменца со лоши вести, тогаш престанувале да се плашат од рицинусот, од камшикот, од сyвиот остров на Егејот; пчштале писоци и лелеци на cвој јазик зашто само така најдлабоко, најболно, најпотресно, за олеснување на болката и за долг cпомeн на покојниот, ја искажувале cвојата болка. Така трипати Крстовица одјареми страв и многупати и на празник и во делник и на веселба и на закоп и на разбуд, редшe гласно... Пред бојот со Италијанците во оние вечерни училишта, со мака успеале да и ги наyчат на грчки првите редови на “Оче наш” ама набрзо потоа стигнала лошата вест и eтe и таа молитва не и помогнала иако и попот и yчителот ја убедувале оти Господ Бог сака само молитви шeпотeни на грчки... Во нејзиното паметење нема место за доброто ниту за лошото...



Седи Крстовица потпрена врз студениот камен и низ солзите се се мачи да продре во далечината во која низ замаглината на солзите се појавува нејзината куќа. Во неа веќе ги снема вeчната топлина и светлината, добрината и тажниот поглед на Богородица прел која ceкој ден и ноќ без прecтан гореше маслениче. Сега угасна и тоа. Умре вечната и тивка убавина што се глелаше од високиот чардак. Вплетена во него се исуши лозата. Висат од жегата исушените гроздови... Во дворот изгоре старата јаболкница. Од под нејзините стреа засекогаш одлетаа ластовиците и ветерот презаситен со чад, далеку го однесе мирисот на џунџулето и босилокот што толку многу ги имаше во дворот... Пусто... Запустено... Подига таа раце и со дланките си ги допира образите. И брише, та брише солзи... Во еден миг почувствува дека заслабнува и дека во неа нешто почна да се крши. Заплака - тивко, без треперење, без гласно липање, ама од сесрце. Откако се изнаплака, почувстува дека во неа влегува некакво олеснување, небаре долго очекувано смирување... Се обидува да стане, ама и покрај целиот напор, останува да клечи. Гледа наоколу и се обидува да ги долови ноќните шумови. И се чини дека до неа, покрај неа нема никого. На чекор или два, во тревата се одгласи штурче, најпрвин тивко, испрекинато, cрамeжливо... Престана, небаре наслушнува; засвири одново, кратко и, изгледа исплашено од светулката што неколкупати болсна со мешето крај патот - прекина. Се оsва чекор подалеку - продорно, довикливо, го наполни мракот со себе. Таа сврти глава и тогаш почувствува како трепери ноќниот воздух од далечните подмолни татнежи. Наслушнува. Шумат дрвјата во огромната пустелија што се шири околу неа. Во жешката августовска ноќ тивко поддувнува ветер. Колку нежно и ги допира образите. Во неа нешто како да живнува и се пробудува, нешто што е затрупано со урнатините на животот... “Господе, зарем умирам или полудувам?” - смирено и без уплав се прашува и дури сега почувствува дека ја болат колената од клечење. “Клечам? Пред кого? Зошто?” - се прашува и полека стана...







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Old 05-09-2015, 02:51 AM   #1248
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The Great Decline – Chapter 17 – Part 3



By Petre Nakovski

Translated and edited by Risto Stefov

rstefov@hotmail.com

April 22, 2015



The stranger moved and as if nothing had happened, lifted his head, took the kerchief off his face and with a tired, exhausted and sleepy voice asked: “Did I, dear mother, fall asleep?” He did not expect a reply. He looked up at the blue sky and then looked around, wrapping his eyes around the scorched earth and dust and, while attempting to gather his thoughts, said: “We released some string from the spool and with it we found our way here. The spool was small, the string ended here, who knows how long the road ahead is, in what valleys and hills, forests and brooks… Unstitch, dear mother, unstitch some more string from the woolen blanket and with it we will trace our way back home, our footsteps will be covered by dust; water will wash the road, unstitch string from the woolen blanket so that we can find our way back home…”



His throat became hoarse and he stopped talking. As if lost, he looked at the sky, took a deep breath and said: “Unstitch dear mother, unstitch some thread from the woolen blanket so that we can mark…” He was unable to complete his sentence. The old woman interrupted with a sharp tone of voice:



“Take your dirty hands off the woolen blanket and don’t even dare look at it! The road has already been marked… by you and those...” She did not finish saying who ‘those’ were. The curse got stuck in her throat. She stood up, put her woolen blanket over her shoulder and without saying a word, stepped away. Without looking, she crossed the barrier that so many uprooted people before her had crossed. She did not look back. She continued walking down the dusty road and he, without saying a word, stood up and followed her.



They walked slowly, one beside the other. Once in a while the old woman paused to wipe the sweat off her face, catch her breath and adjust the woolen blanket on her shoulder. They kept going. Not used to the slow pace, he tried to stay with her and catch her when she stumbled and she, with a choked voice, with broken words began to tell her story… She spoke, unfolding twists of her experience, of what was hers yesterday. He listened silently, moving forward, rarely looking at her. The sun was about to set. The heat began to subside… He stopped and sat down. He took the shmaizer off his shoulder and braced it on his knee. The old woman, leaning forward, put down her woolen blanket, wiped the sweat off her face and stood there. She looked at the crowd of people gathering under the trees… He pulled out a small bag of tobacco, ripped a small piece of paper from a newspaper, twisted a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled a deep puff and slowly exhaled the smelly smoke. He spat to the side, puffed and spat again. He looked up at the blue sky and with eyes closed, asked:



“Did you say the woolen blanket was a gift and that you brought up your children and grandchildren on it? Did you say you left your house open and that you covered the burning coals in the fireplace with ashes? The coals will smoulder in the hearth for a long, long time. They will smoulder and wait. Look, the grove is emptying. The people are leaving. Let’s go, let us take the road that awaits us. Just like this, put the woolen blanket on your other shoulder so that your arm, holding the black copper jug, does not become numb. And when I tell you to stop, pause to catch your breath. And now, let’s go and don’t turn back, don’t look back. I will say it again, if you fall your people or strangers will surrender you to the earth and will steal your woolen blanket. Did you say we will return to our homes, to our old houses, we will uncover the smouldering coals and light a fire? Did you say that then you will lay down the woolen blanket on which your children and grandchildren grew up… Did you say, dear mother, your oldest lies under some stone on Ivan Mountain? And do you know where Ivan Mountain is? Look to your right. Over there, the one standing high, that’s Ivan Mountain… Is this where an Italian grenade cut him to pieces? And about your two grandsons they told you that last year they were left resting on Bel Kamen and that they saw your granddaughter at Charno resting beside her machine gun? And did you say she had blond hair, big blue eyes and a beautiful face with a sweet smile? Oh, dear mother, many at Charno blackened and turned to coal, burned by the living fire… At Treskavets, Aliabitsa and on every hill in Gramos…”



The man, as if wanting to ease the old woman’s pain and anguish which she carried with her, repeated again and again the words the old woman had spoken and, after moving a few steps ahead, would not look back. He knew very well what was happening there. And if some commander stopped in front of him, who now like him roamed the roads of the bordering country, if he stopped in front of him and told him: “Back you son of a bitch, back! Back to your post!” then without hesitation he would circle back and continue on the dusty dirt road back to the place where he would be ordered to die.



Eight years with a gun over his shoulder he formed the habit of listening and doing as he was told. In his younger years he did not even want to think for himself. What soldier is a soldier if they think for themselves? In what army do they teach soldiers to think for themselves? A soldier is trained to obey orders without asking questions. To listen, to do and not to think, it was drilled into their heads, it was in their blood. But later, when he matured, first in the Partisan ranks of ELAS, then in the Aegean Brigade, after serving in the Yugoslav People’s Army, and after that in the People’s Militia, he began to think and his thinking was sometimes not on the same level as the orders given to him to carry out. He never had officer’s epaulettes on his shoulders. He was a regular soldier for eight long years, always hungry and the host of many lice. In 1937 they made him wear a Greek uniform; drilled him, taught him how to kill and, as in every army, taught him it was honourable to kill and assured him, like they do in every army, that his life was the most important thing that he had and must be sacrificed for his ‘patrida’ (country).



The following year, 1938, he made a mistake about his ‘patrida’, for which his ‘patrida’ took his military uniform and exchanged it for a prison uniform. And why? Because in the unit where he was serving there were several ‘endopi’ (indigenous Macedonians) with whom he spoke in his Macedonian mother tongue. That’s right! He was sent to prison for speaking the language he had learned from his mother! The sergeant, who was also Macedonian from the same region, warned him twice to watch himself and that speaking the Macedonian language was prohibited. He knew that it was prohibited but, being angry at something, he swore in his mother tongue and having drunk a little too much he and his friends sang the Macedonian song, “I hear the rustling of the beech wood trees” in the café. The song was sung quietly but loudly enough for others to hear. For that he was put in jail for six months, which he served on one of the dry islands in the Aegean Sea.



Those six months meant a lot to him. He met many older, thoughtful and educated people. And each one of them, in their own way, explained to him the wrongs that Greece (which some called the anti-people regime) was committing against its people and made it clear to him why people were poor, hungry and dressed in rags. They explained to him that everyone had the right be treated fairly, as an equal. Everyone had the right to have a job and to be paid, and not in the way things were done at that time; you having to work and someone else becoming rich and having a rich life.



He had difficulties understanding the concept of ‘society’ and a ‘proletariat revolution’, but it seems that hiding in his misunderstanding was this mysterious power from which sprang his conviction. In the simple and still unpolluted soul of this ordinary Macedonian villager, exactly those unrecognized words created confidence and faith. What he liked most about this was that in this new society, every day and night would be distributed evenly: eight hours work, eight hours sleep and eight hours learning and fun. And because he was very interested in learning he accepted the last part with mixed feelings. Of course this was understandable, but ultimately and unquestionably he accepted the truth that in this society everyone was going to be equal.



“What more could I want than being equal?” he often thought to himself. “Is there anything better than being equal, for example, to a general? Congratulations to the person who thought of such a society. A nice society.”



After six months, those who sentenced him, convinced that he was rehabilitated, returned him to a unit in which many like him also served. With their eyes fixed into the future and their heads filled with righteousness, which they barely understood, enthusiastically and trustingly they preached their ideals to others.



In the spring of 1939 they took his rifle and his uniform and sent him home to his village, wearing his old worn out rags. It was Easter and after church service, in the town square, the music band began to play. He took a one thousand drakma bill from his pocket, spit on the king’s face, slapped it on Duro’s forehead and said: “Bajracheto, play the Bajracheto!”



He was first, leading the dance. He started out lightly, hopping gently, swinging his kerchief up high in the air when suddenly the music stopped. There, beside the bandstand, stood the chief of police with his whip, gently tapping in his open left palm. The man lowered his leg with which he was about to take the next step in the dance and stood up straight. His right cheek began to tremble and his eyebrows furrowed. He crumpled his open kerchief in his hand and with a measured steady step walked to the bandstand. With an angry but quiet voice he said: “Continue to play!”



The old clarinet player, Duro the Gypsy, looked at the police chief for approval.



“I paid you for this dance, not him!” said the man.



“If it’s about the money, take it back…” said Duro quietly. He then went close to the man and whispered in his ear: “This police chief is a bastard and he will take away my right to play my instrument. Speak with him.”



The man turned. The police chief was rhythmically tapping his left palm with his whip. He could see a challenge in the reflection of the man’s eyes. The man came close to the police chief and asked in Greek: “You sir, did you order this dance to stop?”



There was silence. The whole place went quiet. Anticipation. There was a breath of fear in the air…



“Sir,” now in a calmer tone of voice, “Mr. Police Chief, today is Easter. If you want to and if you can, celebrate Christ’s resurrection with us and share with us that happiness,” said the man.



“And if I don’t then what?” asked the police chief with a slight smile on his face, beginning to tap his hand harder with the whip.



“Then gather your constables and get the hell out of our village!” replied the man.



“Is that so?” asked the police chief. “And do you know that we know everything about you? For example, we know that you are a communist and that every day you speak in that prohibited language, which means you disrespect the law and you show contempt for the great and clever wise man, Yoannis Metaxas. And besides that, a while ago you spat on the king’s face!”



The man wanted to say more but did not get the chance. With lightning speed the police chief hit the man across the face, with his policeman’s whip. It felt as if his entire face had been fried in hot oil. Without thinking, the man butted the police chief in the face with his head and at the same moment yanked the whip out of his hand and with it, hit him twice over the head.



His fellow villagers cursed the man for a long time because that Easter day they were all beaten to a pulp. As for him, they took him to Kostur and after a short trial found him guilty of speaking the forbidden language at home and in public places, of swearing and of attacking the government. He was sent to prison.



The man loved his fatherland but he was unable to make the commander understand which and whose fatherland he loved. The man left and went to defend his fatherland. He was enlisted in the 28th Regiment of the Fifteenth Division. The entire regiment was made up of young men from the Kostur and Lerin Regions.



He received a light wound at Ivan Mountain and was sent to Pogradets. And since then he had not put his rifle down. Since then he had no epaulettes on his shoulders to weigh him down. The only things that weighed him down were the belt of the cold metal barrel and ammunition which cut his shoulders and turned him into a hunchback. He went to the mountains with the first detachments and fought against the Italians. And when “Lazo Trpovski” the first Kostur battalion was formed, in which all the fighters and commanders were Macedonians, he left ELAS and joined a Macedonian Partisan detachment.



He used to get angry, swear and fight bitterly with his friends when he heard that those “up there, above” the superiors, as they used to call them, argued among themselves, blamed one another and vilified each other, dividing themselves and taking this side or that. He stayed clear of all that and held his own side, the side that fought for a free, united and independent Macedonia.



He cried with tears of joy and hugged the Macedonian fighter from across the border, from Vardar Macedonia, when they arrived in Kostur Region. He spent several days with them wandering around, talking and singing revolutionary and patriotic songs about Macedonia. But soon after that he became angry and remained angry and very disappointed when he found out that the army command in Vardar Macedonia had refused to allow the Kostur Region youth to join its movement and since then wondered, asking himself and others, why no one wanted to create an all Macedonian army?



One of the commanders told him that it was up to the Parties and the Parties had some kind of understanding and things were done according to this understanding. He quickly realized that the Parties wanted a war of liberation with everyone fighting inside their own border. Anyone who did not follow those conditions would be labeled a separatist and prosecuted accordingly.



The young people who took to the mountains to join the struggle were turned back, returning home embarrassed and mocked.



When the war was over the Aegean Brigade, after the battles against the Balisti, was disbanded outside of Gostivar, the fighters were then dispersed to various services and he thought to himself, ‘The time has come when no new graves will be dug on Macedonian soil.’ And every day new refugees arrived from the Aegean part, bringing bad news, saying that a new armed resistance had begun. He often wondered whether he should go or not? He was unemployed, living off the municipal cauldron. He reported to the People’s Militia and found work there. They told him his task was to continue the struggle against the People’s enemy.



He continued to walk in front of the old woman, something made a strange sound as he stubbornly paced on the dusty road, baked by the summer heat. He looked, there between the branches of the old oak tree the sun blinked and for a very short moment his eyes stared at the burning sky. A heavy, stifling and dry heat fell all over his face taking his breath away. They reached the summit. To the left was a forest. There were masses of people and livestock under the thick and tall oak trees and all over the entire long and wide meadow. Above them there was a lot of shouting and a cloud of dry dust. The crowds arrived and rose, they thickened, they roared, they babbled, they pushed and swarmed and they filled the meadow and the woods. And from another wilderness new crowds poured, women and men driven to run at the last moment after taking their belongings with them.





ГОЛЕМАТА УДОЛНИЦА – 17 - 3



Петре Наковски



Непознатиот се помрдна и како да не беше ништо, подигна глава, отфрли шамија од лице и со изморен, истоштен и поспан глас, праша:



- Јаc, мајче, изгледа сум дремнал, нели? - Не чека одговор. Погледна на cиното небо, потоа наоколу, со поглед ја прибра вжарената земја и прашината над неа и, обидувајќи се да ја врзи прекинатата мисла, рече:



- Конецот од клопчето го отпуштивме и со него обележавме пат... до тука... Малечко беше клопчето и конецот го довлековме до тука, а пред нас кој знае колку долг пат се влече, по какви долови и ридови, по какви шуми и трапишта... Отпарај, мајче, отпарај, конец од веленцето и со него да го бележиме патот за в дома... траrите прашина ќе ги покрие; патот водје ќе го излокаат... парај конец од веленцето за да знаеме по кој пат да се вратиме дома... - Грч му стегна грло и тој замолкна. Изгубено гледа во небото. Длабоко вдишува и вели: - Отпарај, мајче, отпарај конец од веленцето... за да го обележиме... - не доврши мисла. Старичката го прекина со остар глас:



- Тргни ја таа валкана рака и не cмeј да погледнеш на веленцето! Се најде кој да бележи пат... го обележавте вие... и тие... - Не кажа кој. Во грлото и застана клетвата. Стана. Го нарами веленцето и без збор појде и не виде дека очекори отаде мeѓата што пред неа ја беа испогазиле толпи искорнатици. Не гледа назад. Оди по правливиот пат, а тој без збор се довлече и шлапа покрај неа.



Чекорат полека. Еден до друг. Повремено старичката застанува да избрише пот и подлабоко да здивне и на грб да го донамести веленцето. Одат. Tој ненавикнат на бавен чекор, се обидува да и додржи од, ја додржува кога се сопнува, а таа со засркнат глас, со испрекинати зборови раскажува... раскажува... оддиплува дипли од тоа што беше нејзино вчера. Tој слуша и молчешкум, газејќи пред себе, ретко погледнува на старичката. Сонцето скоро се cимна за еден остен. Горештината попушта.. Tој застана и седна. Го одрами шмајзерот и го потпре на колено. Старичката, наведнувајќи се, го спушти на земја веленцето, избриша пот од лице и cтои. Гледа на толпата луѓе собрани во шумата. Tој извади тутyнќесе, од весник скина парче хартија, свитка цигара и запали. Вдишува длабоко и полека испушта смрдлив чад. Плука настрана. И пак влече и пак плука. Задржа поглед на cиното небо и со подзамижани очи, тој праша:



- Велиш веленцето ти е даровно и на него си ги израснала и чедата и внуците? И дека и куќата си ја оставила отворена и жарот што тлееше во огништето си го покрила со пeпeл? Ќе тлеат жарчињата во спузата... Ќе тлеат и... ќе чекаат... Пули, шумата се празни. Стануваат луѓето и фаќаат пат. Ајде, ајде да станеме и да го фатиме патот што не чека. Ете, така, де, префрли си го веленцето на другото рамо за да не ти отрпне раката со која го носиш тој црн ѓум... А кога ќе ти речам да застанеш, подзастани колку здив да прибереш. А сега, ајде, да појлеме и ние и не cвртувај се, не гледај зад тебе. Таму, зад нас, се е во чад и пламен... оди и не гледај зад тебе. И пак, велам, ако паднeш, cвоите или тyѓите ќе те предадат на земјата и ќе ти го украдат вeлeнцeто. И велиш ќе се вратимe дома, во старата куќа, ќе ги откриeмe жарчињата и ќе го распалиме огништето? Велиш дека тогаш ќе го постелиш веленцето на кое ти израснале чедата и внуците... И велиш, мајче, дека најcтариот лежи под нeкоја карпа на Иван Планина? А знаeш ли која е таа планина? Погледни десно. Ете, таа што високо се извишува е Иван Планината... Таму го распарчила италјанcката граната? А за двата внука ти рекле дека лани останале на Бел Камен и дека внуката ја виделе на Чарно легната врз автоматот? И велиш дека имала руса коса, големи сини очи, бело лице и блага насмевка?... Ех, мајче, тамy на Чарно многу црносаа и гламносаа во жив оган и вивнати пламење... И на Трескавец и на Аљавица и каде не по ридиштата на Грамос...



Човекот како да сака да и олесни на сопствената болка и на маката што ја влече со себе, ги повторува и ги преповторува зборовите на старичката и, тврдо газејќи напред, не свртува опул зад себе. Tој добро знае што станува таму. И ако пред него застане нeкој командир, кој како него сега талка по беспаќата на пригранината земја, ако застане пред него и му рече:



- “Назад, кучкин cинe, назад! Назад на позиција!”, тогаш нему нема да му затрепери око - на лево круг и пак ќе продолжи по правливиот пат назад се до местото каде што ќе му биде наредено да погине. Осум години не одрами пушка и веќе навика му е да слуша и да извршува. На помлади години дури и не сакаше да размислува. Кој војник е војник што размислува? Во која војcка војниците ги учат да размислуваат? Војник - се знае: “разбирам” и “смеам ли да прашам”. Така, да слуша и да извршува - но не и да размислува - тоа му беше во крвта. Ама подоцна, кога созреа, најпрвин во партизанските одреди на ЕЛАС, потоа во Егејската бригада, па служејќи во Југословенската народна армија, а потоа и во народната милиција, размислуваше, а размислувањето понекогаш беше рамно и на неизвршување на наредба... Офицерски еполети на рамо немаше никогаш. Осум години обичен прост војник. никогаш нeнајаден и секогаш хранител на вошки. Илјада деветстотини триесет и седмата му ја облекоа грчката војничка униформа; го вежбаа, значи го учеа да убива, како во сите војски, велејќи му дека тоа е чесно и го убедуваа, како во сите војски, дека неговиот живот е највредното што го има и треба да го даде за “патридата”. Наредната година, триесет и осмата, нешто и згрешил на “патридата”, та затоа му ја соблекоа војничката униформа, му облекоа затвореничка. А зошто? Затоа што во единицата во која служеше имаше неколку “ендопји”, со кои си прикажуваше на мајчиниот јазик, на македонски, де. Водникот кој потекнуваше од неговите места, едно двапати му прости и го потсети дека тоа е забрането. Знаеше дека е забрането, ама кога налутен од нешто опцу на тој cвој мајчин јазик и малку поднапиен залеа в кафеана “Слушам кај шумат буките...”, додуша тивко, ама доволно гласно за да го слушнат некои, на шест месеци го пратија во казнена единица во еден од логорите на сувите острови во Егејското Море. Тие шест месеци му значеа многy. Запозна многу постари мажи од себе - неписмени и учени. И ceкој од нив на cвој начин му ги објаснуваше кривовштините што ги прави државата (некои тоа го нарекуваа ненародниот систем) и му објаснуваа зошто народот е сиромашен, ненајаден и лошо облечен и дека сите треба да бидат еднакви, сите да имаат работа и плата. а не така како што е сега - ти работи, а нeкој друг да се богати и богато да живее. Зборовите: општество и пролетерска револуција тешко ги разбирапrе, ама се чини дека токмy во тоа неразбирање и несфаќање се криеше некаква таинствена моќ од која извираше убедувањето. Во простата и се уште неизвалкана душа на овој обичен македонски селанец, токму тие непознати зборови влеваа сигyрност и вера. Најмногу му се бендисуваше тоа дека во тоа ново општество на ceкој денот и ноќта праведно ќe му бидат распоредени: осум часови работа. осум чаcои спиење и осум часови учење и забава. А бидејќи не беше и толку мераклија за учење, последното го прифаќаше со мешани чувства. Освен ова се беше разбирливо. ама крајно и безпоговорно ја прифати вистината дека во тоа општество сите ќе бидат еднакви. “Што сакаш подобро од еднаквост? - cи мислеше. - Има ли подобро од тоа да cи еднаков на пример со еден генерал? Алал мy вера на тој што измислил такво општество. Баш убаво, мајката”. По шест месеци, тие кои го казнија, убедени дека е превоспитан, го вратија во единицата во која се најдоа и други како него – со вперен поглед во иднината и со главите полни со правди што одвај ги разбираа, ама воодушевено и во доверба ги проповедаа... Пролетта, илјада деветстотини и триeceт и деветтата мy одрамија пушка, му ја пресоблекоа униформата и во cвоитe селски излитени алишта стаса в село, дома. Беше Велигден. По Богослужбата, на средсело, на вигната, засвирија тапанџиите. Tој од паричникот извади илјадарка, плукна токму таму кајшто беше ликот на кралот, му ја залепи на чело на Дуро, стариот кларинетист и му рече:



- Бајрачето, свири го “бајрачето”!



Се фати прв на оро. Го поведе лесно, потскокливо, живо и колку што се разви ороводниот гердан, оледнаш пресекоа свирките. Астиномот застанат до тапанџиите, полека и одмерено удираше со камшикот на отворената лева дланка. А тој спушти нога подигната за следниот чекор во орото, се исправи. му затрепери десниот образ, веѓите му се намуртија. Развеаното шамивче го собра в дланка и со одмерен и сигурен чекор појде на кај тапанџиите. Со налутен ама тивок тон рече:



- Продолжете да свирите...



Стариот кларинетист, ѓуптинот Дуро, прашалнички покажа со глава на аcтиномот.



- Јаc го платив орото, а не тој!



- Ако е до парите - тивко рече Дуро - ги враќам. - Доближа уста до неговото уво и му шепна: - Оној пезевенк, астиномот, ќе ми ја земе дозволата да cвирам. Зборyвај со него.



Сe сврте. Аcтиномот и натаму ритмички чдираше со камшикот на левата дланка. Во неговите очи - одблесок на предизвик. Појде на кај него. Застана пред него, го праша на грчки:



- Ти ли, господине, си наредил да престане орото?



Молк. Вигната замолкна. Исчекување. Издив на страв...



- Господине - сега веќе со посмирен глас – господине астиноме денес е Велигден... Ако сакате и ако можете, славeтe го заедно со нас Xриcтовото воскреснување и делете ја заедно со нас таа радост...



- А ако не? Тогаш што? - подсмешливо праша астиномот и посилно yдри со камшикот по дланката.



- Тогаш да си ги соберете пандурите и да ве нема од нашето село...



- Така ли? - праша астиномот. - А знаеш ли ти дека ниe се знаеме за тебе? Знаеме, на пример, дека си комунист и дека ceкој ден зборуваш на тој забранет јазик, а тоа значи непочитyвање на законите и понижување на ликот на великиот и единствено умен и мудар Јоанис Метакcаc. А освен тоа пред малкy го исплука ликот на кралот...



Tој сакаше нешто да рeчe, ама не успеа. Небаре како молскавица прелета пред неговите очи полицискиот камшик и на лицето почувствува пржење. Избезумен со глава го удри в лице и во истиот миг му го откина од рака камшикот и му врза два нишани од уво до уво.



Селаните долго го колнеа затоа што тој ден на Велигден сите беа претепани. А него го однесоа во Костур и по кратка постапка мy пресудија: за зборување на забранeтиот јазик дома и на јавно место, за пцуeњe и напад на власта – заточеништво. Потоа дојде октомври, илјада деветстотини четириесеттата. Партијата повика: cитe комунисти на фронт. Се јави мeѓy првите. Го ослободија. Ја тука да гние и државата да троши - рече командантот на логорот - ја таму да загине, од една страна е исто, а од друга нека докаже колку ја сака татковината.



А тој ја сакаше татковината, ама не можеше да се разбере со командантот на логорот чија и која татковина. Отиде да ја брани татковината и стигна до Подградец. Ете и оттогаш тој не одрами пушка. До тогаш на раменици никогаш не му натежнаа еполети. Му тежеше cамо студеното железо, ременот и редениците му ги пресечуваа рамената и го подгрбавија... И кога се појави првиот костурски партизански батаљон “Лазо Трповски” во кој и борците и јазикот и командите беа македонски, тој го напушти ЕЛАС и му се придружи на македонскиот партизански одред. И се лутеше, пцуеше, жолчно се расправаше со другарите кога слушаше дека таму “горе” како што се вeлeшe - големците се караа меѓу себе, се обвинуваа и се клеветеа, се распоредуваа на оваа или онаа страна. Tој остана и се држеше за онаа страна која одлучи да се бори за слободна и обединета Македонија. Со солзи в очи ги прегрнуваше партизаните од Вардарска Македонија кога тие стигнаа во Костурско. Неколку дена заедно сновеа, заедно пееја. заедно мечтаeја и борбени песни пееја за Македонија, ама остана лути многу разочаран кога виде дека командата на македонската војcка од вардарско одби да ги прими младите Костурчани кои масовно сакаа да е се приклучат и се чудеше и се прашуваше и себе си и другите зошто нeкој не сака да се направи една македонска војcка? Heкој од командата им рекол дека партиите се разбрале и така како што се разбрале, така ќе биде. Сфати дека партиите сакаат ослободителната војна да се води само до таму до каде што зафаќа предвоената гранична линија и ако нема да се придржуваат на ова, тогаш ќe бидат осудени како автономисти и така би. А младинците се враќаа дома засрамени и насмеани. Прегрме војната, Егејската бригада по борбите со балистите ја расформираа надвор од Гостивар, борците ги растурија по разни служби и тој почна во себе да мисли дека дојде време по македонската земја веќе да не се копаат нови гробови. И ceкој ден од Егејот доаѓаа бегалци, стигнуваа лоши вести се појавуваше оружен отпор. Размислуваше да оди или не. Беше без работа, се хранеше од општинскиот казан. Се пријави во народната милиција. И тука најде работа. Му рекоа дека негова задача е да ја продолжи борбата против народниот непријател...



Чекори тој пред старичката, нешто мрмори и инаетливо ја гмечи под себе правливата патeка спржена од летната жега. Meѓy гранките на старите попатни дабје мигнува сонцето и само за краток миг в очи им паѓа спопаленото небо. В лице им чдри тешка, неподвижна и задушлива жега и во од им суши здив. Излегоа на височинка. Лево од патот, шума. Под дебелите и високи дабови и по целата долга и ширна ливада - споулавено раздвижена црневина луѓе и добиток. Над нив викотници и облак сива прашина. Надојдува и надотекува, се згустува, бучи, баботи, протура и рои толпата, ја исполнува ливадата и шyмата и по други беспаќа дотекуваат нови бранови жени и мажи натоварени cамо со тоа што во последен миг успеаја да дигнат од дома и тераат пред себе стока.



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Risto Stefov and the falsification of Ancient Macedonian history

in Articles, FYROM Propaganda, Skopjan Propaganda / by Admin / on October 29, 2008 at 1:48 am /

















amchronlogo Risto Stefov and the falsification of Ancient Macedonian history





Australian Macedonian Advisory Council

October 29, 2008






Dear Editors,I feel obliged to write to you in order to express my deepest concern for the deliberate manipulation of well-evidenced historical events which is clearly reflected in the article “Most modern Greeks today believe the Ancient Macedonians were Greek” written by Mr. Risto Stefov. The specific article is full of unfounded claims, an enmity addressed against Greek people and sophisticated misrepresentations of the ancient Greek history with its main aim to deceive the unsuspected reader by attempting to present false claims, disguised to sound truthful.

Before proceeding through a point by point refutation of the baseless claims presented in article in question, I would like to point out that the title of the article is misleading. Certainly it´s not “Most modern Greeks” who accept the fact that ancient Macedonians were Greek but instead it´s the vast majority of the world today, including the core of the contemporary modern historians who accept it as a fact.

To rephrase the author´s initial question…Why is it so important in general for the Slavic element of the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM) which Mr. Stefov belongs, to believe that the ancient Macedonians were not Greek?

The answer is simple and plain. Because somehow they live under a misguided notion. Particularly, they believe that by disassociating Greeks from ancient Macedonians, this will mean in their illusionary point of view, they, the descendants of the Slavic and Bulgar tribes that entered the Balkan peninsula in the 6th and 7th centuries, are the historical heirs and descendants of the ancient Macedonians who lived a thousand or more years earlier and who were Greeks by their own testimonies. One can hardly go further in Orwellian double-speak. This absurd notion supported increasingly among the Slavs of FYROM, makes as much sense as asserting that if someone manages to prove a car´s color is not white, this would surely mean it is black!

Furthermore Mr. Stefov embarks on an clumsy effort to spread mendacious disinformation as regards to the events of the early 20th century. Incorrectly he states “Didn´t Greece in 1912, 1913 invade and occupy a fully populated Macedonia?” while the truth is that nobody has invaded Macedonia in 1913 but instead during the first Balkan war, the Balkan coalition between Bulgaria, Serbia and Greece invaded Ottoman Empire, for the liberation of the Greeks, Bulgarians and Serbs who lived there. Sadly for the author´s empty claims there was not back then, any ethnicity called ´Macedonian´. The term was used merely as a geographical indicator.

To quote some accounts of contemporary self-witnesses that shatters Mr. Stefov´s unfounded claims and deliberate misinformation:

John Foster Fraser in his “Pictures from the Balkans” verifies: “But who are the Macedonians [5]? You will find Bulgarians and Turks who call themselves Macedonians, you find Greek Macedonians, there are Serbian Macedonians, and it is possible to find Rumanian Macedonians. You will NOT, however, find a single Christian Macedonian who is not a Serbian, a Bulgarian, a Greek, or a Rumanian. They all curse the Turk, and they love Macedonia. But it is Greek Macedonia, or Bulgarian Macedonia, and their eyes flame with passion, whilst their fingers seek the triggers of their guns”. He further adds “I have some hope that in years to come the inhabitants will think less of their Turkish, Bulgarian or Greek Origin and a great deal more with the fact that they are all Macedonians”[2].

Edmund Spencer in his “Travels in European Turkey, in 1850…”writes “The population of Uskioub [Note: Modern Skopje], consisting of Arnouts, Jews, Armenians, Zinzars, Greeks, Bulgarians and Serbians, amounts to upwards of twelve thousand” [3]. Again another clear evidence there was no “Macedonian” ethnicity back then but instead it´s a modern “invention”.

Additionally, John Van Antwerp Fine gives us a realistic portrait of the situation in the Macedonian region by writing: “Until the late nineteenth century both outside observers and those Bulgaro-Macedonians who had an ethnic consciousness believed that their group, which is NOW two separate nationalities, comprised a SINGLE people, THE BULGARIANS [4]. Thus the reader should IGNORE references to ethnic Macedonians in the Middle Ages which appear in some modern works. In the Middle Ages and into the nineteenth century, the term ´Macedonian´ was used ENTIRELY in reference to a geographical region. Anyone who lived within its confines, regardless of nationality could be called a Macedonian.”.

Furthermore, Arthur Douglas Howden Smith in 1908 adds: “It should be remembered, to begin with, that there is NO Macedonian race, as a distinct type [5]. Macedonians may belong to any of the races of Eastern Europe or Western Asia, as, indeed, they do. A Macedonian Bulgar is just the same as a Bulgar of Bulgaria proper, the old principality, that in October, 1908, at Tirnova, was proclaimed independent of Turkey. He looks the same, talks the same, and very largely, thinks the same way. IN SHORT HE IS OF THE SAME STOCK. There is no difference, whatsoever, between the two branches of the race, except that the Macedonian Bulgars, as a result of their position under the Turkish government, have less culture and education than their northern brethren.”

To help the readers having a more informative view over the issue on stake, I urge them to take a look in the following link. It contains a vast number of excerpts taken by 90 neutral sources, written by travelers, historians, diplomats related to the subject which put an end to the unfounded claims over a so-called “Macedonian “Ethnicity back then. Mr. Stefov, conveniently for his agenda, chooses to ignore all the overwhelming evidence.


















http://history-of-macedonia.com/2008...-in-fyrom/Lets return back to the core issue of Mr. Stefov´s article. Namely the ethnicity of Ancient Macedonians. Of course there is no issue at all, whether the modern Slavs







descendants of the Slavic tribes that invaded the Balkan peninsula centuries after the demise of the ancient Macedonian kingdom have any link with ancient Macedonians. Obviously as verified by any serious historian, they haven´t!!!


















1. The Ancient Macedonians spoke a dialect of the Greek language

Mr. Stefov incorrectly assumes that “This [Koine] was an international language which was used in the Macedonian court and by the Macedonian administration.”. This is simply fallacious and deserves an immediate rectification. Koine became the international language BECAUSE of Alexander´s campaign. Prior to Alexander´s campaign, ancient people like Illyrians, Persians, Paeonians, Indians, Carthaginians, Romans, Thracians, Egyptians, Dardanians did NOT speak Greek. Most of them begun to speak Greek (Koine) AFTER Alexander´s pan-Hellenic campaign to Asia. Therefore Mr. Stefov´s conclusions are entirely wrong since his own premises are erroneous in the first place.






The eminent linguist Olivier Masson states “For a long while Macedonian on mastics, which we know relatively well thanks to history, literary authors, and epigraphy, has played a considerable role in the discussion [6]. In our view the Greek character of most names is obvious and it is difficult to think of a Hellenization due to wholesale borrowing. ´Ptolemaios´ is attested as early as Homer, ´Ale3avdros´ occurs next to Mycenaean feminine a-re-ka-sa-da-ra- (´Alexandra´), ´Laagos´, then ´Lagos´, matches the Cyprian ´Lawagos´, etc. The small minority of names which do not look Greek, like ´Arridaios´ or ´Sabattaras´, may be due to a substratum or adstatum influences (as elsewhere in Greece). Macedonian may then be seen as a Greek dialect, characterized by its marginal position and by local pronunciations (like ´Berenika´ for ´Ferenika´, etc.). Yet in contrast with earlier views which made of it an Aeolic dialect (O.Hoffmann compared Thessalian) we must by now think of a link with North-West Greek (Locrian, Aetolian, Phocidian, Epirote). This view is supported by the recent discovery at Pella of a curse tablet (4th cent. BC) which may well be the first ´Macedonian´ text attested (provisional publication by E.Voutyras; cf. the Bulletin Epigraphique in Rev.Et.Grec.1994, no.413); the text includes an adverb ´opoka´ which is not Thessalian. We must wait for new discoveries, but we may tentatively conclude that Macedonian is a dialect related to North-West Greek.”












2. The ancient Macedonians prayed to the same Greek gods as the ancient Greeks.

The poorly-chosen argumentation reveals Mr.Stefov´s inconsistence with ancient history. His lack of evidence subsequently forces him to produce irrelevant anachronistic analogies with…Christianity even if it is more than obvious we are talking about issues having to do merely with classical ages. Mr. Stefov, for your discomfort, it is only Greeks which gave their deities the familiar Greek epithets, such as Agoraios, Basileus, Olympios, Hypsistos of Zeus, Basileia of Hera, Soter of Apollo, Hagemona and Soteira of Artemis, Boulaia of Hestia, etc and naturally Macedonians as being Greek themselves, were doing similarly which certainly is not the case for non-Greek people. Furthermore nowadays historians agree that Macedonians had the religious and cultural features of the rest Hellenic world.

The worship of the twelve Olympian gods in Macedonia is undoubted





and it is shown explicitly in the treaty between Philip V and Hannibal of Carthage “`In the presence of Zeus, Hera and Apollo …and in the presence of ALL THE GODS who possess Macedonia AND THE REST OF HELLAS” [7].




















3. The ancient Macedonians united the ancient Greek city states and spread the “Hellenic” language and culture to the known world.


Mr. Stefov adds further his own misguided perception which is the epitome of misinformation. He states “Macedonia fought and defeated the so called “Greeks” in battle and subjugated them from 338 BC until 206 BC when they were briefly liberated and again subjugated by the Romans”.






This is another terrible effort to create the wrong impression amongst the readers that “Macedonians fought Greeks in Chaeronea”. Contrarily, in Chaeronea the opposing sides were:











ξύμμαχα και υπήκοα


[allied and SUBJECTED]. One line of approach was direct annexation attempted disastrously by Perdiccas II and successfully by Philip.”Prof. Bosworth adds “Lyncestis probably co-operated with the Illyrian invaders as before in the war against Archelaus, the chaos in lower Macedon at the accession of Amyntas was an ideal time to avenge the annexation attempted by Perdiccas and probably by Archelaus”.

Essentially Mr. Stefov just managed with his above wrong assertion to dissolve his own self-made ´construction´ of ancient Macedonian history speaking about a “unified” Macedonian kingdom.

In relation to the spread of Greek language and culture declares quite amusingly that: “As for spreading the so-called “Hellenic” language and culture, there is no evidence that the Macedonians exclusively did this for the sole purpose of honoring the “Greeks”. The Macedonians gave the world what the Macedonians had and considered to be of value”.

I will briefly analyze the falsification of the author´s assertion, before presenting an enumeration of ancient sources [9] proving that Alexander launched a Pan-Hellenic campaign against Persia and through his conquests spread Hellenism in a vast colonizing wave throughout the Near East. Furthermore he created economically and culturally, a single world stretching from Greece to the Punjab in India with Greek (koine) as lingua franca. He built a network of almost thirty Greek cities throughout the empire, a building program that was expanded by later Hellenistic rulers. These became enclaves of Greek culture. Here gymnasia, baths, and theaters were built. The upper classes spoke koine Greek, wore Greek dress, absorbed Greek learning, adopted Greek customs, and took part in Greek athletics. Ancient sources reports as such and the pan-Hellenic character of his campaign were the definitive statements of the Macedonian royalty and nobility. We find Greek language, poleis, architecture, and art expand As far east as India. Even in Judaea of Roman times, there was a group of Jews called “The Hellenists”. The Greek language survived in the Indian region as late as about AD 120, when the Kushan king Kanishka, who ruled western India, Bactria, and Sogdiana (in an inscription) declared that Greek was to be replaced by “Aryan” (the Bactrian language).

It would be essential to complete this reply with numerous excerpts showing exactly how ancient Macedonians felt themselves about their own ethnicity. After all this is what matters mostly.














ChaeroneaCombatants

Side A´

Macedonia, Thessaly, Epirus, Aetolia, Northern Phocis, Epicnemidian Locrians*

Vs

Side B´

Athens, Beotian League (Thebes, etc), Euboean League, Achaean League, Corinth, Megara, Corcyra, Acarnania, Ambracia, Southern Phocis.

Neutral sides

Sparta, Argos, Arcadia, Messene. The three last had alliances both with Athens and Philip but their pro-Macedonian activity of 344/3 BC showed they were leaning towards Philip. However they didn´t sent aid to Chaeronea in Philip´s side because of the blocking in Isthmus by Corinth and Megara. Sparta had withdrawn almost entirely from Greek affairs in 344 BC.

Elis had an alliance with Philip though they didn´t take part in Chaeronea but showed their pro-Macedonian feelings by joining their forces with Philip in the invasion of Laconia in the autumn of 338 BC.

In other words, we find on both sides Greeks!!! We are dealing apparently with a Greek civil war!!

If this is translated to Mr. Stefov´s illusionary world that “Macedonians fought Greeks” then following the same irrational line of thought, we have to assume in Coronea “Spartans also confronted Greeks”.

Battle of Coronea (394 BC)

Combatants

Sparta Vs Thebes, Argos, and allies

In addition, the author adds “So, according to “Greek” logic, the Macedonians united the so-called “Greek” city states by subjugating and subordinating them under Macedonian control. By the same “Greek” logic we can conclude that Hitler too, in WWII, united the Europeans by subjugating them and placing them under German control.”

Here we get a trustful and genuine proof of the author´s selective quotation and hypocrisy. If we are to take his assertion as truthful, then the author ignores conveniently the fact that even the “Unification” between Lower Macedonia and the Upper Macedonian kingdoms by the Argead Royal house was forceful. In fact the annexation of Upper Macedonia took centuries to be successful.

According to the eminent historian prof. A. B. Bosworth [8]

“The upper kingdoms then had a constant struggle to preserve their independence and fostered alliances with the peoples to the west and north. On the other hand the policy of the kings of Macedon was to make the recalcitrant mountaineers truly “









1. Alexander I, king of Macedon:“Men of Athens… Had I not greatly AT HEART the COMMON welfare of GREECE I should not have come to tell you; but I AM MYSELF GREEK by descent, and I would not willingly see Greece exchange freedom for slavery. …If you prosper in this war, forget not to do something for my freedom; consider the risk I have run, out of zeal for the GREEK CAUSE, to acquaint you with what Mardonius intends, and to save you from being surprised by the barbarians. I am ALEXANDER of MACEDON.”






Herodotus, The Histories, 9.45, translated by G.Rawlinson]











2. Alexander The Great:“Your ancestors invaded Macedonia and the rest of Greece and did US great harm, though WE had done them no prior injury […] I have been appointed hegemon of the Greeks”







(Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander II,14,4)












3. Alexander the Great speaking to his troops:There are Greek troops, to be sure, in Persian service — but how different is their cause from ours ! They will be fighting for pay— and not much of it at that; WE on the contrary shall fight for GREECE, and OUR HEARTS WILL BE IN IT. As for our FOREIGN troops —Thracians, Paeonians, Illyrians,Agrianes — they are the best and stoutest soldiers of Europe, and they will find as their opponents the slackest and softest of the tribes of Asia.







Arrian (The Campaigns of Alexander) Alexander talking to the troops before the battle. Book 2-7 Penguin Classics. Page 112. Translation by Aubrey De Seliucourt











4. Alexander The Great and Diogenes


“But he said, ´If I were not Alexandros, I should be Diogenes´; that is to say: `If it were not my purpose to combine barbarian things with things HELLENIC, to traverse and civilize every continent, to search out the uttermost parts of land and sea, TO PUSH THE BOUNDS OF MACEDONIA TO THE FARTHEST OCEAN, AND TO DISSEMINATE AND SHOWER THE BLESSINGS OF HELLENIC JUSTICE and peace over every nation, I should not be content to sit quietly in the luxury of idle power, but I should emulate the frugality of Diogenes. But as things are, forgive me Diogenes, that I imitate Herakles, and emulate Perseus, and follow in the footsteps of Dionysos, the divine author and progenitor of my family, and DESIRE THAT VICTORIOUS HELLENES SHOULD DANCE AGAIN in India […]”




















5. Alexander the Great dedication to Athena:




Alexander, son of Philip, and the Greeks, except the Lacedaemonians, from the barbarian inhabitants in AsiaMany more excerpts can be found on:








history-of-macedonia






Notes:

1] “Pictures From The Balkans” by John Foster Fraser (published in 1906), Page 5

2] “Pictures From The Balkans” by John Foster Fraser (published in 1906), Page17

3] “Travels in European Turkey, in 1850: Through Bosnia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Thrace,…” By Edmund Spencer, page 28, Published 1851

4] The Early Medieval Balkans: a critical survey from the sixth to the late twelfth century By John Van Antwerp Fine, Page 37

5] Arthur Douglas Howden Smith, “Fighting the Turk in the Balkans: An American´s Adventures with the Macedonian Revolutionists”, 1908, p. 4-5

6] Olliver Masson, 1996, “Oxford Classical Dictionary: ´Macedonian Language”.

7] Polybius 7.9.1-7; Treaty of alliance between king Philip V of Macedonia and Hannibal

8] ´Philip II and Upper Macedonia´ by A. B. Bossworth, p.100

9] (Aelian ´Varia Historia´ 13.11; Arrian I.16.7, I12.1-2, Plutarch Ages. 15.4, Moralia I, 328D, 329A, Alex. 15, 33, 37.6-7; Diod. 16.95.1-2, 17.67.1; Callisthenes 2.3.4-5, 2.4.5, 2.4.7-8, 3.1.2-4; Arrian “Indica” XXXIII, XXXVIII, XXIX, ´Anab.´ Arrian I.16.7, II, 14, 4, 3.18.11-12 ; Polybius IX.35.2, IX.34.3, 17.4.9; Curtius 3.3.6, 4.1.10-11, 4.5.11, 4.14.21, 5.6.1, 5.7.3, 5.7.11, 8.1.29)

info@macedonian.com.au



Australian Macedonian Advisory Council






Conclusion: As it is evident from the extensive analysis of the facts, Mr. Stefov´s article consists of an overall historical falsification and distorted presentation of facts. Of course it´s his and his people right to denounce for whatever reason this may be, their well-attested from all sources Slavic/Bulgarian origin and history but it´s not their right to usurp the history and heritage which rightfully and evidently belongs to Greece. I hope that Mr. Stefov and the people he represents will eventually find a name which represents their heritage – “Macedonia” evidently does not!



By Ptolemy






for







http://www.macedoniaontheweb.com























Source: http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/79306

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westclub4

November 1, 2008 at 6:32 pm

Dear brother Dimitrios and readers,

Indeed, it is the job of professional historians, linguists, archaeologists and anthropologists to provide ‘us’ –i.e. the ‘bewildered general public’, with some –if any at all, significant evidence, and also with substantial information about antiquity; that is, from the far and distant past (i.e. the Spring of early human civilization) to the present date.

As a matter of fact, it is the job of the supposedly and yet so called ‘educated’ professionals of this or that particular scientific field to provide our policy-makers too with scientific evidence and also with either absolute historic facts or with such relevant concluding remarks that would definitively shape our future to the better, so that they would also bring peace and prosperity to our glorious land and to our ancient Greek people, as well.

Nonetheless, our job as ethnically conscious Greek bloggers is to inform the general public to the best of our ability about those matters that might concurrently be of great significance and of an also great importance to them, as well as, to put pressure upon the policy-makers of our country either to produce a unified and an also significant national strategy about these matters or to reform and revise where necessary the already existing national strategy of their choosing, so that our national and foreign policy becomes more substantial and also successful.

To the extent that there is any such national strategy at all, we can expect to see the results of it soon, and yet thereafter we begin to claim what it’s really ours and what should really belong to us as a nation and without ever having to beg for it to our western imperialist ‘allies’, nor to our so called ‘friends and protectors’ in order for them to act on our behalf and do for us things properly, and also do justice while we sit there and wait.

Ancient Greek mythology –and, yet again ancient Greek literature too as well as the many contemporary archaeological findings may provide the so called ‘professionals’ with as much information and evidence they like and need, in order to put forward such a national strategy before the eyes of the Greek public and of Greek politicians and policy makers, so that we finally manage to produce something which might be significant and appropriate too for an ethnic strategy that is worth of the name and which might also become relevant in respect to the ethnic Greek minorities in neighboring countries. Mind you that at present these ethnic Greek minorities might be either conscious or unconscious of their Graeco-Pelasgian and Hellenic ethnic origin, ancestry and descent.

Indeed, had we got particular references and also appropriate quotations that are available to us at the moment would significantly help if we were to elaborate those quotations to our present contributions too. Hence, it is important that we do not fail to produce quoted arguments in order to further stress and support strongly of our point. But, I particularly insist that it is not our job only to produce substantial papers and masterpieces of professional and of academic work at the same time. Nor is it our role to attempt do the job of the ‘missing’ professionals either, in order to take part on an ongoing debate and discussion of this or of either that particular blog. From the labor movement and also from its daily political and economic struggle we know that ‘a single strike is worth more than any of the best, more elaborate and also most detailed documents and Party Programs that are yet ever to be produced by the Central Committee of any of the Labor Parties’.

This also applies to national strategy and to policy-making, as well. That is, in respect to these ethnic Greek minorities in the neighboring countries too. Therefore, on my behalf, I strongly advise and also invite historians and all other relevant so-called professionals to take part to this ongoing discussion and debate about ancient Macedonian ethnic origins and descent. I also propose to extent and also to further this concurrent debate as far as to the historic ethnic roots and origins of all ancient Greek and Pelasgian-Greek peoples that were once habituating to –and, which were also dueling throughout the area of the Hellenic Peninsula, Asia Minor, Italy, Egypt and the Middle East.

I therefore presume that we can all learn something that might prove to be of great significance and also importance to our cause, which is none other than the liberation of all glorious and historic Hellenic lands of our Peninsula, as well as, to assist to the Hellenicisation of either the conscious or unconscious Greek, mix-Greek and also mix-Barbarian Greek and Pelasgian-Greek peoples that are still living to –and also throughout the whole of the Hellenic Peninsula, at present.

Long live Hellenism and the ancient Greek and Pelasgian-Greek cosmopolitismos! Long live Macedonia and Paeonia, Moesia and Thrace, Epirus and Epirus Nova, Illyris and Dardania as well as the rest of historic Greece! For the cultural Hellenicisation of all Hellenic and Pelasgian Greek Peoples and lands throughout the Hellenic Peninsula! Long live the forthcoming Hellenic Republic!

Elias Leon A.
Athens, Greece.




Dimitrios

November 1, 2008 at 3:04 pm

Hi Elias,

Thank you for your information!
I wanted to ask you if there is any scientific prove or any agreement amongst historians on the above mentionend matter.
In general, isn’t it of great importance to put forward any of the proven historical facts to a platform such as Wikipendia for example?

Greetings!




westclub4

November 1, 2008 at 7:00 am

Addendum,

The ethnic Macedonian Greek brothers and sisters of the north are neither Slavs nor Bulgars. They are of an equally historic ethnic Greek origin and of an also significant Pelasgian (i.e. ancient Greek and proto-Greek) ancestry to ourselves i.e. the Macedonian Greeks of the south. The concurrently enslaved ethnic Macedonian brothers and sisters of the north comprise of many thousand Graecophone, Vlachophone and Arvanitophone ethnic Greeks and ethnic Pelasgian Greeks too who were once habitating to the southern and also to the eastern and northeastern parts of FYROM. These are the areas which were once populated either by ethnic Macedonian Greeks or by Illyro-Epirotic Greek and Dardano-Paeonian Greek and Graeco-Pelasgian peoples.

There is an also significant Illyro-Thracian Greek and Pelasgian-Greek element to the population of FYROM. In particular, to those areas which lay to the central, northern and western parts of that partitioned state. In ancient and historic times, and also for an almost thousand years before the Avaric Slavs and the Tataric Bulgars ever set foot to the Hellenic Peninsula, those particular regions were laying to the lands of the ancient Paeones, Bryges, Agriannes and Dardanes. The ethnic and historical origins of those ancient peoples were at that time significantly Greek or proto-Greek -i.e. they were of an ancient Pelasgian-Mycenean Greek origin of the particular Thrako-Illyrian cultural branch of the same nonetheless proto-Greek and Pelasgian people and of also the same cosmopolitismos.

To the Greeks of the Classic Age, they seemed as if they were left behind culturaly because they had once coalesced with the Troyan Phrygio-Pelasgian Greeks of Asia Minor and thereafter, they were left outside to the cultural advances made by the southern Doric Greek peoples and of that particular neo-Greek sphere of influence and cosmopolitismos ever since. In other words, most of southern Pelasgian or proto-Greeks ever since the Dorian kathodos onwards had became significantly Doric or Hellenic Greek themselves, though some of them still to that date had yet remained more Pelasgic (i.e. Aeolic) or mixed (i.e. Ionic) Greek and proto-Greek as opposed to the Hellenic Doric and Epiroto-Macedonian tribes of the north and of the northwest who became significantly Hellenic.

At the same time, many Epiroto-Macedonian Dorian (i.e. Hellenic) tribes had also began their expansion northwards and eastwards -i.e. to the lands of the formerly backward Pelasgian Greek remnants. Hence, they expanded (and yet extended their rule) to the lands of the Paeones, Bryges, Thracians, Illyrians, Dardanians etchetera, even prior to the times of Philippe and of Alexander. Moreover, it is ever since the Macedonian expansion to these formerly Pelasgian Greek Brygian, Paeonian, Dardanian and Thrako-Illyrian lands that those proto-Greek (or Pelasgic-Greek) and thus, Thrako-Illyrian Greek tribes became significantly Hellenicised, meaning that they became culturaly equals to the southern Hellenicised Greeks.

Hence, most of the Hellenic Peninsula and definitively all lands that lay within FYROM today were already Greek (i.e. Pelasgian or Thrako-Illyrian proto-Greek) even prior to the historic Macedonian expansion of the Greek Classic Era or became significantly Hellenic (i.e. Doric Greek) ever since, to say the least. Also, even prior to Macedonian (i.e. Doric Greek) expansion the Pelasgian Greeks and proto-Greeks of the north had established significant condacts with the the either Ionian or Aeolian Greeks of the southern Hellenic Peninsula. Hence, they also contributed to their significant Hellenicisation, which must have been conducted at a time that was certainly prior to the time of Philippe and thereby, their substantial Hellenicisation which is well attested throughout the Hellenistic Era has definitively been not only as a result of Macedonian (i.e. Doric Greek) expansion but it is also due to the significant contribution and effort made at past and at previous times by many Ionian and Aeolian Greeks who made colonies into Thrake and Illyria, ever since antiquity and at distant Classical and historic times, which were to follow the Greek Dark Ages right after the civil war at Troy and the destruction of the old and rampant Mycenean Greek civilisation by the southward moving Dorian Hellenes.

However, these peoples became significantly mixed and even romanised after the Roman Conquest and, as a result of their linguistic and cultural mixture their historic Aeolic, Doric or Ionic Greek language got substantially latinized ever since and either to a lesser extend (i.e. Arvanitophone Greeks with the Arvanitic Graeco-Latin language) or to a far greater extend (i.e. Vlachophone Greeks with the predominantely latinized Vlachic language). Nonetheless, those same Vlachophone and Arvanitophone Greeks of the north are the same Hellenes of the old with the rest of us -i.e. with the rest of us, concurrent southern Greeks of the Hellenic Macedonia and of the rest of the southern Hellenic Peninsula, as well.

The slavophone ethnic Macedonian Greeks of the north have adopted the west-Bulgarian dialect as their language, ever since the 8th Century. Nevertheless, we will not find many slavophones who would trade their Macedonism with an either Bulgarian or yet again with a Serbian passport in nowadays, which is very encourraging fact, to say the least. Since we assist this brothering people of ours with historic knowledge and information, we would become able to explain to them that they are definitively neither Bulgarian nor Slavic. The same we must do also with the Arvanitan Greeks of northewestern FYROM as well as with all of the Vlachophone Greeks of Norhtern Macedonia too.

We need to explain patiently to either of them that they are neither Slavs, nor Bulgars, nor Turks, nor Latins, nor Romans, neither anything else that is non-Greek. Insted, we need to explain to them that they are a Hellenic Macedonian people like ourselves who live in the south, though they speak Slavic (i.e. the slavophone ethnic Macedonians), Graeco-Roman (i.e. the Arvanitans and also the Albanian Sqipetars) or Latin (i.e. the Vlachs) and so on.

This is not an easy task either. Indeed, it is a heavy taske for us, modern Greeks of the southern Hellenic Peninsula. Yet, it is the only way available to us at present to restore peace and also to bring prosperity to the southern Hellenic Peninsula. This is the historic duty of each and of every Greek at present who respects, understands and wants to honour of the heavy name and also culture, he or she carries to eternity, under the glorious label of being an ethnic Greek of the rather ancient Pelasgian or Hellenic original and same peoples’ stock.

Long live Macedonia and the rest of Greece! Freedom to all ancient Greek, Hellenic and Pelasgian lands! Freedom to Northern Macedonia, Norhtern Epirus, Illyris, Dardania and Epirus Nova, Moesia, Northern and Eastern Thrake! Long live the forthcoming Hellenic Republic!

Elias Leon A.
Athens, Greece.




westclub4

October 31, 2008 at 8:16 am

Indeed, this is a nice article, which also manages to answer to the quite many of the historic misconceptions that are created purposely by the Great Skopjan School of Falsefication of Absolute Historic Facts.

Nonetheless, we shall all be extremely cautious especially when we use ourselves reproduce the many translated texts into English, which might also contain many foggy bits, here and there. Probably, the best thing to do is we ourselves to read and translate those parts from the the original (i.e. from the ancient Greek prototype) or simply to reproduce the ancient Greek text as such. This is so, because there are many mistakes that are of particular importance and of great significance to us all and to our cause.

In particular, it is another thing to say ”Alexander of Macedon” and a rather different thing to say ”Alexander the Macedon”. The Glyxbourgh’s were Kings of Greece and even before them, King Othon has been a King of the Greeks, but none of them were of a Greek bloodline and origin himself.

When we refer to King Alexander the Macedon (i.e. the Macedonian Greek King Alexander) we should stress his Greek Macedonian origin. That is of course another thing from simply saying King Alexander of Macedon (i.e. Alexander the King of Macedonia), which does not stress, nor it specifies his Greek (i.e. Macedonian Greek) ethnicity.

Indeed, Alexander was a Macedonian and a Macedonian at that time also meant a Greek. Alexander was not a Greek King who ruled over Macedonia and Macedonia was definitively not a foreign -i.e. a non-Greek- land, to say the least. Alexander was not a Greek King who ruled another tribe. He was a Macedonian himself. His father has been a Macedonian Greek and his mother an Epirotan Greek. His tribe -i.e. the Macedonians, were also Greek. In particular, Macedonians were of an ancient Dorian Greek ethnic stock -that is, quite similar to the Magnetes, Epirotes and Lakedaemones or Spartiates (i.e. the Spartans of ancient Laconia).

They all shared the same origins because they were Dorian Greeks. They all spoke the same Dorian Greek dialect and they also shared the same culture, customs and religion. In that sense, they all were Dorian Greeks or Hellenes as opposed to those who were Ionian Greeks (e.g. the Athenians and also the Greeks in Chalkidiki to name but a few) and who were of an also ancient though of a Pelasgian Greek (i.e. Ionian) origin and who spoke Attic, which has been a more elaborate dialect of the ancient Greek language.

There were also many more Greek tribes who spoke differernt Greek dialects such as the Aeolians (e.g. the Thessalians and also the Greek colonists near the ancient city of Troy), who spoke Aeolic Greek. Their dialect has also been Greek but of a particularly more ancient (or primitive) form. Aeolic Greek was closer to the proto-Greek or to the ancient Pelasgian language and therefore, it must have been closer to the language of the Pelasgian Paeones (or ‘Upper Hellenes’), Bryges, Dardanians, Illyrians, Thracians, Phrygians, ancient Troyans and Mycenaeans Greeks.

Hence, to prove only that Alexander himself has been a Greek is not enough. We also need to patiently explain that the Macedonians were a Hellenic (i.e. Dorian Greek) tribe even before they conqueer the land of the historic Macedonia. Also, we need to explain that the peoples of the historic Macedonia at the time of Alexander the Great (i.e. the Paeones, Bryges, Dardanians, southern (or the so-called ‘Real’) Illyrians, Pierres, Agrianes, Thracians and so on) were of an also Greek origin too and that they have been Greek (i.e. Pelasgian or Hellenic) either much prior to the Macedonian expansion to neighboring lands, which primarily occured under the reign of Philippe (i.e. Alexander’s father) or from at least, ever since the time of Philippe’s reign and thereafter.

All of the above, either to a Slav or a Bulgar of the contemporary Northern Macedonian region might sound ‘really Greek to them’, to say the least. But, to those who are not only habitants of ancient Macedonian land but who are also Macedonians themselves -that is, to all those who are of a real Macedonian (i.e. Dorian Greek) ethnic origin are all too very important.

Long live the ancient Greek cosmopolitismos! Long live Macedonia and the rest of Greece! Long live the forthcoming Hellenic Republic!








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WHAT IS A GREEK?

Deconstructing the so called “Greek Nation”

By Risto Stefov

rstefov@hotmail.com

September 12, 2008

Ordinarily I couldn’t care less what the Greeks call themselves, it’s their right and who am I to interfere? But these are not ordinary times when self proclaimed Greeks take it upon themselves to dictate to others what they can and can’t call themselves.

Greeks say “Ethnic Macedonians” don’t exist! I say “Ethnic Greeks” don’t exist and I can prove it!

What makes a Macedonian an ethnic Macedonian?

According to Webster’s dictionary belonging to an ethnic group is belonging to a division of mankind as distinguished by customs, characteristics, language, common history, etc.

There should be no doubt in anyone’s mind that a large majority of people living in geographical Macedonia share common customs, traditions, songs, dances, and have a common language, a common history and a common religion that stretch back to at least one thousand years. So if we establish that such a group exists or existed in geographical Macedonia up until at least the time of Macedonia’s partition and annexation in 1912, 1913 by Greece, Serbia and Bulgaria then what should we call this group of people?

If a people lived on Macedonian lands for over a millennium, which I am sure we can establish, then a rational thinker would have no problem calling these people ‘Ethnic Macedonians” if that’s what they want to be called.

As I was browsing through the www.maknews.com forum I read an article Turkey: Macedonia's best friend posted by VMRO which can also be found at this link; http://www.mfa.gov.tr/denial-of-ethnic-identity.en.mfa in a Turkish official website.

Now who better than the Turks would know if Macedonians exist or not? Better still let’s see what the Turks have to say about the Greeks. After all both Macedonia and Greece belonged to Turkey for many centuries; Greece for four centuries and Macedonia for five. So I would say the Turks know something about both nations; wouldn’t you agree?

According to the information on the website;
The Greek Nation is based on the principle of belonging to the Greek race and the Greek Orthodox Church. On this subject, it is enough to glance at the speeches of the Greek statesmen about the ‘homogeneity of the Greek nation with the exception of the Muslim minority.’

If the Greek Nation is really homogeneous, one can not help but wonder about the destiny of the Albanians, the Muslim Albanians, Vlachs, Macedonians, Bulgarians, Jews as well as the Turks.
In this respect it becomes necessary to answer the question of how homogeneity has been achieved in Greek Macedonia while ethnic variety still survives in the Republic of Macedonia.”

But wait a minute what are the Turks talking about, what Albanians, Vlachs, Macedonians, Turks, etc. existing in Greece? Greece has always maintained it’s a pure and homogeneous nation with roots extending back to the so called Ancient Greeks. If their lineage does not stretch back to the ancient Greeks and ancient Macedonians of at least two-and-a-half millennium ago then how can they claim both the so called ancient Greek and Macedonian heritage as their own and at the same time exclude the ethnic Macedonians from claiming theirs?

Surely the Turks must know what they are talking about? They were the masters of Greece for four hundred years! They were the masters of Greece even before a Greek state existed or the Greeks (Romanoi) called themselves “Greeks”.

With regards to Greek claims that “no ethnic Macedonians exist in Greece” I would like to point you to the crucial question asked by the Turkish website: “In this respect, it becomes necessary to answer the question of how homogeneity has been achieved in Greek Macedonia while ethnic variety still survives in the Republic of Macedonia?” How indeed!



Before Greece became a country for the first time in 1829, the following ethnic groups lived in what today is called Greece: Arvanites (Albanians), Vlahi (Vlachs), Tourki (Turks), Slavi (Macedonians), Voulgari (Macedonians), Slavo-Makedones (Macedonians), Endopii (indigenous Macedonians), Gifti (Roma), Evreii (Jews) and others. There was absolutely no group of people called “Greeks”. These people were made into Greeks after the Greek state was created for the first time in 1829.

Before Greece was created by the Great European Powers, the Arvanites spoke the Albanian language and had their own unique customs and traditions. The Vlachs spoke the Vlach language similar to Latin and had their own unique customs and traditions. The Turks spoke the Turkish language and had their own customs and traditions. The many names the modern Greeks use, such as Slavs, Bulgars, Slavo-Macedonians, indigenous, etc., to identify the Macedonians also all spoke the Macedonian language which existed and still exists throughout all of geographic Macedonia. The Macedonians too have their own unique customs and traditions which are different from the other groups.

The Greek state, once created by the Great Powers, used force and coercion to artificially create the Greek nation by deconstructing the real ethnic identities of the Albanians, Vlachs, Turks, Macedonians, Roma and others it trapped in its borders. By stripping them of their natural mother languages the Greek state forced upon them the artificial Koine language which today is paraded as Greek.

The Koine language by the way, which many Greeks today boast connects them to the Ancients, is nothing more than an artificially imposed language which the Greek state stole from the Byzantine Church and taught to its people in school. One who learns this language in school is no more Greek, related to the ancient Greeks, than one who learns the hieroglyphs in school and claims to be related to the ancient Egyptians. But can modern Greeks see the absurdity of such claims? Judging from the thousands of e-mails I have received, apparently not!

If I may add, Greece has demonstrated its artificiality not only by imposing a dead language on its people but also by changing every place name and people’s names in all the territories since its creation. It renamed everything to make them “Greek sounding” and to demonstrate to the world how Greek Greece is! But in reality what does this really tell you? This tells me that as a Greek from Macedonia my history began in 1926 when my grandfather’s name and my village name were changed. There is no Stefou or Trigono before 1926! If I believe I was a Greek I would ask myself what was I before 1926?



So then, what makes a Greek an ethnic Greek?

Let’s see what the dictionary has to say?
According to Webster’s dictionary Greek (Graecus) is a native or modern inhabitant of Greece.

The name Greek is derived from the word Graioi originally the Latin name of a Boeotian tribe that settled in Italy in the 8th century BC.

So anyone from any ethnic origin can be a Greek as long as they inhabit the lands of modern Greece which very well defines what a real Greek is. But what makes a Greek an “ethnic Greek”? It can’t be culture, tradition or customs because the under layer of people (Albanians, Vlachs, Macedonians, Turks, Roma, etc.) that make up the Greek nation do not share similar characteristics. It can’t be language since the Koine language was adopted by the Greek state and imposed on the various diverse groups of people. Koine is not the mother language of any of these people.

So the people that make up modern Greece today shared none of the characteristics that make a group an “ethnic group” before Greece became a country for the first time in 1829.

Thus I have to conclude that “ethnic Greeks” do not exist.

So how can Greeks who themselves are NOT even Greeks and DO NOT qualify to call themselves “ethnic Greeks” are not only allowed to usurp the Ancient Greek heritage but also rob the Ancient Macedonian heritage? Furthermore how do they qualify to tell Macedonians what to do?

Obviously these people are frauds and pirates, what are we doing negotiating OUR NAME with them?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pelister09-12-2008, 09:12 PM
I like this article.

I think that there is enough evidence, to support it. There is certainly enough empirically based evidence to support the fact that Greece was an incredibly diverse landscape, brimming with various ethnic groups. When N.G.L Hammond said "Albanians above all one the war of independance (Greek)" we really need to know what he is talking about. He is talking about ethnic Albanians as Greeks.

The Greeks appropriated the Albanian dress, fustanella, for themselves. It was never "Greek".

You may also notice, that much of the folk music of mainland Greece, are Albanian, Vlach and more recently, Macedonian tunes. In many cases, traditional ethnic Macedonian songs have the lyrics, which are in Macedonian, replaced by Greek, while the tunes remain identical. This is a curious thing. It some ways it helps some Hellenized Macedonians hold onto their heritage, but at the same time, it can be used by some Greek sociologists to point to the Greek "character" of these Macedonians.

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toothpaste09-13-2008, 02:39 AM
It can’t be language since the Koine language was adopted by the Greek state and imposed on the various diverse groups of people. Koine is not the mother language of any of these people.




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VMRO09-13-2008, 03:51 AM
I'm glad i inspired Risto Stefov to write this article, well done Risto

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I of Macedon09-19-2008, 01:14 AM
Its true that Greece got its flag from the English East India company - not suprising though given that England created Greece

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Honoura..._India_Company

And it should also be mentioned that the current Duke of Edinburgh husband to Queen Elizabeth II Prince philip (born Prince Philippos of Greece and Denmark), carry's the arms of Greece on his family's coat of arms.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_...e_of_Edinburgh

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