You know, they taught me when I was a child; “There is a village there, far away / Even if we don’t go or see it / That village is our village.” saying… Do people miss places they haven’t been to or seen? The answer is easy; misses… The stories you’ve heard from your grandmother and grandfather for years, starting with “when we were in the country…”, your mother’s childhood memories… You long for a place you haven’t seen… And as if you were burning with it… They said it very well; “Immigrant; The first generation tries to get used to its new place, the second generation tries to make money, and the third goes to search for its roots…” I have always wondered about my roots, and finally I went in search of them. I went to search for my roots in Macedonia! When the magnificent minarets of the Selimiye Mosque saw us off; It was just getting dark. I was now leaving this door that my mother had entered 50 years ago, when she was just a 10-year-old little girl, never to leave again. After the depressing and cold customs procedures, we were welcomed into the European Union, but until Sofia, we could not encounter anything that could remind us of the European Union, except for road signs. It is very interesting that while there is nothing on the Turkish border just one step away; As soon as you cross the Bulgarian side, you are infested with mosquitoes. I thought how much I could exaggerate while explaining this, but I couldn’t find words. The most annoying moment of the trip was probably our struggle with mosquitoes at the Bulgarian Customs… From Kapitan Andrevo customs to Svilengrad (Mustafapaşa), which we can call the Las Vegas of Bulgaria, the lights of the Greek villages on the left bank of the Evros accompany us. Sofia, which we arrived via Plovdiv (Plovdiv), seems even more beautiful at night… We transit Bulgaria in the dark of night… Our tour group of approximately 25 people sleeps or just rests their eyes to relieve some of the road fatigue. For; How is it possible to sleep because of excitement? Most of them – like me – are going to their “homeland” for the first time… They all immigrated from villages close to each other; Blatec (Blatsa), Lipec (Lipsa), Gradec (Grades) or Kocani (Koçana), Vinica (Vinitsa)… Some immigrated at the age of 10, some did their military service there. A few of them have been there before, but it’s still the same excitement… The average age is a bit high… Just as they’ve told it over and over again; As I listened to it many times; tirelessly, taking a different pleasure each time; As if I would immediately find the places where those stories took place… Still, it was reassuring to have someone with me who knew those places… Uncle Hüseyin… “I forgot, don’t talk about it,” he was saying; But, he suddenly remembered all of them, when he entered his hometown… Albanian, Macedonian, Serbian… He is sleeping now, like the other passengers… Even the driver of our bus, I think? He got lost at one point and luckily he found it quickly. Delchevo is one of the few border gates between Bulgaria and Macedonia. This is a less used crossing point compared to the border gate further north, on the road to Skopje; So much so that the customs guard is quite surprised, I think he gets a little angry because he was woken up from his sleep… Routine customs checks and an annoying detention that we wouldn’t be so surprised to experience while in Bulgaria… Bursa Hamzabey-Muradiye Rumelian Immigrants Association, which organized the trip, The scarves with the “Euro 2008 – Turkey” logo, which he brought as gifts to the Turkish children living in the region, were seized by the Macedonian police, whom we know as friends, on the grounds that they had a Turkish Flag on them. It is not allowed through customs. Even though we are a little bored, the joy of the moment we live in causes us to forget this quickly: The road is flowing in front of us into a green valley, the sun is bright, a last barricade opened for us to pass and a sign: Welcome to Macedonia! Welcome to Macedonia! From the moment we enter Macedonia, the accents of the people on the bus change… Everyone grabs their phones; “Father! We have just entered the country”, “Brother, how are you? “We are here, we are here”, they share their excitement with those who could not come… Auntie Saire, whose endless energy and sharp memory I admired throughout the trip, cannot remain indifferent to the Rumelia Folk Song playing on the tape recorder, she starts the horo, waving the tissue paper she could find at that moment in her hand… After crossing the border, a journey of approximately 1 hour awaits us. Our bus is traveling along the winding asphalt among the green hills, as if accompanying the folk song “They Do It in Drama Sunday”. Everyone is fidgety; While passing through villages, in forests, on bends… Heads get confused from which window and where to look. It’s like everyone wants to see every inch of the country, down to the smallest detail, and engrave it in their memory. It’s unknown whether they can come again? The cities of Zvegor, Delçevo, Kamenica, Istibanja greet us on the way; We greet them too, like greeting a friend we haven’t seen for a long time. Finally, we arrive in Kocani (Kochana), the largest city of the region after Shtip, along with Vinitsa, which is mentioned in at least a few of the stories told. Our first stop is Kocani. Leaning on Osogovski Mountain, Koçana overlooks the rice fields in the plain opened by the Bregalnica Stream, which joins Vardar near Tikveş. Although Osogovski Mountain is a touristic area thanks to its thermal springs, the people of Koçan are not used to seeing many tourists, or that’s the impression they gave us. After settling into our small hotel on the banks of Koçana Creek, we rest for a while until breakfast. Children and young people from Koçana go to the outdoor swimming pool next to our hotel, and none of them pass by without greeting us with “Dobro Utro!”. For breakfast, the hotel offers a soup that we cannot understand what it is… Add plain water, 1-2 boiled vegetables, vermicelli… We go to the market to eat something decent and exchange currency. The currency of Macedonia is Dinar. 60 Dinars corresponds to approximately 1 Euro. Here, you can easily use the Euro and even the Bulgarian Lev along with the Dinar, but the Turkish Lira is not respected in Macedonia. While some of the group rested at the hotel to get some sleep, we wandered around Koçana. Even though it’s the beginning of the week, people seem calm. There is no trace of the rush here in Bursa, it’s as if no one has a job, no one is trying to get anywhere. Shopkeepers are chatting in front of their doors, people are enjoying the morning sun in the parks. The streets are clean, planned… There is almost no traffic; luxury cars, solid Russian Moskoviches from the socialist period… Mostly small cars made in Korea… Koçana is an award-winning city. The city with the cleanest air and water in Europe. When we return to the hotel for lunch, another surprise awaits us at dinner. Salad! Eyes are looking for our shepherd’s salad, but there is nothing in it other than finely chopped white cabbage… People are getting hungry, so they start to dig into the salad… Actually, it wasn’t that bad, it tasted good with the sauce and vinegar drizzled on it… The food was a little late. , complaints begin in the group. We later learn that here salad is served as an appetizer before the meal. Just like we don’t serve the main course until our soup is finished, they were waiting for us to finish our salad. But do we eat salad with our meal? We are a little nervous about meat dishes, we prefer vegetables… Fortunately, no one is paying attention to the food; Everyone is impatient to go to their village and see it as soon as possible. Second stop: Vinitsa Grades, we go to Vinitsa, the junction point of Lipsa and Blatsa villages. We are welcomed by Hüseyin, who will be our guide. Hüseyin amazes me with his accent from the first time we meet him: “I am the grandson of Ali Mustaaoca from Grades”… He tells those who have relatives in Vinitsa, one by one, which is whose house… “Şa-ban Aga’s house is here, here is the place.” !” Uncle Abdülrahim and Aunt Gülhanım, who have news about our future, are waiting for us at the beginning of the street. They invite you so cordially that it is impossible not to stop by their homes. I ask about Selvi, her grandchildren were kneading dough, “Tamina” was going to make bread… We met Uncle Abdülrahim and Aunt Gülhanım through their granddaughter Selvi, and we met several times over the internet via Skype. Gülhanım Teyze speaks to my camera and sends her greetings to Turkey: “They are welcome to come and see the places where they were born.” At one point, her voice trembles and she wipes the tears from her eyes without showing them. If they let go, their arms will grow big enough to embrace us all at the same time. They never leave us alone during our stay in Vinitsa. They are telling about Vinitsa, the Turks there, their own lives… Why didn’t you come too, I ask? They say this is our homeland. Türkiye, abroad… Even though it is the motherland. “Life is easier here, we often sleep without locking our doors, theft is never heard of here…” They certainly have other problems of their own, but they never talk about them. The road leading to the market overlooks Vinnitsa Castle. You know, the castle mentioned in this folk song; “Şefo’s house, opposite the castle”… I look around to see which one is Şefo’s house (!), while walking with the other grandchild, İbrahim… İbrahim is going to the 6th grade, and his brother Abdullah catches up with us on the way. We chat for a while, then a red BMW stops, talks to the kids and says hello. I meet the owner of the BMW again in front of the market in the bazaar, while waiting for the shoppers inside; We meet… Levent is in his 20s. He just says, “We are now 50-60 Turkish households here.” There were no Turks left in the villages. He’s a bit reproachful, you left us here and forgot… He’s right, I can’t say anything. We’re talking casually. He explains that unlike the old people, living there is not all rosy. Job opportunities are limited; Everyone goes to big cities or to Italy, Switzerland, Turkey to work. Although not de facto, there is constant tension between Macedonians and Turks, especially among the younger generation. We are talking about the football match in which we defeated Croatia; despite everything; He tells me proudly that they took the Turkish Flag and drove around in their cars at night… I say goodbye to Levent and enter the market. There was no Turkish delight left on the shelves, everyone warned; “Don’t bring anything, just bring hometown delights”… We set off towards Lipsa Village with boxes of hometown delights. Third stop: Lipec Village Lipec (Lipsa) village is a very small settlement compared to the surrounding villages. It can be reached via a narrow asphalt road. The joy of those on the bus is extreme. Those from Lipsa are even more cheerful and excited. When we got off the bus parked in the village square, the men of the village sitting in the shop, which is a combination of market and beer hall, which we can call the village coffeehouse, gathered around us, confused, trying to talk to those who could speak the language. I guess there hasn’t been this many foreigners coming to the village for a long time. We walk down one of the cobblestone streets of the village, which will lead us to the Lipsa Mosque. On the road, we find the house where Şaban Abi’s family from the travel group lives. They enter with excitement, and his sister begins to tell Şaban Abi: This was a barn, this is our room, there is a plum tree… The neighbor across the street must have noticed the movement on his street; He comes out and comes to us. He invites us to his home; The other neighbor is coming too; When we said we wanted to see the mosque; He says there is a shortcut from his garden to the mosque. That’s why we had to be his guests. He has a huge garden, tobacco is lined everywhere. He’s explaining, I don’t understand… I want to call one of those who can speak the language for help, but the other neighbors have taken them captive. He has so much to tell… A neighbor woman enters the garden; He has a basket full of apples in his hand. He distributes them to us two by three. Another neighbor, realizing that it would not be enough, runs and brings some of his own apples. They all seem to be saying please stay a little longer, don’t go. We need to go, just like; Just like those before us had to leave 50 years ago… They are so sincere as they bid us farewell… How can you hug someone so dearly that you see for the first time and only for ten minutes? Maybe it wasn’t me he hugged, it was his memories; The old woman… We reach the mosque through the plum trees, where their fruits compete with their leaves. Even though we knew the mosque before, it still disappoints us… Because; The place of the mosque is blowing. It was supported with a few planks to prevent it from collapsing; Other than a minaret with peeling plaster, there is nothing to remind me that there was a mosque there… I remember the promise I made to my aunt and left the group with someone who knew Lipsa; I go to the upper part of the village to find the house where my aunt lives. My great aunt came to Lipsa from Blatsa as a bride. If I go; I said I would definitely photograph it. We find the house. It’s desolate… I enter the courtyard, an old woman is stacking tobacco. I think the other one is her husband… With the help of the dictionary in my hand, I try to explain that my aunt once lived in this house and that I wanted to take photos. Old Marika talks non-stop, I don’t understand anything. At least, he must have understood that I was interested in this house because he held my hand and tried to show me other parts of the garden. They come with me to the bus to meet the others. It’s almost evening… The people of Lipsa are in the village square, bidding us farewell. Who knows when we will meet again… A world-renowned band: Koçani Orkestar When we return to our hotel in Koçana, we realize how tired we are. While we are planning to relax after dinner, the sound of music coming from the hotel garden seems more attractive to us. An orchestra consisting of trumpet, accordion and darbuka is playing music we are not unfamiliar with in the garden. The band, which is obvious in every way that they take Koçani Orkestar as an example, plays until late at night. Koçani Orkestar is for the Roma of Macedonia what Kibariye is for the Roma in Turkey… Koçani Orkestar, founded by the trumpet virtuoso Naat Veliov, a Turkish-speaking gypsy from Koçan, is a band known all over the world today, thanks to its well-deserved success… Emir Kusturica’s This group, which also composed the music for the movie “Gypsies Time”; Their song “Şiki Şiki Ba Ba” was once popular in Turkey; The song “Maxutu” from the album “L’orient est rouge” had Turkish lyrics written on it and was presented to us by Mahsun Kırmızıgül with an unidentified sound as “Alem Buysa Kral Benim”… Here; Today, the biggest source of pride for the people of Koçan; Their fellow countryman is Koçani Orkestar. While “Kerta Mangae Dae”, or as it is known in our country, “Soda for those who wake up, lemon for those who faint”, is playing, I go up to my room. We will set out early in the morning and go to Blatsa. We should go to bed and rest as soon as possible. Fourth stop: Blatsa I woke up early because it was impossible to sleep. Today is the big day. We are going to Blatsa. After a hasty breakfast, we set off immediately, impatience at its peak. When the vehicle enters Blatsa Square, I immediately jump off the bus before it approaches. The entire tour group, including me, suddenly fills the square. Everyone is excited and trying to find their own home as soon as possible. Everyone disperses into several streets that meet in the village square. As we agreed on the phone, I am heading towards the school, just above the village square, to meet Vesna and Blagica sisters from Blatsa. The village boys gathered in the square are trying to make me feel with their looks that I am a foreigner and that I will no longer have anything to do with this place. I don’t care. Here is school, or as my mother calls it, “workkola”! Primary school in Macedonia is four years. Girls are generally not educated, or even if they are educated, it’s “four to four”… Vesna and Blagica Todorova, whom I met on Facebook, who will guide me in Blatsa… I respond to their friendly welcome with a few Macedonian words I memorized from the dictionary: “Zdravo! Kako si?” I have been in contact with Vesna and Blagica for a long time via Facebook and Skype. A few months before I came here, they did me a great favor and sent me photographs of all the old houses in the Gaber District, including the house where my mother was born. Every day, my mother and I sat in front of the computer and tried to find my mother’s house from the newly received photographs. Finally we found it: House number 67 in Gaber District… Even if there was no photo, I would have found that house… I had listened to the directions of the road from my late grandmother so many times: “You should go out of the square, from the hill, from the fountain, then go to the nearest house. In a big hunting area… A seaweed tree in the portaan…” I don’t remember what we talked or told along the way with the Todorova sisters. The only thing I remember is that at the end of the hill, I suddenly saw “igde agaci!” A woman, a little older than middle age, the owner of the house – I don’t know if it would be more accurate to call her the current owner – is doing laundry in the courtyard. He is surprised to see us. She dries her hands in a flash, with her skirts on… My friends tell me, I think she gets a little uneasy because I want to see the house. He says he needs to call his wife and leaves us. We’re walking around the garden for a bit. A huge courtyard, lush green. In front is a dilapidated low-ceilinged building that I believe my family used as a barn. Behind it is a door that opens to the flower bed. Colorful flowers. At the end of the courtyard, the house is at the top of the village. Looking from here, the whole village is under my feet now. I think the house is empty and unused. The new owners built a new reinforced concrete house in the back. I can hear the babbling of the Bregalnica stream a little below. Despite the July heat, a cool breeze… Not long after, the woman and her husband arrive, with their son around my age. To prevent the anxiety from happening again, I present the woman with the gift I brought from Bursa. A beautiful Bursa silk… She immediately puts her scarf around her neck. We explain again why I am interested in this house. I show my family the photographs pasted in their family passports when they left Yugoslavia. They are convinced, their son opens door number 67 in Gaber District… My mother meets me inside, at the top of the stairs. He is about 9 years old… My uncle, my mother’s youngest, is clinging to my mother’s red flowered chintz skirt and is trying to tell her something, he is flustered. It is obvious that they have done something naughty… They either haunted the neighbor’s house and escaped from being caught at the last minute, or they broke someone’s window again… My aunt’s crying can be heard from upstairs. We all run upstairs together. The wooden steps are too weak to support all three of us… It looks like no one has climbed them for many years… I see my grandmother in the room on the right. She parted her hair in the middle and let her long braids hang down over her shoulders. “Where are you! Just as we were about to say, “Let your father come and raise the heifers, one by one, eppisini,” my grandfather’s voice can be heard from downstairs. “My Atice! Are you out there!?” I think it’s a big mistake, we go down the stairs two or three at a time, this time it’s even more hectic… They run to the courtyard and go up to the oleaster tree, my mother and my uncle. I follow them, trying to hide among the leaves as far as I can climb up to a branch or two. Drago, with his huge body, barks from below: “Chibu! Chibu! Go away, you will reveal our location now!” Before my grandfather, my mother’s “Kojo” finds us, the cotton grandmother… She takes us all down from the tree, one by one. If you misbehave again, he says, there is no fairy tale for you. We promise Kojo that we won’t do it again. Kojo washes our hands and faces in the well, cleansing us all from dirt and rust. My aunt is crying upstairs again…. Then, a policeman comes to the garden gate. Red Yugoslavian star on chest. He tells something to my grandfather: You will leave here, he says. You will leave, you will leave everything you have… We have memories, those too? Mavimore Turizm is a travel agency registered with TÜRSAB. Document number: A-8307