Article by Nikos Kakagias
Cover photo by Dimosthenis Seitaridis
Edited by Harrys Pourouzidis
Yielding to our obsessive and largely undocumented impulse to dig through the past, we set off. Our destination was the villages of “mud,” at the far edges of the country, carrying a heavy historical burden.
Our first stop was the small harbour of Mavrovo, or Mavrochori, on the eastern shore of the languid Lake Orestiada. The welcoming rays of the sun, filled us with images and with an all-encompassing shiver, not at all metaphorical, since the biting mist pierced to the bone.
Our second stop was Ladopotamos and its bridge, west of the lake, at Koromilia. It still stands upright, despite its evident abandonment, reminding us how infrastructure once used to be built.
The next stop was the villages of oblivion, fragments of another, battered life. They have stood there for centuries, bearing witness to the life of yesteryear and other people, who were born, grew up, married, fought, and shed their blood beside their comrades.
They struggled, though it no longer matters which side each person stood on. They all believed they had the inalienable right to even a roof of earth beneath the sun, a piece of land, a family, and a good morning from their neighbour.
Their ruined villages, painted in the same colour as that which flows through everyone’s veins, bear witness to the unshakable principle that governs all things:
“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
