Letters Home

To my home. The place where my soul was brought forward to exist as a representative of this ancient people who have resisted the ages of persecution, endeavouring to protect their mortality as though they were cursed to succumb to the injustices set upon them. As this man with a future of aspiring notes, created from the sustenance of resistance. In the rich and mysterious Balkan lands, of minerals exclusive to these earths of wisdom and poets, where words and bread are the foundations of one’s mortal respectability. Where blood was never rationed but broke away from the skin as a requisite to the fertility of the pastures. I was assigned as a member of this so called tribe, to which I learned to remit the once sense of questionability of encountered sufferances. I’m aware that humanity has been fatigued and devoured by nationalistic creeds, yet beside my soul, within my fingertips, underneath all sense of rational doubt, I am drawn to the portrait of my home city. Nominated either by a deity or by cosmic fate, I shall not speculate in respect to the reader. I am a live witness of the horrors that once caused this people’s ambitions to become derelict in the prisms of ideologues, by cleansing another’s life for the opportunity of colonial expansion. I am a young dissident, writing in a land that was not deficient in empathising with the lives of thousands of others who were pawned as lifeless monopoly into the hills that never spoke of the atrocities which they forcibly housed. The wails and the bones remain a secret of which history arbitrates. By fortune – the ones who survived by wheelbarrows, tractors and God-given feet, escaped the descent into the bloodied soil of a land that was viewed so historically vital to those who would cause widespread desecration against a people perceived as their inferiors. Now, my city of birth remains as a victim of a quasi-apartheid. A stranger to the foundations of words and bread. Long ago, ancient tribesmen and warriors made claim to their homes near the River Iber whose natural wealth was denounced over the centuries into a state of bridging two sets of people apart. Both sides hailing their flags of honour. The North, the province of red, blue and white – in Christendom. The South, reddened in a black double-headed eagle, Islamised by Ottoman rule. I have walked the streets of the divided corridors and all I have ever seen in the absence of powerful and propagandist words of affirmation, are the eyes of human beings. Yes, the eyes of human beings – in the centre of their existences. Old men playing dominoes at dawn in their honorary cafes. Old women conversing along the bridge which separates the eternally entrenched. And I have come to the conclusion of the absurdity of it all. I know not who is my enemy – and the other my friend.

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