Part 1
March 3rd
was an important day in the year 1878. It was the day a peace treaty was signed
between Russia and the Ottoman Empire. It allowed the reestablishment of the
country of Bulgaria, which had been occupied for nearly 500 years by the
Ottomans. To this day many Bulgarians have an almost genetic distrust of Turks,
this is especially true for the dying generation who lived under the communist
government. Skipping ahead 137 years we arrive to today, March 3rd
2015. On this day I was finally able to take part in the celebrations of
Bulgarian independence from Ottoman hold.
Days prior, Kmiet
had invited us to the village square at ten in the morning. He informed us that
there was to be a small planned celebration for the village and its
inhabitants. Even before his invitation, Kmiet had secured enough funds to buy
white, green and red material to be sewn together to make over 200 flags for
each occupied house in the village. So even our house is now proudly flying a
Bulgarian flag. And yet… The village has around 500 plus houses, but fewer than
300 flags were made. Even though every occupied house in the village received a
flag, over half the village is unoccupied. Each lot without a flag can serve as
a small reminder of what the village once was under the communist system.
Vibrant, alive, thriving and growing and now, over half the houses are in
shambles and slowly crumbling away, uncared for and forgotten, almost like the
rest of the population in the village.
Moving on… What
the celebration was precisely, Kmiet himself was unaware as he left the
organization to his secretary. Kmiet apparently tried to bring in a delegation
of local political members or even perhaps a small TV crew but none of the
deals came through and so he gave up and handed over the responsibility to his
secretary, who accepted it willingly. We arrived early to have a coffee with
Kmiet and the only other foreigner who lived permanently in the village. This
foreigner hailed from England and from hence forth shall be known as Dan. Dan
is a unique man with an interesting past, which included a life in the
military, a professional racing career, years of trucking in Eastern Europe,
and a core love for Russia and its culture. He is a man of average height and
build but his brown hair fell and drooped over his shoulders. If you added rose
colored sunglasses, a few peace signs stitched to his clothing and replaced the
cigarettes with something more potent, Dan could easily pass for a good looking
hippy. Although his stories from his army days suggest a different past
entirely.
The four of us sat
down and enjoyed the average Bulgarian coffee. "Café" as it's called
in Bulgaria, once ordered you are more often than not, presented with an
espresso, not a mug of joe as is common in North America. I elaborate further
on Bulgaria and its coffee on my other Blog, Search for the Holy Espresso (LINK).
After partaking in the third national drink of Bulgaria, (first being Rakia and
second wine) we proceeded outside into the fine Bulgarian sun and chilly winds
that swept in from the North. In the center of the village is a large public
building, in which house the mayor's office, a small café/pub, two shops and
various other rooms including a small library. Directly in front of this
building is the village square (more of a rectangle to be precise). The floor
is made from polished flat whole pieces of white stone approximately 50cmX50cm.
In the center of
this square stands tall a monument erected in the 1940s to Bulgarian soldiers
who died during the First World War. Several meters on top of a complete stone column
is a life sized solider wielding a grenade in his right hand and his rifle in
his left. The workmanship on the statue is so precise I believe it could rival The David or Venus de Milo. Closer to eye level is the carved head of a lion
protruding from the monument and underneath this figure head is a map, carved
in stone, showing the old boundaries of the Bulgarian Empire. Adjacent to the
monument, almost as if guarding it, is a newly renovated but old soviet
artillery cannon dating back to World War 2. It aims off into the distance,
hopefully not at a rivaling village. The cannon was in fact repainted by Dan.
Finally to the
celebration. We gathered a few meters from the monument and slowly people began
to trickle in to join us in our wait. I watched as I saw several familiar faces
go by, saying Dobre Dzien (Good day)
to them as they shuffled past. It was the unfamiliar faces that surprised me
though. The village rarely came together so several people made the effort to
leave their homes and farm work. Even though the village is small, it's a
wonder that I have not met so many of its inhabitants yet. Then again villagers
rarely interact with people farther than on their street or people involved in
a specific craft. Yet out of the approximate 500 people that lived in the
village, less than 10 percent showed up. It was honestly a tad disappointing.
My time in the village
lead me to believe that many people held strong nationalistic and patriotic
views. Perhaps they still do and the celebration was just not marketed well
enough, since the most common source of local news comes from the pub and grape
vines. Maybe people thought it more essential to get a jump start on farming
and tilling the soil. Their reasoning I shall not know but the missing volume
of people was noticed, by me at least. However to be brutally honest, I found
the celebration to be lacking as well.
Perhaps that was due to my own false hopes and expectations.
I had pictured
that perhaps a few older grandmas may dance together (albeit slowly and
carefully) to traditional Bulgarian music. Perhaps people will be wearing
Bulgarian national dress (granted it was windy and cold). I at the very least
expected to hear the Bulgarian anthem being played, even from a mobile phone
for Pete's sake. Instead I stood and watched with the fifty or so other
spectators, as a dozen kids were waddled in front of the monument and began to
recite some form of passage or poem about Bulgaria (details of which I could
not begin to tell you). Sure some of the kids were cute, looking at their feet
shyly as they spoke to the floor more than the audience, words blown away by
the passing wind. Following the child performance we stood and listened for
longer to a full six page essay that was spoken by two women. The first was as
quiet and self-conscious as the children. The second was the Mayor's secretary
who woke up the crowd with a commanding control of her voice.
Now, the effort
was nice… I am glad that something in the village was done to mark the day. And
yet, I feel that a little more could have been done. I would honestly have been
satisfied with the national anthem being played by any form of device. Perhaps
I am just not at the age yet to find a short children's performance magic
enough. I am sure the older generation did perhaps enjoy seeing these kids
speak, many of whom were friends' children or their own grandchildren. Yet,
that shows something in itself. Perhaps due to my young age or having grown up
in a completely different time, I naively or greedily expect certain standards.
Growing up in the United Arab Emirates, every National Day was accompanied by
several minutes of listening to the National Anthem. And here, the majority of
villagers, several of whom, walking in itself is an effort, were content to
scuffle along to the center of the village to partake in this small event.
The disparity in
the generations was no more prevalent than in being able to compare, side by
side children from 5 to 12, to an elderly generation of grand and great grandparents.
Ancient women who from a life time of toil in farms, became permanently hunched
over were at the same height as children at only 7. Senior men and women who
wore mismatched clothing, with colors that washed out decades ago, as opposed
to children in brand new, spick and span shiny plastic and poufy coats that
looked like they were made out of chip bags. There were some children who even
looked as if they weighed more than their elders.
In their life
time, most of these people have seen Bulgaria change in more ways than can be
imagined by many people in the west.
Elderly of 70 or 80 years of age are now half the age of Bulgaria. Some of
these older folks even looked as if they fought the Ottomans themselves and
would still do so if Turkey invaded! Not that there is any chance of that.
Another comparison that occurred to me was the difference in life and vitality
between these ancients of the village and those you see living in
"retirement homes" and care homes in the West. I am sure Bulgaria has
some similar service or system to care for the elderly but the majority does
not opt for this option that is for certain. Despite their age, frailties and
weakening strength, most of these villagers stayed in the village, to farm and
live self-sufficiently.
Perhaps it is
their only choice, a lack of family or relatives to live with or mooch off of,
lack of funds to live elsewhere or in the big city but I still believe that
majority of people have chosen to stay in the village because that is all they
have ever known. They may have been born in the village and they will most
likely die in Tsarevets too. These have been hard working people, who have
toiled not only through jobs and raising children but struggled against the
changing climate and survived off their own labor. Physical labor that actually
produces real fruits, not the labor that fills out insurance forms and buys
fruits.
Not to offend or
insult the elderly in the West, but compare the life of living in a care home
or retirement home to the life lived still toiling and sweating to self-sustain
yourself. Perhaps it is hard work, perhaps some people do it out of necessity
and not choice but I cannot help but think of the pride and gain. To still be
able to live off the land and sustain yourself with what meager pension plans
they maintain (and give away to their children), that in itself is a reward. Frailty
and weakness are not excuses in this village. Only when you can no longer stand
or walk, do people truly find another way of life in Tsarevets. Until that
time, they work, they farm and they produce, for themselves and their children.
Many will continue this way of life until they drop dead or can no longer
physically work a shovel.
Then…Just like
that, the celebration was over and people scattered like the leaves in the
wind. Some returned to the pub to continue their drinking binge, some of those
people never stopped their endless quest to see the bottoms of bottles. Others returned
home to carry about their lives. As for the four of us we intended to show Dan
the less accessible sites of the village after some lunch. Lunch which was a
Bulgarian/Polish concoction made from pickled cabbage and peppers and cooked in
the style of Polish bigos. The results: ultimately satisfying.
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