The Village

When we left everything behind, I was 8 years old. We left in a rush, during a rainy morning, in the hopes of finding a better life elsewhere. While we might be better off financially, I feel very out of place and I can’t seem to fit anywhere. I still remember fragments of how it was. I remember how close the stars looked like on the sky, in the lack of any light pollution. I remember waking up to the roosters singing, first thing in the morning, as dawn broke. I remember being in my grandfather’s lap, as we rode in a horse drawn carriage to the field nearby, in time for reaping the harvest, while he sang to me the songs of the elders.

It’s been 20 years, and I have finally decided to return. Needless to say, I am scared. I am scared of what I would find in the village, as many left and few returned. Only some old people stayed behind, as detaching for them was too hard and too painful, their entire life being spent down below in the valley. I drove the car atop the hill and stopped there for a while. It’s misty outside and far away, the Church’s towers are rising above the fog. The birds are singing and I hear the delicate sound of the water stream nearby. I brace myself for what is about to come and I get back in the car. I arrive at the outskirts and decide to continue the journey on foot. I walk around and my senses are overwhelmed with fragments of my memories, of the smells, colors and sounds of my childhood. Most of the houses I see so far are slowly crumbling. Some have their roofs collapsed, others are just a singular wall, persistent in not falling apart in the face of neglect. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to see this, but I couldn’t stand my life anymore and I wanted to start again. I was tired by the constant noise, by narcissistic bosses, by the constant rush, by all the empty people chasing ghosts. In a way, I am also chasing a ghost, but I hope that will give me some sense of peace.

To my surprise, down the alley comes a child carrying a bag. He looks at me with curiosity, and approaches timidly. He opens the bag and asks me if I would like some elderberry that he harvested earlier this morning. I am both bewildered and touched, and I pass on his offer, asking him where his parents are. He does not say anything, but he points up the alley. And up the alley I go. As I reach the top, where the center of the village is, I start noticing construction material everywhere. Lumps of wood, old doors, paint, glass. I look around in a state of confusion, and I am awoken from my state by the sound of someone singing. On the porch of the house in front of me, a young woman is singing a lullaby. She is carrying a vase with a flower in one hand and is holding the hand of a young girl with the other arm. The image is surreal, feeling as if I slipped through a glitch in time and space, being taken back to a moment when we were all there together. She looks at me and she smiles, and the intensity of the gesture makes me feel like fainting. She quite clearly sees my discontent and invites me inside the house. I am greeted by her husband, a man in his 30’s. Carpenter by profession, he also wanted to escape his own life. So, he left everything behind, took his family with him and found the village. He spends his days restoring old wooden doors and craving motifs inspired by nature in wood. Soon I find out that he is not the only one to come back. 5 families came in the last 2 years, for similar reasons as the ones that pushed me to return to my birthplace. Guided by the elders that stayed behind, they moved into abandoned houses and started to revitalize them. Slowly, human life is returning to the village. I tell them about my own plans, of wanting to renovate my grandfather’s old house and moving here permanently. They both smile and tell me “with the work that we all do collectively, we will reshape this place and re-purpose our lives.”

As night comes, we all gather in the courtyard of the Church, around a bonfire. The elders are also there and they entertain us with stories of bygone times. They tell us about the myths, the legends, the dances, the music, the rituals. I let my mind wander on the images they create in my mind. I see it all, my grandparents, parents, the old home, the joy, the fruits, the hardships. It all comes back to me and for a moment, I finally feel connected to something bigger than me. I open my eyes from the dream and I feel calm on the inside. I look at all the brothers and sisters around me, and I finally feel appreciation for what I have. There’s no internet connection, but the connection I found here goes much deeper. And I see it everywhere I look, in the smiles of the children, in the geometric shapes of the flowers, in the fire, in the pale moon above us.

It’s been a year since I moved back. I sit on the porch of my grandfather’s house, after handpicking some apples from the orchard. Time goes by so slowly here and I finally have the chance to think and reflect. The sun is setting and it’s time for me to go sleep. There is no rush to go anywhere, because everything is already here.