Chosen People is an absolute masterpiece. Anybody else agree? https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=c0jG_x6Vk_o
Here's the previous post about the village of Bulunkul.
The initial premise of the trip was the retrace parts of the ancient Silk Road, and learn more about it's history, and the histories of the people who were part of it. First we met up in Turkey, before taking a very long bus to Georgia to find a car to buy. This 48 picture photo album with captions goes through just about all of the trip chronologically
I'm happy to answer any and all questions, should anyone have any! Cheers!
Sorry for the formatting, I’m on mobile avoiding doing my job.
So I’m derping through the Facebook and I see an old high school acquaintance sharing a post that reads verbatim, “If you ever plan on having a baby, just know THAT VILLAGES DON’T EXIST ANYMORE!”
Since when is it anyone else’s responsibility other than yours to raise YOUR children? I get it, everyone needs someone to lean on, but come on. It was your choice to procreate, reap the consequences of your actions.
I’m just sick of people making all these babies then being like, “We ShOuLd HeLp EaCh OtHeR” and then dumping on people who won’t raise other people’s children. Bitch, maybe you should have stopped at one then you wouldn’t need a village!
So tired of people seeing my lack of flesh loaves as an opportunity to dump theirs on me.
It was a village of 300 souls in which I was born. In 1974, shortly after the fall of Greek junta, in a 2-storey stone farmhouse in the mountainous interior of Peloponnese, far away from the azure sea and far from civilization. A shrinking village of subsistence farmers and herdsmen, where the air was cool and clean and crisp in the summer, and where a light coat of snow blanketed the gentle slopes in the winter.
The farmhouse sat high on a mountain that sloped down to a small lake, where wild blackberries, raspberries, and dewberries grew along its shores. My family—my father, mother, maternal grandmother, and two older brothers—had a herd of about 30 black goats. We also tended a flock of speckled chickens that laid eggs the colour of a summer sky. And although the soil was thin and rocky, we managed to keep a small orchard of apple trees. I have never seen any other apples like these. Purple as a plum, with red specks shaped like teardrops. The crispest, sweetest apples I have ever tasted. Oh, how I wish I could have another bite.
We weren’t rich by any means, but we made due. The eggs and goat milk were sold in the village market year round. In late autumn, when the apples ripened, my mother would bake tarts and cakes to sell. An idyllic childhood. Except my father had a secret. It was not a horrible secret, although some people would say it was. He was not a serial killer or a body snatcher. But he was a pagan. He still worshipped Zeus.
Now, historians will tell you that the ancient Greek religion died out over a thousand years ago, and that modern practitioners are recent adopters. My father disputed this. He said that while the people of this region had adopted Christianity, a few had always practiced the old ways in secret, passing the ancient knowledge down generation to generation. While we went to the Orthodox church in the village, presided over by the ancient Father Hierotheos, we also prayed to the Twelve Olympians.
In the cover of night, our family would walk down to the lake. Under the shade of a massive oak tree stood part of a broken Doric column, about a metre in height, which my father claimed was the only remnant of an ancient temple dedicated to the Goddess Despoina. He would lead us in prayer, singing hymns to the gods of the ancient pantheon, before pouring offerings over the column’s jagged top: sweet wine, Koroneiki olive oil, fir honey, and fresh goat’s milk. We always worshipped alone, but we were not the only people to pray
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https://imgur.com/a/SmQ6hdi Left image is of my 2nd-great-grandparents Lev and Yelizavetta Shats in the city of Odessa, Odessa, Ukraine. The right image is of my 4th-great-grandparents Israil and Sora Faibisovich in the village of Mglin, Bryansk, Russia
Sorry about the flair, didn't know which one to choose for this post.
"Sorry for the sickness. Get well soon" - I said to them
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