Macedonia Travel

The first stop of the Youth Exchange Project was North Macedonia. As we set off, I carried not only a suitcase but also Yavuz Bülent Bakiler’s book From Skopje to Kosovo. Its poetic narrative had planted a magical image of Macedonia in my mind. When I encountered reality, I may not have found exact traces of those dreams, but I met something even more valuable: a living history, sincere warmth, and a profound connection to my roots.

^{(Photo: Berranur Öksüzömer)}

Our first stop was Kalkandelen, where we would also be staying. From the very first moment, Cengiz Abi’s genuine hospitality set the tone for our journey. He made us feel not like guests but like siblings. This warmth gradually made us realize we were not strangers here—we were becoming part of this land, step by step.

When we stepped onto the streets of Skopje in the morning, we were swept into a river where the past flowed alongside the present. The city was clearly divided into distinct Muslim and Christian neighborhoods. Modern statues surrounding the stone bridge built by Fatih Sultan Mehmet caught my attention—they seemed to want to obscure the historic structure. Yet their effort was too weak to erase the Ottoman traces. To me, Skopje was not a foreign country but a legacy left by history in the present. With every step, this feeling deepened further.

In Tetova, I was once again spellbound before Alaca Camii. The vibrant colors adorning its walls spoke not only to the eyes but also to the heart. During our conversation with the mosque’s imam, one sentence etched itself into my memory: “Thank God for the Turks.” The sincerity in those words was more than gratitude—it was a whisper of a lost bond, a longing for a cherished kinship.

^{(Photo: Berranur Öksüzömer)}

One of the most striking moments of this journey was a conversation about language. When one of our friends asked a local official, “Do people learning Turkish here speak broken Turkish?” the reply was deeply thought-provoking:

“It is not their Turkish that is broken—it is our Turkish that is broken. We assume Istanbul Turkish is the only correct form. Yet what they speak is the Turkish of the Albanians, the Circassians.”

These words prompted me to reflect deeply not only on language but also on identity and belonging. It became clear that a nation’s language is shaped not only by words but also by stories, sorrows, migrations, and longings.

Macedonia may be a small country on the map. But the imprint it left in my inner world is vast and will never fade with time. This journey did not simply introduce me to new cities and new people—it taught me to view my past through a different lens and showed me that belonging is not built solely on land, but on people and emotion.