The Bigorski Monastery is a sanctuary in the mountains of Southwestern Macedonia. Home to the native Karaman breed of dog, its inhabitants of 30 monks and 30 recovering addicts live 365 days a year isolated, praying, determined to reach the kingdom within.

KARAMAN MOUNTAIN

We woke up at five o’clock every morning just after the prayer call from the predominantly Muslim village on the opposing mountain. From my bedroom window, I could still see the stars above the silhouette of the mountains along the Albanian border. I walked out across the courtyard and passed the small tomb where they keep the skulls of former monks of the monastery. To my left was a view of the mountains. During sunrise and set, a moment of peace was to stop and observe the snowy rock-laden landscape before the bitter cold forced you back inside. Up the stairs of the church was an even better view if you could spare a few minutes before the service started. As the monks entered, they kissed every icon on the walls. Their dark black habits flowed with their movement as they circled the dimly lit space only illuminated by candles which reflected off the ornate silver and gold motifs throughout the rotunda.

The chants of the monks reverberated off the arched ceilings. The worshippers, sitting beside the monks, absorbed the prayers to cleanse the soul and allow God to dwell inside them - for the time being at least. The monks prayed every minute of every day to constantly live with Christ inside them. A group of men who lived at the monastery with the monks for one year also did the same. These Macedonian men were going through rehabilitation. They followed a strict schedule of praying, eating, and working at specific times throughout the day. The age of these men ranged from 18 to 50 years old. Some had families waiting for them back home. Some have their entire lives ahead of them and are lucky to be at the monastery. Some have been in rehabilitation programs with each other before, arriving at the monastery together claiming, “it’s the only thing that works.”

The bitterly cold days passed by, monks and laymen praying, eating, and working side by side. They have a very strong mutual understanding and respect for one another. When I arrived I didn’t know what to expect. I only observed how beautiful it all was. You could hear the current of the river flowing at the bottom of the mountain as you walked along the stone wall that leads to the entrance. I was hoping to show how devoted the monks were to their faith but there was a deeper connection I found the monks had to the men in rehabilitation that I decided to explore. The humanity in both groups of men made them almost the same. Both struggling to stay focused on a way of life, battling inner desires, and praying to overcome. The interactions between them became therapeutic. I witnessed a special human bond forged by extraordinary circumstances.

Every beautiful moment and scene was juxtaposed by the harshness of the environment. The place itself served as a metaphor for the inhabitants. The beautiful view of snow-capped mountains opposite the dug up, muddy hill I was standing on. The gentle spirit of the monks walking from the monastery chain-in-hand to fetch their vicious dogs from the side of the mountain. One man rubbing the arm of another to comfort his injured shoulder in the basement of the monastery where they sleep six deep in a room and have movie nights together where The Passion of The Christ is played from a laptop. It’s a place where roles and stereotypes cease to exist. A place where men from all different backgrounds exist as equals.

After spending some time in the orchard with Father Efrem, we went for a walk down the winding road I had climbed up four days earlier when I arrived. We passed a trailer full of rocks being pulled by a tractor going uphill toward the monastery. Through the window sitting in the driver’s seat was Father Erasmus, a monk I had met in the workshop one day as I was having tea and editing images. In the passenger seat was one of the men, Toni, who is in the rehabilitation program. They stopped for a moment to greet us and a conversation in Macedonian ensued.

We continued on until we arrived at the bottom of the hill where the monastery restaurant sits. Father Efrem called to have espresso brought out to us as we chatted with two workers breaking rocks for the new church being constructed at the monastery. I tried to ignore how I couldn’t feel my hands at this point as we stood there awaiting the drinks. The engine of the tractor nearing the bottom of the hill was just loud enough to hear over the blowing wind. Coming around the last curve of the road, Toni was walking and wiping his head. Father Efrem called to order more espresso for the two as they made their way toward us. He was bleeding from his forehead. Moments before, as he was walking behind the trailer to pick up rocks that had fallen out, one shot up from the tractor’s wheel and struck him. He stood there in the cold blowing wind and drank a cup of espresso as his face bled. The blood dried before it could reach his piercing eyes. I had never seen eyes like Toni’s. They were deeply black and unforgiving.

The orchard is a large open area overlooked by a small church the monks built. It lies at the end of a dirt path on the side of the mountain about a three minute walk from the monastery. As you enter through the wooden gate held up by a small stick, there are ten dog houses standing opposite each other, five on each side. Attached by metal chains are the native Macedonian Karaman dog, a highly revered ancient shepherd breed that was once on the brink of extinction. The monks keep them as pets and visit them daily, struggling to restrain the robust mammals as they lunge toward each other in the dirt and dusty gravel. These beautiful creatures have sharp temperaments. I learned quickly which ones I could approach and which I could not. They even had to be separated from each other at times.

There was a fire burning in a rusty barrel where some of the men sat next to the dog houses. Under the barrel was a group of Karaman puppies who were missing the fur on their backs from laying too close to the fire. I sat down and shared an orange with one of the men who is tasked to take care of the dogs. He didn’t speak English but we used a form of sign language we came up with at that moment to communicate. We somehow found things to laugh at although we didn’t understand each other. I found a way to adapt to the environment and surroundings. I lived like them even if just for a short period of time. I felt I became one with the space I inhabited. The peace, love, selflessness, and all the acceptance had found its way to pull me in. Their lives were on full display completely free of presumption.

What’s special about this place is that it doesn’t matter who you are, where you come from, or what your reason for being there is. You create a bond with the people and landscape that is expressed in ways that make you let go of judgement and fully accept who they are because they fully accept who you are. There are things that are unspoken, but understood, without language. Our perception and interpretation of the human condition we all face became synonymous. We all struggle with desire, lust, envy, sadness, despair; emotions that make us human. Acknowledging that struggle exists and not being afraid to show transparency and vulnerability when trying to overcome those emotions - that is the true topic of this story.