This story is part of our Your First Published Article series. A traveler raised in Canada returns to her hometown of Skopje, Macedonia, to explore how the city has changed in the last six decades, combining tourism with personal pilgrimage, visiting not just monuments, but a family grave and the site where her childhood home once stood.
When I was eight, living with my parents in Macedonia, we left the outdoor water pump and the brand-new black-and-white TV behind for a new life in Canada. Six decades later, it was time to return. There was no black-and-white TV, no outdoor water pump, but my bond to the old country remained strong.
My husband Tim, our friend Judy, and I flew from Canada to Thessaloniki, then took a bus to Skopje, Macedonia’s capital. At the station, we were warmly welcomed by my sister-in-law, Radojka, and her niece, Aleksandra. They drove us twenty minutes to our apartment.
At first, I did not recognize anything about the city. It was as if I’d never been there before, but, yes, the language was familiar. It was more of a formal and proper Macedonian than my broken way of speaking, but it quickly returned. Before long, I was proudly speaking to the waiters and shopkeepers with little hesitation. It was a wonderful feeling, like reconnecting with a lost part of myself.
Our first evening in Macedonia also marked another milestone: my 69th birthday. We celebrated with dinner at a restaurant specializing in traditional Macedonian cuisine, such as baked beans (not out of a tin!), kebapi (juicy, grilled, caseless sausages), roasted eggplants, and roasted red pepper spread.
We stayed mere steps from Macedonia Square, the city’s heart. The square is surrounded by shops, restaurants, and the grand Marriott Hotel with its casino. Towering over the square stood the massive statue of Alexander the Great, officially titled Warrior on a Horse. The monument itself reflects a deeper controversy: was Alexander truly Macedonian or Greek? Historically, he ruled the ancient kingdom of Macedonia, yet Greece continues to claim him as one of its own—a dispute that lingers to this day and fuels passionate debate over identity and heritage.
The statue was only built in 2014 as part of the Skopje 2014 Project. Aleksandra explained that the area we were staying in, with its statues of historical figures, national heroes, and neoclassical facades, was the main focus for the project. It gave the city the look of a true European capital. The joyful expression on her face showed that she was proud of the bold architecture and impressive monuments.
The following morning, Radojka returned with her nephew, Marjan, whom I had met many years earlier while on a business trip to London. They were our guides for the day. The 14th-century Stone Bridge led us into the Old Bazaar, where cobbled lanes overflowed with cafés, souvenir stalls, and the smoky aroma of grilled meat and spices. Shopkeepers called out, encouraging visitors to step inside. Marjan insisted on a particular eatery for the city’s best kebapi–juicy, grilled, caseless sausages, which are a staple of Macedonian and Balkan cuisine, traditionally made from a blend of beef and lamb, seasoned with spices such as paprika, garlic, salt, and pepper. Marjan was right; ten tender kebapi for each person, fresh bread, onions, and roasted peppers made for a simple but unforgettable meal.
From there, Radojka led me to a narrow stairway tucked behind the bazaar, which opened onto a quiet courtyard. Here rested the grave of Goce Delchev, Macedonia’s national hero, whose name had long been part of my family life. Standing by his resting place felt weighty and surreal. In the same courtyard, a small church lay hidden—partly underground, with a nearly invisible entrance. The Holy Savior Church has amazing carved wooden icons throughout the small church.
The next day, Aleksandra and Radojka picked us up to explore the rest of the city. Skopje looked like any other city, whether in Europe or North America, with tall concrete buildings with glass windows. Small businesses, restaurants, and stores lined the streets. Aleksandra pointed out a few points of interest, such as the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Radio-Television building, and Skopje City Mall, which featured some international brands such as Adidas, Guess, and Boss.
A section of the city was occupied by Albanians. As we drove through the area in Glumovo, the streets suddenly changed. We noticed the frames of incomplete houses. Some old, rundown houses needed a paint job. Various shops had broken signs hanging above their doors. This is the old area of Albanian settlement. Knowing something of the regional history, I asked if they were Albanians. Aleksandra nodded and said, “Yes, they live in this area.” She didn’t really want to say anything bad about the Albanian people, but she frowned, rolled her eyes, and made a telling “tisk” sound with her mouth.
Of course, not all Albanians live in the poor section of Skopje. Tensions between Albanians and Macedonians in the country have long stemmed from questions of identity, language, and representation. Albanians, nearly a quarter of the population, often felt sidelined from political life and underrepresented in state institutions, while many Macedonians feared that greater rights for Albanians might threaten national unity. These frustrations erupted into open conflict in 2001, when fighting broke out between Albanian insurgents and government forces. Peace was restored with the Ohrid Agreement, which granted Albanians wider language rights, greater representation, and more local autonomy—an uneasy compromise that has held the country together ever since.
Later, the drive led to the site of my childhood home—now long gone. Without the guidance of Aleksandra and Radojka, it would have been impossible to locate. The place felt both familiar and distant, steeped in memory yet changed by time. In my memory is a house made of concrete, cream coloured with a porch. Out front was a huge cherry tree and a green coloured water pump. We had chickens and a hog in our backyard, raised to provide food for my family. I also had a pet goat named Vera. She was my best friend, who protected me from whoever came near. Now in its place is a different house. It’s very hard to see because of all the trees and bushes hiding it away, like memories buried by time. It looked surreal. I had mixed emotions about being right in front of the space where I grew up. It wasn’t recognizable because of the trees and bushes blocking the house, but my heart skipped a bit anyway.
Things change in life. Homes change, new buildings rise, and entire neighbourhoods take on different characters. And I changed, too. My perspective deepens, my values shift, and my experiences define me. Yet some things remain untouched, offering a sense of permanence in a world that constantly shifts.
Our next stop was the cemetery in Gjorche Petrov, where my sister is buried. This was a very emotional time for me. If it wasn’t for Aleksandra and my sister-in-law, it would have been so difficult to find it and to get there. It is atop a hill. At the bottom of the hill was a small flower shop where people could buy wreaths and bouquets for their loved ones. Going up a dirt, narrow road was a task by car. Radojka knew where my sister Lace’s grave was located. Most of the graves have huge headstones. But my sister’s was a small, simple one. It has a beautiful view of the city, which was a comfort. As we approached, emotions overwhelmed me. I let out a cry that had been buried for years. I felt guilty that I was alive and she wasn’t with us.
After that very emotional part of the day, we continued driving to Matka Canyon, just outside of Greater Skopje. It’s a beautiful natural attraction close to the heart of the city. Two different worlds come together. As we drove towards it, we passed people who had left their cars parked along the road. We were lucky we had Aleksandra as she drove closer to the entrance, so we didn’t have to walk long. It was a beautiful, sunny, hot day, but the less we had to walk, the better.
There were crowds walking in the heat to see this natural beauty. Walking under jagged stone protruding from a cliff was fascinating and scary at the same time, because the overhang was so low that we could touch the rocks. On the other side was the river with crystal-clear, calm water, interrupted by calls to take a boat ride down the river towards the canyon and caves beyond. The area buzzed with locals and tourists taking in the beautiful scenery.
Our final stop was the Millennium Cross. It’s a 217-foot-tall cross situated on top of Vodno Mountain, built in 2002 to commemorate 2,000 years of Christianity in Macedonia. It has become a bone of contention for the other religions that exist in Macedonia, such as the Muslim Albanians. Visitors can reach the top by cable car, which takes six to eight minutes. The view of the city gives the impression of a model miniature city set in a valley surrounded by mountains. The red rooftops, winding streets, and bridges stand out as the Vardar River cuts through the centre of the city. As a landmark, the cross has become a tourist destination with the best observation point to take in the panorama of the capital.
Together, these places—the canyon, the cross, and the cemetery—reminded me that not everything changes. Amid the impermanence of homes, cities, and ourselves, they stand steady, connecting me to both the past and the present, reminding me of what really endures and what that endurance means.
Conversation during the drive turned to the country’s official name, North Macedonia. To me, my family, and Macedonians in Canada, it’s simply Macedonia. This is also felt by the vast majority of Macedonians in Macedonia. Putting the question to Aleksandra, she grimaced and rolled her eyes. The soft yet angry growl in her voice said it all. “I don’t like it, and no one else likes it either. We didn’t have a say when the name was changed. They didn’t ask us what we wanted. Furthermore, you will notice from our signs, souvenirs, and books that the name reads only as ‘Macedonia.’”
Although the political compromise may be official, the people have not embraced it. Personally, I have not embraced the name change either. In my heart, it will always be Macedonia. I am a proud Macedonian.
My return to Skopje renewed my love and pride for the city and country. Skopje may not be the city I remember, but in its growth and transformation, it has a rightful place in the modern world.
