Maalo

 

Bul Jane Sandanski, br 86-IV/22

An ode to the neighborhood (“maalo”), but not the elevator

One day, I will write the stories of growing up in the maalo in Macedonia (à la Nageeb Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy). All of us growing up in Macedonia lived in different, often quite unique and specific maalos. We all had wonderful memories of spending most of our days outside, playing in the maalo with the other kids from that neighborhood. And it is a wonder that in the age before cell phones and internet, our parents let us play outside in such a manner. Being from a maalo was part of our identity and point of reference.

Everyone will say theirs was the best, but ours was truly special. A microcosm of some of Macedonia’s most famous artists, actors and ballerinas, theater and music directors, singers and composers, journalists and writers, athletes and coaches, lawyers and judges and so many more. They were all there, living in apartments one on top of each other, next to each other, across from each other. And we were the kids, their kids, growing up together. Because the neighborhood was newly built, we all moved in around the same time and formed the friendships from the very beginning.

We played from the moment our parents said we could go out, until the only lights outside were the moon and a dim, often flickering, streetlight. We played until our parents came on the balconies calling out our names, the sound reverberating throughout the entire neighborhood (or what felt like all of Skopje to hear) for us to come home. We played hopscotch until our knees hurt (or got appendicitis in my case), we ran until we sweat, we played “servis” until we lost the ball, we played soccer until we scraped our knees, we snacked on sunflower seeds and licked ice cream until our money ran out, we snuck into the “vojni” (military) pool and stayed until closing time. “Zhmurki na topka” (hide-n-seek with a ball), “narodna”, “lastik”, “dzhamlii”. The games were constant and infinite.

I remember those days, those endless days of carefree fun that we never wanted to end. The dread of going inside the dark building, running up stairs or riding the elevator that may or may not get stuck at that exact moment, all the way to the top floor. We never wanted to be the first one to leave, but we also didn’t want to be the last one either, because that meant riding the elevator alone. It was a lucky break to be going home at the same time as a friend who also happened to live not only in the same building but on a nearby floor.

One day, I WILL write the stories.