At the cemetery in Madariaga

We arrived at the city cemetery in Madariaga, a place where Montenegrins, settlers of these regions, have been buried for decades. In Madariaga, there is no separate part of the city hills or a church with a cemetery, as is the case in Buenos Aires, Chaco and other places in Argentina. Or like in Hazleton, Pennsylvania, Bear Crack, Montana, or some other place where our people immigrated. However, our emigrants in these regions were so numerous that their influence in all government bodies and society was always sufficiently dominant. In the main, there was a feeling as if they had always lived in those areas. Also, the daily arrival of Montenegrins in large numbers contributed to the development and expansion of our culture and heritage, property and resources. Simply put, the number and influence of Montenegrins in General Madariaga and the surrounding areas was so great that they always felt like "their own" and there was no need to separate them.

Probably I will never be able to describe to anyone well enough all that I felt when passing through that far away place where the bones of those brave people rest forever in peace, who carried the name and glory of our small nation to distant expanses South America. My dear companions and hosts were constantly wondering why I was painting every tombstone, every stone on which any memory or name was engraved. And every grave in Madariaga, in fact, is a monument to the boldness and courage of our ancestors, it is also a symbol of suffering, nostalgia, desire for life and everything that these people brought with them from their old homeland. The one who works, the one who leaves - these words, which I read a long time ago in Timoti Jokanović's Memoirs, constantly echoed in my head. He says: "Brave, good, sad You left. What about us? And we, the descendants of those who stayed, or returned, today we know almost nothing about you, about your children, about everything you went through and what you are struggling with." Chills and a terrible feeling of shame in me before the graves, cold and silent, but graves that speak.

And I say to myself, seeking justification and guilt at the same time. Maybe I could do something, more! But it's not too late, it's definitely not, I believe it! Who is to blame here, go, there, and are there any culprits at all? Evil people, or madmen, those without traces and roots, without feeling for the present and the future, without the slightest respect for the past and themselves. There is no one but "them", whoever they are?! It runs through my mind... I know that there were always those who wanted to do it, who did it, and kudos to them for everything. I promised myself that I would not be among those who only wanted it, I promised myself that I would succeed. My images and thoughts kept changing, and it was almost as if I was dreaming. Our good host Vaso hit me on the shoulder and I "woke up" from that strange state, and we continued our tour. I my painting, and Vaso the incredible story of every Montenegrin who rests there in that place, in the distant country of Argentina, in the city cemetery in Gral. about the same society - the name of the Mutual Aid Society in Madariaga was changed several times throughout history... First it was called Montenegrin, then Montenegrin - Yugoslav, and finally after World War II it was called the Yugoslav Society of Njegoš, the name it still bears today, mutual aid society.

Mutual aid societies took care of everyone. Even about those who remained unmarried, and there were many of them because they worked hard and hoped to return to their native land. They could always count on the brotherly help of their countrymen. No Montenegrin, no matter how poor he was, died alone and abandoned by his fellow countrymen, because the mutual aid society took care of everyone who had no family and means. It started to get a little dark. Our visit to Maderiaga was coming to an end. I stopped once more at the entrance to the city cemetery, took a good look, closed my eyes and repeated my promise again. We stopped by Daniel Marković's for prosciutto and a glass of wine, and then at Janković's home to say goodbye to our hosts. Dear friends, see you in Montenegro before any of us can imagine it. I said that, sure of my words more than ever that time. Back to Buenos Aires

"Down town" Buenos Aires We got up in the early dawn, around 4 am, while Madariaga was still in the dark. It was a very cold morning, but luckily I "armed" myself well with warm clothes before leaving for Argentina; things that I thought only weighed down my luggage, which was already full of books and other gifts intended for my friends. We got into Rodolfo's Ford and headed back through the pampas. I recognized the Montenegrin flag hanging on the interior rearview mirror, which I had mailed to him many years ago. We drove on a completely straight road, with almost no curves, through the morning mist and memories of the previous days. We headed back towards Buenos Aires. As always, I continued to dream with my eyes open. I kept imagining dozens of groups of emigrants on carriages and other vehicles, after several months exhausted from the journey, with their entire lives packed in a few suitcases, arriving in a small Gauca village in the south. I imagined the market and the landowners who came there every day in search of fresh labor, for what they themselves were once upon a time. I imagined newly arrived emigrants, eager to feel a new life on a new continent as soon as possible. And the first (un)slept night in that new homeland, a sky full of stars, a heart full of nostalgia, a soul woven of hope, desire...

Casa Rosada On the way to the great capital, we again passed through endless fields full of herds of cows. We saw people on horses, isolated farms... The whole way I could smell the countryside, but nothing familiar to me until then. Something invisible, tempting and completely exotic, and almost completely imperceptible. Still, it reminded me that I am not home, but that I am far away, in the other hemisphere, "where the water flows in the opposite direction", as one of those who returned to his native place wrote some time ago. Along the way, we stopped at some of the typical Argentinian cafes, for a Cafe y Lece (Coffee with milk), just to wake up a little and recover from the extremely tiring, long and monotonous journey. And with the famous Medialunas, which I have to admit, I already miss, after all, like all of Argentina, and most of all its warm and open people... Medialunas are sweet cookies in the shape of a crescent made of extremely soft dough, which are one of the most traditional dishes served for breakfast, with of course the inevitable toast with dulce de lece (milk sweet - a kind of cream made of sugar, milk, vanilla; which is best when made at home, homemade. The tastiest I've ever had) tried the real Laura Jokanovich). And then, another two hours to the entrance to the Dock Court, the big bridge and beautiful Buenos Aires in front of us! We entered from the side of Dock Court, the place where the largest colony of our emigrants once existed in the era of the greatest economic strength of Buenos Aires. A place once famous for theaters and powerful multinational companies, today it is just a forgotten suburb inhabited by emigrants from the northern provinces of Paraguay and other surrounding countries. Emigrants who came to Argentina in search of the same things that our settlers were looking for decades before them; only many years later in the era when the famous Peron opened the borders for them as well.

A street in the famous suburb of La Boca What can I say about Buenos Aires? I, as a small Montenegrin, who is only pretending, really don't feel big enough to write anything about that city. What is more, many before me have not said or written, those for whom I am not even a pea. I have traveled a lot in my life and been to many meridians, but not a single place has "embraced" me like this, in such a warm way. It's like I belong there. It's like I never have to go back to my dear Boka. From the moment I arrived in Buenos Aires, all the dear people with whom I have been working for years, set aside enough time for me and what I came here for, in addition to their daily duties and work; the realization of what today's Argentinians of our origin know and cherish, from what their ancestors left them, and what was brought from the old homeland.

La Boca It is interesting that just a few hours after my arrival I had the opportunity to be surrounded by old and new acquaintances. Namely, at the Embassy of Serbia and Montenegro, where I went at the invitation of my dear friend, the Ambassador of Serbia and Montenegro, Ivan Saveljić, together with the management of "Zeta", I was greeted by a large gathering of many people, organized in honor of the departure of an employee, a farewell evening for someone, for me an evening of welcome to this beautiful country. It was there that I met "all the faces and sides of our emigration" live for the first time. Everything was there, from very successful young businessmen who do business in this country, to old emigration of all colors and flags. Those who still live in that beautiful Yugoslavia, where we all loved each other so much and in which we all live so happily, those who still dream of a king and the old divisions that have long been forgotten... But also those Argentinians who know that someone once belonged to them came from a distant country, a small rocky one, which they love from the stories and memories left by their ancestors.

Ambassador of Serbia and Montenegro in Argentina Ivan Saveljić and Gordan Stojovic Montenegro.com in Palermo - Buenos Aires There I saw that there are people who are still living history. They fully survive what we have only read in books or simply skipped over. And just then, a young priest came up to me and said "Well, you are Gordan Stojović", I was so surprised that someone addressed me, someone in all that crowd, where I even executed the people I arrived with. With a smile on my face, I said "Yes, that's me", and asked out of curiosity, "So do we know each other?" "No, we don't know each other, but I know you, a friend from Belgrade sent me your book". We talked openly, of course with many different points of view, but I would be very happy. That same evening, at the reception, I was introduced to one of the oldest Montenegrins in Buenos Aires, Boro Novaković, from Bijelopavlić. Boro, who is 92 years old, certainly cannot but impress everyone. So much life, energy, it's hard to find even in younger people. This is a man who carries a certain heritage, an ideology that he represents in such a way that even the biggest dissenters, even opponents, can only respect. I immediately told him who I was from, and of course he knew my family very well, and he immediately remembered the side on which almost all of my immediate and extended relatives fought in World War II. He embraced me as if he were the first born, and I also guarded him, and at that very moment the ambassador came and I said: Here are the three of us from Bjelopavlica, no one is coming towards us. And so we settled, three generations of Bijelopavlic, in the Embassy in Buenos Aires, in the building that Nikola Mihanovic, a great Croatian-Argentine shipowner, once gave to the Ambassador of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes. All three, in the same place, in the same country, where we arrived for completely different reasons, and at different times. Me for a short time, the ambassador for a longer time, and Boro for my whole life, almost 60 years already.

In the fourth part of the story - Visiting the Laković Family, celebration and reception at the LOVĆEN Restaurant in Buenos Aires Accommodation Montenegro