Our roots are our history, our language, our customs, our culture. If you deny your roots, you will be like that tree with shallow roots that a strong wind will topple. A complete person has self-awareness. If you do not know who you are, you will be like a small tree in the desert, without water, without memory, without a future ultimately.
The first generation Pontians could never forget the "homeland." My grandmother, until she died at the age of 97, always had the longing to see the "sacred soil" just once like another Odysseus, even if she died afterward. Our parents' generation was born here in the new homeland; they had different visions and goals: to take root, to distinguish themselves, to survive. Many of them became immigrants, as the new homeland treated them like a stepmother and not like a mother. The third generation, which grew up with the stories of the grandmothers, carries this homeland in their cells and is the generation that attempts the return to the roots.
Tortured, victims of genocide, after death marches, they came and settled on a plateau in Western Macedonia, in their new homeland, a village that was inhabited by Muslims who left during the exchange. Pontians settled in Haidarlí, most of whom had a common origin. The places of origin were Kiov-Tepe of Epes, Altinoglu Chiflik of Sebasteia, a few families from Hamouri of Trebizond, Incesu of Tokat, Endirek, and a few families from Atapazar.
They took root in their new homeland, and with steel hands and a steel soul, they looked forward, never forgetting who they were and where they came from.