Sacred Water

Once again, my family and I are spending our summer vacation in Macedonia, and arriving late in June, we were struck by how lush and green everything was. The forest was full of mushrooms,  the open prairies were covered with wildflowers and tea plants just beginning to bloom, the water streams were full. The fragrant herbs and mountain tea released their aroma, carried throughout the valley by the fresh mountain breeze. It smelled like a warm cup of tea - everywhere.

It was nature as I remembered it, vibrant and alive. The scent from my childhood memories so vivid again. It felt like time travel, I am eight again somehow, when the days were pleasantly warm, and the nights quiet and refreshingly cool. 

A few days after our arrival, I stood in the garden and thought, “What a beautiful summer so far.” But the memory of past summers lingered—and I couldn’t help but await the coming heat with a reluctant heart and fear.

What I was really afraid of was the moment when the drinking water and the water my parents use to care for the plants in their organic garden would vanish, just as it had in the past several summers. The river we used to plunge into each summer was slowly shrinking, retreating further each day. In its place, it left behind the remains of dead crabs and other life that once thrived. I remember, in my childhood, everything felt different. The water seemed to flow endlessly. The forests were thicker. The summers were kinder. I remember needing to put on a sweater in the evening while playing outside. Now, that’s no longer necessary. Sometimes I wonder if the lens through which I saw the mountain and life here back then is simply being blurred by the bias of adulthood and current experiences, or if the changes I sense are real, and I am witnessing the slow, silent undoing of something truly sacred.

The water the village families use for drinking comes from melted mountain snow from Mount Pelister, flowing down as a small river called Stara Reka—the “Old River”—before being collected in a modest reservoir. Higher up in the mountain, the river splits in two, allowing nearby villages on the other side of the ridge to draw from it as well.

The mountain village where my parents now live has also shrunk significantly over the years, though for different reasons. The nearby city of Bitola has become a more popular place to live, especially after the village school closed, along with the small shops where people once bought their daily necessities. Today, only 24 families remain in the village. Most of them tend small gardens near their houses, irrigated by the drinking water coming from the reservoir, further depleting the reserves. The larger gardens that once spread across the hillside, irrigated by the water coming from the river have long been abandoned. There’s not enough people, and not enough water. 

But even with so much less demand the water feels so precious now. Everyone in the village thinks about it, quietly dreading the moment it might disappear under the weight of the harsh summer temperatures. The village across the mountain has already lost its drinking water wells. Now, they draw water from our river to keep their crops alive—under the lingering threat to perish in this heat. Each day, people from there arrive in cars, tractors, and with large cisterns, gathering around the nearby water well. For now, it still provides enough clean, fresh water for drinking. But the image is very unsettling. I can’t help but feel deep sadness for all these people—forced to collect their most basic need in such a way, as if we’ve have somehow leaped forward into a future we never truly believed would come, or could happen in our lifetime. 

We can blame it on climate change, and surely that’s one of the greatest forces at play. But it feels much more personal—like we’ve betrayed something sacred, and now we’re watching it slip through our hands.

I’m very proud of my parents and the way they chose to spend their retirement. They could have easily stayed in the city and lived a quieter, more restful and easier life. But instead, they decided to keep their hands full with hard work—waking up early each morning to grow their own food, care for the land they inherited from their parents, and honour it in the most profound way.  And with water becoming a real issue, they’ve found different ways to help themselves and the community ration the limited supply they have. They’ve organised shared watering schedules to ensure that every drop is used wisely. They do their best to find the most practical way forward, because there’s no help coming from anywhere else. Not from the authorities. Not from the skies. Even the gods seem to have turned their backs. It hasn’t rained in over a month.

My parents use a large 1,000-litre barrel to collect and store rainwater. In their gardening, they intentionally allow certain plant species to grow alongside their crops, companion plants that help retain moisture in the soil and reduce the need for frequent watering. Now, they’re searching for longer-term solutions both for irrigation and for maintaining a stable drinking water supply, as the problem worsens with each passing year. One idea they’re exploring is installing a Subsurface Drip Irrigation (SDI) system. But the biggest challenge lies in finding a nearby underground water well that could supply the system. Even if such a well exists, the costs of installation might be too high. Additionally the water from this well would need to be tested—there’s no guarantee it would be clean enough for use. My parents face a difficult choice. As they grow older, the way they garden also needs to evolve. They must find a very balanced, sustainable way to continue growing their own food, some of which we bring back with us when we return home. But all of it depends on one crucial factor: A resource so sacred that pushes them to find more inventive ways to work with what nature already provides them with. Their future efforts will depend almost entirely on the availability of this most vital resource:

The sacred water. Jelena Holl July 2025