Making the podcast “Evros Behind the Fence”

“In the house with the blue walls, the parents passed away. They had two children, both of whom live in America. I think they came back to the village once, about ten years ago.”

My eyes land on a rusty barred door and a faded sign from an old shop. It’s probably a grocery store. I realise at least fifteen minutes have passed without the sound of a car. I look around and notice I can park anywhere I want. For someone living in Athens, both feel like rare luxuries.

“Just two days ago, the bulldozer came to tear down half the house. It was one of the village’s grand old mansions, but the owner passed away three years ago. She was 90 years old, and her children live in the capital. It was falling apart, so they decided to demolish it.”

As Sassa continues this peculiar ‘tour,’ I think about the dozens, maybe hundreds, of houses in the villages of Trigono that could still be lived in. Some date back to the ’60s or ’70s and are still in good condition, while others are newer. A few need renovation, but they are large, spacious, and ideal for families.

In Athens and Thessaloniki, property prices are soaring, yet here in northern Evros, houses stand empty. In the big cities, homelessness is on the rise, while homes in this region sit locked and unused.

The same scenes and stories repeated themselves in Ormenio, Kanadas, Spileo, Krios, and Dilofos. In Dilofos especially, I hardly needed to ask any questions of Sakis Tsobanidis, who was waiting for us there.

The roads are riddled with potholes, and the cracked asphalt is overrun with grass. The houses aren’t just deserted, they’ve been surrendered to nature, which seems to proclaim, “I’m in charge here now.” Windows and doors are barely visible in many buildings, concealed behind thick, overgrown branches.

We parked in the middle of the street—no one to disturb, no cars expected to pass. To our right is the playground: swings and seesaws rusting away. I can’t help but wonder, “When was the last time a child played here?”

The only building that stands out is the freshly painted church. But I think to myself: it waits in vain for a congregation. Only twenty people remain in the village, all of them elderly.

As journalists, we often say, “The picture speaks for itself”—a cliché, no doubt, but fitting for Dilofos. Yet this project involves no images. A television camera could easily capture the desolation I’m describing, as could a written article paired with a few striking photographs.

One of the greatest challenges of the “Evros Behind the Fence” podcast series was to convey this desolation and abandonment with sound alone.

“No bus, no train. The village doesn’t even have a single child. Who would stay here, and for what? Depreciation—that’s all I have to say.” With those words, Sakis Tsobanidis bid us farewell and asked us to send him the podcast as soon as it was ready.

After visiting six or seven villages, one thought began to weigh on me: “It’s too late”. Of course, I didn’t share this with the villagers, I kept it to myself.

But the locals had no such reservations. They spoke openly about mass emigration and meager pensions. About young people opting to become border guards instead of farmers or laborers. About politicians who only remember Evros when elections loom.

They spoke of shuttered businesses and others relocating to Bulgaria. And, of course, they talked about the closure of the Hellenic Sugar Industry—a blow that, by all accounts, brought the region to its knees.

I feel like people needed to talk. But there’s more to it. They opened up because, at some point, they forgot, or rather stopped thinking, that they were talking to a journalist. All they had on them was a small microphone, a “lapel mic” as we say in our field, clipped to their shirt. They didn’t have to sit a certain way, make eye contact, or worry about their hand movements. There wasn’t a typical news microphone in front of them, constantly reminding them they were being recorded.

The absence of a TV camera set them free. Most of them, at some point, felt like they were talking to a friend who had come from Athens to visit.

The people we spoke to have tenacity, dreams, and plans for the future. They want to stay in their homeland, which is why they’re asking the state for support. They also have a great sense of humor, good tsipouro, and delicious spoon sweets.