Skopje, Macedonia — Through the Eyes of Those Who Lived It
A Note From Me
I’ve received quite a few messages over the past months asking the same question in different ways: “Where are you really from?” and “What was it like growing up there?” I’ve been meaning to answer that properly for a long time — and now, finally, here we go.
Rather than start with my own words, I did something that felt even more meaningful. I reached out to one of my very dear friends — someone who shared those same streets, the same smells in the air, the same laughter bouncing off concrete walls — and asked him to write a guest post. I asked him to describe a piece of our upbringing, to paint that picture the way only someone who truly lived it could.
And he delivered. Beautifully.
What you’re about to read comes straight from the heart of Igor Stefanovski — Iggy, or as we called him in the neighbourhood, Džiger — and I hope it answers some of your questions about where I’m from and where I grew up. Reading it myself brought back a flood of memories I didn’t even know I still had.
This is only the beginning. I feel this story has a Part 2, a Part 3, maybe even a Part 4 waiting to come out — built from my own memories and from the memories of some of my closest childhood friends like Džiger — all in the spirit of giving you a real, unfiltered sneak peek into what life was like growing up in Aerodrom. So consider this the opening chapter.
Now sit back, and let Igor take you there.
Guest Post: Homage to My Neighbourhood and Childhood in 80s Skopje
Written by Igor Stefanovski (Игор Стефановски)
My very good friend Ata Atanasov asked me to write a little bit about my childhood growing up in Skopje, Yugoslavia — which in 1991 became the Republic of Macedonia (but was then forced to change its name to North Macedonia after almost 30 years of aggression from its southern neighbour). The simple fact that my and Ata’s homeland underwent three name changes in under three decades tells its own story, but I’m not here to write about geopolitics or the lack of justice in international affairs. I’m here to tell you about the happiest childhood you could imagine…
My name is Igor Stefanovski (Игор Стефановски), or Iggy — but mainly Djiger (Џигер) in our neighbourhood in Aerodrom, Skopje. I was born in late 1980 to an English mother and a Macedonian father, both of whom very much felt Yugoslav at the time. Mum had come over in ’74 to teach English and stayed almost 20 years, having preferred life in Skopje to mere existence in London. She was a professor of English at the Faculty of Philology, while Dad was a professor of Drama at the Faculty of Dramatic Arts.
We lived in a small flat until I was four, but then moved into a brand new three-bedroom apartment in the newly built Aerodrom neighbourhood — a residential area of buildings between two and seven stories high, around 2km from the city centre, planned with young families in mind. Plenty of green spaces, large pedestrian areas, playgrounds, kindergartens and schools to serve the local population. My earliest and fondest memories are from there — specifically in front of Boulevard Jane Sandanski 86, where the picture below was taken.
(Circa winter 1990–91, clockwise from top left: Fidan, Me, Vojdan, Toma, Gotse-Sm, Dare, Bomba, Filjo, Pator, Zlate… unfortunately, Ata is not in the picture, as these are friends that lived within 50m of me, while he lived about 200m away.)
Imagine a vibrant and colourful place where practically everyone greeted one another, where doors were never, ever locked during the day unless the people weren’t at home, where kids spent most of their time after school playing outside. In fact, we only went home for lunch or dinner when we were called by our parents from the balcony. A green space the size of several football fields felt like a national park to a kid aged 6 to 11 — lined with private gardens and fruit trees that we would “borrow” from on summer evenings — a daily outdoor farmers’ market, drinking water fountains, and almost as many kids as adults for your neighbours.
There were lots of smiles and laughter, ruffled hair and cuts and bruises, regular games and competitions — from marbles and ball sports, to racing against the lift (your friends inside, you sprinting down the stairs from as high a floor as possible), Cowboys and Indians, and a kind of Tag + Floor is Lava amalgam played on walls and curbs, among many, many others. Meanwhile, parents looked out for their neighbours’ children, and wouldn’t be shy to offer words of warning or discipline if they came across a ruckus or saw us doing something dangerous.
That neighbourhood — that Maalo — was more than just our world. It was our University of Life. It’s where we learned about family and friendship, respect (for each other, but mostly for those older than us, and especially the elderly), order, street tricks and hustles, hierarchy and strength. I’ll never forget or forgive the “bigger boys” who simply took our communal basement hang-out spot after we had spent days cleaning it. The feeling of injustice was overwhelming — but an important lesson was learned. And I still bring this story up when I see them, now in their 50s.
It was a close-knit community, much like many others in our city, and we were surrounded by a feeling of safety, security, and possibility that I’ve rarely felt since — if ever. There was simply something in the air, and most days felt like an adventure, since all of your best friends lived very close and you couldn’t wait to see what you’d get up to that day. The camaraderie was like in the movie Stand By Me — though it was a much larger friend group and girls were most definitely always part of it — and looking back now I see that time through the lens of a nostalgic masterpiece like Fellini’s Amarcord.
We knew our place — when we could play, when we had to be quiet, when we’d crossed a line. Outside had to be quiet between 3pm and 5pm, when the adults were resting after lunch and a day’s work. You risked having a bucket of water thrown from one of the balconies, or a neighbour saying your dad would be hearing about your behaviour. The world had borders and limits, but within them, the possibilities were endless.
Apart from playing outside, there was “Pinochio” and “Villy” — the arcade places — where we spent our pocket money playing video games on makeshift wooden boxes with two buttons and a screen. It was only when I moved to England in 1992 that I realised you could also kick in Street Fighter, since the two buttons we had were only for punches! We also did our own pool or foosball tournaments, or could rent a movie from the legendary Riki — whose ground-floor apartment-turned-neighbourhood Blockbuster was full of pirated VHS tapes, and who cared very little for (or was completely unaware of) age ratings. This is how I discovered I didn’t particularly like horror films, but didn’t mind seeing naked ladies…
(Recent satellite picture of our world — appears to be from winter. In spring and summer, the foliage and colours are much more striking.)
I honestly can’t thank my lucky stars enough that I grew up in that exact Maalo. I only realised how lucky I was — how lucky we all were — once my family moved to England after the disintegration of Yugoslavia, when I was 12. There, we lived on one of those stereotypical streets with terraced houses on both sides and not a kid to be found outside. In fact, kids on streets are frowned upon in the UK and much of the Western world, seen as dangerous youths just waiting to rob passers-by.
I have never, to this day, heard of someone being robbed or molested in our neighbourhood. Even as we grew up, teens generally sat in groups and laughed and joked, and everyone was perfectly safe to walk past at any hour of day or night.
Another thing that was different in the UK was bullying in schools, which I genuinely hadn’t come across in Macedonia. Yes, we had kids that were considered weird, or overweight, or “nerds” — but I never heard them being insulted for that reason. In England, from my very first day at school, kids I’d never met before started saying random things at me. The beauty of not knowing what bullying was meant I just looked at them in silence, unsure what was going on — and so it didn’t last long. But other kids had it bad during secondary school, especially ginger kids or boys that weren’t sporty. I tried my best, as a true Socialist, to stand up for them.
I have to say that, just like everything else in the world over the last 35 years, our beautiful neighbourhood is no longer what it used to be. Kids playing outdoors are rarer, and if they are, they’re not as active or as respectful as we used to be. Doors are always locked nowadays, most changed to Fort Knox-style metal doorways. The sense of community is almost gone too — though it still lives in us, the older generation.
Nevertheless, the memories remain — and our Maalo is alive in all who lived there during that time. It forged us, made us who we are. And I for one will forever be grateful to have had the chance to grow up there.
Stay Close — There’s More Where That Came From
If Igor’s words moved you even half as much as they moved me, then you already understand why I talk about Skopje the way I do. There is something genuinely magical about that city — about its warmth, its chaos, its big-hearted people, and the way it raises its children to be fearless, curious, and deeply connected to one another.
Skopje and Macedonia hold a beauty that is hard to put into words and even harder to forget once you’ve felt it. The landscape, the culture, the food, the hospitality, the music, the history — it’s all there, layered and alive, waiting for you to discover it.
And we’re just getting started.
More parts of this story are on the way — my own memories, the voices of more childhood friends, more corners of Aerodrom brought back to life through words. Stay tuned, because the best is absolutely yet to come.
With love from Aerodrom — always.