The steaming open carcass stands out pink against the dingy dirty landscape and the 2 drab gray men. It looks as if the village and everything in it were dipped in a large inkwell. Like the surrounding hills and forests within a 25-kilometer radius. The houses are covered in black soot, the footsteps of the inhabitants leave white marks in the black snow.
Thirty years later, I go again to Copsa Mica to talk to the people about the village of the past.
© Marleen Daniëls
