It is freezing cold. The long road wound endlessly upward. Dense fog limited our visibility to a few meters. It froze hard last night. The road was extremely slippery, and in the treacherous curves, the rear end of the rental car constantly threatened to slide out from under us. To my left, I suspected deep ravines from which there would be no return. But here, high above the clouds, the sky is blue like a robin’s egg.

After countless attempts, I finally find myself in Ribnovo, a forgotten and geographically isolated village deep in the Rhodope Mountains. It is somewhat hidden in the southwestern part of Bulgaria. Through acquaintances of friends, I finally managed to secure an invitation to a Pomak wedding. Gyultena (19) and Ahmed (26) are the lucky ones this weekend. A Pomak wedding is not a wedding party as we know it. Traditions that have been suppressed for decades are being revived here. For two full days, the village eats and dances in honor of the bride and groom. Relatives and acquaintances come from far and wide. Neighbors settle disputes, young people seek connection, and the elderly reminisce about the past. The village is in an uproar. For a weekend, I am a guest here and am allowed to freely take photos and witness this ritual celebration.

As a population group, the Pomaks are not easy to describe. They converted to Islam during the 500-year Ottoman rule. Changing religious confession was, in those days, the easiest way to enjoy a tax advantage. For many of them, it was an economic necessity. The Pomaks are a Bulgarian-speaking Muslim community that distinguishes itself from Turkish-speaking Muslims and Roma Muslims by their Bulgarian mother tongue. They are not recognized anywhere as an ethnic minority and are trying today, after centuries of repression and a traumatic past, to revive their cultural heritage. They consider the ritual of a traditional wedding as proof of their cultural and historical identity. A cultural identity that was heavily and repressively suppressed during the communist regime. In the street near the bride’s parental home, eager volunteers display the trousseau in an improvised gallery. From knitted baby socks to a giant flatscreen; everything a young couple might need is on display here. The bride looks on approvingly and hands out warm bread to villagers and guests who come to admire her dowry. All the household goods, clothes, and furniture were made, bought, saved, and collected by the bride’s family, friends, and acquaintances since the day of her birth.

It is time for lunch. Along the steep village streets, I walk to a multifunctional party hall located at the centrally located village square. Here the couple welcomes the guests. On day one, these are the guests of the bride.Tirelessly, the bride and groom welcome the numerous guests. According to old customs, both the bride and groom have money pinned on them.In the dilapidated village hall, long rows of tables are set up. Food is continuously served. A DJ plays deafening music. Zurnas and drums thump deafeningly and irregularly from the speakers. Very quickly, the guests start dancing; hand in hand, they weave between the tables. They dance the horo, a traditional Balkan dance. The dancers hold each other by the hands and thus, sideways hopping, form an open circle. In these regions, the horo is not only a dance but also a social activity that promotes community and unity. It brings people together, regardless of age or gender, and is a way to celebrate cultural traditions and identity. As evening falls, the party slowly comes to an end, and the tired revelers head home.

The next morning, Ribnovo looks a bit deserted. It will be another beautiful sunny but icy cold day. Slowly, the village awakens, and by noon it is time again for an abundant midday meal in the party hall. This time for the guests of the groom. The procedure repeats itself. Money notes are pinned, hands are shaken. More food is brought in, and soon the dancing begins again. After dessert, the DJ moves his set outside to the square. The groom’s father approaches waving a flag. The family crest is proudly displayed on the flag. Two wild men with a tupan, a type of drum, and a flutist with a zurna, a sharply sounding shepherd’s flute, circle around him. They blend with the noise that the DJ sends deafeningly through the speakers. The village quickly becomes lively. The guests dance, and the whole village watches. In a long chain, the dancers weave between the guests and villagers. Slowly the evening falls.

Gyultena has suddenly disappeared. I quickly head to her parental home and am just in time to see her enter. Foresighted, I quickly take off my heavy hiking boots and dive under the arm of the grandmother into the house, which is in a state of turmoil. I quickly run upstairs to where I suspect her girl’s room to be. Upstairs on the landing, Ahmed, the groom, sits patiently waiting on his knees. His wedding suit is still adorned with countless money notes.

The door to the girl’s room is closed. I am not allowed in. Occasionally, the door opens briefly to let someone in or out. Through a crack, I get a brief glimpse of how Gyultena is having her mask applied. The mask that is to be the highlight and final act of this wedding ceremony. Two women transform her face into a white doll’s face. The white base layer, the belilo, is decorated with red artificial gems and gold extras. The design is determined by her family history. The application of this mask takes about two hours and symbolizes purity, a representation of her virginity. Under the balcony, the whole village waits impatiently for the appearance of the bridal couple. Pushing and shoving to get the best view. When the bridal couple and the close family finally appear, applause and cheers ring out. The whole village is ready for the climax of this two-day celebration. The couple, flanked by their parents and hundreds of drumming villagers, sets off on foot through the village to their new home. Gyultena holds a mirror in front of her in which her closed eyes are reflected. One of the bridesmaids walks behind her and gently guides her in the right direction. We slowly shuffle through the dark streets of the village.

We stand outside among the dispersing crowd. The couple’s new house is off-limits. Here the celebration ends. Volunteers have moved the trousseau with pick-up trucks at an unseen pace. An onlooker tells me that the couple is now being blessed by the imam and that she is finally allowed to open her eyes. The young couple will now go into isolation for three days, three days of rest and privacy. It suddenly becomes very quiet and dark. My ears are still ringing. The street lies deserted. A tradition has been restored. The past has been revived. It has been a beautiful weekend.