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Every February, as the festival of Prochka approaches, the streets of Prilep once came alive with masked figures and chaotic celebration. But among the many carnival customs, none carried the weight, symbolism, or primal energy of the Prilepski Mechkari. What began as a guild ritual practiced by local butchers evolved into a visceral performance that blurred the lines between humans, animals, and spirits. Today, however, that tradition is nearly gone, reduced to memory, old photographs, and vague references in local folklore.

The Mechkari first appeared in historical records in 1929, although their origins likely stretch back even further. They weren’t just masked revelers; they were members of Prilep’s butchers’ guild, and their role in the ritual was deeply connected to their craft. For men who spent their lives taking life, the Mechkari ritual served as a form of collective repentance. It was their way of confronting the symbolic weight of the animals they slaughtered, a dramatic act of purification before the beginning of Lent.

In the days leading up to the event, the Mechkari withdrew from everyday life. They fasted, abstained from warmth, slept in caves, and drank only alcohol—symbolically shedding their human habits to prepare for transformation. On the morning of the ritual, they would don freshly skinned hides—usually lamb or goat—and emerge from the old slaughterhouse just as the sun rose. These costumes were not decorative. They were heavy, raw, and unpleasant, intensifying the performers' discomfort and their altered physical state. Covered in soot and blood, wearing masks and dragging chains, the Mechkari roamed the streets in aggressive processions that unsettled the townspeople and dominated the carnival scene.

The heart of the ritual was confrontation. As they moved through Prilep, the Mechkari clashed with other masked groups—sometimes in choreographed challenges, other times in real physical fights. Their presence was meant to provoke, to disrupt order and reawaken ancient fears. It was a spectacle, yes, but also a sacred release. At the end of the performance, after sowing symbolic chaos and collecting tolls from frightened or amused citizens, the butchers were considered ritually cleansed and ready to rejoin the community.

In the years following World War II, the tradition began to fade. Modernization chipped away at its foundations. Industrial meat production distanced butchers from their ancestral identities. Urbanization weakened the bonds of guilds. And changing attitudes toward animal rights and public safety made the more disturbing elements of the ritual—such as the use of real hides or threatening behavior—socially unacceptable. Eventually, the Mechkari disappeared from the Prochka celebrations entirely.

What remains today is a watered-down echo, occasionally revived in folklore festivals or nostalgic retellings. But without the intensity, without the spiritual depth and symbolic discomfort, these reenactments risk turning into mere costume parades. What’s truly lost is not just a performance, but a ritual that expressed something primal about fear, guilt, transformation, and communal identity.

It is tempting to view such traditions as outdated or incompatible with modern values. But they also carried a kind of honesty—about life and death, sin and redemption—that today’s sanitized rituals often lack.
Perhaps it’s time not simply to bring back the masks, but to dig deeper into what they meant. The tradition of the Mechkari doesn't need to be performed exactly as it once was. But its spirit—raw, defiant, and deeply human—deserves to be remembered.