FiLMaR

@takis_markakis

Ακροκεντρώος ισαποστάκιας

Joined December 2017

307 Following

19 Followers

368 Posts

takis_markakis retweeted

ΤουιτεροΔήμαρχος 🇵🇸 @Yiatzi

about 1 month ago

Στα 15 τσακωνομουν επί ώρες με βαζελους Στα 25 μιλούσα επί ώρες με βαζελους χωρίς τσακωμό Στα 35 μιλούσα ελάχιστα με βαζελους Στα 45 όταν βλέπω βαζελο λέω δεν ασχολούμαι με αθλητικά, ωραίος καιρός σήμερα #olympiacosbc

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FiLMaR @takis_markakis

3 months ago

@TheodoreLytras Hράκλειο Κρήτης την Τετάρτη ξεπέρασε τα 1800...

250

takis_markakis retweeted

🌼 𝑀𝒶𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶🌼 @margakoul

6 months ago

Χθες παιδιά χωρίς μαμάδες, σήμερα μαμάδες χωρίς παιδιά. Κι εμείς θεατές στον πόνο. #paokfc #τρικαλα #ρουμανια #βιολαντα #παοκ

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takis_markakis retweeted

Dr. M.F. Khan

@Dr_TheHistories

7 months ago

A father and son crying goodbye to the mother they would never see again (1957)... The photograph—taken by Manuel Ferrol on November 27, 1957, in the port of Ferrol, Spain—captures a moment so intimate, so unbearable, that it became one of the most haunting images of 20th-century migration. In the picture, 29-year-old Ángel Calo Marcote and his 8-year-old son, Juan Jesús, are caught mid-grief as they say their final goodbye to Josefina López—the boy’s mother. Josefina was boarding the ship Juan de Garay, bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina. She traveled with her brother and mother—Juan Jesús’s uncle and grandmother—seeking a chance at survival and stability far beyond the reach of Franco-era Spain. They believed the separation might last months. But deep down, they understood the truth shared by millions of European families: They were saying goodbye forever. Between the 1820s and the 1980s, more than 50 million Europeans migrated to the Americas. For many, emigration meant cutting the threads of one life to stitch together the hope of another. Letters might come. News might drift back. But countless families never reunited, never heard a final word, never learned what became of the loved ones who disappeared across the ocean. That painful uncertainty pulses through Ferrol’s photograph. Ángel’s face, twisted with the helpless sorrow of a man losing the person around whom his world revolved. The child clinging to him—confused, devastated, not yet old enough to understand permanence, but old enough to feel it. The rawness of the moment was not posed. Manuel Ferrol hid his camera inside his trench coat, snapping the shutter discreetly so the families would not stiffen under its gaze. He wanted the truth—not a staged farewell, but the real agony of departure. The resulting image, titled “O home e o neno” (“The Man and the Child” in Galician), struck at the heart of a nation. Which is why it was censored. Under Franco’s dictatorship, the regime wanted images of strength, tradition, obedience—not photographs revealing a Spain so desperate that mothers fled across the ocean, leaving their families behind. Ferrol’s authorship remained suppressed until Spain’s transition to democracy after 1975. Only then did the world learn the name behind the photograph—and begin to understand the scale of its truth. In 2021, Pope Francis—himself the child of migrants from Italy to Argentina—received a copy of the image. He recognized instantly the universal sorrow etched in the father’s and son’s faces: the price migration exacts from the heart. The story did not end at the port. Ángel, the father, lived out his days as a sailor before eventually migrating to Switzerland. He died in 2006 at age 80. Juan Jesús, the little boy in tears, grew into a fisherman. He battled chronic illness for years and died in 2024 at age 75. Of Josefina, her mother, and her brother, almost nothing more is known—only that the ship reached Argentina safely. After that, the trail goes dark. The photograph remains one of the great testaments to the silent tragedies behind mass migration—tragedies measured not only in numbers, but in broken families, fractured futures, and goodbyes spoken through tears at ports and docks around the world. It is a single moment frozen in time. A father holding his child. A mother stepping onto a ship. A family splitting—permanently—against the vast, indifferent ocean. And behind it all, the echo of millions more who made the same sacrifice, hoping the distance would bring a better life, even as it shattered the one they already had. © History Pictures #drthehistories

$Dr_TheHistories's tweet photo. A father and son crying goodbye to the mother they would never see again (1957)... The photograph—taken by Manuel Ferrol on November 27, 1957, in the port of Ferrol, Spain—captures a moment so intimate, so unbearable, that it became one of the most haunting images of 20th-century migration. In the picture, 29-year-old Ángel Calo Marcote and his 8-year-old son, Juan Jesús, are caught mid-grief as they say their final goodbye to Josefina López—the boy’s mother. Josefina was boarding the ship Juan de Garay, bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina. She traveled with her brother and mother—Juan Jesús’s uncle and grandmother—seeking a chance at survival and stability far beyond the reach of Franco-era Spain. They believed the separation might last months. But deep down, they understood the truth shared by millions of European families: They were saying goodbye forever. Between the 1820s and the 1980s, more than 50 million Europeans migrated to the Americas. For many, emigration meant cutting the threads of one life to stitch together the hope of another. Letters might come. News might drift back. But countless families never reunited, never heard a final word, never learned what became of the loved ones who disappeared across the ocean. That painful uncertainty pulses through Ferrol’s photograph. Ángel’s face, twisted with the helpless sorrow of a man losing the person around whom his world revolved. The child clinging to him—confused, devastated, not yet old enough to understand permanence, but old enough to feel it. The rawness of the moment was not posed. Manuel Ferrol hid his camera inside his trench coat, snapping the shutter discreetly so the families would not stiffen under its gaze. He wanted the truth—not a staged farewell, but the real agony of departure. The resulting image, titled “O home e o neno” (“The Man and the Child” in Galician), struck at the heart of a nation. Which is why it was censored. Under Franco’s dictatorship, the regime wanted images of strength, tradition, obedience—not photographs revealing a Spain so desperate that mothers fled across the ocean, leaving their families behind. Ferrol’s authorship remained suppressed until Spain’s transition to democracy after 1975. Only then did the world learn the name behind the photograph—and begin to understand the scale of its truth. In 2021, Pope Francis—himself the child of migrants from Italy to Argentina—received a copy of the image. He recognized instantly the universal sorrow etched in the father’s and son’s faces: the price migration exacts from the heart. The story did not end at the port. Ángel, the father, lived out his days as a sailor before eventually migrating to Switzerland. He died in 2006 at age 80. Juan Jesús, the little boy in tears, grew into a fisherman. He battled chronic illness for years and died in 2024 at age 75. Of Josefina, her mother, and her brother, almost nothing more is known—only that the ship reached Argentina safely. After that, the trail goes dark. The photograph remains one of the great testaments to the silent tragedies behind mass migration—tragedies measured not only in numbers, but in broken families, fractured futures, and goodbyes spoken through tears at ports and docks around the world. It is a single moment frozen in time. A father holding his child. A mother stepping onto a ship. A family splitting—permanently—against the vast, indifferent ocean. And behind it all, the echo of millions more who made the same sacrifice, hoping the distance would bring a better life, even as it shattered the one they already had. © History Pictures #drthehistories$

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Who to follow

Agis/Άγις 🇬🇷 🇨🇺 🇬🇧 🇺🇦

@ALiberakis

Terra is my nation, the stars my destination.

michalis iniotakis

@minio_gr

Civil Engineer, Earthquake Engineering MSc

Nikos Martis

@martisnik

takis_markakis retweeted

Aris ⚔️

@ArisBJJ

7 months ago

Κλάμα..

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22K

takis_markakis retweeted

Redemption 1925 @Redemption1925

11 months ago

Αντίο στον Φώτη που έχει σηκώσει 2 κύπελα και έναν Αλαφούζο στην καριέρα του. Εδώ δεν χωράνε οπαδικά.

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FiLMaR @takis_markakis

about 1 year ago

@fasc1nate @Kessaris_

FiLMaR @takis_markakis

about 1 year ago

@machiavelli_gr Μένει ενα αυτοκίνητο απο λαστιχο εξω απο τ Ανώγεια , ο οδηγος όμως δεν εχει γρύλο, ρωτάει ένα γεράκο περαστίκο αν μπορεί να του φέρει ένα, μετά απο λιγο έρχεται πίσω μαζι με εναν αλλο και του λέει δε βρήκα Γρύλλο κ έφερα ένα Φασουλά...