My Greek Odyssey

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Freedom or Eleftheria

Like many others I have been watching with revulsion as peaceful demonstraters have been crushed by Turkish security forces. The fantasy of a democratic Turkey too often touted in European and American circles has finally been exposed by Erdogan's heavy handed approach to those who have the temerity to disagree with his vision of Turkey's future. 

As the now almost extinct Christian minorities of Turkey can attest to there is no room for those who are different from the ruling elites. It is interesting to note that many who share in the Kemalist ideology of Ataturk now find themselves an out group along with other disenfranchised groups such as the Alevis and the Kurds. What goes around comes around.

Greeks were the first humans who gave considerable thought to the concept of freedom. As a commodity, it is much sought after these days, as events in Turkey attest to. Ordinary people are willing to endanger their lives in order to get a taste. In America, freedom has taken on the form of a religion.  Our freedom, is unlike the freedom that the Greeks called "eleftheria, " that is, freedom from being tyranized, enslaved or being violated.  No wonder then that when Turks pour into the streets in a culmination of years of such tyranny that Americans might have a little difficulty recognizing what it is these people want and our President can only mouth meaningless platitudes.  To many Americans, freedom merely means choosing for oneself based on personal desires without respect to moral obligations. 

In a nation that has few communal standards other than freedom, diversity  and choice, increasingly, anything goes.  In our evolving democracy, I say evolving because it seems to be changing before our very eyes, the state is assuming ever widening powers aimed at protecting our "rights." These rights are no longer those delineated in our Bill of Rights, which are trampled daily in the name of liberal altruism. They are maleable and ever expanding. The right to an abortion, free health care, a job, an income, with or without working, transportation, daycare, a college education, the right to vote regardless of qualifications and even the right to violate the law if you meet certain criteria. So if one enters the country illegally as an aggrieved minority or even "forgets" to pay his taxes before being considered for a cabinet level position, allowances can be made. The price of such freedom is a government controlled by a ruling elite that is no longer representative of a portion of the elctorate. You know, the one's that didn't give them their votes and must now be vilified and subjugated. Increasingly the massive apparatus at the disposal of those who run that government has been put to use by our betters to stifle, impede and erode the opposition. If you buy into their vision of the future you will reap its benefits, stand in their way and you will be swept aside like so much flotsam. No wonder Erdogan and Obama see the world in a similar fashion. 

In this brave new world, security and safety are paramount.   The NSA can gather up all types of information on innocent Americans in the name of security but border control agents cannot use profiling lest it offend anyone. It can cast its wide net on Google and Facebook but can't effectively use information passed on by the Russian security services. In so doing it manages to completely miss the perpetrators of the Boston Marathon bombing while violating the basic privacy of millions of Americans.  In the United States, increasingly political opponents are seen as the enemy. Tea Party members are subject to more scrutiny than radical Imams preaching Jihad. So too in Turkey, Erdogam's heavy hand is needed to protect Turks from outside conspiracies eager to destroy the regime. He calls upon his followers as if these other Turks in Taksim Square are merely a collection of terrorists instead of fellow Turkish citizens. 

As we are finding out, elections do not guarantee freedom and those elected democratically do not always behave so. Increasingly elected governments seek to impose the will of the majority on the minority with every means at their disposal. Debate and dialogue are things of the past, the rule of law discarded, individual rights ignored. We have strayed very far from the original Greek concept of freedom. 

 

SPIRIT OF GREEK FREEDOM

 

 

My Greek Father

When I was a kid and television was still the kind of entertainment suitable for a family, one of my favorite shows was "Father Knows Best."  The actor who played the father in the series smoked a pipe, wore a smoking jacket and spoke flawless English.  He had a study where he sat in a big leather chair and solved everyone's problem with unparalleled wisdom.  Let's just say my Greek father did not fit this particular mold.

My Dad spoke English with a heavy accent, he never smoked, didn't own a smoking jacket or a leather chair, and his study consisted of  the kitchen table.  Dad owned tons of books, all in Greek, Euripides, Plato, Homer, Herodotus, the Church Fathers, and on and on. He read the Greek newspaper, carrying it home every night folded in his jacket pocket.  He would cut out articles he liked for future reference. Dad had a rule: speak Greek. This was a guy who also spoke Albanian, Turkish and Italian fluently. I had no idea though how he was ever going to improve his English,  so I wouldn't be embarrassed at parent-teacher meetings.  If that wasn't bad enough, I had to go along to translate. Sometimes he didn't need translation, as in the case of one particular grade school teacher who insisted on calling me "Steve" instead of Stavros. She made me erase the name Stavros from my notebook. When Dad noticed it, he went to school with me the next day, marched up to my teacher and announced:  "Please hees name is Stavros NOT Steve. Thees was hees papou's name. OK. It cannot be chan-ged." At that exact moment  I was hoping the earth would just open up and swallow me whole.

Dad was not the kind of guy that spent lots of time playing with us. I really don't think he knew how, since he was never really given much of an opportunity to learn during his hard scrabble youth in the horio (village). Other kids played catch with their Dads, mine fixed my Greek homework. Other kids went fishing with their Dad, mine helped me memorize the poem of the month at Greek School. Despite all this, there was never any doubt that Dad loved me. There was never a shortage of hugs and kisses, interspersed with a rare attention gaining whack.

When I wanted to join the Marines at the ripe old age of nineteen, Dad tried to talk me out of it. The Vietnam War was killing American boys on a daily basis and he was scared. When he realized that I had made my mind up and for the first time in my life I was digging my heels in refusing to do what he told me to do. He put on his best suit and accompanied me to the recruiting office, to stand by my side. Years later, he came to visit me  when I was a twenty-nine year old Captain stationed at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina.  During his visit I bought him a wrist watch at the base exchange. As I handed him the one I chose for him, despite his protestations, he admired it,  putting it on his wrist.  Teary eyed, he gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek. The saleslady behind the counter was startled.  She quickly recovered her composure and said in a quiet southern drawl, "Down here men don't do that sort of thing," she smiled uncomfortably, "but honey, I think its sweet that yo daddy ain't afraid to show such affection to his son." That was one of the best days of my life.

My Dad was always there to gives us a nudge in the right direction. Once that was done, he would back off and quit nit picking.  He understood that God is not finished with any of us yet and that each of us is still a work in progress. When it came to the Orthodox faith, which he loved, Dad always led by example. On more than one occasion I would wake up from a sound sleep to fetch myself a glass of water and catch my father in front of the family icons praying while  the oil lamp flickered in the evening darkness. On Sundays and feast days he was at Church without fail, always on time to serve as a psalter. Dad understood that he could not give  the gift of faith or God's grace to his children.  All he could do was prepare us within the Church to receive it. And so he did.

My daily contact with him during my youth disappeared during my military career when we only saw each other a few times a year. When I finally moved my family to Maine, I was able to spend more time with him after a long absence.  As luck would have it, his health began failing; first a heart attack and then a stroke a few years later.  Dad lived at home with my mother until his mental and physical condition deteriorated to the point where it was impossible for us to take care of him properly. We watched him progressively weaken, from walking unassisted to using a walker to having to use a wheelchair, to being bedridden. Eventually we made a difficult, agonizing choice which many people have to make nowadays.   Medical science can prolong life, however, it can't ensure a good quality of life.  Dad spent the last year of his life in a nursing home. It was to be our longest and most difficult journey together.

Watching what had been a once vibrant and strong man waste away is always difficult. What was harder was not being able to carry on a conversation and ask him the important questions that I never had the time or smarts to pose when he could have answered them. You never get a second chance. It was the little things that gave us both pleasure toward the end: physical contact, feeding him my mother's homemade yogurt  or listening to the hymns he loved so much as a psalter.   His room in the nursing home was sparse, his belongings few. His icons, photographs of his parents, wife, children and grandchildren were next to him.  Sometimes in the evening if I was working late and arrived after he had fallen asleep, I would sit next to his bed, watching him sleep while his slow respirations moved his chest every so slightly up and down.  I’d often wonder what he was dreaming about.  I used to imagine that in his dream world he was a boy again back in Epirus. In this dream he was walking down a dirt road herding the family goats and sheep, the bells around their necks ringing as they moved toward his home. In the fading light he sees the smoke of a cooking fire wafting up from the chimney of a simple stone house.  His mother, a black shawl covering her head, stands at the doorway waving to him.  He waves back. He is happy, he picks up his step, all is right with the world.  Along the way he picks a succulent fig from a tree, peels it and savors it in his mouth, smiling. 

My father never made the cover of Time magazine nor did he ever have his fifteen minutes of fame. In a hundred years will anyone even remember that he had walked the earth?  Will his memory and the story of his life be just a collection of distant, fading shadows? Dad was a faithful husband, a loving father, a good Christian, and he lived his life as best he could. Can any of us ask for anything more?

Happy Father’s Day, Baba. May the soil that covers your grave, rest lightly upon you.

 

Καζαντζίδης - Ο πατέρας

 

To Be Greek

 

This superb video speaks for itself. Special Thanks to my friend , Joseph

Greek Independence Day: Faith, Fatherland and Family

"For every human being, one's country and faith are his all, and he must make sacrifices of patriotism so that he and his kinsmen may live like honorable people in society. And οnly when adorned with patriotic sentiments do people earn the name of "nation." Otherwise, they are mere shams of nations and a burden οn the earth. This country belongs to each and every one of us and is the product of the struggles of even the smallest and weakest citizen: for he too has a vested interest in this country and this faith. It is improper for any person to be lazy and neglect these duties. Αnd the educated man must proclaim the truth as an educated man; and the simple man must do the same. For the earth has nο handle with which a single person, nο matter how strong οr weak, can lift it οn his οwn shoulders. And when a person is too weak fοr a task and cannot take up the burden single-handed, he gets the others to help: in that case, let him not imagine saying, "Ι did it!" Let him say, τatheτ, "We did it!" For we have all, not just one, put our shoulders into it. Οur rulers and leaders, both native and foreign-bοrn, have become "Most Illustrious" and "Most Brave" : nothing stops them. We were poor and became rich. Here in the Peloponnese Kiamil Bey and the other Turks were extremely wealthy. Kolokotronis, his relatives, and friends have grown rich οn the lands, factories, mills, houses, vineyards, and other wealth that belonged to the Turks. When Kolokotronis and his companions came from Zakynthos, they didn't οwn even a square foot of land. Νοw all can see what they possess. The same thing happened in Roumeli: Gouras and Mamouris, Kritzotis, the Grivas clan, Staikos, the Tzavelas family and many others. And what are they asking of the nation? Millions more for their great services rendered. And they never let up in this. They are always at work trying to come up with laws and parties for the good of the country. Our country has endured more sufferings and lost more brave young men to their "laws" and "good" than it did in our struggle against the Turks. We have forced our people to live in caves with wild animals. We have desolated the countryside and become the scourge of the earth."

From the Memoirs of General Ioannis Makriyiannis, a hero of the Revolution

Ο ΘΟΥΡΙΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΡΗΓΑ

A Gift of Music

 Good music is a gift to us all and gives us enjoyment through the years. For a short time we can put our worries away or at least sing about them and thereby give voice to the emotions that dwell in our hearts. I think Greeks have been blessed with a great many truly gifted musicians and singers who have been able to satisfy the deep seated need we all have for music which expresses what we feel.  Tsitsanis, Panou, Doukissa, Zambetas to name only a few. They brought us together as families, as Greeks, as human beings irregardless of where we came from or where we were at a given moment. For that brief time we put aside our differences or petty squabbles while we revelled in our mutual love of the music they offerd us. 

During these difficult days may we all share the treasures they left behind and may they give us the courage to face life with a smile and a song on our lips.

Το σκαλοπατι σου - Πολυ Πανου & Βασιλης Τσιτσανης

ΔΟΥΚΙΣΣΑ ΠΟΥ ΠΑΣ ΧΩΡΙΣ ΑΓΑΠΗ

Καποια μανα αναστεναζει

_Γιώργος Ζαμπέτας - Χίλια Περιστέρια

ITHAKA ON THE HORIZON: A Greek-American Journey

 

Release Date: 1 July 2013

Dear Reader,

Almost six years ago I decided to create a blog and write about things Greek. When you reach a certain advanced age you feel the need to talk about the things you are passionate about. That's when the words began pouring out. The beauty of the written word is that those who go on to read what you write probably find a nugget or two that they appreciate and thus continue on, maybe they even come back. When a writer and reader make that connection, it is indeed a special relationship because each answers a need in the other.  The writer wants to be heard and the reader wants to listen, perhaps to learn or even understand what is being said. Blogging allows the writer to have a dialogue on occasion with the reader in a unique give and take that I have always found to be  a learning experience. 

Six hundred posts later I began thinking that somewhere in this pile of words is a book. I began sifting through all the things I've written to put together a quilt of those stories that I love best. It has been an arduous and drawn out process. MGO has suffered as a result, but the neglect was always intended to be temporary.  

I decided to name the book "Ithaka on the Horizon: A Greek-American Journey" because it is a very much a journey. It is about the Greek immigrant experience as seen through one man's voyage through life. Coming to and then growing up in America while negotiating two competing cultures. one Greek and the other American.  Then eventually returning to a forgotten and  altered homeland in search of identity and discovery of a true self by reliving the past in order to explain the present. It is a story of the struggles of successive generations in the wake of the tumultuous events of the last one hundred years of Greek history. Each passing on its legacy to the next.

This saga is, above all, about family and in its vivid depictions of family life I believe it will offer the reader a glimpse into their own  experiences that will ring true, bringing both laughter and tears. 

The book will be available exclusively on Amazon.Com and will be offered in both a printed and Kindle ebook version. 

Best wishes to you all, 

                                   

                           Stavro Nashi

ταξίδι στην Ιθάκη

Of Dreams and Memories

The years pass so quickly.  The events of our lives rush past us as if they took place just yesterday, when they actually happened many years ago. Time is like water in our cupped hand, dripping through our fingers, no matter how tightly we hold them. Before you know it, all that is left is a few drops, like the memories we cherish, stll holding fast. 

Those memories are bittersweet, yet we store them away with the other precious relics of our past, taking them out to gaze at or think upon, now and then. The past was never as good as we imagine it now, yet it offers so much more certainty than the unknown future ahead. It is filled with the familiar faces and voices of those we love that have either grown up or passed on, never to return as we knew them.

We too, change, whether we want to or not. Age catches up with us and life's slings and arrows chasten us.With humility comes wisdom, though we look at the young, smile inwardly, wishing we too could throw caution to the winds, once again. Living life on our terms, even if we lose, as we must in the end.

The poet said you can't go home again, and so it is. Some of my happiest memories are of summer days in Loutsa, a little coastal village outside of Athens. It was there that my children got their taste of life in Greece surrounded by family and friends. Back then the dirt streets were full of playing children, their laughter echoing through the neighborhood. Neighbors moved back and forth from house to house, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and trading small talk. The aroma of cooking wafted through the air as the sun, always ever present, warmed us with its luminescent light. The cicadas singing their song in the open fields like a choir with the surrounding trees as their audience.

I miss those lazy days of summer and the people who filled them. The generation that built those little cottages near the sea is now slowly disappearing.  They had dreams of escaping from the Athenian hustle and bustle that they were condemned to by the changing times. They planted gardens, fruit trees, raised a few goats and chickens. They did what they could to recapture the simpler, more elemental life they had lost. Every year they scrimped and saved trying to fashion the dream to their own specifications.  

Unfortunately dreams aren't permanent, often fading with time or neglect.  The ruins of some stand in mute testimony to their transitory nature. They are in disrepair, covered by over grown plants and vines, waiting, even welcoming another generation to fashion dreams of their own...

Γ.ΖΑΜΠΕΤΑΣ-ΣΟΛΟ ΜΠΟΥΖΟΥΚΙ 1

The Golden Greeks - The Romance of Maria Callas and Aristotle Onassis

By ALMA H. BOND

"On October 20, 1968, Maria got the news she had prayed she would never hear. Ari's butler called to tell her Aristotle and Kennedy were going to be married.

Maria did what she could to pass the time. She attended the opera next to Ghiringhelli, made a movie, taught a master class at Jiulliard. In the meantime, Ari was becoming disillusioned with Jackie's lavish buying sprees of jewelry and clothing and he was beginning to realize she was taking him for a fool. He kept calling and sending Maria flowers, but for a long time her pride was too hurt and she refused to talk with him. Finally in 1969 they met at a party and little by little, began to see each other again.

The climax came after they had spent four nights together when he took her to dine at Maxim's for the whole world to see. Maria was ecstatic, and believed Jackie was just another paramour to be forgotten. But the lady had other ideas. When she saw the newspaper photos of her husband and Maria dining together with blissful smiles, she was furious and flew immediately to his side. She insisted he repeat the drama of the day before at Maxim's with her in Maria's place. The next day Maria was admitted to the American Hospital at Neuilly with the diagnosis of "overdose of barbiturates."

For the first time since Ari's marriage, Maria returned to Greece, this time as the guest of Perry Embiricos on his private island of Tragonisi in the Aegean. Perry was a friend of Onassis, who had introduced Maria to him. To her surprise who should show up on the island but Aristo! He greeted Maria with a kiss, and from then on they resumed their relationship.

Thus, surviving his marriage, Maria was able to hang on by the tips of her fingernails until March, 1975, when Onassis became critically ill with incurable myasthenia gravis.

Maria had been getting daily reports about his progress from the American Hospital in Paris, where he had gone for surgery. He never recovered consciousness, and was kept alive for five weeks by a respirator and intravenous feedings. Maria knew he was dying and she was not allowed to be by his side. The doctors said it could go on for weeks or even months. Her suffering was unendurable.

On March 12, she received her last report from the American Hospital. Aristo was dead.

Maria was slowly dying from the loss of her career. He had flashed into her life like a bolt of lightning across a dark summer sky; where there'd been nothing suddenly there was Aristo. Her friends and staff were considerate, thoughtful, and loving. But it meant nothing, nothing. He was her core, her life. How could she live without him?

On September 16, 1977, at the age of 53, Maria Callas was found dead in her bed. The official story was that she died of a heart attack. But no autopsy was permitted, and her cremation took place almost immediately. Heart attack? Perhaps. But there are those of us who believe Maria when she said, "I've played heroines who die for love - and that's something I can understand."

 Read the whole thing here. More here and here.

Maria Callas - O Mio Babbino Caro - Giacomo Puccini

Istanbul and Constantinople by ORHAN KEMAL CENGİZ

When I was young, we lived in a “Greek house.” With its iron shutters, iron gate and high-rise ceiling, our house was different from those in its vicinity.

I also remember seeing some female Greek tourists clinging to the walls of some houses in Çeşme, where we would go in the summer. Seeing those Greek women crying, my mother would also burst into cries. For many years, I have been unable to give any meaning to those tears. Our non-Muslims had melted into thin air, leaving behind their houses, streets, churches, fountains and other “remnants,” they have always continued to be part of our lives like some sinister ghost that we cannot ward off. Despite our history textbooks that carefully avoid any mention of them and despite their names erased meticulously from every place, it seemed, they have left some sort of tiny “reminders” across the country.

After many years, I started to ponder the country’s matters and issues, and I came to realize that the problem was a “social earthquake” that was far bigger than I as a kid could perceive. If the pre-1915 demographic percentages still applied to today’s Turkey, there would be 18 million non-Muslims living in the country. Just try to visualize 18 million non-Muslims, consisting mainly of Greeks, Armenians and Jews, living in Turkey. What sort of Turkey would it be?

Read the whole thing here.

19 Ben seni sevdugumi

Freedom or Death

          Ψηλά στον Ψηλορείτη μου, μια μέρα εγώ θ'ανέβω,
           εκειά που ζούνε οι αετοί, την Κρήτη ν'αγναντεύω.

 

With the evacuation of the last surviving remnants of the British Forces that helped defend the island, the Cretan populace was to face its greatest test. In the first months of Nazi occupation, thousands of Cretans were randomly executed to stamp out the resistance movement before it could grow. Families were sent to the concentration camps. Entire villages were burned to the ground. Yet unlike other European resistance efforts which quickly yielded to German pacification—the celebrated French and Dutch among them—Crete’s civilian population never gave up; they locked German soldiers into a state of continuous and relentless conflict in a single location for over four years, drawing in thousands of additional German troops with each passing year. By 1944, that number would exceed 100,000. Yet despite this brute force of numbers, and the brutal terror those numbers would unleash upon the population, the Cretan people never stopped fighting.

The Germans had never encountered the extent of civilian resistance that they encountered on Crete. Retribution was swift. The German High Command wanted to break the spirit of the populace and do it quickly. In this they failed and failed miserably.In retaliation for the losses they incurred, the Nazis spread punishment, terror and death on the innocent civilians of the island.  More than two thousand Cretans were executed during the first month alone and twenty five thousand more later.  Despite these atrocities, for the four years following the Allied withdrawal from the island, the people of Crete put up a courageous guerilla resistance, aided by a few British officers of the Special Operations Executuive and Allied troops who remained.  They risked certain death to assist and protect the British soldiers left on the island. Those involved were known as the "Andartes" (the Rebels). 

Cretan people of all ages joined or aided the Andartes. Children would pile rocks in the roads to slow down the German convoys.  They even carried messages in their schoolbooks because it was the only place that the German soldiers never looked. These messages contained information critical to the Andartes who were hiding in the mountains and would come down for midnight raids or daytime sabotages.The German terror campaign was meant to break the fighting spirit and morale of the Andartes.  Besides the random and frequent executions, German soldiers used other means to achieve their goal.  They leveled many buildings in the towns and villages, destroyed religious icons, and locked hundreds of Cretans in churches for days without food or water, but nothing worked.  These actions only made the Cretans more ferocious in their quest for freedom. The hierarchs, priests and monks of the Orthododox Church served with distinction in the struggle and were role models for their flock.

The idomitable spirit of the Cretans was exemplified by two men, in particular, whose stories still live in the hearts of their countrymen. Nicholas Manolakakis from Spilia village, who had seen his wife and son slain by the Germans on the first day of the invasion became a one-man campaign against the destroyers of his quiet family life in the days that followed.  He personally killed some forty German paratroopers. The SS announced that if he did not surrender himself immediately they would execute at random ten hostages from his village for each day of delay.  When Manolakakis heard of the proclamation he left the safety of the White Mountains, returning to his village, where he surrendered himself to the Germans. The SS had him dig his own grave and when he had finished, they executed him.  The same fate befell Kostas Manousos, the six and one half foot Cretan from Sfakia, who had seen his father slain by the Germans. When he learned that a similar bounty had been placed upon his head, he made the same decision as Manolalakis. His surrender would prevent the wholesale slaughter of villagers from Platanias.  The revenge that he had wrought accounted for forty three German soldiers.  After tenderly kissing his wife and son goodbye he made the long trek to Platanias to face his executioners.

Even in the face of certain death while standing in line to be executed, Cretans did not beg for their lives.  This shocked the German troops.  Kurt Student, the German Paratrooper Commander who planned the invasion, said of the Cretans, “I have never seen such a defiance of death.”  General Alexander Andre, the German Commander of the Occupation Forces was amazed and said:  "The courage of the Cretan facing the firing squad is legendary. Cretans turn into mythical figures. They are so proud of their moment of death that one can hardly fail to admire their courage. When executions were to take place I would leave my desk and walk out onto the balcony to watch their moment of death.  Nowhere else have I witnessed such love of freedom and defiance for death as I did on Crete."

Ο ΥΜΝΟΣ ΤΗΣ ΚΡΗΤΗΣ ΜΑΣ

Aera!

Excerpt from Ten Days of Destiny: The Battle for Crete, 1941 by G.C.Kiriakopoulos:

On May 26, 1941, one week after the German airborne invasion of Crete began, the commander of German invasion forces, General Kurt Student, received a cable from Adolf Hitler. It read:

"FRANCE FELL IN EIGHT DAYS,  WHY IS CRETE STILL RESISTING?"

Part of the reason was because of small hard fought engagements throughout the island such as the one on Cemetery Hill, a key defensive position manned by the New Zealand Nineteenth Batalion and elements of the Sixth Greek Regiment. It become the focus of German attempts to breakout out of the area around Maleme airfield:

"Captain H.M. Smith, whose men had just repulsed the first assault, warned his men to remain on the alert, his intuition telling him that the Germans would attack again. If they attacked on his front, he held no fears: the earlier attack had cost him only a few casualties and the rest were in good spirits. But Smith did have one concern, his right flank.

That section of the hill defense was protected by the remnants of the Sixth Greek regiment. Many of the poorly armed Greeks had been scattered by the earlier German attacks but the Sixth company was still holding its own on the rise of ground to the right of Smith's 19th Battalion. If the Germans pressed their attack on the Greek position and succeeded in penetrating their defenses the New Zealand flank would be turned and the whole hill defense would be lost.

When the men of Major Derpas' 2nd Parachute Batallion aimed the thrust of their second attack at the Greek positions,  Smith's worst fears were realized.  He had no men to spare and the New Zealander's ammunition did not fit the Greeks pre-war Styr rifles. All he could do was to send an officer to the Greek company commander, Capt. Athanasios Emorfopoulos beseeching him to "hold the line at all costs."

"We shall," replied Capt "E."

From behind the olive trees, the Germans emerged at a trot, charging directly up the slope toward the positions of the Greek company. Capt Smith ordered his men to commence firing into the attacker's flank but realizing that the undulating terrain sent the New Zelander's fire well over the heads of the charging paratroopers, he had to rescind the order.  

The Germans gathered momentum as they charged up and over the crest of Cemetery Hill, pressing the attack as they approached the village cemetery wall at the top of the rise. Above the crack of rifles and the rattle of machine guns there now arose a new sound from the Greek position, a heart stopping human cry going over the defense positions as it passed from man-to-man, each Greek repeating it louder and louder as it crescendoed over the hillside, smothering the roar of the German attack.  The New Zealanders had heard the call before. It was "Aera," the rallying battle cry of the immortal Evzones and to the Greeks it had one meaning: "Attack!"

The New Zealanders watched in awe.  Capt. Smith uttered to no one in particular, "Why those bloody crazy Greeks!"  They had no more bullets, but they still had their bayonets. and down the hill they charged screaming "Aera" at the top of their lungs, the gleam of their bayonets reflecting the midday sun.

For a moment the Germans, froze in disbelief.

With snarling fury, the Greeks met the Germans head on, halfway down the rise. They slashed and butted, and they bayoneted, German after German falling to their piercing stabs. In the lead, Capt "E" and Lieutenait Kritakis. at his side.

There was a brief moment when the two forces swayed in furious hand to hand combat and then the Germans broke and ran, the Greeks in hot pursuit.

Capt Smith shook his head, admiring the heroism with which these gallant Greek soldiers had shattered the German attack. The Second Paratroop Batalion had ceased to exist as a fighting force."

Κώστας Μουντάκης-Η μάχη της Κρήτης

Poverty and Filotimo

He was a diminutive figure of a man looking very much alone. I was washing dishes in the monastery kitchen with my son when we saw him standing in the courtyard holding a small bag.  Father Panteleimon dried his hands and went out to talk to him.  When he returned he said winking with a smile: "Christ has brought us another lost lamb. He is staying the night. I'm going to give him a bowl of lentil soup and some bread to eat in the Trapeza but I've gotta go fill the oil lamps in church. Could you keep him entertained until I get back then I'll show him where he will be sleeping tonight."  I finished up my work in the kicthen took off my apron and walked into the trapeza.  "Kalispera," he looked up at me from his meal through tired eyes and stubby white beard. "Kalispera my boy, my name Haramlambos but everyone calls me Lambi.  I mused to myself on the meaning of his name, "shine from happiness," noting that he seemed anything but happy nor shining.  

"What do they call you?"  "Stavros," I replied. "And where are you from Stavros?" perhaps noticing that I was out of place in a Greek monastery.  "From Ameriki. The monk you spoke with is my son."  "Ameriki" he said rubbing the stubble on his chin, so far away from your son? He had within a few minutes of meeting me understood what troubled me. "What a good boy he is,"  he followed up as if to salve my pain, "I can tell these things at my age. I can size people up quickly. It's a gift and a burden at times."  

"Where are you from? I asked. "I grew up in Karditsa but now I live in Pireaus with my son.  He doesn't much care for me but his wife does. She has a good heart.  I have six other children, not that it ever did me much good after my wife died, poor woman. Since then I prefer to wander here and there as long as these wretched legs hold out. When I outwear my welcome I move on." I surveyed his furrowed brow, the weather worn skin on his face and his rough hands, the products of a lifetime of hard work.  

It wasn't long before he got to the question every Greek asks of another Greek, as if searching for some connection. "Where are your parents from?"  I smiled because I sensed the question would come sooner rather than later, "From Northern Epirus and Constantinople.  "And you grew up in Ameriki. Your Greek is very good for an Amerikanaki,"  he winked playfully. "That's because my Greek wife makes me speak Greek," I said.   He smiled, "A Greek wife is a blessing and a curse, like most women, I should know, having lived with one for fifty years. She died a few years ago and I miss her terribly." He seemed pensive returning to his meal for awhile, eating an olive and spitting the pit in his hand, then taking a bite of crusty bread. He looked up, "What I would have done for meal like this when I was a little boy during the Occupation. God provides, my boy, even for an old wretch like me. I have had a hard life, war, poverty. I spent ten years in Germany working in a kitchen, after I had enough of that I came back to Greece, got married and my brother in law got me a job working for the railroad. Raised a family and now I am blessed with grandchildren. I've got a small pension but it's not enough to live on, so I scrape by as best I can.  I don't want to be a burden on my children. The most valuable thing I own right now is my freedom, once you lose that and the use of your legs, life becomes misery. My son calls me 'alitis,' a bum, because I won't stay in one place and wait to die.  What kind of life is that I ask you, waiting to die.  So I wander when begin to feel suffocated." He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag on it exhaling through his nose. "All the money in the world is worthless if you lose your sense of filotimo. There are worse things than poverty."

We both sat there in silence thinking our private thoughts.

I left for Athens the next day after the liturgy but couldn't get Lambi out of my mind. His life was an allegory of sorts representing what was happening to the country as a whole. As I surveyed the wreckage about me and felt the deep malaise of so many Greeks, many of them people I know and love, I couldn't help but feel that Greece too was like a wandering old man. She was exhausted, moving from one catastrophe to the next, with little hope for the future. The Greek word for poverty is "ftoxia" and one hears it alot these days in Greece. It is a country where people wake up to a nightmare and not from one. The generation that grew up during hard times, the stone years, when war and poverty took their toll, still remember. The same fears and worries are once again their lot in life. The younger generation who once hoped for a better tomorrow now find themselves similarly bereft of hope for the future and fighting for survival. They however, never saw it coming.

Everyone asks "How did we get to this point?" faced by the debris of decades of government mismanagement, corruption, over-reach and utopian fantasies. Who is responsible for the collective misery of the Greek people? Was it the banks and the greedy capitalists, the politicians trolling for votes and willing to sell the future for their own purposes or was it the Greek everyman voting for those who promised the most. In the present conflagartion no one is guilty and everyone is guilty. The Athenian landscape is dotted by For Sale signs, empty storefronts and downtrodden citizens hoping for better days while they scurry to survive the current ones. The IMF representatives and the dreaded Troika come and go issuing their edicts and threats.  The old demagogues have been replaced by new ones of the left and right, Tspiras and Mihaloliakos. Once again Greeks are mesmerized by the empty promises, scapegoating and boastful oratory.  How ironic that the Germans, who were bankrupted by the victors of World War I, are now imposing a similar fate upon the Greeks. One which which has strengthened the extremists, very much the way it did in Weimar Germany. 

Austerity is a dirty word in Greece.  The austerity imposed on Greece is long overdue however the manner in which it has been hoisted on the Greek people is draconian. It is destroying the engine that will eventually put things right again, the Greek economy. More importantly it is destroying people and the little hope they have. Most Greeks support staying in Europe. Maybe they see it as a chance to become another Denmark, then again who wants to be Danish? I am just a wannabe Greek of the diaspora, with a different perspective and mindset. Maybe I should keep my mouth shut but it pains me to see Greeks give up their sovereignty. A sovereignty so many fought and died for just so they can now beg for some crumbs from the master's table. 

The security promised by the European project, whether it is economic or military, is in the end, illusory.  If Turkey attacked Greece tomorrow, the rest of Europe would not lift a finger to help the Greeks. As usual Greeks put their trust in allies who will always let them down when push comes to shove. Anyone with a knowledge of Greek history will understand that history only repeats itself time and again.

I am in no way absolving Greeks for their present misery. They blame the capitalist system when in fact they have a soviet style economy. They blame Wall Street and the Banks when they should be blaming the corrupt political class of both the Left and Right that has looted the treasury for decades to line their own pockets and those of their supporters. They decry the destruction of the Greek economy then go on strike to chase away the last few tourists still willing to spend their hard earned money in Greece. Now they want to unionize the armed forces, one of the pillars of the nation. Madness.

Greeks are still not willing to change, they are not willing to transform their society in fundamental ways. In order to do that there has to be a dialogue and right now Greeks are too busy shouting at each other to hear what the other side is saying. Only when Greeks put their abundant talents to the task of making Greece better instead of  protecting their own piece of the diminishing pie will Greece prosper.  

May the Theotokos keep the wolves at bay long enough for Greeks to awaken once again.

Eξω φτώχεια (Δημ. Ρουμελιώτης)

Φτώχεια που με κουρέλιασες

Standing Against the Mob

September is always a popular month for atrocities.  It doesn't take much for the haters to get riled up and unfortunately they seem to be the one's with the loudest voices in the muslim world, not to mention the one's with blood on their hands. What I find appalling is the seemingly complete collapse of the West in the face of the constant onslaught by people intent on making the rest of us conform to their religious beliefs.

So we apologize when they murder us, make nice when they desecrate our churches, invite them into our countries despite the fact that they hate us, allow them to worship freely in our countries even when they refuse to allow us to do so in their countries, give them money when they spit in our face, and worst of all abandon our values to avoid any perceived slights. It's bad enough that Western nations have systematically secularized their societies and most Westerners believe in nothing, now they increasingly kowtow to fundamenatlist muslim extremists who are bent on transforming those very same societies. To be sure there is much that I don't like about western societies but I fear that they will be replaced with something much worse. Societies where women will be relegated to second class citizenship. Free speech and religious tolerance will disappear. In this new world order the gay and lesbian community will not have to worry about whether governments will marry them, they will instead worry about governments killing them.

The flames of hate among muslims are fanned by failed governments desperate to detract attention away from the desperate poverty, hopelessness and their own glaring failures. Scapegoats are always easy to find whether they happen to be Jews, Christians, Hinus or Buddhists. Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erodgan, who just days ago said a movie that “insults religions” and “prophets” is not protected by freedom of speech, now is insisting that international bodies pass laws making criticism of Islam a crime. This coming from the leader of a nation that has perpetrated some of the greatest hate crimes of the century, crimes for which there has never been even so much as an attempt to render an apology let alone justice. Now forgotten are the events of another September, fifty-seven years ago when fanatical muslim Turks organized by a supposedly secular government attacked the Greek community of Constantinople. In so doing they perpetrated heinous atrocities against Christians and their religious houses of worship. Atrocities that insult religion much more than any cartoon and YouTube video ever could.  Professor Spyros Vryonis meticulously documented the events of the Sepetember Pogrom in his book Mechanism of Catastrophe. He writes about the systemic desecration perpetrated against the Greek Orthodox Church:

 "Altars, icons, pews, candelabra, the buidings themselves, chandeliers, Crucifixes, in particular, engaged the vandals attention. Not far behind was the desecration of the cemeteries, and the corpses buried therin and the bones in the ossuaries.  Along with the abuse of corpses, defecation was particularly marked in the cemeteries although altars also seemed to have been systemactically polluted with urine and feces. The photographs taken by Dimitrios Kaloumenos bear horrible testimony to this sadder aspect of human behavior and confirm the debt and fury of rioters religious fanaticism." 

Another chronicler of the events of the pogrom, Despina Portokalis writes: "In the district of Vefa they took out from the Church, the large Crucifix and as they were parading it about, from behind they were beating it and throwing stones at it. They did this as they sang lewd songs and mocked it."

In this brave new world of the coming calipahte, "moderate" muslims have been silenced and either look on with indifference or grudging support as the radicals transform their religion. Intolerance and violence are the bedrock on which their faith will be built on. A religion whose followers are afraid to compete in the marketplace of free ideas, and who insist on silencing anyone they disagree with. Violence is condoned, glorified and encouraged among the young. They are the future. Their martyrdom is not about sacrificing oneself as a testament to faith in God but rather about the murder of other human beings considered non-believers. Throughout the Middle East, the Jews have been swept into a small strip of land called Israel with their backs to the sea.  They have nowhere else to flee.  Now the Christians are being targeted. The Orthodox in Syria and Palestine, the Maronites of Lebanon, the Copts in Egypt. All scheduled for extinction. In its very birthplace, Christianity is on life support. 

During the pogrom of 1955, the vast majority of Turks were not part of the mob but they looked the other way as their Greek neighbors and friends were targeted.  In a few instances, some brave souls stood against the mob and saved lives.  Half a century later the civilized world once again, stands on the sidelines. Some cheer on the criminals, others avert their eyes from the horror, bending over backwards to appease them thinking that in so doing they can save themselves.

Only when all decent people, regardless of creed, stand against the mob, will we be able to live in a better world. 

Αγιώρ Αγιώρ αφέντη μου St. George and the dragon Greek Cappadocian song

"The Greeks were darn good soldiers, we loved them."

I've written about the "Korean Thermopylae" previously. It is to say the least an inspiring story of courage in the face of overwhelming odds. Like many things these days it is unfortunately lost in the pages of history, a history that few people, especially the young, have any familiarity with. Combat changes a soldier forever but the friendships and mutual respect forged in its crucible can never be severed. Listening to the accounts of the Americans that fought side by side with the Greeks of Sparta battalion in Korea one can only be filled with pride. Lest we forget. Watch the whole video. If you are in a hurry jump to 6:48.

Outpost Harry was a remote Korean War station located on a tiny hilltop in what was commonly referred to as the "Iron Triangle" on the Korean Peninsula. This was an area approximately 60 miles (100 km) north of Seoul and was the most direct route to the South Korean capital.

More than 88,000 rounds of Chinese artillery fell on Outpost Harry. Since the outpost was defended each night by only a single company of American or Greek soldiers, the Chinese had anticipated an easy capture. Over a period of eight days, waves of Chinese forces moved into the outposts trench lines and totalling over 13,000 soldiers. Five UNC companies, four US and one Greek, took turns in defending the outpost.

Most of the fighting occurred at night, under heavy mortar fire, while the daylight hours were usually spent by the UNC forces evacuating the dead and wounded, replacing the defending company, sending up resupplies and repairing the fortified positions. The daylight hours were punctuated with artillery, mortar and sniper fire, making repairs and reinforcement a more dangerous task. During the 4 to 5 days prior to the initial attack on the outpost, Chinese artillery and mortar fire increased from an average of 275 to 670 per day during daylight hours.

The soldiers of the Greek Expeditionary Force adapted its name and called it Outpost "Haros", the modern Greek equivalent to Charon, Greek mythology's ferryman to the underworld of Hades.

The Chinese forces employed against Outpost Harry were tabulated by U.S. Intelligence Sections:

June 10 and June 11: one reinforced regiment (approximately 3,600 troops)

June 11 and June 12: one regiment (approximately 2,850 troops)

June 12 and June 13: one reinforced regiment

June 13 and June 14: an estimated 100 troops

June 14 and June 15: an estimated 120 troops

June 17 and June 18: one regiment.

During this period the entire 74th Division was utilized against this position and at the end of the engagement was considered combat ineffective. Rounds fired in support of their attack amounted to 88,810 rounds over 81mm in size: UNC mortar and artillery units in conjunction with friendly tank fires expended 368, 185 rounds over 81mm in size.

Casualty figures were

15th Infantry Regiment - 68 KIA, 343 WIA, 35 MIA; KATUSA - 8 KIA, 51 WIA, 7 MIA;

Greek Expeditionary Force, Sparta Battalion - 15 KIA, 36 WIA, 1 MIA.

Attached and supporting units 5th RCT - 13 KIA, 67 WIA, 1 MIA;

10th Engineer Battalion - 5 KIA, 23 WIA; 39th FA - 5 KIA, 13 WIA.

For the first time in the annals of U.S. military history, five rifle companies together, four American and one Greek, would receive the prestigious Distinguished Unit Citation for the outstanding performance of their shared mission.

01 Σολο Λυρα

Bitter Homage

The Pontian Greeks lived along the Black Sea coast of Turkey in a region loosely referred to as Pontus by many scholars. They were descendants of Ionian Greeks who settled there, beginning in 800 B.C.  Like other Christians in Turkey, the Armenians and Assyrians for example, the Pontic Greeks faced persecution and suffered during ethnic cleansing at the beginning of the 20th century. In 1923, after thousands of years, those remaining were expelled from Turkey to Greece as part of the exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey under Treaty of Lausanne.

May 19 has been recognized by the Greek parliament as the day of remembrance of the Pontian Greek Genocide by the Turks. There are various estimates of the toll. Records kept mainly by priests show a minimum 350,000 Pontian Greeks exterminated through systematic slaughter by Turkish troops and Kurdish irregulars. Other estimates, including those of foreign missionaries, spoke of 500,000 deaths, most through deportation and forced marches into the Anatolian desert interior. Thriving Greek cities like Bafra, Samsous, Kerasous, and Trapezous, at the heart of Pontian Hellenism on the coast of the Black Sea, endured recurring massacres and deportations that eventually destroyed their Greek population. The genocide started with the order in 1914 for all Pontian men between the ages of 18 and 50 to report for military duty. Those who "refused" or "failed" to appear, the order provided, were to be summarily shot. The immediate result of this decree was the murder of thousands of the more prominent Pontians, whose names appeared on lists of "undesirables" already prepared by the Young Turk regime.

Thousands ended up in the notorious Labor Battalions. In a precursor of what was to become a favorite practice in Hitler's extermination camps, Pontian men were driven from their homes into the wilderness to perform hard labor and expire from exhaustion, thirst, and disease. German advisors of the Turkish regime suggested that Pontian populations be forced into internal exile. This "advise" led directly to the emptying of hundreds of Pontian villages and the forced march of women, children, and old people to nowhere. The details of this systematic slaughter of the Pontians by the Turks were dutifully recorded by both German and Austrian diplomats.

The Pontians did try to organize armed resistance. Pontian guerrilla bands had appeared in the mountains of Santa as early as 1916. Brave leaders, like Capitan Stylianos Kosmidis, even hoisted the flag of an independent Pontus in the hope of help from Greece and Russia (which never arrived).  The struggle was unequal. The Turkish army, assisted by the Tsets, who were of mostly Kurdish extraction, attacked and destroyed undefended Pontian villages. On May 19, 1919, Mustafa Kemal himself disembarked at Samsous to begin organizing the final phase of the Pontian genocide. Assisted by his German advisers, and surrounded by his own band of killers -- monsters like Topal Osman, Refet Bey, Ismet Inonu, and Talaat Pasha -- the founder of "modern" Turkey applied himself to the destruction of the Pontian Greeks. With the Greek army engaged in Anatolia, a new wave of deportations, mass killings, and "preventative" executions destroyed the remnants of Pontian Hellenism. The plan worked with deadly precision. In the Amasia province alone, with a pre-war population of some 180,000, records show a final tally of 134,000 people liquidated

In 1923, a population exchange negotiated by the participants resulted in a near-complete elimination of the Greek ethnic presence in Anatolia.  It is impossible to know exactly how many Greek inhabitants of Pontus, Smyrna and rest of Asia Minor died from 1916 to 1923, and how many ethnic Greeks of Anatolia were deported to Greece or fled to the Soviet Union. According to G.W. Rendel, " ... over 500,000 Greeks were deported of whom comparatively few survived.

U.S. Ambassador Henry Morgenthau accused the "Turkish government" of a campaign of "outrageous terrorizing, cruel torturing, driving of women into harems, debauchery of innocent girls, the sale of many of them at 80 cents each, the murdering of hundreds of thousands and the deportation to and starvation in the desert of other hundreds of thousands, and the destruction of hundreds of villages and many cities," all part of  "the willful execution" of a "scheme to annihilate the Armenian, Greek and Syrian Christians of Turkey." US Consul-General George Horton reported that "one of the cleverest statements circulated by the Turkish propagandists is to the effect that the massacred Christians were as bad as their executioners, that it was “50-50.”" On this issue he clarifies that "had the Greeks, after the massacres in the Pon­tus and at Smyrna, massacred all the Turks in Greece, the record would have been 50-50—almost." As an eye-witness, he also praises Greeks for their "conduct toward the thousands of Turks residing in Greece, while the ferocious massacres were going on.", which, according to his opinion, was "one of the most inspiring and beautiful chapters in all that country’s history." 

A number of Pontians wrote about their experiences and recorded in memoirs or simple testimonies the nightmarish events that they had lived through. The most famous of these was Elias Venezis with his book entitled: "The Number 31328," which chronicled his servitude in a Labor Battalion .  One eyewitness who survived the genocide and settled in Greece was Savas Kantartzis. The following is his vivid description of the massacre of the inhabitants of his native village of Beyeilan in the region of Kotyron in Pontus, by a paramilitary unit led by Topal Osman, now honored as a national hero of  modern Turkey. The tragedy of this village is the tragedy of hundreds of other Greek villages and thousands of Greeks, in Chios in 1821, in Pontus in 1916, in Asia Minor in 1922, in Constantinople in  1955 or in  occupied Cyprus in 1974...

“At daybreak, on Wednesday, the 16th of February, 1922, a nightmare begins.  News spread that  Tsets (Kurdish irregulars) lead by Topal Osman are coming to our village.  Everyone is frightened and apprehensive.  Some  men hurriedly escaped into the surrounding forest, others hid in special hiding places in their homes or stables, all well camouflaged.  Women, children and the elderly locked themselves in their homes, hearts pounding and awaiting their fates.  More than 150 Tsets, entered the village yelling and shooting. followed by villagers bent on plunder from the neighboring Turkish villages.

As soon as they entered the village, the atmosphere was electrified and the horizon darkened as if a storm was approaching. They screamed curses and kicked doors in, ordering the inhabitants out into the village square. They threatened to set fire to the houses unless everyone came out. In a short time, women, children and the old ones found themselves crying and trembling in the streets.  They sensed what would happen to them and many attempted to escape. The Turks and Tsets had foreseen such an eventuality and had blocked every avenue of escape. No one could leave. A few were shot and fell dead or limped back wounded.

These men revealed, once and for all, their criminal intent and it was now apparent to the entire terrorized group of  women and children that had been thrown into the streets, their cries rising in despair. Nothing they did now could soften the hardhearted cruelty of the henchman that had been chosen by Topal Osman for this “patriotic” expedition. These sadists began to enjoy the great fun of inflicting pain and torturing their victims.  They kicked, struck, and yelled, pushing them toward the village square. 

The mothers, stood pale and disheveled in the bitter cold, trembling with fear while holding their clinging infants in close embrace. The young girls, some with their old parents and others with old women or holding up the sick, were herded like sheep, ready for slaughter, into the middle of a pandemonium punctuated by heart-breaking cries and lamentations. Then they ordered their victims to enter two pre-selected houses in the vicinity of the square where they could complete their crime. They herded this unwilling flock into the houses with kicks and shouts. There was no doubt now about the fate that awaited them. The Tsets crammed over three hundred into those houses, anxious to finish their macabre enterprise. When they were sure that no one remained outside, they locked the doors oblivious to the cacophony of cries and supplications for mercy that reverberated in the surrounding mountains and forests.

The  final phase of  this tragic event needed only a few handfuls of dry grass set alight to create a firestorm that engulfed the two houses in bloodcurdling screams through the pungent black smoke.  What followed during the next hour cannot be adequately described…

Crazed mothers clutched tightly, with the all the force of their souls, their crying babies to their bosom. Children cried for their mothers. The girls and the other women with the elderly, the children and the sick, screamed and seized each other as if they wanted to take and give the other courage and help until their hair, clothes and bodies were engulfed by the flames.  Piercing cries, maniacal screams and thunderous, wild howls of people, overcome by terror and pain.  They beat and flayed the air and the walls to no avail.  Hell on earth!

Some women and girls, in their despair and pain, threw themselves out of windows, preferring death from the bullets to the blazing inferno. Osman's men who looked on smiling, enjoying the spectacle before them, were more than happy to accommodate these poor women by shooting them dead. The screaming began to dwindle, replaced by the noise of the crackling timbers and the crumbling walls falling on the smoldering bodies.  Nothing remained but the ash and ruins of what used to be two homes in the town of Beyialan.

The tragedy of this village, described in all its horrific details, was repeated in other Christian villages throughout Turkey. We pay bitter homage to our dead without hate or vengeful thoughts but we should not forget their sacrifice or let the nation who murdered them forget its crime.

ΕΚΑΕΝ ΚΑΙ ΤΟ ΤΣΑΜΠΑΣΙΝ_