Politsani (English Version of Previous Post)

I don't know why I was inexplicably drawn to a place that I only knew through my grandmother's stories. A place full of ghosts, full of sadness and happiness.  This village high in the mountains where she was born and where she had lived the happiest years of her long life. For me, it was a foggy dream that never ended. Something that I could not seem to erase from my memory.

When you are young and the whole world lays at your feet, nothing can stand in your way.  You think that you will always be victorious and that you will be the master of your fate.  Only as the years pass will you finally understand that life does what it will to you.  You begin to return to  where you have been and understand where you are going.  Before long you begin to ask: "What meaning does my life hold for me?"  How can I possibly answer this question without returning to the beginning? Without finding as the poet Cavafy once wrote, my very own Ithaka.  Only there would I discover the unique meaning of my own life.

The death of my father last spring, generated a longing in me to rediscover the birthplace and spiritual origin of generations of my ancestors. A forgotten piece of Hellenism. A flame that refuses to be snuffed out. The road to the village of Politsani is long, winding, arduous, dangerous and climbs constantly. You will pass ice cold mountain streams, deep gorges, towering mountains covered in Pine trees. Traveling through this rugged landscape you feel the powerful hand of God yet also his beneficent and forgiving love. The air is clean, crisp and heavy with the scent of Pine. As you turn a sharp corner in the trail you suddenly find yourself gazing at the village nestled in the lap of the mountain range known as Nemertska.  During the long years of Communist rule, Nemertska, which runs eight kilometers in length traversing the Greek-Albanian border was the road to freedom.  On its snow covered peaks, hidden under white bedsheets, a few audacious villagers made the trip to a new life and the freedom that lay beyond.

Now the road is open and only the ugly, cement "mushrooms"  remain as visible scars. These bunkers scattered throughout  the countryside, and built at great cost, are all pointed south. They bear silent witness to the megalomania and paranoia of the morally bankrupt regime of Enver Hoxha,  the Communist strongman who ruled Albania for decades.  Before arriving in Politsani, I worried about what I might find and what might happen.  How could I imagine the warm hospitality and filial love  that I would receive and that it would be given so freely. For the first time in my life, my name was no longer strange and cumbersome. It said everything that needed to be said about me. I no longer required any other type of identification.

I began my journey carrying only a small back pack, by catching a taxi from Constitution Square in downtown Athens to the bus station where I could take a bus to the provincial capital of Ioannina.  The taxi driver immediately picked up on my accented Greek and asked where I was from. I told him that I was born in Constantinople, raised in the United States and that my parents were originally from Northern Epirus. He turned his head around and said with a belligerent tone:  "In other words, they are Albanians."  At that moment I felt the pain of the Greek minority in Albania. They are truly the  forgotten Greeks. Like Odysseus I was being drawn by the sirens to the rocks and to catastrophe and like him I  stayed tied to my seat in the taxi without responding. The taxi driver said nothing further.

The Greeks of Northern Epirus, after enduring five hundred years of Ottoman occupation were able to gain their freedom twice and both times destiny was to snatch them from the arms  of Mother Hellas. Despite the cataclysmic events of the twentieth century and the depravities of the Communist captivity, Hellenism still survives in this blood stained corner of the world. The people of Northern Epirius have been tested and have struggled for centuries to maintain their Greek identity. Through it all they managed to maintained their faith, their language, and above all, their humanity. This example is one that the far flung Greeks of the  Diaspora as well as those Greeks who live in Greece should  emulate.

In 1930, Politsani had a population of 2000.  Today, only approximately 100 live there year round. The school has eleven children attending and both the Albanian and Greek language are  taught there. The Church of the Three Archangels and other parts of the village have been refurbished and improved thanks to the substantial monies donated by those Politsanites living in the United States and in Greece.  Unfortunately, most of the young people have been forced to emigrate due to the economic conditions and the government neglect that exists throughout the area. Most now live in Greece, the United States, and in Cyprus.  In the summer, however, many return and the village is reborn as the echo of children's laughter and voices can be heard everywhere.  As I sat at the small kafenion in the village square, trading small talk with the men, I looked into their faces and recognized the familiar faces I had grown up with. The relatives and friends my parents spent their time with. Suddenly, an old man named Mihalis  (Michael) appeared suddenly like the Archangel himself. He was sun burnt and he clasped his massive hands around mine and commanded: "Come with me."  I was immediately guided to a small stone house. In its small courtyard was an unforgettable tableau.  Sitting under the shade of a a grape arbor was a  stately ninety-five year old gentleman named Nicholas and his faithful wife, Froso. Their eyes reflected years of war, foreign occupation, jail, exile and poverty.  "This is Stavros Nassis of the Gellati clan" bellowed my companion. Immediately, tears welled in their eyes and they responded: "Welcome child, welcome home."  Immediately Kiria (Mrs.) Froso brought out the tsipouro (homemade liquor), a small plate with spoonfuls of homemade preserves and loukoumi, otherwise known as Turkish delight. And so it was from house to house.

I, who had not given anything, received so many worthwhile things in return. The most important being a glimpse of a humane existence. Something which is being lost in the cultural and spiritual chaos that we have fashioned for ourselves.  In the faithless society that we live in we have lost those essential qualities such as courtesy, respect for others, hospitality, and a sense of community. The very supports that our civilization is built on.  Now we consider these things worthless and useless. As that great philosopher, at least in my book, my father-in-law Christos,  often preaches, only when we return to the basics of filotimo,  will we be able to discern what is right and act accordingly.

The legacy  of Politsani is priceless, because through her I was granted an identity and sense of who I am in the world. Just as Politsani molded my ancestors, so they have created me in their image. Their blood runs through my veins but more importantly their spirit, faith, pride, history and love live in my heart.

Finally, the ghosts are no longer ghosts, the names on the tombs and the faces in the faded photographs live in us and whoever understands this understands that they live eternally in our collective memories.

Politsani does not forget us, it is enough that we should not forget her.

Comments

[Margaret]

"In the faithless society that we live in we have lost those essential qualities such as courtesy, respect for others, hospitality, and a sense of community."

Have faith! They are still there. We did not live in other times so we do not know how people experienced life then, except through the writings they left behind. Those writings suggest that there have always been those who had love in their hearts, and those whose hearts were cold. Nothing was perfect in the past, and there is much that is very good today. I would say that those qualities that you mourn are alive and kicking in the town where I live, and were much in evidence in Colorado too.

Lovely post, btw. I'm glad it was such a positive experience for you.

Margaret

[Stavros]

Margaret,

As usual, you are quite right. I didn't mean to imply that everything in the past was idyllic and the people who lived in the past always better. I just long for some of the things that we are losing in our headlong rush to create our brave new world. Of course, there is an oasis in every desert, good places and folks still exist, however, in general I think our societies are going in the wrong direction? All we can do is to try and keep those disappearing essential qualities part of our lives and those of our children.

[susan bournelis]

your observations are very keen! You write like Eleni Gage.
Glad you are enjoying Greece

[Stavros]

Susan,

Thank you. I'm back home now, however, I still have some more posts about my trip to Greece.

[Anna Jasonides]

My Dear Stavro,
May I ask what took you so long to get to Politsani and why now?

Love, Anna

[Stavros]

Yiasou re Anna,

Kalostina. What can I say, I wish I had been able to get there sooner. Better late than never. I owe it all to your dear manoula who showed me the way. You should be proud of what your parents have done for Politsani. As you father once said: "We all need to leave something behind us just as those who came before did so."

Ehe Gia Patrida