My Greek Odyssey

Sea Stories

A couple of years ago a friend of mine named Kevin, who I had not seen or talked to for over twenty five years, contacted me to my great surprise and satisfaction.  Kevin and I were in the same platoon as officer candidates at Quantico, Virginia in 1971.  Listening to his voice again and reminiscing about our exploits in the Marine Corps brought a flood of memories back that had been neatly stored away in the recesses of my mind, where they had been collecting dust. As we talked over the phone, it felt like I was in an attic clearing away the cob webs as I pulled distant memories out one by one, exposing them again to the light of day.

Kevin and I were two guys from different backgrounds who were thrown together and bonded in order to survive the ordeal the Marine Corps puts its potential officers through,  hoping to separate the wheat from the chaff. Kevin was an Irish Catholic kid who grew up in the suburbs and I was a Greek Orthodox immigrant right off the boat, raised in the inner city.  We  were by products of two interesting ethnic groups. The Irish and the Greeks share more than a few  similarities. Both groups are generally characterized as pigheaded and have a penchant for doing things their way. The Greeks and Irish have survived and overcome life under foreign occupation, managing to remain devoutly loyal to the faith of their forefathers. As immigrants, the Irish and the Greeks were looked down upon as being third class citizens when they came to America.  This resulted in both groups going out of their way to prove themselves and thus enter the American mainstream. Despite this affinity, historical accuracy necessitates that I point out that the Greeks, of course, were discussing the finer points of philosophy when the Celts were painting themselves blue and worshiping trees. Nevertheless, Kevin and I, the scions of two great races, were savvy enough and sufficiently streetwise to figure out that all the screaming and yelling was all a big farce designed to play games with your mind.  We didn't take it as seriously as we should have, to the utter frustration of our trainers. At the tender age of nineteen we were turned over to the delicate care of two larger than life Marines from the deep South who didn't exactly think very highly of  two Yankee punks with funny sounding immigrant names and questionable religious persuasions. Needless to say Staff Sargent Taylor, a Texan and Staff Sargent Crenshaw, a native of ol' Kentucky, both recently returned from the battlefields of Vietnam, were less than amused about playing wet nurse to the likes of Kevin and I. As professional Marine Drill Instructors however, they resolved to do their best to turn us into lean, mean,  green fighting machines or at least knock enough sense into us so that we would only get ourselves killed and not all the other young Marines that would soon be placed in our charge.

The crucible of Marine Corps indoctrination and training is designed to tear one down to his psychological parts very much like field stripping a service rifle and then reassembling those parts so that you will always be loyal to your fellow Marines and to the proposition that the Marine Corps is the finest military organization in the world. The fact that there was a war still raging in a little country called South Vietnam gave a certain trepidation to our training that might not have otherwise been there. It is truly amazing how young men from disparate backgrounds are transformed in a relatively short period of time. Besides Kevin, I remember a guy named Tony from New Jersey who could of easily qualified as an extra on The Sopranos and a good ol' farm boy named Harold from Tennessee.  Tony was a wise-guy, to say the least. That didn't last very long.  He was a marked man and his day of reckoning came on the day we were introduced to our friend, the M14A1 rifle, 7.62 caliber, air cooled, gas powered, shoulder weapon. The class was taught by a drill instructor who I consider one of the legendary figures that I served with during my career.  We would meet again and he would continue to teach me important lessons. He eventually retired as a Sargent Major of Marines. Gunnery Sargent D. J.  Farrell, Aka "The Hammer," was still recuperating from an injury sustained in Vietnam combat. On this fateful day he was introducing us to the M14.   Standing there in an immaculately starched uniform with razor sharp creases, he let go with a staccato burst of facts about the weapon of choice for the Marine infantryman. As he spoke he spied poor Tony looking less than attentive and then Tony made the mistake of yawning. The next thing I knew, Gunny Farrell reached over with what seemed the biggest paw I've ever seen, grabbed Tony by the shirt and physically dragged him across the table we were sitting behind. It all happened in slow motion. I will never forget the look of abject terror in Tony's eyes nor the saliva frothing from the Gunny's mouth as he let loose a string of expletives that would have made even a longshoreman blush. As all this was going on two drill instructor's ran to extricate the limp rag that used to be Tony from the Gunny's clutches. The Gunny finished his class while the rest of us listened with unblinking eyes glued on him, feigning rapt, undisturbed attentiveness and silently praying we would never cross the Hammer's path again.

Every platoon has at least one member that is overwhelmed and unable, sometimes unwilling, to function at the level required of a U.S. Marine.  Marine indoctrination can be confusing and rattle a person to his very core, so much so that he may be totally unable to cope. In the end, these sad creatures become a parody of themselves and are dependent on others for their very survival.  In our platoon his name was  Kilroy ( the name's have been changed to protect the innocent). Here's the story as relayed by Kevin:   

"Candidate Kilroy was  a 6 foot 3, 135 pound, spirited but uncoordinated gawk.  The pressure was just too much for him.  "Oh, did you have a bad morning this morning, Candidate Kilroy?" asked Staff Sargent Crenshaw. "No, Platoon Sergeant!"  "No?  Then why is your right boot on your left foot and your left boot on your right foot?"  This question was put to our Ichabod Crane look-alike at 1030 hours, after he had walked to chow and his morning classes in misfitting footwear.  At the final inspection, poor Kilroy had nicked himself shaving and unknowingly bled on his linen name tag.  Staff Sergeant Taylor saw it before the inspection detail arrived.  With his face about two inches from Kiley's nose he used his inimitable stage whisper to inquire, "Candidate Kilroy, do you have some inward desire to slit your own throat?" "No, Sergeant Instructor; the Candidate has no such desire, Sergeant Instructor."  Now old Taylor let loose.  "Well I have a good god-damned outward desire to slit your miserable throat!  Now get to sick bay and stay there until the inspection is over, Nut."

Every young man has a moment of truth in his life, that point where he must take a good look at himself and decide in which direction to go. Mine came halfway through training when I was summoned into the quonset hut where our drill instructors lived.  As I stood at attention in front of Staff Sargent Crenshaw's desk, sweating in the humid heat of a summer afternoon in Virginia, I knew things were going to get serious. The signs were not auspicious as I stood there in the hut's Spartan surroundings. It smelled of boot polish, brass cleaner and stale cigarette smoke. Crenshaw ignored me at first as he read something on his desk while he smoked an unfiltered cigarette. His face was tanned, wrinkled, and  leathery, the result of a life spent working outdoors. The son of a coal miner, he was probably in his thirties. He was a man of few words. I stared straight ahead, glancing furtively now and then at the rows of ribbons over the left pocket of his impeccable uniform. Drill Instructors changed uniforms, three times a day. He stood up slowly, rested his hands on his desk, leaned over and looked me right in the eyes and said: "Candidate, I thought you might have the makings of the kind of Lieutenant that Marines would follow into Hell itself, but so far, boy, you ain't done shit. Now get your ass out of my office."  Inside I was crushed, I shouted "Yes, Sargent Instructor, "  took one step backward, executed a  crisp about face, walked out into the sunshine and spent the next twenty-two years trying to prove myself to him and the Corps....

KESARIANI

ΣΑΒΒΑΤΟΒΡΑΔΟ ΣΤΗΝ ΚΑΙΣΑΡΙΑΝΗ
Μουσική: Σταύρος Ξαρχάκος
Στίχοι: Λευτέρης Παπαδόπουλος

Το απομεσήμερο έμοιαζε να στέκει
σαν αμάξι γέρικο στην ανηφοριά
κάθε απομεσήμερο στο παλιό μας στέκι
πίσω απ' το μαγέρικο του Ντελη-βοριά

Κι όλα μοιάζαν ουρανός και ψωμί σπιτίσιο
κι όλα μοιάζαν ουρανός και γλυκό γλυκό ψωμί

Τάχα τι να ζήλεψαν τα χλωμά σου μάτια
που γιομάτ' απόβραδο γλύκα πρωινή
ήρθαν και βασίλεψαν τα βαθιά σου μάτια
κάποιο Σαββατόβραδο στην Καισαριανή

Κι όλα γίναν κεραυνός πελαγίσια αρμύρα
κι όλα γίναν κεραυνός και πικρό πικρό ψωμί

A WEEKEND IN KESARIANI

Music: Stavros Xarhakos
Lyrics: Lefteris Papadopoulos

Today's afternoon appears to be stuck

like an old car on a steep hill

every afternoon in our old place

behind the kitchen of Deli-Voria

And everything appears like heaven and homemade bread

and everything is sky and sweet, sweet bread

As if  your pale eyes jealously

see the full night as a sweet morning

which comes as the dawn rises in your deep eyes,

some weekend in Kesariani

And everything becomes a thunderous, salty sea

And everything becomes a bitter, bitter bread

The first time I laid eyes on the Athenian neighborhood where my wife Anna was born and grew up, I was singularly unimpressed.  The walls of her apartment block, known affectionately as the "prosfigika" or  "home of the refugees" were tastefully decorated with red hammer and sickles, the letters "KKE (Communist Party of Greece)" and assorted pockmarks.  Those holes were stark evidence of the savage fighting during the Decemberist (Dekemvriana) uprising when Kesariani, an ELAS stronghold, was attacked by British and Rightist forces. A widespread fire had razed the collection of  huts that constituted much of the neighborhood, to the ground. The conflagration took with it the hovel that served as the home of Anna's widowed grandmother and her three children, which included my mother-in-law, Maria.  

I was uneasy to say the least, having grown up in a family that was well aware of the realities of life in the worker's paradise of Albania. As a young Marine infantry officer I had served in Indochina and my first hand experience had given me good cause for my ingrained anti-Communist attitudes. When I was transferred to Athens to serve in the Embassy's Joint US Military Aid Group, it came on the heels of that organization being targeted by the terrorist group "17 November." Three of its members had been shot, two killed, in the six months prior to my arrival.  JUSMAGG had always had a reputation as a "nest of spies" and now I was a potential victim in the midst of a civil war I thought had ended in 1950. I felt uncomfortable, like I had a big target on my back, even though I was able to blend in to a degree because I looked Greek and spoke the language fairly well.  There  in Kesariani I was literally as the Rebetiko song says "Apokliros tis Koinonias or Wandering through Society."  As luck would have it, I found myself  becoming part of a family, very much like my own,  who had been victims of an ideology and an unrelenting past. A family that reflected, I was to discover over time, the prevailing attitude in this working class piece of Athens, that is, live and let live.  The common people of Kesariani had a quiet dignity, the kind that cannot be bought,  They jealously guarded and kept their honor intact, since they owned little else of any significant value.

After that first trip to Kesariani, fate would bring me back many more times during my life.  The apartment block Anna's family lived in was an extended family with people moving from apartment to apartment to talk, laugh, maybe cry, smoke a cigarette and drink endless cups of coffee. No one locked their doors, there was nothing to steal. On one side was the incessant noisy traffic on the thoroughfare known as Leoforos Vassileos Alexandrou (King Alexander Avenue) and on the other side there was a courtyard with trees and balconies crammed with greenery of every type. The place smelled of sweet basil and lemons and of fish frying in olive oil.  The sound of music on a radio drifted through the air and people waved or shouted greetings to others on adjacent balconies while the local dogs and cats slept in the shade.

Kesariani became a refuge of sorts for me; its draw was powerful.  It wasn't because it was trendy or  beautiful. It was because I had grown to love the people who lived there, not the least of which was my Anoula. We began to go on long walks together to explore every nook and cranny of  the area. We would attend services at Saint Nicholas Church across the street. We walked to the mountain called Hymettos that overshadowed the neighborhood, resting along the way at the Monastery situated near its base. At night we would walk to the plateia (town square) and sit at one of the outdoor cafes sipping frothy frappes and talking for hours.

Kesariani has an interesting though tragic history reflective of the upheavals of Greek history during the last one hundred years. At the turn of the century, the area was well watered and heavily wooded with abundant wildlife.  A short story, "The Miracle of Kesariani", by Alexandros Papadiamantis, published in 1901, is particularly illuminating. In this short story, Papadiamantis refers to the folklore surrounding the miraculous water of the Hymettos mountain springs: "There was a beautiful cave in a huge rock,  its color was ashen grey and it dripped dew all over. The land smelled full of thyme and wild mint. A crowd of people, many women, men and a swarm of children, some standing, others seated, some ill with various diseases, misshapen and crippled, were there, praying. The water was cool, sweet water, holy water."

In late 1922, a few dispossessed refugee families from Asia Minor settled, under extremely difficult conditions, in this area and set up their tents near the "Sigrou" Hospital (near the location of the present day Hotel "Caravel").  The hospital specialized in the treatment of venereal diseases and many of these families wanted to be close to their relatives, mostly women, who had been raped, victims of Turkish brutality. By early 1923, the Greek government gradually settled about 8000 refugees, mostly from the coast of Asia Minor. Several months after the first settlement of the refugees, a more organized effort commenced which included the construction of 500 wooden huts and 1000 adobe rooms. This construction adapted a gridlike system of urban blocks. Ten to twelve houses per block. At the center of every block, there was a kind of a courtyard space, the communal lavatory. Two important women of Kesariani, the " high priestess" of Greek traditional music, Domna Samiou and the writer Despina Fotinou, describe the squalid conditions, as each experienced it, at a different time and from a different point of view. 

An illustrative example of the conditions in pre-war Kesriaani is an article, published in the "Acropolis" paper on September 14th 1929. The newspaper, on the occasion of the visit of the Mayor of Athens, Mr. Merkouris, to the area, noted: "The Mayor confirmed for himself that the standard of living of this neighborhood's dwellers is altogether tragic. The water, which is being handed out, barely comes to 10 cubic meters.  Lately it is being consumed by the builders of the new structures. But the most tragic matter is of the colony's toilets, wooden shanties with wooden floors, beneath which there are open cesspools. These breeding grounds for disease not only defile the whole area with their fumes, but there is also a potential danger of people falling through the poorly constructed flooring.  Moreover the sewage, having no other outlet, is disgorged into the streets".

The poverty made Kesariani fertile ground for the Communists but it wasn't until the German occupation when the party seized the opportunity to mobilize the population to resist but also to position itself to replace the government in exile when the Germans left.  It was here that the notorious Aris Velouchiotis allegedly organized the first meeting that launched the Resistance. Throughout the occupation Kesariani became a hotbed of resistance and paid the price for that resistance.  A shooting range on the outskirts of Kesariani became the execution ground. It was used extensively by the Nazis. The executions were almost a daily affair.  Hundreds of captured members of the Resistance and ordinary civilians rounded up on the streets as hostages were executed in keeping with the German policy of reprisals that demanded ten Greek deaths for every death of a German soldier.

Today, Kesariani's past is not easily expunged. It has been the scene of renewed violence. The headquarters of the Greek Riot police located there was attacked.  Six police officers were slightly injured and ten police and private vehicles were damaged by an attack that occurred on December 16, 2008. The attackers, who wore hoods and came from a University campus had split into two teams.  One team attacked the parking lot and the other hit the entrance of the building. They threw rocks and wood in order to break the windows of the building and proceeded to use Molotov cocktails. The cops inside the building responded with "stun grenades" and tear gas in order to repel the attackers. The attack was perpetrated by a new generation of disgruntled young terrorists who no longer see themselves as knights in shining armor but as avenging angels. And so it continues.

Kesariani has changed in major ways, it is the way of the world.  The old structures giving way to large multi-storied apartments and storefronts.  The construction  and the passing of a generation of inhabitants who remember Kesariani differently, has fundamentally altered the character of the area. Maria still lives in the apartment where she raised her family.  My father in law, Christos and many others now rest at the cemetery in their beloved Kesariani. We went there last summer to pay our respects and hear a priest chant the Trisagion service. The cemetery is very peaceful, shielded from the din of automobile traffic outside by large trees that embrace it. Waking through the rows of silent white marble tombs, one is acutely aware of the eyes of the dead looking at you from their fading photos and seemingly oblivious to what happens in the world beyond their home. Outside the cemetery walls, life goes on, as it must.

The Greeks of Auschwitz

Like many other European countries, Greece is being branded as anti-Semitic by supporters of Israel. To be sure there is widespread anti-Israeli sentiment within Greek society, both on the Left and Right of the political spectrum.  The line between opposition to Israeli policies and attitudes toward Jews in general is often blurred. I think most Greeks would even concede that anti-Semitism is alive and well in Greece, though the problem seems quite muted when compared to other countries like Britain, Turkey or the United States. Today Greek Jewry numbers about five thousand, down from a high of approximately 70,000 before the war. Painting all Greeks (or Turks, Britons and Americans for that matter) as anti-Semitic if they fail to support Israel is ultimately a self-defeating tactic.  Let me say up front that I am a supporter of Israel and its right not only to exist but to defend itself. I also support justice for the Palestinians, although their choice of leaders and tactics has been a disaster for their cause. Furthermore, I am appalled by the way that Palestinian Orthodox Christians have been victimized not only by their Muslim brethren but also by the Israeli government. No one speaks for them and their numbers continue to dwindle in the Holy Land.

We live in an era of historical revisionism in which the Holocaust itself is increasingly being questioned, the Greek people's effort to save the country's Jews is forgotten and efforts are made by some to downplay the genocide of Armenians and Greeks, for self serving political purposes. In fact, there is a long history of the State of Israel's complicity in denial of the Armenian Genocide for purposes of Israel's political connections with the State of Turkey. More here on this issue.

For the record, Archbishop Damaskinos, the head of the Greek Orthodox Church during World War II, risked his life by ordering his priests to provide false baptismal papers for Jews and Greek Churches and monasteries to harbor Jews fleeing from persecution.  Three hundred Greek Orthodox priests paid with their lives carrying out his orders. Damaskinos also organized a petition of 27 prominent leaders of cultural, academic and professional organizations. The document, written in very sharp language, refers to unbreakable bonds between Christian Orthodox and Jews, identifying them jointly as Greeks, without differentiation. It is noteworthy that such a document is unique in the whole of occupied Europe, in character, content and purpose".  The Athens Police Chief, Angelos Evert issued false identification cards to Jews who could not find refuge.  The head of the Metropolitan See of Thessaloniki, Gennadios, repeatedly protested, at great personal risk, the deportation of his city's Jewish population. In Attica and the Euboea, Greek Orthodox monasteries provided refuge for Jews waiting for boat connections to Turkey. Unlike the churches in Northern Europe, there were no instances where those in hiding in religious orders were converted to Christianity, and after the war, children were returned to their parents or the Jewish community. I could go on and on. Despite the brutal occupation of Greece which cost the lives of 300,000 Greeks civilians there were 271 Greeks (among them the head of the Greek church and the Athens chief of police) who were declared Righteous Among the Nations because they helped save Jews at the risk of their own lives. The identity of countless others will never be known. Estimates of Righteous Gentiles in Greece number as high as 40,000.  Many Jews fleeing the Nazis were saved by the concerted efforts of several people, often having to switch hiding places multiple times. More Jews were rescued in Greece than in Denmark and many less Greeks were betrayed in hiding by collaboraters than in Holland.

K.E. Fleming is a gifted writer and a professor of Modern Greek history at New York University.  Her book, "Greece: A Jewish History" was published in 2008.  I read her book recently because I wanted to understand the subject more thoroughly in light of the increasingly charged atmosphere surrounding the relationship between Greeks and Jews. She provides a balanced and exhaustive view of the history of Greek Jewry.  I was particularly interested in the chapter on the experiences of the Greek Jews, many of whom had served on the Albanian front, who were sent to Auschwitz, the largest and most efficient of the extermination camps.

She writes the following:

"In the multi-cultural setting of the camps Greek Jews affirmed themselves vis-a-vis other Jews as Greek, rather than as Jewish.  For most of them, who had lived for centuries in the company of Christians, and had been defined against them as emphatically Jewish and somehow not really Greek, this was largely a new identity.  But in Auschwitz their Greekness was assumed, not something they had to fight to assert or deny, as it had been in Greece itself.  They had lived in Greece, and they were deported from Greece--they were Greek. This Greekness became a badge of honor and mark of prestige in the camps.  Greeks--in many instances, the first non-Askenazic Jews that most Askenazic inmates had ever seen--were virile and strong.  They were silent, mysterious ingenious and tricky.  They were fiercely patriotic, and came together with a sense of national unity that was alien to the others."

"At the beginning of World War II, there were over seventy thousand Greek Jews.  At the end, there were about ten thousand.  In terms of percentages, this reflects one of the highest destruction rates in all of Europe. As was the case with all aspects of Greek Jewish history, its course was determined in large parts by local circumstances. For the first time, though, Greek Jews--in a perverse irony--became within the framework of the Final Solution one unified national entity.  No longer were they Sephardim, Azkenazim or Romanaiotes, no longer were there Jews of Old or New Greece.  They were simply Jews, targeted for death.  For years the outward gaze of Christian Greece had reinforced their status as Jews. But in the camps, the outside gaze of others--Nazi guards and Jews, but mostly Jews, reinforced their status as Greeks.  In Auschwitz, which destroyed so many Greek Jews, Jews from Greece felt their Greekness more acutely and poignantly than ever before.  There they felt like Greeks and died as Greeks."

"Everyone in the camp was fascinated by the Greeks--German officers and scientists, and Azkenzic Jewish inmates alike.  While the Germans measured their heads for signs of their genetic superiority, and recruited them for the most gruesome work details, their fellow inmates marveled at their mysterious silence, handsome physiques, and overwhelming sense of solidarity even as they looked down on them as inferior Sephardim.  The argot of the camps was heavily infected by the Greeks, and the sounds of the camp--the singing the speech patterns, and the cheers of the crowds who gathered to watch the Greek boxers--were strongly shaped by their presence.  Under the gaze of these outsiders, Jews from Jannina, Salonika, Thrace, Athens and Corfu--from all the far flung corners of the country--became one national conglomerate. They became Greeks."

May their memories be eternal.

The first chapter in Dr. Fleming's book is here.

Adversity and Suffering

"Do not be surprised that you fall every day; do not give up, but stand your ground courageously. And assuredly, the angel who guards you will honor your patience." -- St. John of the Ladder

Open a newspaper these days and you will be sickened by what you read. Our world seems to be careening downhill out of control. In many respects we have been taking a vacation from history. We having been living large, as they say, trying to ignore what is going on around us.  We often forget that life is difficult, and it has a nasty habit of reminding us now and then. Our world can be turned upside down overnight. No matter how hard we try to avoid them, adversity and suffering find us. When they do, they invariably have much to teach us. The disasters, large and small, in our lives create the ability to bear them and have the ability to make us stronger.

Our eyes weaken as we grow older, but we begin to discern many things more clearly as we age. What was seen as a devastating blow in our youth, later appears as a less threatening but worrisome obstacle. As we grow in experience and wisdom, obstacles become less fearful and are reduced to difficult challenges. Later, difficult challenges are viewed as valuable lessons. And valuable lessons become learning experiences that change us forever.

My mother-in-law, Maria, the closest thing I have to a mother these days, has taught me about the importance of facing adversity with a good attitude.  The importance of trusting God. The crucible of hard times can make us more callous, even cynical. Sometimes it can destroy us. Yet, those who willingly allow themselves to be forged, hammered, and shaped by adversity, grow as a result.

Maria lost her father and lived through the German occupation and the Civil War as a child. She has known hunger and extreme poverty. She spent most of her adult life hunched over a sewing machine or raising her family. Plagued by health problems, weakened by old age and watching her husband, lifelong relatives and friends die, I am amazed by the nobility and compassion that have become hallmarks of her life. The greatest lesson her life of suffering has taught me is that we are measured in the end not by what we achieve but rather by how we face up to the trials God bestows upon us.

One of the Desert Fathers, Abba Isaiah said that "When God wishes to take pity on a soul and it rebels, not bearing anything and doing its own will, he then allows it to suffer that which it does not want, in order that it may seek him again."

By seeking him again, we live with hope, for to live without God, is to live with despair.

The rebetiko song highlighted above, "I was born to suffer" was written by Vasilis Tsitsanis and is sung by Sofia Papazoglou.

El Greco: The Movie

Doménikos Theotokópoulos known as "El Greco" is considered one of the most important painters in the history of the Western world, and his career, which alternated between the Byzantine style of Crete, where he was born and the mannerism of his latter years in Italy and Spain. El Greco, despite embracing the spirit of the Counter Reformation in his painting, continued to include many elements stemming from Greek Orthodox tradition during his final period in Toledo. In pictures such as El Expolio (‘The Disrobing of Christ’), the painter makes use of Byzantine iconography, although  this was not necessarily done consciously.

"El Greco" is the 2007 film by Greek director Yannis Smaragdis. It did very well in Greece but less so elsewhere. Shooting took place in Heraklion on the Greek island of Crete,  Toledo (Spain) and Athens (Greece). Vangelis provided the musical score for the film. It is the second time Vangelis and Smaragdis worked on a film together, after their successful cooperation during the production of "Kavafis" in 1996. It is no coincidence either, as according to Smaragdis “it was his (Vangelis) idea, as well as some Cretan businessmen who provided the initial funding to begin production.” The subject is not new to Vangelis either, as in 1995 he dedicated a entire new album to the paintings of El Greco ("FOROS TIMIS STON GREKO") to raise funds for the purchase of Theotokopoulos' painting 'Saint Peter' by the National Gallery (Alexandros Soutzos Museum) in Athens.

According to Smaragidis:  “It is the epic story of a Greek artist who refused to compromise, a fighter for freedom. It is a journey of light which tries to transcend the darkness of its times and reach the realm of the divine.  I was born in Heraklion in Crete, 300 meters away from the house of El Greco. I lived under the sky that gave birth to him, I was baptized in the sea in which he swam, I loved the same Cretans that brought him to the world and I yearned for the same journey beyond the sea that entraps our island, Crete. The Cretans are a strange clan of Greeks with their own distinct characteristics. They are uncompromising and free  but also great lovers of the pleasures of life and adventure. This strange and creative individual, El Greco, in whom lives the great soul of his land, has won international recognition by preserving the characteristics of his clan during the hardships, and did not yield even before his greatest adversary, the Holy Inquisition. He is a hero that draws the juices of life, strange and fascinating, who fought against the darkness and ignorance of his time and won. A positive figure who can become a role model for the people of today and tomorrow, and give faith and hope to each of us to find our own way to freedom."

The young British actor Nick Ashdon plays the title role, while the script, based on a story by Dimitris Nollas and Panayiotis Paschidis (from Dimitris Siatopoulos’ book "The Painter of God") has been co-written by UK writer Jackie Pavlenko (together with Smaragdis). The film also features local actor and comedian Lakis Lazopoulos, who plays a Cretan shepherd that was Theotokopoulos' companion and protector in his travels. Smaragdis describes Lazopoulos as “a character who plays the role of the country’s conscience, a reflection of its spirit.”

The entire movie is available below, courtesy of Google Video.

Thoughts of Home

 

The years pass quickly.  All they leave behind are faded memories.

Eighteen years ago I recall sitting in a dimly lit regimental artillery command post waiting for our division's attack across the Iraqi fortified line arrayed along the Kuwaiti border within artillery range of our position.  We were in a full scale shooting war; for the second time in my career as a Marine. The Iraqis were dug in. They had chemical and biological weapons. All of us lived with the unspoken thought that we might not make it home. We had celebrated Christmas in the Saudi desert and since arriving in country we had been moving methodically and frequently, ever closer to the border we would cross. Our movements were preceded by an advance party of bulldozers that erected ten foot high sand berms in the shape of a square. Short of an air burst or a direct hit these little desert forts provided us a modicum of safety in the wide open desert.  We sat there shivering in the cold, sipping strong, dark, black coffee while listening to the crackling noise of the  radio receivers at two o'clock in the morning.  None of us felt much like talking.  Every so often the night air would reverberate and the very ground itself would shake under our feet as a flight of B-52 bombers carpet bombed the other side of the border. These arc light strikes would make us sit up and coax us into talking nervously about what it might be like for those guys, very much like us, on the receiving end.  A boyish radio operator looked at a Gunnery Sargent updating a large map nearby and asked apprehensively if the Air Force knew we had changed our position that day? The Gunny, a Texan, spit some chewing tobacco juice into a soda can, smiled and told him not to worry since US Marines were more expendable than Iraqi infantrymen.  Everyone laughed, the tension was broken.  We all crawled back into the quiet recesses of our minds where we continued to dream of home. 

On watch, I usually pulled out my favorite photo of my wife Anoula and our three year old son, Nick, placing it reverently in a spot that I could occasionally gaze at.  I'd try to keep busy, to keep my mind on the task at hand. War is mostly tedious, even boring, until it is abruptly punctuated by those interminable moments of stark terror.  Sitting there that night I was thankful for the boredom. Funny how our minds wander, as if in a dream, lost in our thoughts and memories. That particular night I traveled back to a warm evening in Athens, remembering the words of a sad Greek love song that I first heard at the party in a local taverna, celebrating our engagement. The song is about a soldier standing at his lonely guard post, thinking of his girlfriend, Anoula, and lamenting the fact that he would not be there in December to celebrate her nameday.  The name of the song is "Anoula of the Snow."  Some songs are indelibly stamped into our memories. No matter where we are or what we are doing they pull us back in time. They recreate the place and the feelings we felt when we heard them.  In so doing they become cherished possessions.

Soldiers the world over, fight for different reasons.  Some fight for glory, freedom, money, or love of country.  I think most fight because they don't want to let their buddies down. One thing I am sure of however, on dark, lonely nights they all dream only of home and the people waiting for them there.  This post is dedicated to another generation of young men and women in faraway places who dream of home and the people who wait anxiously for their safe return. May their dreams come true and may they hold their loved ones in their arms once again.

Nostalgia

Back in the old days when my wife, Anna and I were newlyweds, we used to frequent a small taverna in Pireaus that some friends of ours had introduced us to.  I no longer remember the name of the place and I doubt whether it still exists. It was what is commonly referred to in America as a "dive." This little taverna had character however, and its patrons danced and sang their hearts out there. I'm sure it has probably been replaced by one of the many large, expensive and garish establishments that are emblematic of Athenian night life now.  These are places where you can hardly hear yourself think, let alone enjoy the music or your friends at the same table.  Our little taverna was a throwback to the old days when Athens was a more humane city and where Athenians were poor yet still able to enjoy an evening out with friends without going into debt.  The songs back then were nostalgic and bittersweet.

I hope these two songs may give you a taste for those days. The first, "Love that became a Double-edged  Knife," was written by Manos Hadjidakis and originally sung by Melina Mercouri in the movie,  Stella. It is sung by Tania Tsanaklidou and features  the impressive bouzouki of Manolis Karantinis. The second, "My Story, My Sin," was written by Yiorgos Manisalis with lyrics by Kostas Psihogios and sung by Yiota Negka.

A Work in Progress

I have updated this video post of the iconography project of our parish church, Saint Dimitrios in Saco Maine. This marks the completion of Phase II.  The final phase is scheduled for completion in the Fall of this year.

For those interested in learning more about the role of architecture and iconography in Orthodox Christianity I would recommend reading: On Earth as it is in Heaven: Form and Meaning in Orthodox Architecture by Andrew Gould  located here  and The Iconic and Symbolic in Orthodox Iconography by Bishop Auxentios located here.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

In Faith and Football, Polamalu is Unequalled

 

By Thomas George, Senior Columnist at NFL.Com

The last time Troy Polamalu confronted the Arizona Cardinals, his immediate pregame preparation was astonishing. Polamalu, the Pittsburgh Steelers' Pro Bowl safety, describes it simply as divine.

The Steelers were in Phoenix on Sept. 30, 2007 for a regular-season bout against the Cardinals. Polamalu rested as he was driven into the early morning for more than an hour to Florence, Ariz. Polamalu is a Greek Orthodox Christian. He journeyed to meet what he calls his Abbot, Father Ephraim and to worship in a monastery. The services began at 3 a.m. MST and lasted until nearly 7 a.m MST. Then the trek back to Phoenix.

Then kickoff at 2:15 p.m MST.

"Some people might see that as a lot, but I saw it as a must, an opportunity to see my spiritual father," Polamalu said. "I go there five to six times a year because that is where he is. This life that I struggle to live, I try to do so in the eyes of my spiritual father."

His journey for worship and further understanding of his faith has taken him to Greece, Turkey and beyond. In fact, when coach Mike Tomlin took over the Steelers in 2007, Polamalu missed Tomlin's first camp because he was abroad in his worship and studies. Tomlin understood then and he approved Polamalu's Arizona excursion.Polamalu's defensive backfield coach, Ray Horton, said: "We lost the game ( 21-14), but Troy played a great game and showed everyone his heart, his character and his commitment to his passions in faith and in football. This is a player who is an absolute joy. A joy to coach. A joy to have as a teammate."

Polamalu will not be hard to find in Super Bowl XLIII.

Look for the player with the black, flowing hair, the Samoan with the penchant for grating hits and for producing pivotal picks. The guy who knocks the ball loose, who shows for short-yardage situations as stunningly as he does for deep balls thrown anywhere on the field. A player who no matter how much Arizona quarterback Kurt Warner will attempt to influence from the pocket, will remain focused on the ball, on breaking the back of the Arizona offense.

This is a player's player.

A coach's fantasy.

But that is the thing about Polamalu. He is real, live, a throwback and a futuristic player in one, a sixth-year pro who already has distinguished himself as one of the NFL's elite talents, no matter the other players or positions tossed into that discussion.

He is a new father, a proud husband, a passionate man in all he does, one who always attempts to separate emotion from mental acumen. The way Polamalu sees it, he can worship in an encompassing manner, be a loving father and husband and still seek to knock ball carriers and receivers around. He can do all of that by employing the passion for life that helps define him.

"There are times I am happy," Polamalu said. "There are times I am sad. But I always try to separate emotion from the need to reach for something stronger, deeper. And then no matter the emotion, I can reach for a stability that helps me accomplish what is the goal. My joy in my life comes from my strength in my life and in my experience with God. That cannot be separated from football. It is all the same to me. It is one. I am one with it."

Thus, he plays, he lives, with a humility that is profound. In his last matchup, against Baltimore, he said he wished he was as good as Ravens safety Ed Reed. In this Super Bowl matchup, Polamalu keeps saying that Arizona safety Adrian Wilson is far more talented. Looking you dead in the eye, Polamalu says these things with such sincerity and intensity that he appears to honestly believe them.

He may, indeed, but his teammates know better.

"Troy ..." said Pittsburgh safety Tyrone Carter, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. "Troy is one of very few. There really is not a word or a phrase or anything I can say about him that gives him what he deserves. He is everything. He is quiet, humble, accountable, so talented. As a football player, he has everything. And what I love about him is that I will give him advice about a play, or something I see, and he listens and accepts it and puts it to use. Here I am with no Pro Bowls advising a multiple Pro Bowl player. And he pays attention more than most rookies would. Now, on the plays when I am not on the field with him, he will ask me to be his eyes. And we talk about what I see from the sidelines. And he listens again. The way he impacts our defense, our team and the impact he has on games is tremendous."There is great affection for this player among all the Steelers.

As Polamalu finished his Wednesday Super Bowl media session, as he walked to join his Steelers teammates for practice, Dick LeBeau walked past him. LeBeau is the Steelers' defensive coordinator. Without a word, LeBeau looked at him, smiled, extended his arm to Polamalu's shoulder, gave it firm hold, looked him again in the eye, both smiled, and LeBeau walked on.

Not a single word necessary.

This player dramatically helps form the nexus of these Steelers. He is age 27 and at 5-feet-10 and 207 pounds plays much taller, much bigger, with an air of ferociousness that makes offensive players take note of where he is aligned and if he will be steamrolling their way. An intelligent player who in the AFC Championship Game made a critical fourth-down, short-yardage stop by leaping to tackle quarterback Joe Flacco by remembering that when a certain Ravens lineman was in a certain position, that meant run all the way, according to a Steelers scouting report. A report he remembered and utilized during a frenetic moment in that game.

Polamalu has heard Arizona wide receiver Larry Fitzgerald's name mentioned "every other question," he said, since arriving here for his national, group interviews. In pure emotion, it must be grating to Polamalu. Mentally, though, he gets it. There is a job to help do against a dynamic receiver. It is a paramount task toward gaining his second championship ring.

"Football is a great passion for me, and this game brings me great joy," he said. "We have a big job ahead of us with this opponent. Their offense is complex and versatile."

Before walking away, he looked away, and then spoke softly, barely audible, as is his way: "Our team is strong. I like the chance we have. I know where the strength in my life and in my game lives."

For those who don't follow American football, Troy Polamalu (whose baptismal name is Tryphon) and the Pittsburgh Steelers beat the Arizona Cardinals 27-23 in the Super Bowl on Sunday the second day of February, the feast day of Saint Tryphon the Martyr.

The Island (Ostrov)

This post first appeared in 2007. I am reposting it with some changes because the entire full length movie is now available on YouTube in 12 parts with English subtitles. The first two parts are available at the bottom of the post to get you started. It is well worth your time.

I've been a movie fan since I was a little snot nosed kid. There was always something about the silver screen that was bigger than life. Back then, movies were not inundated with cheap violence and sex. They made us laugh, they made us cheer, sometimes we cried. They gave us a peek at ourselves or a vision of who we wanted to be.  I remember seeing my first movie in a real theater. It was an afternoon matinee of Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein in black and white, preceded by a Tom & Jerry cartoon.  My cousin Harilaos and it seemed like every other kid from Greektown were at the Mutual movie theater on Main Street in Saco, Maine that afternoon long ago.  We ate popcorn and consumed candy bars like there was no tomorrow and we laughed so hard we almost peed in our pants.

I don't make it over to the movie theater much these days. Usually we will watch a movie by ourselves or sometimes with friends.  All of us have seen a movie or two whose impact is powerful, one that lasts for days or even years.  "Ostrov" is just such an experience.  Those who watch it will be blessed with a rare opportunity to watch a spiritually uplifting and  spiritually challenging film that is both starkly beautiful and contains a powerful message. This film was not produced in or by Hollywood simply because I don't really think there is anyone in Hollywood capable of  understanding the Orthodox mindset or world view nor of really tackling the underlying problems that we face as a society.

"Ostrov" or "The Island" written by Dmitri Sobolev, begins on a dark night in 1942, when a Russian barge hauling much needed coal, piloted by young captain Tikhon (Aleksei Zelenski) is captured by a German patrol boat. Tikhon and his one man crew Anatoly (Timofei Tribuntzev) attempt to hide in the mounds of coal. Anatoly is discovered and after a beating he betrays  Tikhon's location.  Anatoly begs for his life while his comrade calmly waits to be executed while smoking a cigarette. The Nazi commander suddenly passes a gun to his quailing mate, Anatoly and orders him to do the deed, in exchange for his life. Hysterical with fear, Anatoly pulls the trigger and Tikhon tumbles into the frigid water. The Germans leave after they place an explosive charge on the boat and unknowingly Anatoly cheers ecstatically. Suddenly there is a loud explosion and as the sun rises the next day Anatoly is washed up on the beach and rescued by monks from a nearby monastery situated on an isolated island.

The action then flashes forward to 1976. In a small seaside monastery, Anatoly (Mamonov) is now a balding old man. He wears tattered clothing and his face is blackened, covered with soot.  He works tirelessly stoking the monastery's boiler with the coal from the wreck of  his sunken barge while he lives like a hermit in an outlying cabin. He has spent his life trying to expiate his guilt and atone for the crime of killing his captain, but his soul can find no peace. Though his fellow monks avoid the eccentric fellow, he has earned a reputation among the local population as a Holy Man capable of  healing and predicting the future. Anatoly's help, however, carries a heavy price. He demands that the beneficiary -- in one case, a unwed pregnant girl; in another, a mother whose son can't walk -- sacrifice all their worldly goals to God's will.

Anatoly is an example of a peculiar form of Orthodox asceticism.   The Russian version called, the yurodivy is a Holy Fool or Fool for Christ, one who acts intentionally foolish in the eyes of men for the sake of Christ.  Part of the biblical basis is  1 Corinthians 3:18-19  "Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness."   The following excerpt explains the whole concept much better than I ever could:  "The fool-for-Christ sets for himself the task of battling within himself the root of all sin, pride. In order to accomplish this he took on an unusual style of life, appearing as someone bereft of his mental faculties, thus bringing upon himself the ridicule of others. In addition he exposed the evil in the world through metaphorical and symbolic words and actions. He took this ascetic endeavor upon himself in order to humble himself and to also more effectively influence others, since most people respond to the usual ordinary sermon with indifference. The spiritual feat of foolishness for Christ was especially widespread in Russia. (Excerpted from The Law of God, Holy Trinity Monastery, Jordanville, NY: 1993)  The Russian Orthodox Church numbers 36 yurodivye among its saints, most prominently Basil, Fool for Christ, who gives his name to Saint Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.The most well-known modern example in the Russian Church is perhaps St. Xenia of St. Petersburg.

"The Island" comes at a critical juncture in Russian history when Russians are trying to forge a distinctly Russian solution to the failures of both Communism, Perestroika and now the Post-Communist era.  Ultimately the film asks the favorite Russian question: Who is guilty? And to that, it adds another: How can we be redeemed?  The Island has struck a chord among Russians.  It has been a box office smash in Russia and garnered numerous awards both in and outside Russia.  Even the Russian Orthodox Church has given its blessing.  Director Pavel Lungin was surprised that the church accepted his film.  "I thought they would have problems with something, at least in the details." Instead, some bishops organized events around the film and advertised it in their churches.  Lungin said he believes in God but does not follow any structured religion.  "The material world hasn't given us any answers to our questions," he said. "People feel lost in a spiritual way. . . . There are these feelings of guilt and sin and at the same time an idea that people can be redeemed."

"The Island" is an extraordinary film.  It is about human weakness, hypocrisy, repentance, and the possibility of redemption inherent in every one of us.  Above all, it is about the importance of putting faith and our personal relationship with God at the center of our lives.

George over at Ellopos Blog has also written a post about the movie here.

The Greek Americans / Part V