DELPHI

 

Delphi shares the same root with the Greek word for womb, δελφύς. It is thus not only, as the ancient Greeks believed, the centre of the world but the beginning of everything. It is also the end. Prior to receiving its name, Delphi was known as Pytho, which is derived from the verb πύθω, which means to rot. Depending on which version of the myth you ascribe to, Delphi may also have taken its name from the Delphyne, the she-serpent who lived there and was killed by the god Apollo, although in other accounts the serpent was the male Python, who supposedly guarded the navel of the earth and died and rotted at the spot of his death.

All of the above comprises the foundation myth of author Karen Martin’s latest novel: “Delphi,” a sequel to her debut novel “Dancing the Labyrinth.” Like the place and the myths surrounding it, “Delphi” is a sophisticated, nuanced and often disconcerting exploration of trauma and how this manifests itself within a quest for self-identity.

Set in Crete and at Delphi, through the dual narrative of the heroine Cressida and Pythian Ashtar, the author ostensibly seeks to illuminate truths about the misrepresentations inscribed in our records of the past. In doing so however, her text becomes a profound meditation on psychological trauma, its expression in language, and the role of memory in shaping both individual and cultural identities. While the narrative is deceptively simple, as it unfolds it expertly and imperceptibly draws on psychoanalytic theories, particularly Freudian concepts, as well as post-structural, sociocultural, and postcolonial frameworks, in order to examine how extreme experiences are represented and how they influence identity and memory. Cressida’s trauma is both inherited, given her family history, experienced and through her connection, also forged through suffering, with the primordial violence not only against women but also directed by women against women which according to myth, shaped the world and which also, paradoxically, will save it.

The author, through a clever melding of timelines, characters, dreams, hallucinations, dialogues and inner monologues, portrays the aforementioned as a profoundly disruptive experience that affects the heroine’s emotional organization and perception of her world. Through her recourse to myth and the multiplicity of its variants, both the narrator and the heroine place themselves in a privileged position so as to examine trauma’s psychological, rhetorical, and cultural implications in literature and society, investigating the complex factors that shape the heroine’s appreciation of traumatic experiences and how such experiences are communicated through language.

This in particular is an area where “Delphi” can be distinguished from other novels of like genre. The author artfully places particular emphasis on how texts, stories and narratives illuminate the effects of extreme events on identity, memory, and the unconscious. Trauma studies initially relied on Freudian theory to conceptualize trauma as an experience so extreme it challenges the limits of language and ruptures meaning itself. Such a view posits that certain suffering is unrepresentable. However, a more pluralistic perspective soon followed, suggesting that unspeakability is just one possible response to trauma, not a universal one. The original model, which associates trauma with the fragmentation of the psyche and breakdown of language, set foundational parameters for the field but has since evolved with alternative approaches, expanding the conversation on trauma and representation. In “Delphi,” a deeply verbal novel, the author displays a deep understanding of such theories and converses intertextually with them. Cressida is eloquent and expressive in most of her social intercourse. In relation to her archetype abuser-aunt (not because she committed acts of violence against Cressida but because she stood by and did not prevent them) however, she is often struck dumb, whereas her inner monologue of desperation often deconstructs emotions and thought into fragments in the form of expletives, the process being both harrowing and liberating at the same time.

The heroine Cressida is guided through her trauma via a series of teachers, guides and protective powers. According to the narrator, Delphi and its tutelary deities all stem from the primeval Earth goddess Gaia. Accordingly, Cressida’s protective but emotionally distant lover is called Gorgios, referring not only to the earth but to the chthonic Gorgons, descendant of another primordial serpent, Typhon. While well meaning, he is by his very nature, unable to do more than be present in her emotional periphery. As the narrator states: “Gorgios [which also rhymes with gorgeous] was being a dick.” Her two main female guides however, are Angela, a sort of guardian angel who appears to be replete with wisdom, and true to the etymology of her name, acts as a form of messenger, conveying female lore, kindness and practical advice from the Great Mother, and the mysterious Ashtar, a Pythian, through whom Cressida is to save humanity from catastrophic misery. The ambiguous nature of Ashtar, for she appears in myth as the Moabite adaptation of the North Arabian god Attar, himself a form of the Semitic deity of the planet Venus, and thus as a male, or as an extra-terrestial Nordic humanoid, should not go unnoticed, as indeed should not the fact that we do not know that the agency sought of Cressida by Ashtar is external, or internal, in that Ashtar may merely be an aspect of her personality and by submitting to his/her entreaties, she is merely being enjoined to transcend her self in order to transcend her pain.

The conflation of genders, myths and dysphorias within the novel evokes a Freudian hysteria originating from the heroine’s deeply repressed experiences, here associated with sexual assault, that have been pushed out of conscious awareness. In his Studies in Hysteria, Freud and his collaborator Breuer proposed that the original experience itself may not have felt traumatic at the time but becomes charged with traumatic significance only in retrospect, through the process of memory and reflection. They suggest that the persistent and disruptive influence of this repressed memory necessitates therapeutic intervention, specifically, the “talking cure” or abreaction, where the patient expresses and emotionally relives the past event to mitigate its ongoing, symptom-inducing power. In many ways, and through the intervention of Cressida’s guardians, both supernatural and otherwise, her long process of interpreting, identifying and coming to terms with her trauma and identity embody that undertaking. She confirm this, stating: “Nai, the Sirens called me.”

The appearance of Cressida’s long-lost aunt, an archetypal dragon-lady if there ever was one, with whom she has had no contact, illustrates Freud’s theory of latency or deferred action (Nachträglichkeit), which refers to a period during which the effects and meanings of the past event remain dormant, only surfacing later when triggered by a related experience. This latency period suggests that the true impact of the original event is neither immediate nor accessible at the time it occurs; instead, it emerges later, when a current incident reactivates the memory. This process allows the repressed memory to come into conscious awareness, enabling the individual to confront and process it fully, which Freud believed was essential for overcoming the symptoms of trauma. As Angela observes or rather warns: “A brief history recap is begging to be told.” In the case of the heroine, the reactivation of her memory is occasioned by her aunt’s demands upon her time, and her claims upon a filial piety that does not exist and, in a dramatic revelation, is twisted and perverted ab initio, causing Cressida to slay her own monsters, become her own Oracle and realise just how privileged and rich she actually has become through her travails.

The narrative plausibly evokes the magical landscape of Greece and the author masterfully is able to imbue her descriptions with a rhythm, almost that of a dance that leads inexorably to the novel’s conclusion. Her observations of human nature, of the disparity between Greek and British cultures, of commonly held prejudices and stereotypes, of convictions and misconceptions are acute and her attention to detail is awe inspiring. The manner in which she persistently reproduces Cressida’s mispronunciations and ungrammatical Greek is a case in point. The medium in which she attempts to communicate may be flawed but ultimately it is via the deconstruction of language, through the intercession of her pantheon of chthonic deities that ensues that Cressida can work through her past, and save the world, in keeping with the Delphic Oracle, by “knowing herself.”

DEAN KALIMNIOU

Dean Kalimniou will launch Karen Martin’s “Delphi,” at the Greek Centre, 168 Lonsdale Street, Melbourne on Sunday 17 November 2024 at 3pm.

For Bookings: https://www.trybooking.com/events/landing/1310056

First published in NKEE on Saturday 9 November 2024

DIMITRIA

 October is an exceptional month in the Greek calendar. Not only do we celebrate OXI day, but also the liberation of Thessaloniki and the patronal feast of its protector, Saint Dimitrios. A few weeks ago, I had the honour of addressing members of the Pan-Macedonian Association of New South Wales at the opening of their Dimitria Festival and share some reflections on that institution:

“I think there is added poignancy today in acknowledging the traditional custodians of the land upon which we stand and acknowledging their elders past present and emerging because ours too is an indigenous people, a people of remarkably long lineage, with a continuous connection to our land of origin, with our own stories, myths and unbroken memories.

And it in testament to that connection that we are gathered here today. In Thessaloniki, the capital of Macedonia this year, the 59th ever Dimitria Festival will be celebrated. In Australia, and in New South Wales in particular, we will celebrate the 41st Dimitria festival. What we have done over the course of four is to take a Macedonian tradition and make it into something truly Australian. It is an annual fixture in our calendar. I have grown up with it, participated in it, and it is an event that the entire mainstream community enjoys, it is in fact an institution.

It is worth looking back and considering what is so significant about the Dimitria Festival. We know it is generally and traditionally held in October, ostensibly to commemorate two important events in the Greek calendar, the first being the feast day of Saint Dimitrios the Myrrh Bearer and the liberation of Thessaloniki from the Ottoman Empire which conveniently took place on the same day in 1913.

I confess to feeling rather close to Saint Dimitrios. I belong to the parish of Saint Dimitrios in Moonee Ponds, home of course to the great Dame Edna Everage, and I feel that his life exemplifies the essence of that it is to be a Macedonian, what it is to be a Greek. Born and bred in Thessaloniki, a city named after Alexander the Great’s half-sister (and it is worth pointing out that Thessaloniki was likely the first city to be named for a Macedonian woman, but many more followed, like Berenice in Egypt for example – so we were striking blows against the patriarchy even before we knew what it was), Dimitrios was a member of the privileged class – his family had senatorial rank and he became a soldier, rising to the rank of being commander of the Roman forces in Thessaly and Proconsul for Hellas, which is a pretty big deal.

Now with great power comes great responsibility and the first thing you learn is how to cover your own posterior, if you are going to have any sort of a future. Saint Dimitrios on the other hand, used his position to protect converts to Christianity, shielding them from the discriminatory laws of the Empire and indeed, breaking the law in order to protect them. When confronted, he refused to back down. He refused to resile from doing that which is decent, proper and right. He continued persistently and fearlessly to advocate for the powerless, the vulnerable, the voiceless and the underprivileged and he paid the ultimate price, being slaughtered in the prisons of the arena after a gladiatorial contest.

In the Orthodox church, St Dimitiros is spoken of as having gained a martyr’s crown and this you will be pleased to know, is a sporting analogy, because the Greeks were possibly even more sports mad than the Australians, which is why you get so many Macedonian Kings competing in the Olympic Games and we know that a criteria for participation in the ancient Games was having to prove you were of Hellenic descent.

Martyrs were referred to as athletes for Christ whose victory was crowned in the same way that athletes were crowned with an olive or a laurel wreath, and we all love a good athlete. Milo by the way, the great Aussie Milk drink was named after a legendary Greek athlete also called Milo who could hold  bull over his head… the links between our two people abound and are enduring and of course you can find remain sporting arenas built by the Macedonians as far east as Uzbekistan.

Because that is another thing that is important about the Dimitria festival: by celebrating the liberation of Thessaloniki, we commemorate the decolonisation of the Greek people. This may at first seem counterintuitive, since Macedonia was the first European colonial kingdom, with a reach as far as China in the east, and Libya in the west. Unlike the European colonial powers that followed however, native populations were treated as equals. Their cultures and languages were respected. There was no impediment to their participation in society. There was a sharing of cultures. We find in Egypt today, relief sculptures of Macedonian Kings depicted as Egyptian Pharaohs, while the Indo-Bactrian king Menander is revered in India as a great apostle of Buddhism. Today, the Greek philosophical tradition forms the basis of two great streams of culture, that of the West, and that of the Middle East, simply because that tradition was shared, not imposed. This, is the Macedonian way.

Now it is fair to say that one of the reasons that we revere Thessaloniki is because it combines both the traditions of Saint Dimitrios and the heritage of ancient Macedonia. First of all, it is a most resilient city. It has endured sieges, sackings and occupation by Romans, Avars, Slavs, Arabs, Latins and finally the Ottomans. Yet in the midst of all this, between 1342-50, it was the epicentre of an amazing and not well known social experiment – the so-called Commune of the Zealots, where the lower social strata of the city seized control of the city, redistributed the wealth of the aristocrats and attempted to institute a classless system of social equity and all this five hundred years before Marx was even invented. This is our lineage, these are the perennial values that inform not only our identity but our own world view. And during all the city’s trials and tribulations, legend has it that its protector Saint Dimitrios intervened at key moments to protect the city, defending it from aggression and protecting its inhabitants from disease and plague.

And of course, Thessaloniki always was and is, a multicultural city, a cosmopolitan city. It is the city from where the Saints Cyril and Methodius set off from and their invention, the Cyrillic alphabet, allowed Slavic speaking peoples from the borders of modern Greece to Siberia, the opportunity to become literate and to create their own unique and distinct identity. It is the city in which Saint Paul preached a Gospel of truth, of fairness and of righteousness and of course it is a city that became for centuries, a refuge and a sanctuary against intolerance and darkness specifically by the Spanish Inquisition, for the Sephardic community. Later on it would be a refuge for the Greeks of Pontus, who would be given an opportunity in that city to re-establish their culture and identity in the aftermath of genocide. On any given day in Thessaloniki, you could hear spoken Greek, Turkish, Bulgarian, Vlach, Albanian, Armenian, Ladino and a host of other languages. It is no coincidence that Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet, who had similar concerns about social and racial equality was born and bred in Thessaloniki. Or indeed that anthropologists such as Louis Dumont, or  Italian ballerina Lousia Poselli or Soviet-Armenian singer Jean Tatlian were born in that city.

Again it is no coincidence that Thessaloniki, is by all accounts, the home of the rebetiko genre of Greek music, a form of music that is subversive, critiques the establishment and which like the city itself, is a melting pot of different styles and traditions. Here in Australia, that tradition, just like that of the Dimitria itself, is has been transplanted, has become part of the urban landscape and is thriving. This is what Thessaloniki is about: It is a city of good people, people who want to make a difference, who want to make the world a better place. Today, the city is home to people of diverse backgrounds, especially those from the former soviet bloc.

While we celebrate the liberation of Thessaloniki, we take the opportunity during Dimitria to pay homage to the fact that it was in Macedonia that unbreakable bonds of kinship were formed with Australia, the country we proudly call home. During the First World War, Australian army personnel provided valuable support to the Macedonian Front, especially doctors and nurses who were stationed in Thessaloniki. We therefore pay particular homage to Principal Matron Jessie McHardie White, as well as  matrons Beryl A. Campbell, Christense Sorensen and Grace Wilson.

We pay tribute to two Australians who went on to senior command during World War II served with the Imperial Forces in Salonika: then Major John Laverack, Brigade Major Royal Artillery with the 22nd British Division and then Second Lieutenant Edmund Herring who was also with the 22nd Division's artillery.

On a sombre note, it is perhaps poignant to recognise that the Commonwealth Military Cemetery at Mikra on the outskirts of Thessaloniki contains the graves of two Australians who did not return. One is Sapper E Heron from Cottesloe in Western Australia who died in 1918 aged 28.

But Mikra also contains the grave of the only Australian nurse to be buried in Greece in the First World War – Nurse Gertrude Evelyn Munro. She arrived in Thessaloniki in 1916, serving with the 60th British General Hospital at Hortiatis until 1918. From Ballarat, she enlisted in the Australian Army Nursing Service in August 1916. Like many who served in the campaign, she became ill, having contracted malaria and dysentery, succumbing on 10 October 1918. She was 34 years old.

In the aftermath of the war, Australian humanitarians such as Joyce Nankievell Loch would set up refugee camps on the outskirts of Thessaloniki before moving to Ouranoupolis near Mount Athos, not only saving lives from disease and privation but also providing valuable space and love to allow shattered human beings to slowly rebuild their lives and actually envisage a future for themselves.

Another of these amazing humanitarians was of course George Devine Treloar who was engaged in the resettlement of Greek refugees from Asia Minor; at first he worked at in Thrace where there is a village named after him and later in Salonika.

It is important to remember these brave Australians because Australians would return in 1941 to Macedonia to defence Greece from the Nazi invaders at the Battle of Vevi. The Mackay force, named after its commander, the Australian Major General Iven Mackay, was tasked with preventing blitzkrieg down the Florina valley.

When we celebrate Dimitria, therefore, we commemorate and cherish the memories of all those Australians whose story is inextricably linked with that of Macedonia, there are many more.

Given the above history, I think it is more than obvious why Dimitria is such an important Australian festival. I am inordinately proud of the fact that the connection between Thessaloniki and the rest of Macedonia and Australia has been formalised in the sister-city relationship between Thessaloniki and Melbourne but really this is a bond that has been forged between two special peoples, the Greeks and the Australians, in a very special place: Macedonia and it is cemented by us, hyphenated Greek-Australians, here today in this very room. And the proof is in the Australian landscape. There are the Macedon Ranges in Victoria, and here in Sydney, in Bossley Park, there is Macedon Park. In Macedonia, we truly are one.

In a complex world whose paradigm shifts occur by the second, and in which all truths are now subjective and personal, the Macedonian tradition that informs our discourse, is perennial. It is one of adhering steadfast to the tenets of decency, of inclusivity, of friendship, of democracy and of equality. It is a tradition that though spanning millenia, embraces all and celebrates diversity. Dimitria symbolises all of this rich and multifaceted historical and cultural experience, adding its own unique Australian flair to create something that is truly unique and authentic, that speaks to people of all cultures and climes. Something definitely worth a party.

Enough talking and more celebrating I say. I would like to end by exclaiming boisterously and jubilantly in the language of Aristotle, in the language of Alexander the Great, of Saint Dimitrios: Ζήτω η Μακεδονία!

DEAN KALIMNIOU

First published in NKEE on Saturday 2 November 2024

THE MOONEE VALLEY “UNA RAZZA UNA FAZZA” FESTIVAL RETURNS

 

There is a village named after Saint Dimitrios in Calabria. It was founded by refugees from Epirus in the fifteenth century, fleeing the Ottoman occupation of their homeland. The refugees settled near the ancient oratory of Sant Adriano, where in tenth century, Saint Nilus the Younger, patron saint of scribes and calligraphers, founded Italo-Byzantine monasticism. The village is called San Demetrio Corone, the latter title referring to the fact that a later wave of refugees arrived from Coroni in the Peloponnese. While a small village of only three thousand inhabitants, it is of great importance to Italy because it has produced many patriots, theorists and revolutionaries in the Risorgimento, the unification of the country. Saint Dimitrios is the patron saint of the village and his feast day is celebrated with great pomp, since the inhabitants of the village, who have long since converted to Catholicism, still use the Byzantine Rite.

Further north, in the Abruzzo, there exists the village of San Demetrio ne' Vestini, whose principal church is that of San Demetrio da Tessalonica, Saint Dimitrios of Thessaloniki. Saint Dimitrios of course, though a Greek, was a high ranking official in the service of the Roman Emperor and the seventh century manuscript of the miracles of Saint Dimitrios, which contains unique information about the topography of Thessaloniki and the Slavic invasions of Macedonia, is housed in the Vatican.

It is thus almost as impossible to separate the Italic component from the traditions and veneration of Saint Dimitrios, as it is to sever the Italic character from the City of Moonee Valley, where the parish of Saint Dimitrios, Moonee Ponds is situated. This year, one of the candidates for election to council proudly boasts Italian grandparents and a Greek surname and there are not a few parishioners who are of mixed Italian and Greek ancestry, which amounts to the same thing, not solely because of “una razza, una faccia,” (which according to a friend is not so true, for there is a certain amount of darkness that attaches itself to the Balkan soul that is not present among our Italic cousins, even if we share the same DNA) but also because, well as everyone knows, we got there first.

The Italians who attend our parish smile graciously when I tell them that culinary mainstays that are associated with their culture such as pizza (from the ancient Greek πήτεα meaning bran bread), or macaroni (from the Greek μάκαρος, a dish originally made to commemorate the dead), or lasagne (from the ancient Greek λάζανον meaning a flat baking tray), are actually Greek in origin, adding that the Romans employed Greek bakers to produce breads and prized Greek cheeses from Sicily, but I can tell that they are not convinced. I concede that the Vlach language, historically spoken in many parts of Greece, including in those parts from which many of our parishioners derive their ancestry is a Latin tongue, which most likely evolved as a consequence of the long Roman sojourn in Greece, but they have never heard of it. Instead, they point to the Italian coffee machine that dispenses Italianate coffee after the Liturgy, far outperforming and overshadowing the humble electric briki that resides inconspicuously behind it.

Some of the older parishioners also remind me that going to get a pizza after Bible Study was a Rite of Passage for many of them, while others point out that my baptismal name, Constantine, is of Roman origin, and that of the patron saints of my children, two, Saint Helena and Saint Alexandra of Rome, were both Empresses of Rome while the last, Saint Alexios, Man of God, was according to the Greek tradition, also reputed to be a Roman.

The fusion not only of our cultures but also of our religious beliefs thus not only precedes our arrival in this land, but somehow, also predetermines its continuation. After its tremendous inauguration last year, the annual Moonee Valley “Una Razza Una Fazza” Greek Italian Festival is returning for an il grande spettacolo on 27 October. An initiative of the Greek Orthodox Parish of Saint Dimitrios, Moonee Ponds, the Festival aims to celebrate the unique contributions made to the city of Moonee Valley by two of its most venerable and vibrant migrant communities: the Greeks and the Italians.

The “Una Razza Una Fazza” Greek Italian Festival truly is a premier multicultural event for the city of Moonee Valley. Greek and Italian artists, musicians, actors will collaborate in order to showcase and share each other’s cultures, memories and experiences, celebrating diversity and focusing on what we all have in common, a love of tradition, community, and let’s face it, the majority of times, of ourselves.

Italian bands, dancers, musicians, magicians and entertainers will share the stage with Greek dancers, traditional instrument players and singers, facing off tsamiko with the  tarantella, (for as the immensely talented people from the Rustica Project able reminded enthralled crowds at the Festival last year, there IS such a thing as demotic Italian music beyond the Chicken Dance (which is actually Swiss), Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra) while in the children’s tent, younger members of the community can enjoy face painting, pairing VR Games with Italian Dancing and specialised early learning activities.

While Greek-Australian panigyri mainstays such as the souvlaki and loukoumades will make themselves manifest, this year, Italian cuisine will also be purveyed, with disputation as to its ultimate origin mandatory rather than discouraged.

Paying homage to the reverence both the Italian and Greek communities share for Saint Dimitrios, an exhibition of rare and old Orthodox icons will be held in the Church Hall. These icons are part of my own collection. Dating from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, come mainly from Asia Minor and the Greek-speaking regions of the former Russian Empire, especially from the Black Sea region now comprising parts of modern Russia and Ukraine. These too are contested regions where the confluence of linguistic, ethnic and religious conflicts in yet to be resolved.

These icons, of diverse styles and iconographic traditions, some of which were placed in iconostasis of holy churches, have their own harrowing stories to tell; they were hidden during the years of the Soviet rule so that they would not be destroyed or vandalised and were guarded with reverence and with many risks by the faithful. They serve to remind us that the multicultural harmony that we enjoy in this country should not be taken for granted, but rather, cherished, preserved, defended and celebrated, which is exactly what the parish festival seeks to accomplish.

While all of the above is well and good,  both the timing of the Festival and its hybrid nature, being held as it is, one day before the 28th of October, the anniversary of OXI Day, which commemorates the Greek nation’s courageous stance against the Invasion of Greece by Fascist Italy, have given rise to questions. Is it in poor taste to celebrate with one’s erstwhile enemies a day before the anniversary of their aggression? Absolutely not. Here the word “erstwhile” is the key. At a time when ethnic conflicts in the region fester and simmer, it is a testament both to the vitality and the humanity of the Greek and Italian peoples that they can put the past behind them and join together to venerate Saint Dimitrios. Forgiveness and reconciliation are not mere buzz words. They lie at the core of our system of beliefs. After all, what better opportunity to remind our forgiven and reconciled brethren who won the War than in public, again and again and again?  Saint Dimitrios has thought of everything.

The Moonee Valley “Una Razza Una Fazza” Festival will be held on Sunday 27 October 2024, between 11am-5pm on Gladstone Street, Moonee Ponds, outside Saint Dimitrios Greek Orthodox Church.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 26 October 2024

THE COMING OF THE DIGNITARIES

 

In those days dignitaries walked among us from over the sea, from the land we left behind, in order to confer legitimacy upon us all and to certify our ethnic credentials. We knew they were not from our climes, as they entered the building in procession, accompanied by local grandees, elected of course, for the adults around us treated them with a reverence and a respect we had never seen them afford to their peers. They bustled about them gently, touched their white linen suits adoringly, in the manner in which our grandmothers would reach out to touch the priest’s vestments on Sundays, during the Great Entrance, and would hasten to flank their paths as they walked, blocking access with their broad shoulders, to the fallen, the vanquished and the deposed, who in their desperation to be seen in the company of the dignitaries, to address their august personages and regain their erstwhile potency, would utter unintelligible cries akin to the exclamations of Cassandra in Aeschylus' Agamemnon: «ἰὼ! ἆ ἆ! ἒ ἔ, παπαῖ παπαῖ! ἰὼ πόποι! ὀτοτοτοῖ πόποι δᾶ!», not just untranslatable but inarticulate syllables representing yesterday’s men’s howl of despondency, drowned out partially, by the musicians who preceded the dignitaries, as if in a village bridal procession, where the dowry comprised of all of us.

A Byzantine satirical song about the widow of Nicephoros II Phocas, Theophano, describes a parade where she rides a mule, accompanied by “shrivelled horn-players with hand-sized anuses,” (κουκουροβουκινάτορες φουκτοκωλοτρυπᾶτοι). Our klarintzides were neither shrivelled, nor diminutive. Their hands were callused from years of work in the factories and they played not for the dignitaries, but for themselves.

As was the custom, we had been weighted with the task of learning vast chunks of appropriate verse off by heart, to be parroted for the benefit of the dignitaries upon cue. To this end, we had been subjected to vigorous training and rehearsal weeks in advance, and having mastered the verse, we were exhorted to deliver it with feeling, which according to the aesthetic directions of our instructors, basically meant to shout it at the top of our prepubescent voices. Try as we might, and regardless of the countless warnings that we were about to shame our families, our syllogo, our place of origin and our common ancestors down to Pericles and Kolokotronis,  we could not ever imbue the epic verse with the emotion it seemed to require. As the guilt trip continued, we considered Linos of Thrace, the brother of Orpheus, who taught music as well as the alphabet to the young Heracles. The demigod, learning to play the lyre, was unable to appreciate what which was taught to him “because of his sluggishness of soul.” When Heracles proceeded to murder the instrument, Linus reprimanded him for making errors by striking him with a cane. Sufficiently provoked, Heracles flew into a rage and bludgeoned his teacher to death with his own lyre.

Our performance was preceded always by the speech of welcome by our first among equals. On and on he would intone, valiantly retrieving every single cliché he had ever learned in the village primary school, as well as those acquired during intercommunal relations in the adopted country, striving to seek the dignitaries approval and a possible invitation to visit them in Greece by praising them in the most superlative way possible. Having been born in the mountain fastnesses, our first among equals would most likely not have been aware that in medieval Nubia, the nobility enjoyed Greek titles such as αρχιτρικλινάριος or indeed: αρχιμειζότερος (ie arch-greatest) which is a mercy, for in the time before internet and mobile phones, the younger generations found compound words commencing in αρχι- most absorbing.

Sadly, these particular dignitaries shared a political affiliation with a political party, which, most disturbingly, espoused a form of informality in public appearances and the traditional tropes fell rather flat. To everyone’s relief, they had brought with them their own laudatory code of prescribed forms of acclamation, which was delivered in the manner and style of Byzantine polymath Michael Psellos exhorting his rather serious Byzantine friends to lighten up:

“In order to appear solemn and pompous, you reject the charms of words, you reject the audacity that belongs to friendship, you detest jocular speech and you dispense with play, the only thing that can make our life more cheerful when we mix it into our lifestyle.”

Curiously, the injunction fell flat and our first of equals was so discomposed that he forgot to release us from the αποθήκη were we were secreted in order to conduct a last minute rehearsal. The dignitaries, relieved that the show was ostensibly over, walked past him, a signifying to all those cognoscenti that he had lost the Mandate of Heaven and would not survive the next Annual General Meeting, and somehow contrived to free us from our confinement. Observing us reciting the poem about the Death of Botsaris to the tune of AC DC’s Back in Black, one of the dignitaries exclaimed:

-Ρε, τι γίνεται εδώ πέρα;

-Συναυλία κλασίματος, I responded nonchalantly, as his face turned various shades of porphyry.

As I was hurriedly whisked away by our incensed second (and soon to be first) among equals to be delivered to the custody of my parents with a sore posterior and the observation: «Να χαίρεστε το γιο που κάνατε», I could have referred  in my defence, to the Byzantine Emperor Basil I who enjoyed poking fun of his mother, the saintly Theodora, restorer of icons’ exaggerated exhibitions of public piety. Accordingly, one day he decided to dress his court jester Groullos in patriarchal vestments and sat him on the throne in the Chrysotriklinos, the imperial throne room. Subsequently he summoned his mother, to receive a patriarchal blessing. When Theodora approached, Groullos turned around abruptly and exposed his posterior to her, all the while “emitting a donkey-like noise from his foul entrails.” After waiting for the odour to disperse, the Emperor then advised his mother that he wished from thereon in, to be known as the Bishop of Colonville.

I did not do so, for I was only six and had no idea who the Emperors were. It so happened that a few weeks before, my mother, who belonged to an esteemed body known as the γυναικείο τμήμα, or women’s auxiliary, of a regional community organisation, (for it was not meet for women in those days to collaborate as equals with the power-brokers of the patriarchy) was granted the rare privilege of being granted an audience with the Gerousia, specifically in order to receive orders as to the proper reception of the dignitaries. Returning home and having been asked by my father how the meeting went, I overheard her describing it as a «συναυλία κλασίματος», and assumed that this was the proper Greek phrase to employ, in order to denote any Greek community organisation’s deliberations.

The patronage, funding and continued communication promised to us by the visiting dignitaries turned out to be a load of hot air. It did not materialise, and this apparently was my fault, as I insulted them and not because they were, as the Byzantines put it, Πρεσβευτοκερδοσυγχυτοσπονδοφθόροι, that is, those who destroy (phthoros) treaties (spondai) and throw them into confusion (synkhyzo) by being an ambassador (presveutis) motivated by greed (kerdos). The Homo hellenicus paroiciaigeticoi of our organisation are long gone and the dignitaries of yore have forgotten of their existence. There no longer exists the existential need, nor the financial capacity to invite them to witness our diminution. Yet, on the odd occasion, when some of them remember that there exist brethren abroad among whom a cheap and enjoyable sojourn is considered possible, and the appropriate feelers are put out, I am reminded of the following joke from the ancient Greek joke book Philogelos;

“A man with bad breath meets a deaf person and greets him.

“Yuck!” the deaf person replies.

“What have I said?” asks the halitosian.

“You farted!” replies the deaf person.

There are certain things, you just can’t unsmell.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

First published in NKEE on Saturday 19 October 2024

GERSHOM AND THE COMPASSION OF THE PATRIARCH

 

When I was ushered into the room, I was transfixed by his gaze immediately. Two pairs of large, pitch black eyes, poring into the innermost recesses of my being. At least that is what I was told later. For, whenever faced with a situation that could prove daunting, I automatically resort to pilot mode, placing myself mentally at some distance from that particular circumstance, for preference, within the reign of Byzantine Emperor Nicephoros Phocas, recalling and listing the dates of his deeds. Yet this was no ordinary situation. No amount of Phocas could assist me in my own meeting of the Fokkers, for here I was about to meet my prospective father-in-law, for the first time. As he apprised me silently, I braced myself for the inevitable questions, formulating answers in anticipation: “What work do you do?” (Anything that redounds to the glory of the August Roman Emperor Nicephoros Phocas). “How would you support a wife?” (I suppose with a little pressure under the arm while crossing a busy street). The silence lay so thick and cloying upon the room that it could have been mistaken for baklava syrup. “Who invented baklava, the Greeks or the Assyrians?” (I refuse to answer on the grounds that I may incriminate myself).

When he did speak, the first words that came out of his mouth, delivered in precise, formal English, were these: “Did you know, I have actually met your Patriarch?” He signed, gestured for me to sit net to him and began to tell me the story of how he was forced to leave his homeland. Much of it I already knew from his daughter, but I discerned in his voice, the same timbre of pain that I had already to come to identify in the voices of my own people, who recalled their dislocation and final uprooting, their words perennially hovering above them unanchored, ceaselessly searching and finding no respite.

He recounted how he and his family abandoned their home “like thieves in the night,” leaving behind all their possessions and precious memories, lamenting especially the loss of photographic albums that serve as aides-mémoire. He kept me spellbound too as he regaled me with tales of hiding up in the barren Kurdish mountains, being led by Kurdish guides who would stop ever so often and threaten to abandon them there unless they handed over more of their money and it was only because of my father in law’s knowledge of the Kurdish language that he was able to shame them into upholding their end of the bargain. I was enthralled as described the desperate trek through wetlands covered in reeds, of endless walking in absolute silence, knowing that should they be apprehended, they would be shot on sight. On the crossing of the border into Turkey, of being provided with filthy blankets and foul and rancid food and water he did not dwell, but his voice quivered as it conveyed his fear and adject despondency, being completely unaware of the whereabouts of two of his sons who had made the escape prior to his own and his concerns about the future.

“You cannot imagine what it is to be an indigenous person, being treated as a second class citizen by the conquerors of your homeland,” my father in law grasped my arm. “The simmering resentment that you belong to your land and that it belongs to you but still you are considered illegitimate. That is how we Assyrians felt in Iraq. And when we got to Constantinople and saw everywhere the marks left on the city by your people, this feeling of resentment became worse even as we felt relief. Why relief, you ask? Simply because in the traces your people left behind, we realised that we are not alone, that others have suffered just as we have, that there is someone out there who understands us.”

My father in law’s family found lodgings in Therapeia, once an important centre of the Greek population of the City, now largely bereft of its Greek inhabitants. He described how they planned their movements carefully, rarely going out except to purchase necessities for if they were caught by the police they would be beaten, robbed, taken to the Iraqi border and sent over the other side where only death awaited those who left without permission during the time of Saddam. Once in a while, with whatever meagre savings were left to them, they would pay people-smugglers to attempt the crossing over into Greece and freedom. Each time, they would be apprehended and thrown back across the border.

Destitute and desperate, their only solace was attending a Greek church they managed to find after seeing the flames of some candles through a window in a room below street level in their neighbourhood. “This church was almost completely empty, except for two old ladies wearing black. I would go there, pray for my sons, pray for my family, pray that we would soon get out of that place.”

On one day, to his surprise, the normally empty church was filled with people. “I realised that they were local Greeks because they would speak Greek inside the church but as soon as they would emerge into the street, they would switch to Turkish. A bishop was conducting the service. Even though the church was full of people, I could see that he was looking at me and my family intently. When the service concluded and we lined up to obtain a blessing, he gestured towards us to come up to him. “Who are you?” I asked him in English and he answered, “I am the Patriarch.” He asked me where I was from and upon learning that I was an Assyrian refugee from Iraq, he asked me where I was living and if there was anything he could do for me. Most importantly (and here my father in law’s eyes began to grow glassy and he paused to wipe the tears from his eyes), he asked  me how I was feeling. I will never forget this moment. How I was feeling… What could I tell him? That I didn’t know where my boys were, that I had no idea what would happen to us, that our money had dwindled away to nothing and that I did not know how long we could afford to eat. I told him: “I feel like Gershom. I am a stranger in a strange land. I feel like a refugee who has lost everything,” and the Patriarch nodded in understanding and embraced me. He told me to continue to attend the church to come to him if I needed any help.” “I’ll be praying for you,” he told me, as we parted.”

My father in law looked into my eyes and grasped my hand. He wanted me to understand that the Ecumenical Patriarch’s words and the manner in which he showed he cared were like balsam to his soul, infusing him with the courage and confidence to hope and to fight, at a time when he was teetering on the brink of giving up. When I told him that I too had met the Patriarch and had been the recipient of his kindness, his face lit up and he embraced me excitedly. That was when I knew I was in.

 To his dying day, my father in law would speak of the Ecumenical Patriarch in loving terms, marvelling at his humility and his humanity and expressing his most ardent hope that he would play a decisive role in the reunification of all the churches.

The last conversation I had with my father in law took place in his bedroom as he was to sick to join us for lunch. “Do you speak to your Patriarch at all?” I informed him our communication was sporadic. “I doubt he will remember me,” he rasped. “But if you ever speak to him, tell him that an old stranger, in an even stranger land, across the other side of the world says thank you. Thank you, from the bottom of his heart.”

It was only a few days later that he left us and some time after that, that I discovered, among his personal effects, an old dried flower and net to it a small, pocket sized photograph of the Ecumenical Patriarch, inscribed with the date of their meeting. I have treasured it ever since.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 12 October 2024

ANZAC: THE GREEK CHAPTER

War documentaries often seek to propagate or reinforce a national myth. When this happens, it is difficult for historians and veterans alike not to act as performative agents, showcasing power or espousing a certain narrative in front of the camera to legitimize themselves.

War documentaries thus form part of a broader documentary conflict, where images, information, and emotional engagement can often be weaponized. This in turn may serve to construct a symbiotic relationship where both historians and veterans collaborate to cultivated a mediated portrayal of the conflict in question, addressing the historian’s quest for control over the narrative, as well as the veterans’  need for recognition. This dynamic reveals both the harsh realities of conflict and but also the overarching predominance of an overarching discourse, portraying veterans not just as soldiers but as architects, albeit forgotten, of a new order, complicating the perception of war and its practitioners as violent and destructive.

Peter Ewer and John Irwin’s fascinating recently released documentary:  Anzac: The Greek Chapter thoughtfully addresses the aforementioned conundrum by their nuanced treatment of their subject matter. Narrated by journalist Barry Cassidy, whose father took part in the campaigns mentioned in the documentary and supported by a number of Greek community organisations, it purports to tell the story of the ANZAC contribution to the defence of Greece during World War II.

This in itself, forms part of the foundational tradition of the post-war Greek community in Australia. While our presence here predates the formation of the Australian state, mediated and controlled as it was by a dominant class that usurped sovereignty from its native inhabitants, it is widely disseminated in our community that the bonds connecting Greece and Australia were forged in the conflagration of conflict and somehow, our esteem in the eyes of those who allowed us to come here, derives from our conduct towards them during the Second World War.

In the documentary, this tradition is analysed via extensive interviews conducted of veterans. Indeed, these interviews comprise most of the documentary, ostensibly permitting the veterans to tell their own story, while also facilitating the viewer to establish an emotional connection with them. All of them describe the Greeks in glowing terms. They are “noble,” they “share food,” old ladies give them “pieces of chicken,” they provide ANZAC troops with a “royal welcome,” they display “typical Greek bravery.” Their generosity is so great that often the veterans narrating their experiences break into tears and cannot continue their narrative. One Greek lady featured in the documentary describes how her mother, risking the execution of her entire family, fed, clothed and bathed a paraplegic ANZAC soldier in a Cretan cave for over two years. She, like the veterans, portrays her mother as a selfless hero.

Both veterans and Greeks therefore seem to collaborate to adhere to a narrative that serves the ideological needs of both parties. While no archival footage or interview attests to the fear of the Greeks, the burden on their families or any resentment felt at having to hide or feed the ANZACS, the directors of the documentary subtly allow the interviewees to interrogate, analyse and ultimately question their own prevailing discourses. Some of the veterans for example, cast their relationship in terms of reciprocity. Greek hospitality was offered because the Greeks were “grateful the [ANZACS] were defending their country.” In this light, the Greek’s brave and selfless care of the ANZACS, while no doubt appreciated greatly, was considered recompense for the bravery and selflessness of the ANZACS themselves. Another veteran couches the relationship within the context of necessity: “They trusted us. They had to trust us.” Is this then a relationship and a subsequent admiration that developed out of a lack of choice? Possibly but this is not at all certain and is refuted by the veterans’ recounting of so many acts of sacrifice by the Greek populace. All of the veterans interviewed express surprise not at the fact that the Greeks cared for them, but at the magnitude of that hospitality and the intensity of the emotional connection they displayed towards them. On the other hand, the veteran who recounts how he witnessed from his hiding place, the execution of over twenty Cretan villages, subverts the narrative of reciprocity. This is after all, the raw reality of war.

Similarly, the country of Greece is described or rather idealised by the veterans, especially after their harrowing service in the deserts of North Africa, as a “paradise,” a “utopia,” or a “heaven.” Words such as “primitive” and “crude” appear to portray a Greece as a colonial backdrop to an imperialist endeavour. This is another area where a discourse forming narrative takes place. The documentary through extensive archival footage, provides valuable broader context as to the Greek campaign: how it came about, why it was necessitated and for what reason ANZAC troops participated. In the considered view of the directors, the ANZAC presence is a type of re-run of Gallipoli: British Prime Minister Winston Churchill did not tell the Australian and New Zealand Prime Ministers that Greece was indefensible and thus the ANZACS were dispensable, sacrificial lambs to his wider strategic concerns.

The directors of the documentary could have weaponised it so as to portray Australian soldiers as virtuous heroes, fighting and giving up their lives so that the preferred order, that of democracy and the rule of law would prevail. They chose not to do so. After all, such an ideological slant is not supported by the testimony of the veterans themselves, who present themselves not as lofty idealists but rather as reluctant heroes, or carefree larrikins, going off to war, for a sense of adventure, to see the world or because it is preferrable to fruit picking. Even here however, the documentary allows for alternative perspectives to emerge, with Aboriginal veteran, the late Reg Saunders poignantly stating: “We have been fighting wars ever since the Whites came.”

Allowing the veterans to narrate the campaigns provides immediacy as well as emotional intensity. From Vevi in the north we follow the ANZAC troops with bated breath south as they valiantly but futilely attempt to arrest and ultimately flee from the Nazi onslaught, our hearts leaping both at their successes and almost predetermined reverses. In Gallipoli, ANZAC troops were placed in a position where they were mere cannon fodder. In Greece, we learn, not only were ANZAC troops not told that their commanders believed that there the prospect of success was non-existent, they were also underequipped and not supplied with the necessary kit to make it through, among other challenges, the harsh Macedonian climate. Learning from veterans that they were forced to did trenches with their tin hats because they were not issued with shovels causes us to feel even more admiration for their steadfastness and their indomitability of spirit. Having already accepted that the overwhelming superiority of Nazi soldiers and materiel doomed the Anzac campaign from the outset, and learning as we do, that the Nazi parachute landing on Crete was completely unexpected, the implication however, is that on an equal playing field, “our” boys would have prevailed and that by enduring privation, displaying the courage that they did under fire, the ANZACS of the Greek Campaign have earned their place in the national myth as equal to the ANZACS of Gallipoli. The veterans’ narrations make it exceedingly hard to argue otherwise.

The documentary’s conclusion is inspired: There is moving footage of the descendants of veterans make pilgrimages to Greece in order to honour their ancestors’ sacrifice, and impliedly, co-opting the Greeks of Greece to do the same. The wreath laying and erection of plaques and monuments has become a common vocabulary between Greeks, Australians and Greek-Australians for the enshrinement of memory and the formation of mutually acceptable rites in which to celebrate and commemorate a particular form of martial valour and inter-ethnic solidarity. Thus two significant purposes are served: Recognition is afforded to soldiers whose particular contribution is no longer fashionable or highlighted adequately in their national narrative while contemporaneously, Greek-Australians who have largely been left out of that prevailing national narrative, gain enough purchase to attempt to entrench themselves within it, legitimising their presence and making claims of validation upon the dominant class.

 “Anzac: The Greek Chapter,” is a thoughtful, sensitive, multi-faceted, well-paced and exciting documentary that provides valuable insights both into our common history but also the formation of our modern identities. A feature of the 2024 Melbourne Greek Film Festival, it should not be missed.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 5 October 2024