AEGEAN LIGHT: KATHRYN GAUCI’S AN AEGEAN ODYSSEY

Among those Philhellenes who have transformed admiration for Greece into a lasting artistic vocation, Kathryn Gauci holds a distinct and enduring place. An Aegean Odyssey stands as a confession of faith, an elegy of return, and a meditation on artistic rebirth. Through it, Gauci continues the lineage of English-language writers who discovered in Greece the mirror of their own transformation, while offering a vision that is deeply humane and freed from the illusions of spectacle. Her gaze is clear, her affection untheatrical, her attention unwavering.

Born in Leicestershire and long resident in Melbourne, Gauci studied textile design at Loughborough and Kidderminster before moving to Athens, where she worked as a carpet designer for six years. Those years, she recalls, “were among the happiest of my life.” In her youth she absorbed the colour and rhythm of the Greek world, and those impressions became the warp of her creative identity. Decades later she relinquished her prosperous design studio to pursue writing, an act of faith recorded in the Foreword as “a plunge into the unknown.” Through that act she sought to reconcile her craft of texture and colour with the new vocation of language. From that decision emerged An Aegean Odyssey.

The book unfolds as a series of returns. It begins in Athens and moves through Chios, Lesvos, Rhodes, Karpathos and Crete. Each place becomes an intimate space of recognition, the geography of memory reawakened. In Athens she walks through the neighbourhoods of her youth and perceives how the pulse of the city survives through its people, shaped by displacement yet sustained by dignity. In Chios she contemplates the patient labour of the mastic harvesters. In Lesvos she listens to the song of its poets and musicians. In Crete she confronts the grandeur of landscape and myth, and her odyssey concludes with serenity. The progression of the book resembles a woven design, each island a motif, each encounter a strand of continuity between the past and the present.

Gauci’s prose bears the refinement of her first vocation. Every scene is described through pattern, hue and sensation: the gleam of marble, the scent of herbs, the worn weave of a fisherman’s net. She writes with the assurance of one who has spent a lifetime observing texture. The artistry of her sentences is tactile, each phrase carrying the quiet authority of a hand accustomed to material. Her landscapes possess an interior dimension, for the human figure is always central to her vision. When she describes a village feast, she observes the hands that pass the bread, the laughter that binds strangers, the movement of generosity within daily life.

The narrative reveals a continuing dialogue between art and life. Gauci’s transformation from designer to writer is the book’s underlying theme. The act of travel becomes a passage through artistic evolution. The language of colour that once informed her textiles becomes the language of emotion and rhythm in prose. Through this metamorphosis she affirms that creativity is a single continuum expressed through changing forms. Her artistic self, far from being discarded, is absorbed into her new vocation. The threads of design reappear as sentences of texture and cadence.

From the first pages, memory functions as both subject and structure. The epigraph declares: “We can never shake ourselves free of what once was, for the past comes with us like our shadow.” That principle animates the entire work. Each island visit awakens recollections that flow into reflection, creating a palimpsest of time. Memory is not a nostalgic retreat but a living current through which the present gains density and meaning. Gauci treats recollection as an act of continuity, the means by which identity preserves coherence amid change.

The ethical power of her memoir lies in its restraint. Where earlier generations of travellers often sought to impose meaning upon Greece, Gauci allows Greece to reveal itself. Her perception is grounded in intimacy rather than distance. The Greeks she encounters are individuals, not representatives of an imagined essence. The voice of the observer merges with the voices of those she meets. This equilibrium between self and other lends her work moral clarity.

In her Foreword she confides that the journey arose from a desire to follow her heart “wherever it may take you.” That sincerity permeates the book. The hospitality she receives becomes a metaphor for the openness of her method. She enters the world of her hosts with humility, allowing their customs, speech and rhythms to shape her perception. The result is an account free of the distortions that once characterised travel writing about the Mediterranean. Her Greece is lived, not observed from a distance.

This sensitivity gives her work significance beyond literature. Edward Said’s reflections on the Western construction of the Orient remind us how easily the gaze of the traveller can turn possessive. Gauci’s narrative offers the opposite tendency: a literature of reciprocity. Her writing exemplifies what Homi Bhabha has termed a “space of translation,” in which identity is negotiated through exchange rather than hierarchy. The relationship between visitor and host becomes a shared act of interpretation. Through this ethical stance, Gauci contributes to a more mature phase of Philhellenism, one that affirms equality rather than idealisation.

Her work also offers a distinctly feminine voice within a genre historically dominated by male adventurers. She situates herself within domestic and communal spaces: markets, kitchens, courtyards, ferry decks. The knowledge she acquires comes through conversation, taste and touch. In these scenes she restores to travel writing the dimension of care. The Greek women who welcome her, teach her recipes and share stories of endurance become her teachers. Through them, she enters a tradition of feminine observation that transforms the ordinary into revelation.

Throughout the narrative, the Aegean itself functions as a metaphor of unity. The sea links islands, memory and imagination. It serves as the visual and moral centre of the work, a symbol of continuity that embraces movement rather than permanence. Gauci’s sentences echo the rhythm of waves; her reflections on change and endurance mirror the tides. The sea becomes an emblem of identity that adapts without losing form, a vision deeply consonant with the experience of the diaspora and the porous boundaries of modern Hellenism.

The closing chapters embody reconciliation. In Crete she writes: “When I started out on this journey, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. I followed my heart and learned to let go – to surrender, and in the end to feel as free as the majestic vultures that fly over Milia.” Later she adds, “The relationship with yourself is one of the most important relationships in your life and I rediscovered it on this trip.” These words articulate the moral centre of the memoir. The voyage is a restoration of balance between discipline and freedom, solitude and belonging, art and life.

The book concludes with a series of traditional recipes, a gesture that may appear simple yet completes the circle of experience. The act of recording taste and fragrance joins the intellectual to the sensual, the transient to the enduring. Food becomes a language of memory and continuity. In those closing pages Gauci affirms that culture survives through the rituals of daily generosity.

Within the broader tradition of Anglo writing on Greece, An Aegean Odyssey marks a turning point. Byron celebrated Greece as the theatre of liberty, Durrell as the paradise of sensual beauty, Leigh Fermor as the arena of heroic endurance. Gauci’s Greece belongs to the heart’s interior geography, a place of hospitality, resilience and rebirth. The grandeur of her vision lies in its composure. She does not seek to conquer experience, she enters it with gratitude.

In Melbourne, where she has lived for many years, Gauci has become a beloved presence among those who cherish Greece. Her fiction and memoirs have contributed to the cultural conversation of the Greek diaspora. She stands as a reminder that love of Greece transcends origin, that Hellenism is a moral and aesthetic inheritance available to all who approach it with reverence.

The serenity of An Aegean Odyssey conceals its quiet profundity. Each page invites the reader to dwell in attention. Gauci restores to travel the dignity of listening. Through patience and humility she discovers revelation in the ordinary and grace in the familiar. The Aegean that emerges from her pages is not a stage for legend but a living presence whose rhythm endures through those who honour it.

Kathryn Gauci’s An Aegean Odyssey is therefore a memoir and an offering; a tribute to the land that shaped her and to the community that has embraced her. The reader senses throughout a truth born of experience: that the love of Greece, when expressed through gratitude and fidelity, becomes an art of living.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 13 December 2025

DEMOS AND DECLINE? ON THE DEMOGRAPHY OF GREEK SUBURBIA

 

A few years ago I was participating in a mediation in town. Throughout the morning I found myself submerged in the murk of abstruse case law, navigating labyrinths of interpretation and poring over sheaves of data whose columns blurred before my eyes. The atmosphere of the room felt airless, as if the combined density of precedent and argument had displaced all oxygen. During the break I rose from the table and walked toward the window. The glass, cool beneath my fingertips, framed a sudden vista of sky and stone that seemed impossibly liberating after hours of cognitive confinement. “This is a lovely view you have here,” I remarked, allowing myself a moment of estrangement from the papered world behind me. “I can see Saint Paul’s Cathedral.”

The opposing barrister looked at me with an expression of benign perplexity. “That’s not a Greek church,” he replied.

“Neither are you, yet I can still see you,” I responded.

The Greek-Australians who are responsible for constructing our churches and the communities around them now inhabit a liminal space between being seen and unseen. On any given day, you can observe them walking past the church or leaving it after attending a funeral or a service. They then make a purposeful journey to the shops which are invariably located nearby. While our communities and parishes were formed to serve the needs of a Greek-speaking population that required its own spaces in which to relate to itself and to broader Australian society, they have always been profoundly embedded within the local landscape. The parish priest walks to the council office for a discussion about community events. Local youth run to get a pizza at the local shops. Tradesmen come in and out to effect repairs. Teachers hold language classes. Seniors gather for companionship. Younger parishioners hazard a parking fine so that they may light a candle on their way to and from daily tasks.

This activity is visible to anyone who allows themselves to see it. For certain municipal officials, visibility appears to require an effort that they are unwilling to expend. The existence of Greek-Australian migrants, who fashioned communities before multiculturalism was formalised and who did so without grants, without consultants and without external validation, appears to them as a mystery. Once acknowledged, it becomes a nuisance.

In Merri-bek this irritation has manifested starkly in recent months. Parishioners at Saint Basil’s in Staley Street, Brunswick have been distressed by the proposal to permanently close the street for traffic-calming purposes. The measure is framed as enhancing walkability yet for a community reliant on proximity parking for funerals, elderly attendance and evening services, such closure functions as an impediment. The community has voiced concerns about safety, congestion and the erosion of long-established ways of accessing the church. These concerns are interpreted as resistance to renewal rather than a plea for respect for the rhythms of collective life.

Around the Church of the Presentation of Our Lord in Coburg, the developments proposed are more elaborate. The Council has signalled openness to significant densification around Victoria Street and Church Street. Developers have floated visions of tall structures that will overshadow the precinct, reduce breathing space and hem the church within a vastly altered environment. Reduced setbacks and altered access points threaten to constrict processions, gatherings and the subtle choreography of parish life that relies on openness and air.

Although dressed in the language of progress, such measures reveal a deeper assumption: migrant institutions occupy conditional space. They are tolerated only insofar as they conform to new urban imaginaries that privilege density and abstraction over memory and lived significance. The manner in which these decisions are justified echoes the insights of theorists such as Henri Lefebvre and Edward Soja. Space is political. It emerges through the priorities of those who control its design. When councillors redraw neighbourhoods without the active involvement of those who inhabit them, migrant communities become peripheral. They experience spatial injustice, a displacement enacted through planning overlays rather than through direct decree. Homi Bhabha describes similar processes in his analysis of the interstitial. Minorities are permitted existence only within silent corridors of tolerance. Migrant voices that are accented or shaped by memory are expected to acquiesce to the dominant idiom and relinquish claims to the civic realm. Such expectations function as a contemporary form of neo-colonialism that disciplines the migrant presence through cartography.

Hannah Arendt reminds us that communities exist fully only when they can appear in the public realm. When planning decisions make such appearance difficult, a community is pushed from civic visibility into private marginality. Foucault would recognise in this a technocratic management of populations, since modern power operates through zoning, metrics and spatial classifications that reshape neighbourhoods while claiming neutrality. Sara Ahmed’s phenomenology of belonging further explains how obstructed access produces disorientation. When movement toward a place becomes strained, the place itself begins to feel less like home. These frameworks clarify that the issue in Merri-bek is as much civic as it is spatial.

Amid these forces, municipal rhetoric often invokes the elderly as its preferred point of reference, yet this emphasis serves a strategic purpose. Elders are positioned as the sole face of the Greek community so that their concerns may be framed as nostalgic remnants of a fading world. Younger Greek-Australians vanish from the conversation altogether. The narrowing of the community to its oldest members creates the illusion of consultation while ensuring that both generations remain unheard. What appears as care becomes a method of silencing, a way of reducing a living community to a demographic that can be politely ignored.

Consequently, Greek-Australian parishioners are framed as impediments. They have lived too long. Their way of life is allegedly at odds with the future. They are portrayed as sentimental, clinging to the remnants of a community that is said to have receded.

It is trite to mention that the communities within the municipality deserve dignity and consideration across the generations and that long-standing traditions and continuous use of areas actually mean something that should never be swept away. What is urgent however, is recognition of the spectre looming over our community that will affect the way we relate to each other and to our institutions: demography and town planning. My own parish observed the consequences of such forces long ago. When I was young, the parish was situated on a street whose inhabitants were predominantly Greek. After the Australian Tax Office compulsorily acquired their homes to construct its building, those Greeks dispersed and the parish has carried the effects of that rupture ever since.

Demographic change is inevitable. Most of our churches and clubhouses stand within what we now term inner-city areas. Many young people cannot afford to live there. Parking is increasingly scarce. Distance and inconvenience create reduced participation. Town planners who no longer see the purpose of ethnic institutions begin to treat them as remnants of a prior age. As populations shift outward, the message delivered to us becomes clear: our time is perceived to have expired and our structures are seen as obstacles.

Sociologists describe this movement as a second dispersion. The first generation congregated around factories and tram lines, forming enclaves that supported churches, clubs and schools. The current generation disperses without institutions following them. Identity is transmitted vertically through family yet also horizontally through participation in shared spaces. Children require proximity to a community for cultural continuity. When the nearest Greek church or school lies far from home, transmission weakens. A community that loses proximity loses cohesion.

This phenomenon is intensified by the ageing of the first generation. Elderly parishioners depend upon ease of access. They require nearby drop-off points during funerals, unimpeded ramps and clear pathways. When councils close streets or allow towering developments to dominate the area, they disregard the ethics of care. To render the elderly invisible through planning decisions is a dereliction of civic responsibility.

Another complication arises from the ambiguous place of Greek churches within the heritage landscape. They are culturally significant yet often lack formal protection. Their value lies in continuity of use rather than architectural majesty. This leaves them exposed to overshadowing by large-scale private developments. A city that honours its multicultural foundations respects such spaces as embodiments of social history.

In such an environment, urban amnesia flourishes. Planners speak of activation and optimisation yet overlook the memory that saturates particular precincts. A church that created vibrant sub-communities becomes, in planning documents, a generic place of gathering. Its historical purpose disappears from the civic imagination. It is time we assert that while memory also deserves spatial rights, we have not quite vanished yet.

It is also not our fault that we placed all our eggs in one basket. I live within a twenty-minute radius of eight Greek churches. At the time the communities were formed to construct them, most people used public transport and the world felt far larger. It made sense for people to congregate close to home. With the decline of Greek populations in those areas, a further dilemma appears: what institutions exist in the outer suburbs where young families now purchase homes? Away from established centres, how are their identity, educational and spiritual needs being met?

We should fight tooth and nail to preserve the edifices we have created. We should resist all those who would render us and our communities invisible. Yet we must also rethink how our future structures will function in an era when demography shifts with unprecedented speed. Perhaps permanent buildings cannot always anchor us. Perhaps temporary ones can. Kit churches. Portable clubs and schools. Structures that can be set up wherever young families cluster and later moved when demographic patterns change. Such flexibility responds to those who claim that institutions lie too far away and promotes deeper engagement. It also resists the efforts of those who would silence us or wall us out of the civic sphere through planning decisions that aim at rendering us invisible.

The future is not one of empty buildings moulder­ing away in cul de sacs. It is one of vibrant Greeks, confident in their identity, able to assert it and weave it within their local environment. To achieve this, we must approach those who wield planning authority as custodians of a long and venerable Australian tradition. We walk into those offices as builders of communities that have shaped Melbourne for generations, never as perpetual foreigners.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 6 December 2025

VRASIDAS KARALIS AND PATRICK WHITE’S DILEMMAS

 

Vrasidas Karalis’ On Patrick White’s Dilemmas: A Personal Essay constitutes at times playful but nonetheless incisive literary exegesis, one that transcends the bounds of conventional criticism to offer instead a deeply meditative and elegiac reflection upon the life, writings, and continuing resonance of Australian Nobel Prize winning author, Patrick White. What emerges is neither a treatise nor a polemic, but a metatextual act of witnessing, a martyricon that situates itself within the liminal space between literature, theology, critique and contemplation. Karalis does not purport to explain White; rather, he accompanies him in the abyssal struggle for meaning, joining him in a shared interrogation of the sacred, the political, and the self.

From the outset, Karalis mounts a sustained critique of the prevailing modes of literary criticism, whose dependence on over-intellectualisation has rendered them impotent before the ineffable. In his estimation, the sterile analytical frameworks of academic discourse obscure the very pulse of literature, replacing lived engagement with hollow taxonomies. In the face of such aridity, Karalis asserts the primacy of the reader’s embodied, emotional encounter with the text. White’s novels, he contends, confound all flattening and all systems. They demand of the reader not analytical ingenuity, but vulnerability, a willingness to be unmade.

In advancing this position, Karalis offers not a linear study but a palimpsest in which his own subjective experience both as reader and co-inhabitant of the cosmos is interwoven with White’s. The boundaries between narrator and subject, interpreter and text, are intentionally blurred and the voice that emerges is at once confessional and liturgical, intimate and oracular. It is not always clear who is speaking or to whom. Yet this ambiguity is not a flaw, but the very form of Karalis’ engagement. Like White, he refuses clarity in favour of reverent questioning. The text becomes a space of vigil, where reading is transfigured into a spiritual ordeal.

Central to Karalis’ vision is the figure of the legacy of Patrick White as conscientious objector, to the ideological imperatives of this time. His work refuses to conform, to ingratiate, to simplify, to entertain, or even to engage in a world embroiled in wars of culture in which it can play no part. Karalis evokes the solitary grandeur of such a stance as an ethical necessity. In his eyes, or possibly those of the reader, who after all may not go on to read White’s work for themselves, but instead take Karalis’ word for it, with all the peril and pleasure that this entails, White, or his Work, or the narrator, or Karalis, or the reader, are co-opted into becoming metaphysical insurgents, desert fathers of a literary realm.

Consequently, Karalis cannot but reject the mantle of the detached critic. Although he is his corporeal manifestation must inhabit that very world and draw sustenance from it, as author of this patristic commentary, he eschews the polished scaffolding of academic discourse, choosing instead a mode of writing grounded in witness, reverence, and resistance. His prose is not composed to impress but to convey. To navigate through it, we are asked to accept or at least have faith that it carries the weight of memory, of loss, of obligation and of an innate teleological obscurity.

This dual rejection of critical detachment and readerly passivity forms the ethical core of Karalis’ discourse. He indicts the kind of criticism that treats texts as objects, dissecting them with a surgeon’s detachment while remaining impervious to their inner force. Instead, he contends that White’s work is not to be analysed but suffered and not deciphered but inhabited. It is, in a most secular way, sacramental. To read White is to pass through some type of conflagration.

This theological conception of literature appears to position Karalis within a lineage of phenomenological thinkers such as Blanchot, Poulet, and Levinas, who understand reading as a mode of encounter, a hospitality offered to the Other. Karalis does not presume to interpret White’s work in the traditional sense. He accompanies it, viewing White’s characters not as psychological case studies but as ontological wounds, incarnations of spiritual desolation in a world denuded of the sacred.

The very structure of the book mirrors this mode of engagement. Each chapter reads less like an argument than a meditation, a parable. Karalis excels in this genre, the literary parable, imbuing each passage with ambiguity, moral gravity, and unresolved tension. He does not close meaning but opens it, allowing the reader the sense that they are entering into communion with the text. The parables do not teach but beckon.

And this is where a question hovers over the entire work. What is Karalis’ own role in this literary liturgy? Is he White’s executor, tender of the legacy, keeper of the flame? Or is he the undertaker, preparing the body of a neglected prophet for burial, composing the threnody that will mark his final passage? The text itself refuses to decide, for we are not always certain which is the text, nor which author we are engaging with. For Karalis knows that literature, like all things sacred, resists teleological conveniences. It abides in the interval between presence and absence, meaning and the silence that confounds it.

This ambiguity is intensified by Karalis’ own diasporic positionality. As a Greek-Australian intellectual, he approaches White not so much through the prism of national identity but through the lens of exile. He encounters him as a fellow sojourner, estranged from institutions, suspicious of belonging, yet profoundly committed to the ethical possibilities of language. In doing so, Karalis liberates White from parochial appropriation, locating him instead within a broader genealogy of cosmopolitan estrangement. White becomes a spiritual nomad, a figure whose true homeland is the wilderness.

This is a reading that find kinship with Terry Eagleton’s conception of literature as the unconscious of ideology, a topos where the contradictions of the social order erupt in disfigured and transcendent forms. Karalis recognises in White’s work not mere critique but the articulation of a metaphysical crisis. The great author’s characters do not simply suffer society; they suffer being itself. Their wounds are theological because their struggles are so sacrificial.

Karalis’ readings of Voss, The Tree of Man, and The Eye of the Storm reveal these dimensions with profound clarity. These novels, we are given to understand, are not so much about Australia, as about the silence of God. Their landscapes are mystical, their characters pilgrims, their language a kind of ascetic labour. Karalis does not interpret them so much as dwell within them, marking his exegesis with awe.

Even his autobiographical reflections, spare though they are, are offered not for indulgence but as tokens of his own bona fide. They are acts of bearing witness, gestures of reverent intimacy with a writer whose own life was one long resistance to sentimentality. Karalis draws close but never presumes. His prose is an act of homage.

On Patrick White’s Dilemmas is thus a work of rare moral and literary seriousness. It reclaims criticism as a sacred vocation, a mode of fidelity to the word and to the wounded, reminding us that to read is to suffer and to suffer is to remember. In the face of forgetfulness, Karalis writes with the solemnity of love, refusing to let silence consume what remains.

Through his encounter with Patrick White, Vrasidas Karalis has composed not merely a book but a rite. It marks a passing, yet it also affirms a presence, allowing us to mourn without despair.  In doing so, it reminds us that even now, in a fractured and distracted world, literature remains a place where the soul may still be addressed.

Perhaps the most profound dimension of Karalis’ engagement lies in the unique vantage he offers as a bearer of a particular Hellenic diasporic sensibility. Is it this that permits him to discern in Patrick White the spectral presence of the Hellenic, less in allusion than in ethos? White, whose fiction was informed by the tragic arc, by notions of catharsis, divine withdrawal, and the mystery of becoming, is revealed here as a writer situated along a continuum of Greek thought, one who unconsciously channels the pathos of Sophocles and the metaphysics of the desert fathers. Karalis’ interpretive lens, shaped in the crucible of displacement and fidelity, renders visible what has long been veiled. The migrant Hellenic perspective, marginal, complex, steeped in both absence and heritage, may be among the most resonant and vital hermeneutics for a writer like White, whose work itself stands on the threshold of language, culture, and transcendence. It is through this double estrangement, White from his cultural milieu and Karalis from his mother tongue, that a truer communion is made possible. If this is plausible, then the text is not simply a reading but a homecoming.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 29 November 2025

CLUB ΦΤΥΑΡΙ

A quiet and insidious malaise has begun to permeate the Greek community of Melbourne. It does not roar in the open. It moves through whispers, nods, messages sent in private, and names murmured in half-lit corners. Its preferred theatre is not the agora but the comment thread, the messenger chat, the casual phone call that begins with “I tell you this as a friend.” Bullying has assumed a refined and destructive form, woven into the fabric of our social exchanges until it feels like an accepted way of life.

The days of open confrontation have passed. In their place has emerged a subtler order of aggression, whose weapons are exclusion and rumour. Modern ostracism, known in years past as thapsimo, thrives on social media, where posts are dissected and private lives debated with relish. Some are denounced directly, others through artful insinuation, their identities half-concealed so that gossip can do its work. This is punishment by erasure. Instead of public censure, there is the slow death of reputation, the quiet exile from one’s peers. In our community, those who wield the φτυάρι often determine the discourse.

Behind the scenes, the machinery of exclusion turns efficiently. Invitations once extended are withdrawn. Collaborations dissolve without explanation. Events that once symbolised unity are abruptly curtailed when a particular name appears. Those associated with the “undesirable” receive warnings disguised as friendly advice. “Perhaps you should keep your distance.” “It is better not to be seen together.” “Why did you involve them?” The message is clear. Friendship has a price. Association becomes a liability. Fear becomes etiquette. All of a sudden, that invitation for a function you were waiting for, so as to be photographed among your peers, never arrives.

Such behaviour belongs to the schoolyard. Among adults, and particularly among a community that prides itself on intellect, it is tantamount to moral impoverishment. Cliques form and re-form, loyalties shift, gossip replaces reasoned conversation. Important decisions are made privately, in camera, with whispered votes and invisible vetoes. Dissenters, often capable people with much to contribute and with an immense love and proven commitment to the community, are frozen out rather than confronted. Ideas and initiatives are discredited by association rather than argument. Power passes through rumour, and reputations rise and fall according to proximity to influence.

This culture we have crafted craves compliance, rewarding silence and punishing honesty. Those who speak plainly are branded divisive. Those who question are seen as subversive. Rhetorical tropes such as cynical appeals for unity are artfully employed to suffocate dialogue. Debate, once the essence of Hellenic engagement, is re-cast as disloyalty. Behind the smiling photographs of harmony lies a community that has forgotten how to disagree with dignity.

There is ample historical precedent for this. In the time of Homer, one man dared to speak freely, Thersites, the common soldier. Of low birth and coarse manner, he did not fear to stand before kings and condemn their vanity and greed. For that offence he was struck and mocked while the army laughed. Homer’s message has never faded: truth is punished when it wounds authority and we ought to know our place. We may like to think ourselves heirs to that heroic age, yet our treatment of those who question us remains unchanged. Even Homer, who sang of courage, immortalised Thersites as a fool. In this, we remain faithful to our origins.

Centuries later, Athens itself would destroy the man who turned inquiry into an art. Socrates refused to flatter the powerful or to bend to opinion. His weapon was the question, a mirror held to the face of pretence. He taught that an unexamined life is unworthy of a human being, and for that teaching he was condemned, his real crime being to encourage thought. When the city forced him to drink the hemlock, it silenced the one voice that gave its democracy meaning. The world has been mourning him ever since, while Greeks repeat the act over and over again.

The Byzantines later elevated the ideal of παρρησία, the courage to speak truth to power. The Fathers of the Church called it a gift of the Spirit, yet few dared to live it. Saint John Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople, spoke against the vanity of Empress Eudoxia and the corruption of her court. His eloquence exposed hypocrisy, his conscience unsettled power. For his candour he was exiled twice and died on the road to Pontus. The saint’s fate still speaks to us, even now we prefer harmony to truth, abjuring conscience for compliance.

It is a curious paradox that each year we mark the anniversary of 28 October 1940 with ceremony, flags, and songs. We seek to remind our children that our people stood against fascism, suppression, and fear, fighting for freedom, for truth, for the right to speak without permission. Yet, in the decades that followed, that same spirit of defiance curdled into suspicion and self-censorship. Once liberated, our forebears silenced one another with remarkable efficiency, nearly dismantling their civilisation in the name of ideological purity. It seems we have inherited their anxiety but not their courage. Our modern battles take place in the shadowy corridors of largely defunct community organisations, where the enemy is rarely an invader and almost always a compatriot.

Our ancestors declared “OXI” to tyranny. We, in turn, whisper it into our coffee cups when someone is maligned, then nod politely at the next slanderer. Each October we celebrate our ‘bravery’ and patriotism, and by November we are back to practising cowardice in prose.

All the while, we are shrinking. Our institutions are decaying, our volunteers fewer, our audiences smaller. The less influence we have, the more violently we guard it. Every chair becomes a throne, every role a fiefdom, every minor honour a matter of dynastic succession. We fight over titles no one outside our circles understands, as though defending the final province of Byzantium. The tragedy is that our rivalries consume the very energy we claim to devote to cultural survival.

It is trite to mention that free speech fades when its exercise invites punishment. The censorship we practice arises from fear: fear of exclusion, fear of the phone call that ends an invitation or a collaboration. When discussion becomes unsafe, ideas ossify. A people who once built their civilisation upon dialectic now prize quiet compliance over thoughtful dissent. What was once the most articulate diaspora in Australia risks becoming the most mute, a parody of its former self.

For the community to move forward, every school of thought must have room to breathe. Ideas need sunlight in order to thrive. Conversation must be restored to its rightful place as the lifeblood of our institutions. True unity grows from engagement, from argument, from the understanding that strength is forged through difference. Those entrusted with leadership carry the responsibility to encourage speech, to cultivate disagreement as a source of wisdom rather than threat.

The ancient Athenians, who after trial and error arrived at democracy, understood the necessity of transparency even in punishment. When they exiled a citizen, they did so openly. Each man scratched a name onto a shard of pottery and cast it into the urn for all to see. The condemned knew both his fate and his accusers. The process was harsh but honest. Today’s ostracism is far crueller. It revels in secrecy. It leaves no trace except silence. The victims often discover their fate only when doors close, when communication ceases, when old friends avert their eyes in public. In this community, in the twenty-first century, we have a phenomenon of “former people” that even the Bolsheviks would envy.

We remain a dwindling circle of participants who rely on one another more than we admit. We are, in essence, a family. Families endure through patience, openness, and the willingness to face truth. The health of our community depends on its ability to look itself in the eye. Reputations destroyed in the dark can never build a future in the light.

It is high time we lose our fear of conversation, and resist our natural tendency to exclude, to malign or to libel difference. The time has come for candour, for courage, and for the restoration of our public soul. If we must dig, let it be for new foundations, not for the graves of reputations, or for monuments to our own futility.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 22 November 2025