RESTORATION RETICENCE

 

I suspect this will not be a universally popular view, particularly among those for whom every newly inserted block of Pentelic marble upon the Acropolis constitutes an act of national healing, but the recent images of the restored western pediment of the Parthenon have left many with a distinct sense of disquiet. The restoration itself is beyond criticism. Its workmanship is extraordinary, its scholarship meticulous and its engineering remarkable. Unease arises from something altogether more elusive, namely the relationship between restoration and memory, and the possibility that in seeking to preserve a monument we may simultaneously be altering the meaning centuries have attached to it. Such concerns are not unique to the Parthenon. Every restoration involves a choice, every choice privileges one version of the past over another and every intervention, however scrupulous, inevitably reveals as much about those undertaking it as it does about the object being restored.

No monument demonstrates this dilemma more acutely than the Parthenon. The image recognised throughout the world is not the brilliantly coloured temple that dominated the Acropolis in the fifth century BC but the ruin, the fractured silhouette familiar from schoolbooks, postcards, travel posters and countless representations of Greece itself. Broken pediments, absent sculptures and shattered columns have become so familiar that they are now inseparable from the monument's identity. For generations, visitors have encountered the Parthenon as a visible dialogue between creation and destruction, permanence and loss rather than as an intact edifice. Looking upon the restored pediment, one is thus justified in wondering not whether the work has been executed successfully but which Parthenon is now being preserved. Is it the monument erected under Pericles, the shattered structure left after Morosini's bombardment in 1687, the romantic ruin immortalised by generations of philhellenes, or the already heavily restored version familiar to us over the past century, itself containing modern interventions, relocated fragments and even sections incorporating concrete where suitable blocks of Pentelic marble could not be found? The question may appear academic, yet it lies at the heart of every discussion concerning the future of the monument.

Complicating matters further is the uncomfortable reality that the Parthenon has never possessed a single, fixed identity. Long before modern conservators arrived upon the Acropolis, successive generations had already appropriated, reinterpreted and transformed the building according to their own needs. The Athenians of Pericles understood it as a monument to the power of their city, although even this apparently straightforward proposition becomes less certain upon closer inspection. Contemporary presentations of the Parthenon routinely celebrate it as the supreme expression of democracy, civic virtue and enlightened government, yet the circumstances surrounding its construction suggest a considerably more ambiguous story. Established as a defensive alliance against Persia, the Delian League maintained a treasury funded by contributions from member states and housed upon the sacred island of Delos. Following the transfer of that treasury to Athens in 454 BC, resources contributed by allied cities for defence were misappropriated for Athenian purposes. Plutarch preserves the controversy generated by the subsequent building programme and records Pericles' defence of the expenditure. Whatever judgement one reaches regarding his justification, the conclusion remains difficult to avoid. Conceived at the moment Athens transformed leadership into domination and alliance into empire, the Parthenon stands today as perhaps the most beautiful monument ever financed through the appropriation of somebody else's money. Modern narratives seldom dwell upon this awkward detail. Schoolchildren encounter the structure as the embodiment of democratic ideals while the imperial realities that facilitated its construction recede discreetly into the background. Selective memory therefore begins not centuries after the monument's creation but at its very origin.

Any attempt to present the Parthenon as a straightforward symbol of classical antiquity encounters an even greater obstacle in the form of its Byzantine life. According to a remarkable tradition preserved in a sixth century inscription from the deme of Icaria and discussed by the scholar Paul Stevenson, Apollo was asked to reveal the future of his sanctuary and responded by proclaiming that the building would belong to the Virgin Mary. Whether authentic prophecy or pious invention matters less than the underlying assumption, namely that Christians did not perceive themselves as abolishing the sacredness of the Parthenon but rather inheriting it. Conversion into the Church of the Parthenos Maria followed during the sixth century and for almost a thousand years the building functioned as one of the most important churches in the Byzantine world. Pilgrims travelled there from across the empire, with even Emperor Basil II journeying to Athens following his final victory over the Bulgarians specifically to worship at the shrine. Byzantine frescoes adorned its interior and monks and travellers carved inscriptions upon its walls. The Panagia Atheniotissa became renowned throughout the Christian East. Measured simply in terms of duration, the Parthenon served as a Christian church for considerably longer than it functioned as a pagan temple. Throughout the overwhelming majority of the building's existence, those who approached it did so as worshippers rather than admirers of classical civilisation.

The prominence of the Parthenon within the Christian imagination subsequently created difficulties for the architects of the modern Greek state, whose understandable desire to establish an unmediated connection between contemporary Greece and classical antiquity sat uneasily beside a monument that had served as one of the most important churches of the Byzantine world. Accordingly, Byzantine frescoes that survived well into the nineteenth century disappeared beneath the enthusiasm of archaeologists intent upon revealing an exclusively classical structure, while Byzantine, Frankish and Ottoman additions were progressively removed in order to produce a monument more closely aligned with contemporary national aspirations and European expectations. The great Frankish tower that had dominated the Acropolis for centuries was demolished. The Ottoman mosque disappeared, its minaret was dismantled. Layer after layer of accumulated history was removed in order to reveal a monument that conformed more closely to a particular idea of Greece. Standing behind this transformation was an assumption that continues to shape perceptions of the monument today, namely that classical antiquity constitutes Greece's most legitimate inheritance and that subsequent centuries are meaningful primarily insofar as they lead back towards it. Such an interpretation proved immensely attractive to Western philhellenism. It also required a remarkable degree of historical editing.

The difficulty is that the Parthenon stubbornly refuses to conform to any single narrative. A structure financed through the appropriation of the Delian League treasury became one of the holiest churches of the Byzantine world, a Catholic church and a mosque. One occasion, it was even repurposed for purposes profane. According to Plutarch, when Demetrius Poliorcetes regained control of Athens in 304 BC, he took up residence within the Opisthodomos and installed his mistresses there, provoking the comic poet Philippides to complain that he had transformed the Acropolis into an inn and brought courtesans to the virgin goddess. Far from possessing a singular identity waiting patiently to be rediscovered, the Parthenon accumulated meanings, absorbed contradictions and survived every attempt to define it permanently.

The latest restoration therefore cannot be viewed in isolation from the longer history of the monument's modern reinvention. Long before fresh marble found its place upon the western pediment, the Parthenon had already been subjected to a far more radical process of reconstruction. Presented as acts of recovery, the interventions of the nineteenth century were equally acts of selection, privileging one period of the monument's existence while relegating others to the margins. Looking at the restored pediment today, one cannot help also to observe that the same assumptions continue to exert their influence. Rather than bringing the observer closer to the monument that inhabits the collective memory, the restoration may occasionally create a sense of distance from it. The eye drifts unexpectedly towards Nashville, Tennessee, where a full scale replica has stood for more than a century, or towards the reproductions that continue to appear in places far removed from Attica such as Lanzhou, China. The comparison is of course absurd and yet strangely difficult to avoid. Recover enough of the original form and the monument begins to resemble its copies. Pursue completeness too vigorously and familiarity can, for some observers, give way to estrangement.

Lost in this pursuit of classical purity there is a possibility that the awkward reality of the Parthenon's many lives may receive less attention. The Parthenon became significant precisely because it never remained what anyone wished it to be. Its scars, absences and contradictions constitute a visible record of conquest, devotion, adaptation, destruction and survival. The ruin itself has become part of the monument. Every missing sculpture, every shattered column and every visible wound reminds the observer that history is cumulative rather than selective and that identity is forged through accretion rather than recovery. Having spent two centuries stripping away those elements deemed inconsistent with an idealised vision of Classical Greece, today's restoration provides an opportunity to reflect upon how future interventions might continue to balance careful conservation with the preservation of the monument's layered historical memory. The workmanship deserves admiration and the scholarship commands respect. At the same time, awareness of this broader historical context ensures that each new restoration is understood as another chapter in the Parthenon's long and evolving story rather than the recovery of a single definitive past. In that sense, the monument invites us to remain attentive to the ways in which every generation, however well intentioned, inevitably leaves its own imprint upon history.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 11 July 2026

MONOCULTURE: GREEK-AUSTRALIANS AND HANSON

 When Pauline Hanson recently declared that Australia must become “monocultural,” describing multiculturalism as a failed policy and asserting that Australians should live under “one cultural umbrella,” she touched a nerve that extends well beyond the fortunes of One Nation.  Her remarks’ significance lies not merely in what they reveal about immigration policy or cultural identity. Rather, they illuminate a broader transformation occurring within Australian public life: a growing tendency to understand society through increasingly rigid categories of belonging and exclusion.

 

The appeal of Hanson's message rests upon concerns that many Australians genuinely hold. Rising housing costs, pressure on infrastructure, economic insecurity and declining trust in political institutions have left many convinced that governments have lost control of events. Large scale immigration has become a focal point through which these anxieties are expressed.

 

Yet it does not follow that the solution lies in abandoning multiculturalism, nor in imagining that a country such as Australia can somehow be reduced to a single cultural identity. Australia has never possessed a monocultural reality. Even before post-war migration transformed the nation, it was a society shaped by regional, religious, class and ethnic differences. The remarkable achievement of modern Australia has been its ability to develop a civic framework capable of accommodating diversity while maintaining social cohesion. The question facing Australians is not whether diversity exists. It is whether that diversity will continue to be managed through democratic institutions, civic participation and mutual accommodation, or whether it will increasingly be interpreted through competing narratives of exclusion.

 

The growing attraction of One Nation, the tendency of sections of the activist left to interpret public life through rigid moral categories, the decline of the political centre and the erosion of trust in institutions are often analysed as separate phenomena. Viewed collectively, however, they suggest a profound transformation in how Australians understand politics, citizenship and one another. They are manifestations of a common disposition: declining faith in compromise and a growing attraction to worldviews that divide society into categories of virtue and culpability, belonging and exclusion. The vocabulary may differ, but the antagonisms remain strikingly familiar.

 

One Nation derives much of its appeal from the conviction that the concerns of ordinary Australians have been subordinated to the priorities of political, cultural and economic elites increasingly insulated from the consequences of their own decisions. Sections of the activist left are animated by an equally powerful conviction that entrenched structures of privilege continue to shape Australian society in ways that render conventional political remedies inadequate. While both identify genuine grievances, both have also contributed to a tendency to interpret political disagreement not as an inevitable feature of democratic life but as evidence of defective motives, suspect loyalties or moral deficiency. Under such circumstances, persuasion becomes increasingly difficult because opponents cease to be merely mistaken. They become enemies.

 

The resulting deterioration of civic culture is perhaps most evident in the declining credibility of the political centre. Across much of the democratic world, institutions that once possessed the capacity to mediate between competing interests appear increasingly incapable of commanding public confidence. Political parties struggle to inspire loyalty, public trust in government continues to erode, and social media rewards outrage while treating reflection as indecision and nuance as weakness. Consequently, citizens retreat into increasingly self-contained intellectual and cultural communities whose members consume different information, employ different vocabularies and often inhabit different conceptions of reality. Compromise, once regarded as an indispensable component of democratic life, is increasingly dismissed as evidence of moral cowardice or ideological surrender.

 

 

Greek-Australians should observe developments in Australia with particular unease, though not for the reasons usually advanced. Communal discourse remains fond of invoking the democratic inheritance of antiquity, as though the repeated evocation of Athens were sufficient proof of an enduring attachment to democratic culture. However the political tradition from which most migrants emerged was shaped less by the deliberative ethos of the Assembly than by a succession of internecine conflicts, rival legitimising narratives and ideological antagonisms that rendered compromise suspect and transformed political disagreement into hatred and destruction. Indeed, one of the enduring paradoxes of modern Greek history is that a people who celebrate democracy with almost liturgical devotion have repeatedly demonstrated a remarkable propensity to abandon the civic habits upon which democratic life ultimately depends.

 

That the modern Greek state emerged from civil conflict before independence had been secured is less paradoxical than it first appears. The tendency to divide political life into antagonistic camps accompanied the Greek state from its inception. The struggles of the War of Independence established patterns that would recur throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The rivalry between Trikoupis and Deligiannis entrenched a political culture in which allegiance to personalities often superseded allegiance to institutions.

 

The National Schism elevated these tendencies to a principle of political organization: a disagreement concerning foreign policy and the role of the monarchy evolved into a comprehensive rupture that penetrated families, communities and institutions with an intensity difficult to comprehend from the vantage point of the present. Venizelists and Royalists increasingly inhabited different political universes. The coups of Pangalos and Kondylis, the Metaxas dictatorship and constitutional instability formed part of the same political culture.

 

Neither occupation nor liberation resolved these antagonisms. The Civil War represented perhaps the most devastating manifestation of a tendency already deeply embedded within Greek political life, namely the inclination to regard political opponents as existential threats whose exclusion became a prerequisite for national redemption, rather than as rivals within a shared civic framework. The dictatorship of 1967 emerged from a society already burdened by decades of ideological polarisation, mutual suspicion and institutional fragility. Every generation imagined itself capable of avoiding the mistakes of its predecessors, only to discover that historical memory offers remarkably little protection against the recurrence of familiar patterns.

 

For all the ritual invocations of Pericles that accompany communal discourse, and despite the almost sacerdotal reverence with which the democratic achievements of antiquity are frequently recalled, the political inheritance carried to Australia by much of the migrant generation was not shaped by the deliberative culture of ancient Athens but rather the accumulated traumas of the abovementioned fraternal strife. Alongside the remarkable achievements of the Greek communities in this country, sits a parallel history of schisms, rival organisations, ecclesiastical disputes, contested elections and grievances ofgreat longevity. The Greek-Australian capacity for organisational proliferation has often been exceeded only by its talent for preserving antagonisms whose original causes have long since passed into obscurity.

 

As Vrasidas Karalis observed almost three decades ago, much of Greek-Australian communal discourse has remained trapped within grand narratives of continuity, nostalgia and cultural self-affirmation. The migrant experience was often understood through nostalgia for Greece and repeated assertions of Hellenic uniqueness rather than new symbols capable of expressing life in Australia. While not extremist in themselves, such habits encouraged an understanding of identity through belonging and exclusion rather than citizenship and participation.

 

It is within this context that the attraction of One Nation among some Greek-Australians becomes particularly revealing. Another dynamic is also at work. Organised Greek-Australian life often devoted more attention to developments in Greece than to civic questions confronting Australia. Issues such as Cyprus, Macedonia and domestic Greek politics frequently dominated communal debate. The consequence was a politics of identification rather than participation. Successful integration can leave communities unexpectedly invested in the existence of newer outsiders, whose presence confirms that they themselves now belong. The former outsider becomes a gatekeeper and descendants of migrants espouse positions and rhetoric once levelled against their own people.

 

There is nothing uniquely Greek about this development, which reflects a broader human tendency to confuse belonging with exclusion and acceptance with hierarchy. It is difficult, however, to avoid the conclusion that a community whose own history contains so many examples of the consequences of factionalism, exclusion and political tribalism might reasonably have been expected to display greater resistance to such temptations.

 

Greeks are thus uniquely positioned to understand what occurs when civic culture deteriorates and political opponents cease recognising one another as legitimate participants in public life. This is why the contemporary fragmentation of Australian public life should concern Greek-Australians more than most. We do not approach these developments as detached observers but bring to them a historical memory replete with examples of what occurs when grievance eclipses persuasion, when political identity becomes tribal and when civic culture yields to factionalism.

 

The appropriate response is neither complacency nor hysteria. It is certainly not the abandonment of the institutions that have underpinned Australia's remarkable success as a multicultural democracy. These institutions and the civic culture sustaining them allowed Greek-Australians to establish schools, churches, organisations and businesses while preserving their language, traditions and distinctiveness.

 

For a community such as ours, whose historical experience contains so many examples of political absolutism, institutional failure and social division, the defence of those institutions is an expression of historical memory. Defending institutions does not require uncritical acceptance of their shortcomings. Reform, however, differs fundamentally from destruction and Greek-Australians should be particularly wary of movements that derive their energy from delegitimising opponents and dismantling institutions before considering what might replace them.

 

There is another reason why Greek-Australians should resist the temptations of political tribalism. The success of our community was not achieved through withdrawal or suspicion. Our story is one of engagement, of a community confident enough to share its language, traditions, faith and culture while learning from Australian society. We thrived in Australia because we turned outward rather than inward, contributing to broader society and, in turn, allowing ourselves to be shaped by it, without surrendering our distinctiveness. Periods marked by suspicion, exclusion and factionalism have rarely been periods of renewal. Communities flourish when they possess sufficient confidence to engage with the world around them. They decline when they become preoccupied with policing boundaries, preserving grievances and defining themselves primarily in opposition to others.

 

The challenge confronting Greek-Australians is both political and cultural. For generations, communal life has often oscillated between nostalgia for a homeland left behind and celebration of an inherited past. Both possess value, yet neither is sufficient as a foundation for civic participation in contemporary Australia. A mature Greek-Australian identity cannot be sustained solely through appeals to ancient glory, historical suffering, ethnic continuity and isoltation. It must also be capable of producing citizens who understand themselves as active participants in the common life of the country they inhabit. Communal confidence is measured by the ease with which it contributes to a shared civic culture without fearing the loss of itself.

 

The unfinished task of Greek-Australian public life is therefore not the preservation of identity for its own sake, but the cultivation of citizens capable of engaging critically without becoming tribal, pursuing reform without cultivating contempt for institutions and defending the democratic and multicultural framework that made our own success possible while remaining honest about its shortcomings. If Greek history teaches anything, it is that the abandonment of these habits rarely ends well. If our own Australian experience teaches anything, it is that openness has served us better than suspicion, engagement better than withdrawal and reform better than destruction. It would be a profound irony if a community whose success was built upon confidence, engagement and openness were now to embrace the very habits of exclusion, grievance and factionalism that have so frequently diminished both Greece and its diaspora communities.

 

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 27 June 2026

VENIZELOS' ANATHEMA

On the afternoon of 12 December 1916, a curious procession made its way towards the Field of Ares in Athens. Members of the Holy Synod, headed by Archbishop Theoklitos of Athens, emerged from their carriages and approached a vast crowd already assembled around a growing mound of stones. Gathered there were ministers, military officers, members of patriotic associations, reservists and ordinary Athenians, many of whom had come carrying stones in their pockets for a purpose that had been advertised in the royalist press for days beforehand. As the Archbishop lifted the first stone and pronounced the words «Ανάθεμα έστω», thousands responded in unison before adding their own contribution to the pile, an irony that would scarcely have been lost upon those familiar with Christ's injunction that he who is without sin should cast the first stone. By the conclusion of the ceremony, Eleftherios Venizelos, the former Prime Minister of Greece and head of the rival government established in Thessaloniki, had been publicly anathematised by the leadership of the Church of Greece in one of the most extraordinary episodes of the National Schism.

This medievalesque event did not arise suddenly. Rather, it represented the culmination of a political and constitutional crisis that had divided Greek society with an intensity unmatched until the Civil War. By the closing months of 1916, Greece effectively possessed two centres of authority. In Athens, King Constantine I and the royal government maintained control over the old kingdom. In Thessaloniki, Venizelos and his supporters had established the Provisional Government of National Defence, arguing that the King's insistence upon neutrality in the First World War endangered both the country's security and its territorial aspirations. The disagreement over foreign policy gradually evolved into a dispute concerning the nature of sovereignty itself, drawing into its orbit not only politicians and military officers, but also journalists, intellectuals and churchmen.

The origins of the crisis lay in the aftermath of the Balkan Wars. Constantine emerged from those campaigns at the height of his popularity. The liberation of Thessaloniki, Ioannina and vast tracts of Macedonia transformed him into a symbol of national success. His admirers spoke of him in language that often transcended ordinary politics. The coincidence of his name with that of the last Byzantine emperor encouraged comparisons with the legendary Marble King of popular tradition, while his military victories appeared to many as evidence of providential favour. Venizelos, whose diplomatic skill had contributed enormously to those same victories, enjoyed immense popularity of his own, yet the partnership between the two men proved incapable of surviving the challenges posed by the outbreak of the First World War.

The dispute centred upon Greece's response to the First World War. Venizelos regarded participation on the side of Britain, France and Russia as essential if Greece were to secure Allied support for its territorial aspirations in Asia Minor and Eastern Thrace. Constantine, brother in law of Kaiser Wilhelm II, favoured neutrality, maintaining that a country exhausted by two successive wars could not sustain another military adventure. Soon, the disagreement expanded beyond the sphere of foreign policy. At issue was the very nature of political authority within the Greek state. Venizelos insisted that the elected government possessed the right to determine national policy. Constantine maintained that, as constitutional monarch and commander of the armed forces, he bore an independent responsibility for the nation's welfare. A succession of ministerial resignations, parliamentary dissolutions and increasingly bitter confrontations gradually transformed constitutional disagreement into political warfare.

By 1916, the language employed by both sides reflected the extent of the division. Royalist newspapers portrayed Venizelos as a firebrand willing to sacrifice national unity to personal ambition. Venizelist publications described the King as an obstacle to national fulfilment and accused the court of leading Greece towards diplomatic isolation. Each side claimed exclusive possession of patriotism. Increasingly, compromise appeared impossible. The establishment of the Provisional Government in Thessaloniki formalised the division. Greece possessed two governments, two armies and, in effect, two competing narratives regarding the nation's future.

The events known as the Noemvriana intensified the atmosphere still further. In November 1916, Allied forces landed in Athens seeking the surrender of military matériel demanded by the Entente. Fighting broke out between Allied troops and Greek government forces. Casualties occurred on both sides, while sections of the capital experienced scenes of violence unprecedented in recent memory. The aftermath witnessed attacks upon Venizelist citizens and a wave of arrests, dismissals and reprisals. Royalist organisations, particularly the Reservists, emerged as powerful forces within public life, organising demonstrations and exerting influence far beyond their nominal role. Within this charged atmosphere, the idea of publicly anathematising Venizelos acquired increasing support among elements of the royalist movement.

The role of the Church of Greece in the affair remains among its more revealing aspects. Contrary to later assumptions, the Holy Synod did not immediately embrace the proposal. Contemporary accounts suggest a period of uncertainty during which the hierarchy weighed its options with considerable care. While the canonical difficulties associated with anathematising a politician rather than a heresiarch were evident enough, the Synod's hesitation appears to have owed at least as much to the fluid political situation as to ecclesiastical scruple. The outcome of the struggle between Athens and Thessaloniki was far from certain, and the Church, like many institutions of the period, seems initially to have been reluctant to identify itself too closely with either camp. As pressure from reservist organisations intensified, however, such caution became increasingly difficult to maintain. Delegations visited the Synod, appeals were made, positions were revised and reconsidered, and, after a period of conspicuous vacillation, Archbishop Theoklitos, a staunch royalist, and his fellow hierarchs ultimately resolved to participate in the ceremony.

The ceremony itself was carefully choreographed. According to contemporary newspaper reports, the Archbishop cast the first stone while declaring: “Upon Eleftherios Venizelos, who plotted against the King, brought suffering upon the people, occasioned sedition and bloodshed, and persecuted the Church, let anathema be pronounced.” Members of the Synod followed. Thereafter, representatives of various organisations approached the mound and cast their own stones while repeating the formula. By the end of the proceedings, the pile had grown into a substantial monument to political hostility. Photographs taken on the day reveal a crowd stretching across the surrounding area, bearing witness to the extent of popular engagement with the ritual.

One ecclesiastical figure whose name became associated with the episode through his absence was Metropolitan Nektarios of Pentapolis, the future Saint Nektarios. By 1916, Nektarios was already living at the Monastery of the Holy Trinity on Aegina, having endured years of marginalisation following his removal from ecclesiastical office in Alexandria decades earlier. Later accounts maintain that he declined invitations to associate himself with the anathema. While contemporary documentation concerning the precise circumstances remains limited, the tradition surrounding his refusal became firmly embedded within subsequent narratives of the event. In later retellings, the contrast between the participation of the Synod and the absence of Nektarios assumed a significance that exceeded the immediate political context, particularly following his canonisation in 1961.

The Holy Synod subsequently sought to reinforce the significance of the ceremony by communicating its actions beyond Greece. Correspondence was reportedly dispatched to the Ecumenical Patriarchate and other ecclesiastical authorities informing them of the decision. Yet the political circumstances that had produced the anathema were already changing. Allied pressure upon the royal government intensified. The blockade of Greece continued to undermine the position of Constantine and his supporters. Within months, developments overtook the ceremony itself.

In June 1917, Constantine departed Greece and Venizelos returned to Athens, confronting those who had organised and celebrated the anathema with a government headed by the very man they had publicly condemned. The ecclesiastical consequences followed swiftly. A special ecclesiastical tribunal was convened to examine the conduct of members of the hierarchy during the Schism, resulting in the removal of Archbishop Theoklitos from the Archiepiscopal throne and disciplinary measures against a number of bishops associated with the ceremony. If the events of December 1916 had demonstrated the willingness of sections of the hierarchy to employ the language of theology in the service of politics, the years that followed revealed the extent to which ecclesiastical fortunes had become tied to the shifting currents of political power. Following Venizelos' electoral defeat in 1920 and the restoration of Constantine, Theoklitos was reinstated, only to be removed once more after the Asia Minor Catastrophe and the Revolution of 1922. The repeated rehabilitation and deposition of prominent churchmen illustrated the degree to which the administration of the Church had become entangled in the rivalries of the National Schism, while questions concerning the legality and canonical validity of the anathema continued to be debated long after the political circumstances that had produced it had passed into history.

Particularly significant was a letter sent by Archbishop Chrysostomos Papadopoulos to Venizelos in 1930. In that correspondence, the Archbishop effectively argued that the anathema lacked proper canonical standing, noting the absence of the procedures ordinarily required before the imposition of such a sanction. The issue resurfaced periodically throughout the twentieth century as historians, theologians and political commentators revisited the events of 1916. In 2000, Archbishop Christodoulos publicly referred to the anathema as a mistake, reflecting the extent to which attitudes towards the episode had changed within the Church itself.

More than a century after the mound of stones rose in the Field of Ares, the anathema remains among the most revealing episodes of the National Schism. Above all, it offers a glimpse into a period when political divisions penetrated every institution of Greek society, drawing into their orbit not only governments and armies, but also bishops, monasteries and the Church itself. Ecclesiastes observed that there is a time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together. In December 1916, thousands of Greeks gathered stones only to cast them at another Greek. The pile they created serves as a reminder that the deepest divisions in modern Greek history have often been those Greeks fashioned for themselves.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 20 June 2026