Over the past few months, Nolan’s Odyssey may have been talked about more than it was watched, and not always kindly, but in my opinion that’s a good thing. Not because I believe that any publicity is good publicity, but because I’ve watched interest in classical literature come back to life. I’ve watched people realise that we have been thinking and acting the same way for thousands of years, trying to make sense of the world with the same curiosity and the same hunger to learn, whether we’re trying to drive the suitors out of our palace or arguing with our wife about how much longer our mother-in-law is staying.

For the original text in Greek, scroll down

One of the things people talked about most was a phrase you hear again and again in the film but won’t find anywhere in Homer: the famous “Zeus’s Law”.

Nolan, who jokes that he co-wrote the screenplay with Homer, explained to the Los Angeles Times what he means by it: “It is the golden rule, the idea that you treat people the way you want to be treated (…) because it also allows society to function.”

The phrase itself is Nolan’s invention, written for the film, but the idea behind it is thousands of years old, and the Greeks had one word for it: xenia.

The key word here is xenos, which in ancient Greek meant both “stranger/foreigner” and “guest”. The two meanings were two sides of the same coin. The weary traveller knocking at your door was a stranger to you until that moment. If you let him in, the next moment he was sitting at your table as your honoured guest. And since this is ancient Greece, he could always be something more than human.

Explore the final chapters:

The god at the door: why the Greeks put strangers under the protection of Zeus himself and how an ancient Corfu tombstone explains the ancient Greek word for “consulate”.

Eumaeus the swineherd: the poorest host in the Odyssey, and the clearest statement of the law by Homer himself.

Philemon and Baucis: how Ovid told the myth of an old couple who realised Zeus was sitting at their own table, and how the Apostle Paul was later mistaken for Hermes because of xenia.

The Greek door and the Italian town: a line of Homer above a Mycenae inn, the beautiful woman it’s named after, and the Italian town that asked Athens for a stone from the Acropolis and got something that connects the dots.

Modern Greek xenia: the “submarine” you can’t refuse, the fight over the bill, and the plate that never goes back empty.

And finally, why Nolan’s film is worth taking seriously, whatever you thought of it.

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Surprisingly (#not), people have been fighting each other ever since they first appeared on this planet and began living in organised communities. What they fight over changes from case to case and can range from the bizarre to the utterly mundane, but the underlying reasons have stayed remarkably consistent: land, water, pasture, hunting grounds, trade routes, wealth and power. When the first organised settlements appeared, kings slowly appeared along with them, and so, naturally, did their tax collectors. It didn’t take long for the reasons behind conflict to acquire a more official vocabulary: sovereignty, honour, national security, rights, the restoration of order.

(for the original text in Greek, scroll down)

Until recently I was under the impression that the oldest recorded conflict between states was the Battle of Megiddo (1457 BC), documented in the annals of Pharaoh Thutmose III, which could fairly be called the oldest military campaign diary in history. Yet the war between Lagash and Umma, two cities of Sumerian Mesopotamia, turns out to be about a thousand years older, with Lagash’s victory commemorated on the Stele of the Vultures, one of the oldest surviving pieces of war propaganda. The pattern is a familiar one: a narrow strip of fertile land, a disputed border, not enough water to go around, and two sides absolutely convinced that only the other had misread the situation.

At other times, the reasons were less obvious. The Greeks remembered beautiful Helen as the cause of the Trojan War, rather than the importance of the Hellespont, trade and power in the Aegean. In medieval Italy, during one of the countless wars between the Italian city-states, the clash between Bologna and Modena in 1325 became known as the “War of the Bucket” (Guerra della secchia rapita, literally “the war of the stolen bucket”), when Modenese soldiers stole the wooden bucket from the well in front of Bologna’s main gate and refused to give it back. Bologna then marched on Modena, in yet another round of the feud between supporters of the Pope and supporters of the Holy Roman Emperor. And in 1859, a pig shot on a disputed island in the Pacific gave its name to an Anglo-American crisis, the famous “Pig War”. Thankfully, the pig was the only casualty of the whole affair. Not bad for an international standoff that lasted thirteen years.

Which, more or less, brings us to the Cold War, when two NATO allies found themselves in conflict not over missiles, ideology or land borders, but over… a fish. Between 1958 and 1976, the United Kingdom and Iceland clashed in three successive crises that became known as the Cod Wars, or Þorskastríðin in Icelandic. They were also called Landhelgisstríðin (“the Territorial Waters Wars”), which admittedly sounds more dignified in diplomatic correspondence. But it is the first name that stuck, and it’s the one that leaves no doubt whatsoever about what the fight was really about.

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What’s next:

Viking stubbornness: a parliament founded in 930, a religion adopted by vote, and a streak of defiance that never quite went away.

Gunboat diplomacy: five centuries of British trawlers off Iceland, a limit set by the range of a cannon, and a treaty signed without asking the Icelanders.

The Three Cod Wars: a Coast Guard of barely a hundred men against the Royal Navy, and the secret weapon that cut British trawlers loose.

Prisoners of geography: the stretch of sea that was too important to lose, and why Britain blinked first.

The Icesave War: a collapsed bank, and the day Icelanders told London and The Hague no, twice.

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“History worth reading. Stories worth remembering.”

Twenty-five years since the day the twin towers came down.

(for the original text in Greek, scroll down)

I was on the morning shift, I remember. A young police cadet on field training at Corfu airport, and we had a few days left before going back to the academy for our final exams and the swearing-in. After two years of training I was about to be posted to Athens as a serving officer.

We hadn’t gone down to the sea for a swim after work that day, as we usually did. We just hung around the room.

We were watching television with my roommate when, early in the afternoon, the channel we were watching interrupted its regular programming and went live to New York. It was around four in the afternoon, Greek time.

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Two things shocked me. The moment the second plane came in, all the way until it hit the second tower. And the people who jumped, and whom the camera showed falling for a long time. They fell and they fell… It made you realise how tall those skyscrapers really were.

Until the second impact, we and most of the world thought this was a terrible accident. Somewhere at the back of our minds we knew something was badly wrong with all of it, but neither of us was going to say so out loud. In fact my roommate and I, to break the tension and the dark thoughts we were having, were making jokes about the pilot who couldn’t manage to avoid one of the largest skyscrapers in the world.

And then it happened.

Another plane hits the second tower. Three minutes past four, Greek time.

Shortly afterwards there are reports of a third plane down at the Pentagon. Of a fourth one unaccounted for.

People are jumping into empty air.

It’s coming down! The first tower is coming down like a house of cards. Rubble, dust, people stunned, crying, running in any direction at all.

It’s coming down! How is this possible?

The second tower becomes one with the ground in a matter of seconds. All of it live on air.

We sat there with our mouths open. Motionless and silent, for at least an hour.

And after that, everything changed. We were already in the day after.

Since I was serving at the airport, we understood from the very first moment that nothing would be the same from that day on. Security got somewhat stricter, but mostly what happened was that a few obvious things were finally put in place, things we had always wondered why no one had bothered to do sooner.

The young Brits who had flooded Corfu grumbled at every new instruction. Much as I grumbled to myself a few years later, on a visit to London, when they told me to take off my shoes and my socks, something unheard of until that moment.

Back then we watched the new rules come in without knowing what was behind each of them. Today we know.

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What it did to the way we travel: the pocket knives that were perfectly legal, the check that came from a single flight after 9/11, and why the measures are quietly being withdrawn now.

What it did to the map: from Kabul to Damascus, the twenty-five years that redrew the Middle East, and the huge bill that came with it.

The victims: 2,977 lives, the forty who fought back, and more than forty Greeks among them.

Saint Nicholas: the little church across the south tower, and how it rose again in marble from the same mountain as the Parthenon.

The victims nobody counted: the second list of the dead, the one that has never stopped growing.

And finally, the original text in Greek.

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Etymon has created a puzzle exclusively for Studying History readers. One word hidden behind six clues drawn from its etymological history.

Each of the clues narrows the field, moving from era and origin through linguistic path, literal meaning, cognates, historical or geographical context, and word length toward the answer.

Some puzzlers achieve Solved in 1. More reach the answer at Solved in 4 or Solved in 5. Some work through to Solved in 6. You can guess after any clue. How many do you need?

When you are ready, the Answer Card button at the bottom of this post will reveal the puzzle’s hidden word, etymology, and modern use on the Etymon Substack website.

1. Era and origin.

The word reached English three times. It came first in Anglo-Saxon England, shortened to stær, perhaps arriving through Celtic speech. When Bede’s chronicle of the English Church, completed in 731, was translated into Old English more than a century later, it told of an illiterate cowherd, Cædmon, who sang all the stær of Genesis.

Scholars of the same period borrowed it again directly from Latin, but that second form never took hold. Around the turn of the thirteenth century it returned through French, and this time it stayed. Behind the French lay Latin, and behind Latin lay Greek.

2. Linguistic path.

Formed first in Greek, it spread across the Greek-speaking world with the science and philosophy of Ionia, and Latin carried it on for the written account of what had happened. In French its senses fanned out. By the early twelfth century it could name the account of a single life, and by 1155 the deeds of a whole people. It returned to English around 1200, in the Ancrene Riwle, a guide written for three sisters preparing for lives as anchoresses, Christian recluses enclosed in cells, whose anonymous author promised to tell them tales aloud, since they were too long to write down.

3. Literal meaning.

Behind the Latin lay a Greek noun for a witness. From this the Greeks formed the word for inquiry. The noun descended from a Proto-Indo-European root, *weid-, meaning ‘to see’, and from seeing, ‘to know’. Sanskrit veda means ‘I know’, and names the Vedas, the oldest scriptures of India, meaning ‘knowledge’. In Old Irish the same root gave the word for ‘white’, meaning what is clearly seen, and Russian took from it one verb for seeing and, in its older form, another for knowing.

4. Cognates.

WIT and IDEA share the same ancient root. WIT is the Old English branch, meaning understanding and intellect, and around 1200 the wittes five were the five bodily senses. Its comic edge came late, in the 1540s, and to be at one’s wit’s end is a phrase six centuries old. IDEA arrived in the late fourteenth century from Plato, where it named the perfect form of a thing, the pattern held in the mind of God, and Cicero, writing in Latin, kept the word in Greek. At its own root it meant a thing seen. One branch of the family is the mind that knows, the other the form it sees, and this word stands between them.

5. Historical or geographical context.

By Shakespeare’s day it had become the name for a kind of play. When his collected works were printed in 1623, the title page divided them into comedies, tragedies, and a third kind bearing this word, the plays of the English kings.

The philosopher Thomas Hobbes defined it in 1651 as the register of the knowledge of fact. Its later life was lived in argument. Jane Austen’s young heroine in Northanger Abbey confessed she could not be interested in it, real and solemn as it was, and Oscar Wilde declared in 1890 that anybody can make it, only a great man can write it. Henry Ford, the carmaker, dismissed it in 1916 as more or less bunk, and in 1944 George Orwell observed that it was written by the winners. By 1989 it had found a new home, as the name a computer gives to a particular type of record.

6. Word length.

Seven letters.

Answer Card

Have you solved it yet? Reveal the puzzle’s hidden word, etymology, and modern use on the Etymon Substack website:

Reveal Answer Card

This summer, Europe experienced unprecedented, prolonged heatwaves, and widespread wildfires burned through areas that rarely see this kind of natural disaster. Such fires also broke out on the outskirts of Attica, which unfortunately is no stranger to this kind of disaster. Since I live with my family in an Athens suburb, I received the evacuation alert from the European emergency number 112 twice. The message instructed residents of specific areas to move immediately in a certain direction to avoid getting trapped by the flames.

(For the original version in Greek, scroll to the bottom)

I happened to be away from the active fronts, but the notification itself makes you pause. It forces you to consider what it truly means to receive an order to drop everything and leave. You have to gather whatever you can carry in a few minutes, knowing you might return to find your home and your life’s work reduced to ashes.

My mind inevitably went to the past. I wondered what went through the mind of a Pompeii resident when they saw the first smoke rising from Mount Vesuvius in August of 79 AD. I thought about the people in Herculaneum, feeling the earth tremble for days before the eruption finally buried their city alongside Pompeii. History gives us countless examples of populations facing the sudden reality of having to abandon their homes.

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In some cases, the evacuation succeeded. During the Thera volcano eruption, which destroyed the northern coasts of Minoan Crete among other places, the residents of Akrotiri noticed the warning signs in time. Archaeological excavations there have uncovered no human remains and found very few valuable objects. The people took their belongings and fled before the volcano exploded. They survived, but the psychological burden of leaving your life behind in the face of absolute destruction remains a shared human experience that spans millennia. In fact, few people know this, but the island of Santorini, one of the most popular tourist destinations worldwide, flourishes on the remnants of that volcano’s caldera, which remains active to this day.

Realizing just how vulnerable the places we inhabit truly are, drove me to write my latest article for the newspaper Estia a few weeks ago. Watching the fires spread at the time, I considered why we need to defend our environment from the flames, specifically our cultural heritage and archaeological sites. I also explored how we can do this more effectively, following a recent law passed in the Greek Parliament.

The following is the English version of the piece published in the Estia newspaper:

Every summer, the Mediterranean landscape, and especially Greece, suffers from the onslaught of flames that devour everything in their path. What these wildfires leave behind is not just an ecological tragedy of incalculable proportions, but a gaping wound on the body of the land. We have recently seen how, within hours, thousands of acres of virgin forests, green lungs and biodiversity havens, turn to ash. Wildlife is decimated, the microclimate is irreversibly altered, local economies are paralyzed, and the social fabric is severely tested. As every summer breaks average temperature records in Greece, this annual nightmare tends to become a grim tradition, lasting from mid-spring to late autumn.

The combination of dry, hot summers, strong winds, and human negligence—or sometimes malice, though less often than we think—creates an explosive mix that tests the endurance of both the state and the citizens. This naturally requires increased vigilance from all of us. However, beyond the immediate physical and economic destruction, there is a deeper, often irreversible loss that cannot be measured in financial terms: the erasure of our historical and cultural footprint.

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Since the fire season coincides with the tourist season, when Greece’s cultural sites receive the most visitors, we must keep in mind that our land is not just dirt and trees, a random geographical backdrop. It is a living, open-air museum, densely populated by the material remains of a civilization that fundamentally shaped the modern Western world. It is a sacred place, created by the inseparable bond between the natural environment and cultural heritage. A natural environment that our ancestors managed to tame since ancient times with a sense of respect and awe, which partly explains the magnitude of this renowned heritage.

When we think about the destruction or loss of great monuments of the past, we usually recall images of invaders, plundering barbarian hordes, or religious fanatics tearing down statues and dismantling ancient temples. Yet, a more sober, objective historical look reveals a different, more mundane, but equally disastrous narrative. In reality, more ancient temples, magnificent sanctuaries, and monumental buildings have succumbed to the blind rage of wildfires and the violent tremors of earthquakes than to conscious destruction following enemy raids or the intolerance of later religious groups. Fire has always been the most relentless enemy of civilization, consuming everything with the same indifference, making no distinction between masterpieces and ordinary structures.

The way two of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world were lost for example, despite their majesty and importance, highlights the fragility of our cultural reserves against fire. The famous Temple of Artemis in Ephesus was not destroyed by a hostile army sacking the city, but became engulfed in flames through the arson of Herostratus in 356 BC, a man who, blinded by vanity, sought eternal infamy through destruction, giving rise to the phrase 'Herostratic fame'."

Centuries later, the chryselephantine statue of Olympian Zeus, that unsurpassed masterpiece by Phidias, after surviving for more than 800 years in the sacred sanctuary of Olympia, was moved to Constantinople during the reign of Theodosius II. There, according to historical sources, it was completely destroyed by a colossal fire in the Palace of the eunuch Grand Chamberlain Lausus in the 5th century AD.

This historical continuity of fiery destruction is unfortunately not confined to antiquity but reaches into the present. The constant threats to the archaeological site of Ancient Olympia, the birthplace of the Olympic Games, during recent catastrophic fire seasons, with flames touching the edges of the Altis, its sacred grove, shocked Greek society, demonstrating in the most dramatic way the constant existential danger our cultural identity faces. We also watched in agony on live television a few years ago as Notre Dame was engulfed in flames, reminding us once again that even the most iconic symbols of European civilization hang by a thread.

Such places are not mere accumulations of old, lifeless stones or random places of congregation for the faithful. They are defining elements of national identity, the material manifestations of the philosophical, artistic, and political achievements that define a people. When such a site is threatened, it is not just the material fabric that is in danger, but a crucial part of our collective memory and soul.

Returning to Greece, instead of resting on the laurels of our ancestors and limiting ourselves to post-disaster grief, we must shift the public debate and state care toward scientifically backed prevention. Recognizing this massive stake, the Greek state recently introduced a comprehensive new legislative framework, the ‘Fire Protection Regulation for Archaeological Sites’ (Government Gazette B 3683/June 22, 2026). This new strategy finally establishes strict, standardized risk assessment procedures, mandatory evacuation plans, and protective perimeters to reduce combustible materials around monuments. It proves that protecting our heritage can no longer rely on fragmented, well-meaning efforts, but must become a binding, measurable national policy.

But who is responsible for enforcing these life-saving rules? This is a problem as classic to Greece as the marble sculptures of the Temple of Zeus in Olympia. Laws mean absolutely nothing on their own if they are not implemented in practice. The state apparatus bears the primary organizational burden, with the Ephorates of Antiquities forming the vanguard and holding the ultimate responsibility.

Not only does safeguarding antiquities go far beyond the limits of typical bureaucratic processing, but it is also a supreme national duty. Real fire protection requires daily collaboration between the Ephorates, the Fire Department, Municipalities, and Forestry Services. At the same time, institutional readiness remains incomplete without our individual participation. A discarded cigarette or a careless open fire in the countryside are acts of cultural treason. Our personal vigilance is the first line of defense.

It is now clear that protecting the natural environment and shielding our cultural heritage is a single, indivisible struggle. The landscape gives meaning to the monument, and the monument sanctifies the landscape. The state and society must build a strong protective wall around the sites that give meaning to our existence over the centuries, and we personally must transition from passive spectators to active guardians of history and nature. As we face the extreme challenges of summer, let us not allow our negligence to turn history into ash. Our responsibility toward this sacred landscape is captured prophetically in the lyrics of Nikos Gatsos, set to music by Manos Hatzidakis and sung by Maria Farantouri in “The Nightmare of Persephone,” serving as a dramatic warning about our cultural and ecological blindness:

Where the Eleusinian initiates once joined hands
reverently before entering the Telesterion
now tourists throw their cigarette butts
and go to see the new oil refinery.
Sleep, Persephone,
in the arms of the earth
to the balcony of the world
and never step out again.

Until the next stack, ἔρρωσθε καὶ εὐδαιμονεῖτε.

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Ο Εφιάλτης της Περσεφόνης: Όταν η Ιστορία Γίνεται Στάχτη

Φέτος το καλοκαίρι, η Ευρώπη βίωσε πρωτοφανείς, παρατεταμένους καύσωνες και εκτεταμένες πυρκαγιές κατέκαψαν ακόμα και περιοχές που σπάνια γνωρίζουν αυτό το είδος φυσικής καταστροφής. Τέτοιες πυρκαγιές έλαβαν χώρα και στα περίχωρα της Αττικής και καθώς ζω με την οικογένειά μου σε ένα προάστιο της Αθήνας, έλαβα δύο φορές την ειδοποίηση εκκένωσης του ευρωπαϊκού αριθμού έκτακτης ανάγκης 112, η οποία ενημέρωνε τους κατοίκους συγκεκριμένων περιοχών να μετακινηθούν άμεσα προς συγκεκριμένη κατεύθυνση προκειμένου να μην εγκλωβιστούν από τις φλόγες. Έτυχε και δεν βρισκόμουν κοντά στα ενεργά μέτωπα, αλλά η ίδια η ειδοποίηση σε βάζει σε σκέψεις. Σε αναγκάζει να σκεφτείς τι πραγματικά σημαίνει να λαμβάνεις την εντολή να τα παρατήσεις όλα και να φύγεις. Πρέπει να μαζέψεις ό,τι μπορείς να κουβαλήσεις μέσα σε λίγα λεπτά, γνωρίζοντας ότι μπορεί όταν επιστρέψεις να βρεις το σπίτι και τους κόπους μιας ζωής μέσα στις στάχτες.

Το μυαλό μου αναπόφευκτα πήγε στο παρελθόν. Αναρωτήθηκα τι πέρασε από το μυαλό ενός κατοίκου της Πομπηίας όταν είδε τους πρώτους καπνούς να υψώνονται από τον Βεζούβιο. Σκέφτηκα τους ανθρώπους στο Ερκολάνουμ, που ένιωθαν τη γη να τρέμει για μέρες πριν η έκρηξη θάψει τελικά την πόλη τους, μαζί με την Πομπηία. Η ιστορία μάς δίνει αμέτρητα παραδείγματα πληθυσμών που βρέθηκαν αντιμέτωποι με την ξαφνική πραγματικότητα ότι πρέπει να εγκαταλείψουν τις εστίες τους.

Σε κάποιες περιπτώσεις, η εκκένωση ήταν επιτυχής. Κατά την έκρηξη του ηφαιστείου Θήρας που κατέστρεψε μεταξύ άλλων τα βόρεια παράλια της μινωικής Κρήτης, οι κάτοικοι στο Ακρωτήρι κατάλαβαν έγκαιρα τα προειδοποιητικά σημάδια. Οι αρχαιολογικές ανασκαφές εκεί δεν έχουν φέρει στο φως ανθρώπινα κατάλοιπα και έχουν εντοπίσει ελάχιστα πολύτιμα αντικείμενα. Οι άνθρωποι πήραν τα υπάρχοντά τους και έφυγαν πριν εκραγεί το ηφαίστειο. Επέζησαν, αλλά το ψυχολογικό βάρος του να αφήνεις πίσω τη ζωή σου μπροστά στην απόλυτη καταστροφή παραμένει μια κοινή ανθρώπινη εμπειρία που διαπερνά τις χιλιετίες. Μάλιστα, λίγοι το γνωρίζουν, μα το νησί της Σαντορίνης, ένας από τους πιο δημοφιλείς τουριστικούς προορισμούς παγκοσμίως, ανθίζει πάνω στα απομεινάρια της καλντέρας εκείνου του ηφαιστείου, που παραμένει μέχρι και σήμερα ενεργό.

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Συνειδητοποιώντας το πόσο ευάλωτοι είναι οι τόποι που κατοικούμε, είναι αυτό που με οδήγησε να γράψω το τελευταίο μου άρθρο στην εφημερίδα Εστία της Κυριακής πριν λίγες εβδομάδες. Βλέποντας τότε τις φωτιές να εξαπλώνονται, αναλογίστηκα το γιατί έχει αξία να υπερασπιζόμαστε το περιβάλλον μας από τις φλόγες, και πιο συγκεκριμένα, την πολιτιστική μας κληρονομιά και τους αρχαιολογικούς χώρους, αλλά και πώς θα το κάνουμε αυτό πιο αποτελεσματικά, με αφορμή την ψήφιση ενός πρόσφατου Νόμου στην ελληνική Βουλή.

Ακολουθεί το πρωτότυπο άρθρο, όπως δημοσιεύτηκε στην Εστία της Κυριακής:

Κάθε καλοκαίρι, το μεσογειακό τοπίο, και ειδικότερα η πατρίδα μας, υποφέρει από την επέλαση των φλογών, οι οποίες καταβροχθίζουν στο πέρασμά τους ό,τι βρουν. Αυτό που αφήνουν πίσω τους οι πυρκαγιές, δεν είναι απλώς μια οικολογική τραγωδία ανυπολόγιστων διαστάσεων, αλλά μια χαίνουσα πληγή στο σώμα του τόπου. Έχουμε δει και πρόσφατα ότι μέσα σε λίγες ώρες, χιλιάδες στρέμματα παρθένων δασών, πνεύμονες ζωής και καταφύγια βιοποικιλότητας, μετατρέπονται σε στάχτη. Η άγρια πανίδα αποδεκατίζεται, το μικροκλίμα αλλοιώνεται ανεπανόρθωτα, οι τοπικές οικονομίες παραλύουν και ο κοινωνικός ιστός δοκιμάζεται σκληρά. Καθώς τα τελευταία χρόνια κάθε καλοκαίρι σπάει κάθε ρεκόρ μέσης θερμοκρασίας, στην Ελλάδα, αυτός ο ετήσιος εφιάλτης τείνει να παγιωθεί ως μια ζοφερή παράδοση, από τα μέσα κιόλας της Άνοιξης μέχρι και τα τέλη του Φθινοπώρου.

Ο συνδυασμός των ξηρών, θερμών καλοκαιριών, των ισχυρών ανέμων και της ανθρώπινης αμέλειας ή και κακοβουλίας κάποιες φορές - λιγότερες απ’ όσες νομίζουμε πάντως - δημιουργεί ένα εκρηκτικό μείγμα που δοκιμάζει τις αντοχές κράτους και πολιτών. Το γεγονός αυτό απαιτεί φυσικά αυξημένη επαγρύπνηση από όλους μας. Ωστόσο, πέρα από την άμεση υλική, φυσική και οικονομική καταστροφή, υφίσταται και μια βαθύτερη, συχνά μη αναστρέψιμη απώλεια, η οποία δεν αποτιμάται με οικονομικούς όρους: η διαγραφή του ιστορικού και πολιτιστικού μας αποτυπώματος. Καθώς η αντιπυρική περίοδος συμπίπτει με την τουριστική περίοδο, που είναι και η περίοδος που οι πολιτιστικοί χώροι της χώρας μας έχουν τη μεγαλύτερη επισκεψιμότητα, οφείλουμε να έχουμε στο νου ότι ο τόπος μας δεν είναι απλώς γη και δέντρα, ένα τυχαίο γεωγραφικό σκηνικό. Είναι ένα ζωντανό, ανοιχτό μουσείο, πυκνά κατοικημένο από τα υλικά κατάλοιπα ενός πολιτισμού που έχει διαμορφώσει καθοριστικά τον σύγχρονο δυτικό κόσμο. Ένας τόπος ιερός, που έχει δημιουργηθεί από την άρρηκτη συνύφανση του φυσικού περιβάλλοντος με την πολιτιστική κληρονομιά. Ένα φυσικό περιβάλλον που οι πρόγονοί μας κατάφεραν να δαμάσουν από αρχαιοτάτων χρόνων, με αίσθημα σεβασμού και δέους, κάτι που εξηγεί εν μέρει και το μέγεθος της περιλάλητης κληρονομιάς.

Όταν φέρνουμε στο μυαλό μας βέβαια την καταστροφή ή την απώλεια σπουδαίων μνημείων του παρελθόντος, συνήθως ανακαλούμε αυθόρμητα εικόνες εισβολέων, βαρβαρικών ορδών που λεηλατούν ή θρησκευτικών φανατικών που γκρεμίζουν αγάλματα και αποδομούν αρχαίους ναούς. Παρόλα αυτά, μια πιο νηφάλια, ιστορική και αντικειμενική ματιά αποκαλύπτει ένα διαφορετικό, πιο βαρετό, μα εξίσου ολέθριο αφήγημα. Στην πραγματικότητα, περισσότεροι αρχαίοι ναοί, περικαλλή ιερά και μνημειώδη οικοδομήματα έχουν υποκύψει στην τυφλή οργή των πυρκαγιών και στις βίαιες δονήσεις των σεισμών, παρά στη συνειδητή καταστροφή μετά από επιδρομές αλλοφύλων ή στη μισαλλοδοξία μεταγενέστερων θρησκευτικών ομάδων. Η φωτιά υπήρξε ανέκαθεν ο πιο αμείλικτος εχθρός του πολιτισμού, καταβροχθίζοντας τα πάντα με την ίδια αδιαφορία χωρίς να κάνει διάκριση σε αριστουργήματα και μη.

Ο τρόπος που χάθηκαν για παράδειγμα δύο από τα επτά θαύματα της αρχαιότητας, παρά τη μεγαλοπρέπειά και τη σπουδαιότητά τους, υπογραμμίζει την ευθραυστότητα του πολιτιστικού αποθέματος απέναντι στο στοιχείο της φωτιάς. Ο περίφημος Ναός της Αρτέμιδας στην Έφεσο δεν καταστράφηκε από κάποιον εχθρικό στρατό που λεηλάτησε την πόλη, αλλά έγινε παρανάλωμα του πυρός από τον εμπρησμό του Ηρόστρατου το 356 π.Χ., ενός ανθρώπου που, τυφλωμένος από τη ματαιοδοξία, επιζητούσε την αιώνια υστεροφημία μέσω της καταστροφής. Αιώνες μετά, το χρυσελεφάντινο άγαλμα του Ολυμπίου Διός, το αξεπέραστο αυτό έργο του Φειδία, αφού επέζησε για περισσότερα από 800 χρόνια στον ιερό χώρο της Ολυμπίας, μεταφέρθηκε σύμφωνα με τις επικρατέστερες ιστορικές πηγές επί Θεοδοσίου Β΄ στην Κωνσταντινούπολη, όπου και καταστράφηκε ολοσχερώς από μια κολοσσιαία πυρκαγιά στο παλάτι του ευνούχου Λαύσου τον 5ο αιώνα μ.Χ.

Αυτή η ιστορική συνέχεια πύρινης καταστροφής, δυστυχώς δεν περιορίζεται στα βάθη της αρχαιότητας, αλλά αγγίζει και το σήμερα. Οι συνεχείς απειλές προς τον αρχαιολογικό χώρο της Αρχαίας Ολυμπίας κατά τις πρόσφατες καταστροφικές αντιπυρικές περιόδους, με τις φλόγες να αγγίζουν τα όρια της ιεράς Άλτεως, συγκλόνισαν την ελληνική κοινωνία, καταδεικνύοντας με τον πλέον δραματικό τρόπο τον διαρκή υπαρξιακό κίνδυνο που διατρέχει η πολιτιστική μας ταυτότητα. Με αγωνία επίσης παρακολουθούσαμε σε ζωντανή μετάδοση πριν μερικά χρόνια την Παναγία των Παρισίων να τυλίγεται στις φλόγες, υπενθυμίζοντάς μας ξανά ότι ακόμη και τα πιο εμβληματικά σύμβολα του ευρωπαϊκού πολιτισμού κρέμονται από μια κλωστή. Τέτοιοι χώροι δεν είναι απλές συσσωρεύσεις παλαιών, άψυχων λίθων ή τυχαίοι χώροι συγκέντρωσης πιστών. Αποτελούν στοιχεία καθορισμού εθνικής ταυτότητας, τις υλικές εκφάνσεις των φιλοσοφικών, καλλιτεχνικών και πολιτικών επιτευγμάτων που ορίζουν έναν λαό. Όταν ένας τέτοιος χώρος απειλείται, δεν κινδυνεύει μόνο η ύλη, αλλά ένα κρίσιμο κομμάτι της συλλογικής μας μνήμης και ψυχής.

Στα του οίκου μας όμως και πάλι, αντί να επαναπαυόμαστε στις δάφνες των προγόνων μας, αναγνωρίζοντας αυτό το τεράστιο διακύβευμα, ο δημόσιος διάλογος και η κρατική μέριμνα οφείλουν να μετατοπιστούν αποφασιστικά από τον στείρο, εκ των υστέρων θρήνο, στην επιστημονικά τεκμηριωμένη πρόληψη. Εδώ έρχεται ο νέος «Κανονισμός Πυροπροστασίας Αρχαιολογικών Χώρων» (ΦΕΚ Β 3683 / 22 Ιουνίου 2026) για να καλύψει ένα ιστορικό κενό, θεσπίζοντας ένα σύγχρονο και εξειδικευμένο θεσμικό πλαίσιο προστασίας της πολιτιστικής μας κληρονομιάς απέναντι στην ολοένα εντεινόμενη απειλή των πυρκαγιών, ιδίως υπό το πρίσμα των επιπτώσεων της κλιματικής αλλαγής.

Η σημαντικότερη τομή του νέου πλαισίου είναι ότι εισάγει, για πρώτη φορά, τυποποιημένες διαδικασίες εκτίμησης κινδύνου και σχεδιασμού μέτρων πρόληψης, αποτελώντας ένα ολοκληρωμένο εργαλείο διαχείρισης κινδύνων. Εντάσσοντας πλέον την αντιπυρική θωράκιση των μνημείων στην Εθνική Στρατηγική της χώρας, ο Κανονισμός καθιερώνει ένα αυστηρό, επιστημονικό σύστημα μέτρησης της συνολικής διακινδύνευσης, το οποίο συνυπολογίζει αντικειμενικά την τοπογραφία, την επισκεψιμότητα και τη μελλοντική κλιματική απειλή.

Στην πράξη, αυτό μεταφράζεται σε σαφείς, μετρήσιμες υποχρεώσεις. Εισάγεται η υποχρεωτική εκπόνηση Σχεδίου Οργανωμένης Απομάκρυνσης για χώρους που γειτνιάζουν με δασικές εκτάσεις, καθώς και η διενέργεια τακτικών ασκήσεων ετοιμότητας για εκείνους με υψηλή επισκεψιμότητα. Παράλληλα, θεσπίζονται αυστηρές περιμετρικές ζώνες προστασίας γύρω από τις εγκαταστάσεις, με προοδευτική μείωση της καύσιμης ύλης, ενώ καθιερώνεται ένας ελάχιστος απαιτούμενος «Δείκτης Αποτελεσματικότητας» ως προς τα υφιστάμενα μέτρα. Η μη συμμόρφωση επισύρει, πλέον, αυστηρά διοικητικά πρόστιμα, αποδεικνύοντας ότι η προστασία των μνημείων παύει να βασίζεται σε αποσπασματικές, φιλότιμες προσπάθειες και μετουσιώνεται σε δεσμευτική, εθνική πολιτική.

Ποιοι όμως είναι υπεύθυνοι για την τήρηση αυτών των σωτήριων κανόνων; Αυτό είναι ένα τόσο κλασικό πρόβλημα στην Ελλάδα, όσο και τα μάρμαρα του γλυπτού διάκοσμου του Ναού του Δία στην Ολυμπία. Γιατί οι νόμοι, δεν λένε απολύτως τίποτα από μόνοι τους, εάν δεν εφαρμόζονται στην πράξη. Ο κρατικός μηχανισμός, λοιπόν, φέρει το πρωταρχικό οργανωτικό βάρος, με τις Εφορείες Αρχαιοτήτων να αποτελούν την εμπροσθοφυλακή και να έχουν την τελική ευθύνη. Είναι προφανές ότι το έργο της διαφύλαξης των αρχαιοτήτων υπερβαίνει τα όρια μιας τυπικής υπαλληλικής διεκπεραίωσης, αποτελώντας ύψιστο εθνικό χρέος. Η ουσιαστική πυροπροστασία απαιτεί καθημερινή συνεργασία μεταξύ Εφορειών, Πυροσβεστικής, Δήμων και Δασαρχείων. Παράλληλα, η θεσμική ετοιμότητα παραμένει ημιτελής χωρίς την ατομική μας συμμετοχή. Ένα πεταμένο τσιγάρο ή ένα απρόσεκτο άναμμα φωτιάς στην ύπαιθρο αποτελούν πράξεις πολιτιστικής προδοσίας. Η προσωπική μας επαγρύπνηση είναι η πρώτη γραμμή άμυνας.

Καθίσταται πλέον σαφές, πως η προστασία του φυσικού περιβάλλοντος και η θωράκιση της πολιτιστικής κληρονομιάς αποτελούν έναν ενιαίο, αδιαίρετο αγώνα. Το τοπίο προσδίδει νόημα στο μνημείο, και το μνημείο καθαγιάζει το τοπίο. Κράτος και κοινωνία οφείλουν να χτίσουν ένα ισχυρό τείχος προστασίας γύρω από τους χώρους που νοηματοδοτούν την ύπαρξή μας στο πέρασμα των αιώνων και εμείς προσωπικά οφείλουμε να μετατραπούμε από παθητικοί θεατές, σε ενεργούς θεματοφύλακες ιστορίας και φύσης. Καθώς βρισκόμαστε αντιμέτωποι με τις ακραίες προκλήσεις του καλοκαιριού, ας μην επιτρέψουμε η αμέλειά μας να μετατρέψει την ιστορία σε στάχτη. Η ευθύνη μας απέναντι στο ιερό αυτό τοπίο συμπυκνώνεται με προφητικό τρόπο στους στίχους του Νίκου Γκάτσου, όπως τους μελοποίησε ο Μάνος Χατζιδάκις, στο τραγούδι της Μαρίας Φαραντούρη «Ο εφιάλτης της Περσεφόνης» ως μια δραματική προειδοποίηση για την πολιτιστική και οικολογική μας τύφλωση:

Εκεί που σμίγανε τα χέρια τους οι μύστες

ευλαβικά πριν μπουν στο τελεστήριο

τώρα πετάνε τ’ αποτσίγαρα οι τουρίστες

και το καινούργιο παν να δουν διυλιστήριο.

Κοιμήσου Περσεφόνη

στην αγκαλιά της γης

στου κόσμου το μπαλκόνι

ποτέ μην ξαναβγείς.

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From the Heliconian Muses let us begin to sing

who hold the great and holy mount of Helicon

and dance on soft feet about the deep blue spring

and the altar of the almighty son of Cronos

and, when they have washed their tender bodies in Permessus

or in the Horse’s Spring or Olmeius, make their fair, lovely dances

upon highest Helicon and move with vigorous feet.¹

Thus begins Hesiod’s Theogony, the epic poem to which we owe the basis of Greek mythology: the genealogy of the gods. Every Greek region has its contribution to Greek culture. However, there are certain regions that possess a mythical grandeur, a historic route and an artistic influence with a Panhellenic range and a universal appeal. On such a region we will focus today, travelling through the legends and the history of its people: the magic mountain of Helicon.

(For the original version in Greek, scroll to the bottom)

As all Greek mountains, Helicon was connected early on in Greek history with lots of myths. According to one of them, Helicon and Kithairon, the two mountains in south Boeotia were brothers, though utterly different in character. While Helicon was mild and gentle, caring for his elderly parents, Kithairon was envious and greedy. Coveting the family fortune, he killed his father and then pushed his brother off a cliff, killing him too. However, by doing so, he fell off the cliff and died as well.

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The gods transformed both brothers into mountains. Due to his disrespect, Kithairon became the home of Erinyes, the chthonic deities of retribution. The 9 Muses, the divine patrons of arts and sciences, chose Helicon as their home, due to his kind and warm character. Since then, the Muses stroll, singing and dancing, around its holy springs of Olmeius, Permessus and Horse’s Spring (which, according to some, was created by the mythical winged horse, Pegasus, hitting his hoof on the ground), inspiring the poets.

Beside the Muses, the godly mountain hosted for a short while Dionysus, the god of wine and festivity. Dionysus was the son of Zeus and Semeli. Blinded by jealousy due to another one of Jovial’s many infidelities, Hera convinced Semeli to ask Zeus to emerge in front of her in his godly form. Zeus granted the favor and Semeli died thunderstruck, prematurely bearing his child, Dionysus. To save the child, Zeus sewed him in his thigh until 9 months passed and then handed him to Hermes, to hide him from Hera’s wrath. Hermes took Dionysus to Helicon, where he spent a happy childhood among the Muses.

Helicon was connected with Greek heroes as well, the most famous of whom was Hercules, born in nearby Thebes. According to tradition, as Hercules was passing by the city of Thespiae, at the foothills of Helicon, hunting a lion, he was invited by King Thespius to his palace. Honoring Hercules with his hospitality, Thespius asked a favor from the hero: to impregnate his 50 daughters. Hercules accepted and at the same night he made love to all 50 of them, fathering children with all of Thespius’ daughters.

On the southern slopes of Helicon lies the ancient port of Siphae (or Tipha), birthplace of Tiphys, the hero chosen by Jason as the Argo’s helmsman. He was skilful at predicting storms and could navigate the Argo by the stars and the sun’s course. He managed to guide the Argo through the Clashing Rocks (Symplegades), but died in the land of the Mariandyni, before reaching Colchis.

All these myths from Bronze and Early Iron Age reflect aspects of early Boeotian history. Heliconian people were skilful farmers and wine growers. They saw love as a divine power giving birth to all living creatures and through love they explained their mountain’s dense vegetation. In Thespiae, Helicon’s major city, stood a temple of Eros, a place of panhellenic pilgrimage, as well as a temple of Aphrodite. The Boeotians were also considered great shipbuilders, as the Argo was crafted in Siphae before being presented to Jason in Iolkos.

Helicon’s radiance soon transcended the borders of the Greek world. Ovid, in his Metamorphoses, mentioned the myth of the Pierides (the daughters of King Pierus) who competed with the 9 Muses on Helicon in singing, only to lose and be transformed into magpies. Dante Alighieri called upon Helicon’s springs to overflow and give him strength to write. John Milton, in his Paradise Lost, asks his own Muse to fly over Helicon, attempting in this way to show that Christian inspiration is superior to that of the ancient Greeks.

Boeotia was inhabited by the first Greek tribes migrating down into the Greek mainland. The Mycenaean kingdoms of Thebes and Orchomenos fought for dominance over this region, placing great importance on controlling the southern coast. With the emergence of city-states, Boeotia was divided into several independent ones, the most powerful of which was Thebes. Soon after, the Boeotians founded a confederation (Koinon), the Boeotian League, possibly the first league of its kind in Greek history.

In Helicon, most important city was Thespiae, which ruled over the smaller nearby towns Ascre (hometown of Hesiod), Lefktra, Thisvi and over the small Corinthian gulf ports of Korsiae (today Hostia), Sifai (today Alyki) and Kreusis (today Livadostra). Thespians fortified all ports in the Corinthian Gulf: the ruins of these fortifications can be seen even today.

Relations between the League members were not always smooth. First Plataea, and then Thespiae, disagreed or left the League, not being able to tolerate Thebes’ harsh leadership. This breach resulted in different strategies during the Persian Wars. While Thebes submitted to the Persians, “giving earth and water”, Plataea and Thespiae fought alongside the rest of the Greeks against the invaders. The Plataeans fought alongside the Athenians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 BC.

The case of the Thespians, though, is even more remarkable. During the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC, after the Persians passed behind Greek lines through the Anopaia Path, the Spartan king Leonidas urged the rest of the Greek army to flee before being surrounded. The only Greek warriors who refused to leave were the seer Megistias (who had foreseen his death) and the 700 Thespians under General Demophilus, who declared that they would not abandon the Spartans.

During Thermopylae’s last stand, all the Thespians were killed. The Persian army conquered Boeotia and sacked Thespiae. This, however, didn’t prevent the Thespians from sending a new army the following year (479 BC) to fight alongside the other Greeks at the Battle of Plataea, ultimately helping to defeat and oust the Persians from mainland Greece.

While the 300 Spartans received justified glory for their bravery and self-sacrifice, the 700 Thespians remained in their shadow. Although no law (like the Spartan ethos to “return either with your shield or on it”) compelled them to stand, their self-sacrifice was largely ignored. However, the most eloquent recognition comes from a foreigner, the Scottish poet Norman Cameron (1905-1953), who wrote the poem “The Thespians at Thermopylae” in their honor.

Even though Heliconian soldiers didn’t have the much deserved glory, Helicon was famous for its poets. Hesiod was born in Ascra, a little town near the valley of the Muses. His father had fled the coastal city of Cyme, in Asia Minor, possibly financially ruined. Hesiod became the father of the so called “didactic epic poetry”, leaving to us, amongst others, the long poems “Theogony” and “Works and Days”.

He was the first poet ever to reveal his name and life details in his poems. What is more, he is the only one, who (according to tradition) defeated the great Homer in a poetic competition, winning a tripod and dedicating it to the Muses. Although Homer’s poems are a bit earlier than those of Hesiod, meaning the two poets could not possibly have met, let us Heliconians believe that tale…

What remains today of Helicon’s magic? Why should its history matter to us, wherever we come from? The answer is simple: Helicon and its people are a microcosm of every region, of all people. It is a place that, without dominating Greek history, left a clear mark not only on Greek culture but on the world’s heritage, with its ancient cities, myths, poets, and warriors.

Today, Helicon is largely ignored. Despite the great efforts of archaeologists to excavate and preserve the castles and ruins of its ancient cities, research is slow due to a lack of funding. This text is dedicated to these archaeologists as a small token of appreciation.

Just as we began this text on Helicon poetically, we will also end it in the same way, with the words of the Scottish poet Norman Cameron on the Heliconian warriors:

The honours that the people give always

Pass to those use-besotted gentlemen

Whose numskull courage is a kind of fear,

A fear of thought and of the oafish mothers

(‘Or with your shield or on it’) in their rear.

Spartans cannot retreat. Why, then, their praise

For going forward should be less than others.

But we, actors and critics of one play,

Of sober-witted judgment, who could see

So many roads, and chose the Spartan way,

What has the popular report to say

Of us, the Thespians at Thermopylae?²

About the Author: is a lawyer, an archaeologist, and the co-founder and editor of lavyrinthos.gr, a history website. He is also a published author of a book and several articles on banking law.

¹Hesiod, Theogony. English translation by Hugh G. Evelyn-White. Published online by the Foundation of the Hellenic World (IME)

²Cameron, Norman. The Thespians at Thermopylae, The Collected Poems of Norman Cameron. London: The Hogarth Press, 1957. Published online by davidsuttonpoetry.com

(ακολουθεί το κείμενο στα ελληνικά)

Το Μαγικό Βουνό: Μύθοι και Ήρωες στον Ελικώνα

Με τις Ελικωνιάδες Μούσες ας αρχίσουμε το τραγούδι·

που κατοικούν τον Ελικώνα, όρος μέγα κι ιερό,

και χορεύουν γύρω από μενεξεδένια κρήνη με πόδια ανάλαφρα,

στον βωμό του παντοδύναμου γιου του Κρόνου

κι αφού λούσουν το τρυφερό κορμί τους στα νερά του Περμησσού

και της Ιπποκρήνης ή του θεϊκού Ολμειού

στου Ελικώνα τις απάτητες κορφές στήνουν χορούς

όμορφους, χαριτωμένους, τον ρυθμό κρατώντας με τα πόδια τους.

Έτσι ξεκινά ο Ησίοδος τη Θεογονία, το έπος, στο οποίο οφείλουμε τη βάση της αρχαίας ελληνικής μυθολογίας: τη γενεαλογία των θεών. Κάθε γη ελληνική έχει τη σημασία της στον ελληνικό πολιτισμό• υπάρχουν, όμως, ορισμένοι τόποι που το μυθολογικό τους βάρος, η ιστορική τους πορεία και η καλλιτεχνική τους επιρροή τους χαρίζει πανελλήνια εμβέλεια. Ένας τέτοιος τόπος είναι αυτός με τον οποίο θ’ ασχοληθούμε σήμερα, ταξιδεύοντας στους μύθους του και την ιστορία των κατοίκων του: το μαγικό βουνό του Ελικώνα.

Όπως όλα τα υπόλοιπα βουνά, ο Ελικώνας συνδέθηκε από νωρίς με πολλούς μύθους. Σ’ έναν απ’ αυτούς, ο Ελικώνας κι ο Κιθαιρώνας, τα δύο βουνά που δεσπόζουν στη νότια Βοιωτία, ήταν αδέλφια, αλλά πολύ διαφορετικά στο χαρακτηρα: ο μεν Ελικώνας ήταν ήπιος κι ευγενής, γηροκομώντας τους γονείς του πιστός στο καθήκον του, ενώ ο Κιθαιρώνας ήταν ζηλόφθονος κι άπληστος. Επιθυμώντας να αποκτήσει ολόκληρη την πατρική περιουσία, σκότωσε τον πατέρα του κι έπειτα πέταξε τον αδερφό του με δόλιο τρόπο σ’ ένα γκρεμό, σκοτώνοντάς τον• παρασύρθηκε, όμως, κι ο ίδιος από την ορμή του, έπεσε στο γκρεμό και πέθανε.

Οι θεοί μεταμόρφωσαν τα δύο αδέλφια σε βουνά. Ο Κιθαιρώνας, λόγω της ασέβειας του, έγινε κατοικία για τις Ερινύες. Οι 9 Μούσες, λόγω του ευγενικού και στοργικού χαρακτήρα του, επέλεξαν τον Ελικώνα για κατοικία. Από τότε γυρνούν χορεύοντας και τραγουδώντας στις ιερές πηγές του, τον Ολμειό, τον Περμησσό και στην Ιπποκρήνη (λένε πως τη δημιούργησε ο Πήγασος, χτυπώντας το έδαφος με την οπλή του ποδιού του), χαρίζοντας έμπνευση στους ποιητές.

Εκτός από τις Μούσες, όμως, το θεϊκό βουνό φιλοξένησε για λίγο και το θεό του κρασιού. Ο Διόνυσος ήταν γιος του Δία και της Σεμέλης. Τυφλωμένη από ζήλεια για τα παραστρατήματα του Δία, η Ήρα έπεισε τη Σεμέλη να ζητήσει από το βασιλιά των θεών να εμφανισθεί μπροστά της με όλη του τη θεϊκή υπόσταση. Όταν ο Δίας εμφανίσθηκε μέσα σε αστραπές, η Σεμέλη πέθανε κεραυνοβολημένη, κυοφορώντας το Διόνυσο. Για να σώσει το μωρό, ο Δίας το έραψε στο μηρό του εωσότου πέρασαν οι 9 μήνες κύησης κι έπειτα το παρέδωσε στον Ερμή για να τον κρύψει από την οργή της Ήρας. Ο Ερμής το παρέδωσε στις Μούσες στον Ελικώνα, όπου ο Διόνυσος πέρασε ευτυχισμένα τα πρώτα παιδικά του χρόνια.

Ο Ελικώνας συνδέθηκε, εκτός των θεών, και με πολλούς ήρωες. Ο πιο ονομαστός ήταν ο Ηρακλής, ο οποίος άλλωστε είχε γεννηθεί λίγο βορειότερα, στη Θήβα. Μία παράδοση τον θέλει να περνά από τις Θεσπιές, πόλη στη σκιά του Ελικώνα, καθοδόν για το κυνήγι του λιονταριού του Κιθαιρώνα. Ο βασιλιάς της πόλης Θέσπιος, τηρώντας τους κανόνες, τον φιλοξένησε στο παλάτι του με όλες τις τιμές, ζήτησε, όμως, από τον Ηρακλή να γονιμοποιήσει τις πενήντα θυγατέρες του. Ο Ηρακλής δέχθηκε πρόθυμα και το ίδιο βράδυ συνευρέθηκε και με τις πενήντα θυγατέρες του βασιλιά. Εννέα μήνες αργότερα, ο βασιλιάς απέκτησε πενήντα εγγόνια, απευθείας καταγόμενα από τον ημίθεο ήρωα.

Στη νότια άκρη του Ελικώνα, από το λιμάνι Σίφαι ή Τίφα καταγόταν ο Τιφύς, ο γιος του Αγνία. Ο Ιάσονας τον επέλεξε για τιμονιέρη στην Αργώ. Ήταν δεινός στο να προβλέπει τρικυμίες και μπορούσε να κατευθυνει την Αργώ με τη θέση των άστρων και την τροχιά του ήλιου. Κατάφερε να περάσει τις Συμπληγάδες Πέτρες, αλλά πέθανε στη χώρα των Μαριανδυνών, πριν φτάσει στην Κολχίδα.

Όλοι αυτοί οι μύθοι, που σμιλεύτηκαν στην ύστερη μυκηναϊκή και τη γεωμετρική εποχή, αντανακλούν εικόνες της πρώιμης ιστορίας της Βοιωτίας. Οι κάτοικοι του Ελικώνα είχαν μεγάλη παράδοση στη γεωργία και ειδικά στην αμπελουργία. Αντιλαμβάνονταν τον έρωτα ως μια θεϊκή, γονιμοποιό δύναμη δημιουργίας όλων των όντων της φύσης κι έτσι εξηγούσαν την πυκνή βλάστηση στο ιερό βουνό τους. Στις Θεσπιές, κυρίαρχη πόλη του Ελικώνα, υπήρχε ναός του Έρωτα, που αποτελούσε πανελλήνιο προσκύνημα, καθώς και ναός της Αφροδίτης. Επιπλέον, θεωρούνταν σπουδαίοι ναυπηγοί, καυχώμενοι ότι η Αργώ ναυπηγήθηκε στις Σίφες κι ύστερα ταξίδεψε ως την Ιωλκό.

Η ακτινοβολία του Ελικώνα ξεπέρασε γρήγορα τα όρια του ελληνικού κόσμου. Ο Οβίδιος στις «Μεταμορφώσεις» του αναφέρθηκε στο μύθο των Πιερίδων (θυγατέρων του βασιλιά της Πιερίας), που διαγωνίσθηκαν στον Ελικώνα κατά των 9 Μουσών στο τραγούδι, μόνο για να χάσουν και να μεταμορφωθούν σε κίσσες. Ο Δάντης στη «Θεία Κωμωδία» επικαλείται τον Ελικώνα για να ξεχειλίσουν οι πηγές του και να του δώσουν δύναμη να γράψει. Ο Τζον Μίλτον στο δικό του «Χαμένο Παράδεισο» ζητά από τη δική του Μούσα να πετάξει πάνω από τον Ελικώνα, προσπαθώντας μ’ αυτόν τον τρόπο να δείξει ότι η χριστιανική έμπνευση είναι ανώτερη της αρχαίας ελληνικής.

Η περιοχή του Ελικώνα κατοικήθηκε από τα πρώτα ελληνικά φύλα που κατέβηκαν στον ελληνικό χώρο. Τα μυκηναϊκά βασίλεια της Θήβας και του Ορχομενού έριζαν για την κυριαρχία στη Βοιωτία, έδιναν δε μεγάλη σημασία στον έλεγχο των παραλίων του Κορινθιακού. Με τη δημιουργία των πόλεων-κρατών κατά την αρχαϊκή εποχή, η Βοιωτία διαιρέθηκε σε πολλές πόλεις-κράτη, σπουδαιότερη των οποίων ήταν η Θήβα. Σύντομα, από τις απαρχές ακόμη της αρχαϊκής εποχής, δημιουργήθηκε το Κοινό των Βοιωτών, η πρώτη ίσως συνομοσπονδία κρατών στην αρχαιότητα.

Στην περιοχή του Ελικώνα, η μεγαλύτερη πόλη ήταν οι Θεσπιές, οι οποίες είχαν υπό την επικυριαρχία τους τις μικρότερες πόλεις γύρω από τον Ελικώνα, την Άσκρη, πατρίδα του ποιητή Ησιόδου, τη Θίσβη, τα Λεύκτρα, καθώς και τα λιμάνια στον Κορινθιακό Κορσιαί (σημερινά Χώστια), Σίφαι (σημερινή Αλυκή) και Κρεύσις (σημερινή Λιβαδόστρα). Οι Θεσπιές ως επικυρίαρχοι είχαν οχυρώσει τα λιμάνια στον Κορινθιακό, υπολείμματα δε των οχυρώσεων αυτών και των πολισμάτων στον Κορινθιακό σώζονται ως σήμερα.

Η σχέση ανάμεσα στα μέλη του Κοινού των Βοιωτών δεν ήταν πάντα ομαλή. Πρώτα οι Πλαταιές κι έπειτα οι Θεσπιές αποχώρησαν ή διαχώρισαν τη θέση τους, μην αντέχοντας την αυταρχική πολιτική της Θήβας. Η αντίθεση αυτή είχε σαν αποτέλεσμα τελείως διαφορετική στάση κατά τους μηδικούς πολέμους. Ενώ η Θήβα μήδισε, δίνοντας γη και ύδωρ στους Πέρσες, οι Πλαταιείς και οι Θεσπιείς πολέμησαν στο πλευρό των υπόλοιπων Ελλήνων. Οι Πλαταιείς έσπευσαν να πολέμήσουν στο Μαραθώνα δίπλα στους Αθηναίους το 490 π.Χ.

Η περίπτωση των Θεσπιέων, όμως, παρουσιάζει ιδιαίτερο ενδιαφέρον. Κατά τη διάρκεια της μάχης στις Θερμοπύλες το 480 π.Χ., μετά την κατάληψη της Ανοππαίας ατραπού από τους Πέρσες, ο βασιλιάς της Σπάρτης Λεωνίδας προέτρεψε όλους τους υπόλοιπους Έλληνες να φύγουν. Οι μόνοι που αρνήθηκαν να φύγουν ήταν ο μάντης Μεγιστίας (που είχε προβλέψει το θάνατό του) και 700 Θεσπιείς με αρχηγό το Δημόφιλο, που δήλωσαν ότι δεν θα αφήσουν μόνους τους 300 Σπαρτιάτες. Στην τελική μάχη, όπου διακρίθηκε για την ανδρεία του ο Θεσπιεύς Διθύραμβος του Αρματίδη, όλοι οι Θεσπιείς έπεσαν μαχόμενοι. Ο περσικός στρατός κατέλαβε τη Βοιωτία και κατέστρεψε την πόλη τους. Αυτό βέβαια δεν τους εμπόδισε την επόμενη χρονιά να στείλουν στρατό να πολεμήσει με τους υπόλοιπους Έλληνες στη μάχη των Πλαταιών.

Ενώ οι 300 του Λεωνίδα βρήκαν δικαιολογημένη δόξα για την ανδρεία και την αυτοθυσία τους, οι 700 Θεσπιείς έμειναν στη σκιά τους. Αν και κανένας νόμος «ή ταν ή επί τας» δεν τους επέβαλε να μείνουν, η αυτοθυσία τους παραγνωρίσθηκε. Η πιο εύγλωττη αναγνώριση της γενναιότητάς τους προέρχεται από έναν ξένο: από το Σκωτσέζο ποιητή Norman Cameron (1905-1953), ο οποίος έγραψε γι’ αυτούς το ποίημα “The Thespians at Thermopylae”.

Αν και οι πολεμιστές του δεν είχαν την αίγλη που τους ταιριάζει, ο Ελικώνας έτυχε της μεγαλύτερης αναγνώρισης για τους ποιητές του. Ο Ησίοδος γεννήθηκε στη μικρή πόλη Άσκρη, κοντά στην κοιλάδα των Μουσών. Ο πατέρας του καταγόταν από την Κύμη της Μ. Ασίας, απ’ όπου έφυγε (μάλλον κατεστραμμένος οικονομικά) και εγκαταστάθηκε στη Βοιωτία. Ο Ησίοδος έγινε ο θεμελιωτής του διδακτικού έπους, αφήνοντάς μας, μεταξύ άλλων, δύο μακροσκελή επικά ποιήματα, τη «Θεογονία» και το «Έργα και ημέραι». Ήταν ο πρώτος ποιητής στην ιστορία, που αποκάλυψε στο έργο του το όνομά του, καθώς και στοιχεία της ζωής του. Επίσης, είναι ο μονος που, κατά την παράδοση, κέρδισε τον Όμηρο, τον πατέρα όλων των ποιητών, σε ποιητικό αγώνα, παίρνοντας για βραβείο του έναν τρίποδα, που αφιέρωσε στις Μούσες του Ελικώνα. Αν και τα ομηρικά έπη είναι κατ’ άρτι προγενέστερα των επών του Ησιόδου, με συνέπεια οι δύο ποιητές μάλλον να μη συνέπεσαν χρονικά, αφήστε εμάς του Ελικώνα να το πιστεύουμε...

Τι μένει σήμερα από την αρχαία μαγεία του Ελικώνα; Γιατί να μας αφορά η ιστορία του, απ’ όπου κι αν καταγόμαστε; Η απάντηση είναι απλή: ο Ελικώνας και οι άνθρωποί του είναι μικρογραφία κάθε τόπου, κάθε λαού. Είναι ένας τόπος, που χωρίς να πρωτοστατήσει στην ελληνική ιστορία, άφησε καθαρό αποτύπωμα στον ελληνικό πολιτισμό με τις αρχαίες πόλεις του, τους μύθους του, τους ποιητές και τους πολεμιστές του. Και είναι αρκετά παραγνωρισμένος, καθώς παρά τις φιλότιμες προσπάθειες των αρχαιολόγων μας, που ανασκάπτουν και συντηρούν τα κάστρα, τα ερείπια των αρχαίων πόλεων και των οδών που τις συνέδεαν, η αρχαιολογική έρευνα δεν έχει προχωρήσει όσο θα θέλαμε, ελλείψει πόρων και κρατικής αρωγής. Σ’ αυτούς τους αρχαιολόγους είναι αφιερωμένο το κείμενο αυτό.

Κι αφού ξεκινήσαμε ποιητικά για το βουνό των μουσών, έτσι θα κλείσουμε, με τα λόγια του σκωτσέζου ποιητή για τους πολεμιστές του. Οι τιμές που οι άνθρωποι δίνουν πάντα πηγαίνουν σ’ εκείνους τους συνεπαρμένους απ’ τη συνήθεια λεβέντες που το χοντροκέφαλο θάρρος τους είναι ένα είδος φόβου φόβος για σκέψη και για βλακώδεις μητέρες με το «ή ταν ή επί τας» στα νώτα τους

Οι Σπαρτιάτες δεν επιτρέπεται να υποχωρούν. Ο έπαινος λοιπόν γι’ αυτούς, που έτσι στη μάχη προχωρούν, μικρότερος θα’ πρεπε να’ ναι από των άλλων.

Αλλά εμείς, ηθοποιοί και κριτικοι ενός έργου

γεμάτου νηφάλια κι μυαλωμένη κρίση, που μπορούμε και διακρίνουμε

τόσους πολλούς δρόμους, διαλέγουμε ωστόσο το σπαρτιάτικο το δρόμο

Τι έχει λοιπόν να πει η επίσημη ιστορία

για μας, τους Θεσπιείς στις Θερμοπύλες;

Γιάννης Δρίτσουλας

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“History worth reading. Stories worth remembering.”

In recent days, we have been witnessing what one might call an Odysseiad: the commentary on Nolan’s latest film, The Odyssey, by anyone with an opinion, whether before seeing it in cinemas or — perhaps more fairly — afterwards. As with another film that caused a stir in Greece a few months ago, the one about the life and death of Ioannis Kapodistrias, the first and last Governor of Greece, I had decided to let the noise die down a little before watching The Odyssey myself. There was never any chance that I would not see it, whatever the reactions might be, because I love Nolan and his work. That is why I have already booked tickets for tomorrow.

(you’ll find the original text in Greek below)

One might say that, in that case, it would have been better to write this stack after seeing the film. But this stack, fellow historiophile, is not yet another commentary on the movie, its inaccuracies, or its cinematic grandeur. I am not worried about the Homeric epics, nor about the way Hollywood has treated my homeland’s mythology over the years. The Homeric epics have been around for more than 2,500 years, and they have been taught continuously in Greek schools for generations, whatever power may have held sway in the Greek world. Their enduring presence lies in the fact that every age receives the epics, the great classical plays, and classical literature in general differently, according to its own needs. This means that any creator of a modern adaptation is free to reshape them into a version we may not personally like; so what each of us thinks about such variations probably matters very little. As the Romans used to say, de gustibus non est disputandum — or, in English, there’s no accounting for taste. We may not like it, but this is precisely how such works remain popular and relevant, thousands of years after they were first created.

But I digress, for our subject is something else. Those who have been here on this Substack for a while will already know my love not only for history and archaeology, but also for poetry. I have already published quite a few stacks in which I try, through poetry, either to express my feelings, or to make sense of current events, or — my personal favourite — to describe historical events and periods. Some of you may also have noticed my preference for C. P. Cavafy, the poet-historian, as he liked to call himself. Members of the Historiophiles Society, have even received a printout of perhaps my favourite poem, Cavafy’s “Thermopylae.”

The whole discussion around Nolan’s Odyssey, however, reminded me of two poems I love: another poem by C.P. Cavafy, perhaps his best-known one, which we mentioned briefly last year, “Ithaka,” and “Upon a Line of Foreign Verse” by the Nobel laureate in Literature (1963), George Seferis, whose relationship with Cavafy we also touched on briefly last year.

While Homer describes Odysseus as ‘δαΐφρων’ (battle-minded, wise-hearted, fiery-hearted), ‘τάλα’ (wretched, pitiable), ‘τλήμων’ (enduring, stout-hearted, long-suffering), and πολύτροπο (resourceful, complicated, a man of twists and turns — perhaps the most frequently debated of Odysseus’ epithets), among others, Seferis in his poem borrows the first line, “Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage…”, from a 16th-century sonnet by Joachim du Bellay, literally standing “on a foreign verse,” in order to create a rather different Odysseus:

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The summer of 2026 has been defined by the sheer joy of millions of fans cheering for their favorite teams at the World Cup in North America, whether from the packed stadiums or the comfort of their homes. In my previous essay, we explored the ancient precursors of the sport—tracing its roots through ancient Greece, Rome, the Maya, and the Aztecs—while also settling the age-old debate between “football” and “soccer.” However, I left you with a promise: to delve into a much darker chapter of football history. A true story of survival and defiance that even inspired a famous Hollywood blockbuster.

(στο τέλος θα βρείτε το κείμενο και στα ελληνικά)

On the afternoon of Sunday, August 9, 1942, the heat in occupied Kyiv was unbearable, yet thousands of football fans were heading toward Zenit Stadium. Scheduled for five o’clock was a match destined to make history. As the temperature finally began to drop, the eager crowd waited for the two teams to take the pitch. The home side, FC Start, wore dark red shirts and white shorts. The visitors, the German Flakelf, appeared in white shirts and black shorts. When the referee blew the opening whistle, a fierce contest began. The home team ultimately won decisively, sending the local fans into a frenzy while the officers of the occupying forces glared at them from the stands. This match would be remembered as the “Death Match,” a game that quickly emerged as a symbol of resistance against the Nazi occupation for the decades to come.

To understand how a simple football match turned into a matter of life and death, however, one must look at the broader picture of the Second World War. On August 23, 1939, a few days before the outbreak of the war, the German-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact, or Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, was signed. With it, the two sides divided Eastern Europe into spheres of influence, paved the way for the partition of Poland, and created the illusion that neither would attack the other.

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This illusion was shattered at 3:00 a.m. on June 22, 1941. Having just secured his southern flank with the complete occupation of Greece and the airborne assault in the Battle of Crete, Adolf Hitler launched Operation Barbarossa, a massive invasion of the Soviet Union. The Balkan campaign may have cost him valuable time, but initially, the German advance seemed unstoppable. The Red Army, disorganized by Stalin’s recent purges, found itself retreating in disarray across all fronts.

The Eastern Front quickly became the most brutal theater of the war. The invading forces pushed deep into Soviet territory with a swift, three-pronged assault. One of their main spears thrust south, toward the Ukrainian capital. Beginning on July 7, the defending troops engaged in a desperate street-by-street struggle, employing a scorched-earth policy that left factories and warehouses in ruins. By the time the city fell to the Wehrmacht on September 26, 1941, the fourth bloodiest battle of World War II had concluded, paving the way for the conquest of Eastern Ukraine.

The people of Ukraine found themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. Their plight, however, had not begun with the German invasion. Throughout the 1930s, the local population had suffered immensely under Joseph Stalin. The Soviet leader harbored a paranoid suspicion of Ukrainian nationalism and a deep fear that the region might attempt to break away from his empire. His agricultural policies deliberately engineered the Holodomor, a man-made famine that led to the deaths of millions. This tragedy was followed by the Great Terror (or Great Purge) of 1937, a period of political repression during which countless citizens were arrested by the secret police, tortured, sent to the Siberian Gulags, or summarily executed.

Because of this recent history, some Ukrainians—particularly in Central and Eastern regions like Kyiv, where the trauma of the artificial famine was fresh—initially viewed the approaching German troops as a temporary disruption to Soviet oppression. At the same time, hardcore nationalist factions originating from Western regions like Galicia (who had not experienced the Holodomor under Polish rule) saw the invasion as an opportunity. Driven by ethnosupremacist ideologies, they hoped the Germans would help them establish a “pure,” independent Ukrainian state.

For all of them, however, the reality of life under the Nazi boot proved to be entirely different. The new conquerors regarded the local population as subhuman and immediately established a reign of terror. Within the first few weeks of the occupation, tens of thousands of Jewish residents and other citizens were massacred in a ravine just outside the city, at Babi Yar. The German authorities enforced policies of extermination through starvation and the freezing winter cold.

Faced with this brutal occupation, the region became a chaotic battleground. While the vast majority of Ukrainians fought against Germany within the ranks of the Red Army, suffering massive casualties to liberate their homeland, certain nationalist factions chose to collaborate or formed independent insurgent groups. These underground factions soon found themselves locked in a multi-sided, perpetual conflict, fighting both the advancing German army and the returning Soviet partisans.

Amidst this environment of constant fear and starvation, football remained a rare source of solace. During the 1930s, the sport had become immensely popular in the Soviet Union. The establishment of the Soviet Top League brought a new level of professionalism to the game. Two rival clubs, Dynamo and Lokomotiv, dominated the Kyiv scene. Dynamo Kyiv was among the most successful, frequently finishing near the top of the national championship. Like many successful sports clubs in the Soviet system, Dynamo was officially funded by the state apparatus—specifically the secret police, the NKVD.

Unlock the final chapters and discover the truth behind the myth:

• How former Dynamo stars found refuge in a Kyiv bakery and formed the amateur FC Start, humiliating a succession of Axis military teams.

• The dramatic events of August 9 against the Luftwaffe’s elite team and the blunt German threats.

• Separating historical fact from Soviet myth: We explore the declassified archives. What happened to the FC Start’s players after all?

• And finally: How this grim historical reality was reimagined by Hollywood in the 1981 classic film, starring Sylvester Stallone, Michael Caine and Pelé.

Unearthing the true history of the Kyiv “Death Match”—and separating decades of Soviet propaganda from the raw courage of starving men defying their occupiers on the pitch—takes more than a quick online search. It requires many hours of meticulous research while I balance fatherhood, my work shifts, and my studies in archaeology and art history.

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This summer, the United States, Canada, and Mexico have turned into a vast, living mosaic of traveling fans, striking colors, and shared experiences due to the World Cup. Since many of you seemed to have enjoyed my Notes on the “Philosophers’ Football Match,” as well as on the Korean fans in Mexico and the unexpected historical link between Korea and Mexico, I thought I would spend some time on football from a historical perspective.

(θα βρείτε το κείμενο στα ελληνικά, στο τέλος του κειμένου)

Although personally I tend to enjoy a basketball game more, it is impossible to ignore the enormous cultural impact of football. Beyond the goals and dramatic moments on the pitch, such as yesterday’s elimination of Germany by Paraguay and Brazil’s narrow escape against Japan, the competition continues to offer moments of genuine beauty, encouraging cultural exchange and mutual understanding. Just a few days ago, a telling example took place in Los Angeles. The Iranian national team, after their final match in the tournament, left a heartfelt note of thanks in the locker room, expressing their gratitude to the host city and its fans:

Even more notable was the fact that the Iran’s team captain publicly took a courageous stand in support of the LGBTQ+ community, prompted by a FIFA banner inside the stadium, despite objections from both countries, where homosexuality is criminalized. It was a gesture that moved beyond borders and political considerations, showing once again that sport can serve as a powerful platform for solidarity and peace.

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The highly organized form of football we see today—al those referees, VAR, dozens of cameras, and billions in advertising revenue—has its roots in the muddy fields of Victorian England. People had been enthusiastically kicking various objects for millennia, but it was the founding of the Football Association in London in 1863 that finally gave the sport its standardized rules. This decisive moment separated football from rugby and established the laws of the game. From those English fields, the sport spread rapidly across the globe, carried by British sailors, merchants, and railway workers. It was, after all, the era of the all powerful British Empire, “the empire on which the sun never set.” By 1930, international interest reached a peak with the first World Cup in Uruguay, firmly establishing football as the most universal phenomenon of modern history.

And yet, the urge to chase a ball across an open field is far older than modern rules. Long before VAR, artificial turf, and lucrative sponsorships, ancient and medieval societies had their own highly structured and often quite brutal versions of the game. These were deeply embedded in the core of each culture and not simple pastimes. They were functioning as sacred rituals, as rigorous military training, or as intense expressions of local pride.

In this essay, we will travel back in time to explore three fascinating predecessors of the modern game:

• The Mesoamerican rituals played in vast stone courts, where the outcome could literally be a matter of life and death: The football of Aztecs and Maya.

• The ancient Greek and Roman games that laid the tough foundations of team sports.

• Calcio Storico Fiorentino: A spectacular and violent Renaissance contest in the heart of Florence, played by nobles and even Popes, dressed in fine silk.

• And finally, we will look at why the sport is called “football” in some parts of the world and “soccer” in others. Which one is correct?

The Historiophiles community has officially reached 50,000 subscribers, and we’re celebrating! For a few days only, you can unlock exclusive content at 50% off. As a special thank you, anyone who chooses an annual subscription will receive an exclusive physical gift—a privilege normally reserved only for members of the Historiophiles Society—on top of the already discounted yearly rate.

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I couldn’t celebrate it properly or thank you right away because, truth be told, these past few weeks I’ve been buried in my university exams in Archaeology and Art History, as well as working intensely behind the scenes on a few new projects. And there is so much coming... but my lips are sealed for now.

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50,000! Are you guys real? I keep pinching myself, yet the number doesn’t go down.

But let’s be clear about what this number means. You are not just passive subscribers on a mailing list. You are the vibrant heart of a community. A global gathering of people who share a profound love for history, archaeology, art, and culture. By reading, engaging, and being here, you belong to something much larger than a simple newsletter: you are part of a collective effort to keep the voices of the past alive, exploring how they continue to shape our modern world.

I started this journey a little over a year ago to prove—mostly to myself—that it is never too late, guided by the ancient words of the Athenian lawgiver Solon: “I grow old always learning.” It turns out, there are tens of thousands of you across the globe who share this vision.

To make a long story short

If you want to become a true, full-fledged Historiophile, if you want to support my ongoing effort to prove that history matters, that beauty will indeed save the world and that we’re not doomed after all, if you want exclusive access to the premium essays and everything else I’m preparing but hesitated for financial reasons—now is your chance.

For a few days only, in celebration of this massive 50,000 milestone, I am offering a 50% discount on all paid subscriptions. (Keep in mind, an additional built-in discount already applies to annual plans, making the yearly upgrade an absolute steal! Also, current subscribers are more than welcome to switch their plan to take advantage of this offer.)

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And there is more. For a strictly limited time, anyone who opts for the annual subscription will also be eligible to receive a high-quality, professional physical print of my favourite poem by C.P. Cavafy, Thermopylae.

As a token of my deepest gratitude, I am offering this perk—which has recently been reserved exclusively for the founding members of the Historiophiles Society—to our new annual members:

Honor to those who in the life they lead
define and guard a Thermopylae.
Never betraying what is right,
consistent and just in all they do
but showing pity also, and compassion;
generous when they are rich, and when they are poor,
still generous in small ways,
still helping as much as they can;
always speaking the truth,
yet without hating those who lie.

And even more honor is due to them
when they foresee (as many do foresee)
that in the end Ephialtis will make his appearance,
that the Medes will break through after all.

There are absolutely no strings attached for those who choose to receive the print. My only small request is that, if you enjoy it, you might consider sharing a quick Note tagging Studying History when it arrives at your doorstep.

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Until the next stack, ἔρρωσθε καὶ εὐδαιμονεῖτε.

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“History worth reading. Stories worth remembering.”

In the spring of 1941, almost the whole of Europe lay under the shadow of the swastika. The Second World War is raging, Britain seems to be standing alone against the Nazi war machine, while the United States watches, holding its breath on the other side of the Atlantic, still not part of the war, with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor still months away.

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In the midst of this bleak reality, Greece had been the first ray of hope for the free world. The epic struggle in the mountains of Pindus and Albania during the Greco-Italian War had shattered the myth of an invincible Axis. From October 1940, Greece not only managed to resist the superior Italian forces, but pushed them back deep into Albania. It was now clear that Hitler would have to intervene.

In April 1941, German forces, aided by the Bulgarians, invaded Greece. Along the Metaxas Line — an extensive network of 21 autonomous underground and above-ground fortifications on the Greek-Bulgarian border, aptly described as the “Greek Maginot Line” due to its similar defensive design and philosophy — the forts did not surrender, but were rather taken only after a furious, heroic defence. Despite the courage of the Greeks and the assistance of the British and Commonwealth forces, including Australians, New Zealanders, Cypriots, and even Jews and Arabs from British‑mandate Palestine, as well as exiled Spanish Republicans, the so‑called ‘Churchill’s Spaniards, the front eventually collapsed.

After two weeks of resistance, Greece was forced to capitulate. The Greek king, the government and whatever forces could be saved fled to the last piece of free Greek soil: the island of Crete. Their aim was to regroup and eventually continue the fight from the Middle East and Egypt.

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For Hitler, however, Crete was a strategic thorn in the side of an already triply occupied Greece (by Germany, Italy and Bulgaria). As long as the island — this vast natural aircraft carrier — remained in Allied hands, British bombers could reach as far as the vital Romanian oil fields (the fuel of the German war machine) and control the Eastern Mediterranean. The order was clear: Crete had to fall.

On the morning of 20 May 1941, the sky over Chania in Crete, filled with parachutes. Operation Mercury (Unternehmen Merkur) had just begun. It was the first major, purely airborne invasion in history.

What the German paratroopers encountered, however, was not what they expected. The Allied forces, together with the remnants of the Greek army, enjoyed numerical superiority. But the greatest shock came from the locals. Men, women, the elderly and even children, armed with old rifles, pitchforks, even stones, hurled themselves into the fight, inflicting unprecedented casualties on the invaders. It was a kind of resistance the Nazis never forgot, taking their revenge later on the Cretan population with unspeakable brutality and mass executions in villages such as Kondomari and Kandanos.

In the first days, the balance tipped in favour of the Allies. The Germans were being cut down in the air and on the ground — so much so that Hitler forbade any similar large‑scale airborne operation from being attempted again, at the very time when the Allies were carefully studying the German debacle in order to apply the lessons properly a few years later in Normandy.

Yet the fate of the island was sealed by tragic errors of strategy. The New Zealand general Bernard Freyberg, commander of the Allied forces, failed to exploit a huge advantage: the British had broken the German Enigma code through the Ultra programme and were sending him precise reports. He knew an attack was coming.

Unlock the final chapters:

• How the Allies let Crete slip through their fingers: The strategic errors that decided the fate of the island.

• The Māori and “Pō Atarau”: The heartbreaking final moments of the Sfakia evacuation and the song that united the stranded soldiers in the dark.

• From Crete to Pink Floyd & Hollywood: How this farewell melody reached Vera Lynn, echoed in Pink Floyd’s The Wall and became the emotionally intense climax of Ryan Gosling’s Project Hail Mary.

• Bonus Video - Hitler’s Secret Recording: A rare audio document (the infamous Finland recording) where Hitler privately confesses how the unexpectedly fierce resistance in Greece led to the fatal delay of Operation Barbarossa.

  (P.S. For my Greek readers, a full translation of the essay is included at the very bottom of the post).

  Unearthing the history of the Battle of Crete—and uncovering deeply human moments like these, such as a heartbreaking Māori farewell song echoing in the dark—takes more than a quick online search. It requires many hours of meticulous research while I balance fatherhood, my work shifts, and my studies in archaeology and art history. If you value this kind of authentic, deep-dive history and want to support the effort behind it, upgrading to a paid subscription makes all the difference. Join our community to unlock the final, gripping chapters of this story.

  You can also show your support by treating me to a frappé coffee or buying me a book:

  Buy me a frappé coffee

  About the author

Read more

(στο τέλος θα βρείτε το κείμενο στα ελληνικά)

And, my God, what a song! It was so strange. Their sound is one of those things that, once you hear it, you cannot unhear it! For months, I searched the branches of trees to see what they looked like. I looked forward to being on the night shift and passing by spots where I had heard these specific birds, just to spend even a minute captivated by their sweet melody. I was entranced!

But there was a problem: I didn’t know what kind of bird sang in this way that had enchanted me, and I didn’t know where to look it up. It seems unbelievable to my children now, but Google was only a few years old and didn’t quite work the way it does now. Not to mention that back then, everyone used Yahoo. And, of course, there were no AI chatbots. However, the first blogs had timidly started to appear, and after a lot of searching, I stumbled upon one dedicated to birds. I sent a message describing what these pitch-black birds with the yellow beak and the dreamy song looked like, and I waited. Months later, when, to be honest, my obsession had faded, the answer arrived: a blackbird!

What a carefree time. For months, I was preoccupied with the singing of blackbirds, as their species turned out to be. It seems unbelievable now how few worries I had then. Work was tough but steady, friends were few but true, and the girls, young and willing. It was then that I hung out, among others, with my friend A. A fellow officer too, we’d been together since the academy, together during our field training on the island, together for our first posting in Athens.

A few years later, he met his future wife, got transferred to the city where he was born and raised, and our paths parted, as usually happens with adults. But the relationships formed in that critical age when a teenager becomes a man are relationships that last forever, especially when forged with shared values and ideals. That’s why A. was one of those people who, even though I only saw him in person once every few years and we only spoke on the phone a few times a year, whenever we did, we were 24 years old again, just like back then. Without a care in the world, other than tough shifts, a few good friends, and willing girls. Oh, and occasionally, some black birds singing beautifully.

But A. is no longer here. A few days ago, he decided to end his life after finishing his shift. I still have a hard time believing it. It feels like a cruel joke. It’s the kind of news that freezes you, that makes the carefree singing of that youth seem now like a distant, mournful echo. We met in person just a few weeks ago, only the two of us and a bottle of wine, like old times. We laughed, reminisced, described how we imagined our children’s future. Nothing gave me a clue as to what he might have had on his mind. But the guilt is eating me alive. It can’t be. I could have done something. I should have realized something. I should have told him something. Something.

Why? How does a human being, a man, a professional, reach this point? Unfortunately, the numbers are relentless and tell a truth that our society often pretends not to see. According to the most recent official data from the Suicide Observatory, almost 86% of the people who end their lives every year are men. The overwhelming majority. And when we talk about police officers, the percentages are even more crushing and disproportionately high, even for a sector predominantly served by men. Decades of statistics and studies, consistently point to law enforcement as a professional sector with disproportionately high suicide rates. Chronic exposure to trauma, constant stress, and exhausting shifts leave indelible marks.

But the root of the problem isn’t solely professional; it is deeply social. We grew up in a society that trained men to stifle their emotions. We learned not to talk about our problems, not to cry, not to bend, and above all, never to ask for help. Because a “proper” man always provides solutions; he is not part of the problem.

Today, the men of our generation are desperately trying to find their footing. They are redefining their roles in their friend groups, their families, at work. We have now realized the toxicity of the past and the things that were wrong. We try to be more emotionally open, to become affectionate fathers, good husbands, and fair professionals. But no matter how hard we try to shed the mentality of previous generations, some things are so deeply rooted within us that they cannot simply be erased by flipping a switch.

The cruelest irony is that the very same society asking us to change, expects us to be invulnerable rocks in times of crisis. To be the protectors. To endure everything without complaint. Especially for police officers, the uniform often becomes a heavy armor that traps the pain. The fear of stigma, the fear that asking for psychological help will get you labeled as “weak,” raises a wall of silence. As mental health professionals often point out, suicide in men is rarely an impulsive act. It is the tragic culmination of a long, silent agony. It is the dead end of a man who believed that the only “manly” solution was to suffer alone, because he was not given the right to ask for a helping hand. Until when?

It’s starting to get dark. I’m taking my son to football practice. Blackbirds have flooded the neighborhood with their song. “Look,” I tell him, “there it is! On that branch, do you see it? That black one! That’s the one making all that fuss!” We stop for a moment to take it in. It doesn’t matter if we’re 2 minutes late. Some things are more important.

I meant to text him that night, a few weeks ago. To tell him what a great time I had, just like the old days. That there are very few people in this world I share that kind of bond with, and they’re all far away. But I never did. I thought he might tease me for getting sentimental. And now... he is further away than ever. I guess the joke’s on me.

Please, speak. For the dead don’t hurt. It’s the ones left behind who hurt.

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(ακολουθεί το κείμενο στα ελληνικά)

Όταν Σκοτώνουν Τα Κοτσύφια

Για τον Α.

Πρόσεξα πρώτη φορά το κελάηδισμα των πουλιών, ένα ξημέρωμα πριν 20 χρόνια περίπου. Όχι ότι δεν είχα ξανακούσει πουλί να κελαηδά, μα φαίνεται πως δεν το είχα παρατηρήσει στ’ αλήθεια. Εκείνη την περίοδο, ως νέος αστυνομικός, έκανα πολλές νυχτερινές βάρδιες και συχνά βρισκόμουν 4 η ώρα το ξημέρωμα στη μέση του πουθενά, μόνος μου και το μοναδικό πράγμα που είχα να κάνω ήταν να ακούω τα πουλιά να κελαηδούν.

Και τι κελάιδισμα, Θεέ μου! Ήταν τόσο περίεργο. Ο ήχος τους είναι από τα πράγματα που αν τον προσέξεις, μετά δεν γίνεται να συγκεντρώσεις την προσοχή σου σε τίποτε άλλο! Για μήνες, τα έψαχνα στα κλαδιά των δέντρων για να δω πώς μοιάζουν. Ανυπομονούσα να είμαι βραδινός και να περνάω από σημεία που είχα ακούσει τα συγκεκριμένα πουλιά, ώστε να περάσω έστω και ένα λεπτό καταγοητευμένος από τη γλυκιά τους μελωδία. Ήμουν εκστασιασμένος!

Όμως υπήρχε ένα πρόβλημα: δεν γνώριζα ποιο είδος πουλιού κελαηδά με αυτόν τον τρόπο που με είχε μαγέψει και δεν ήξερα πού να το ψάξω. Στα παιδιά μου τώρα φαίνεται απίστευτο, αλλά το google μετρούσε μόλις λίγα χρόνια ζωής και δεν λειτουργούσε με τον ίδιο τρόπο που λειτουργεί τώρα. Άσε που τότε όλοι χρησιμοποιούσαμε το yahoo. Φυσικά, δεν υπήρχαν τα ai chatbots. Ωστόσο τότε είχαν αρχίσει να κάνουν δειλά - δειλά την εμφάνισή τους τα πρώτα blogs και μετά από πολύ ψάξιμο έπεσα πάνω σε ένα που ασχολούνταν με τα ελληνικά πουλιά. Έστειλα μήνυμα περιγράφοντας το πώς μοιάζουν αυτά τα κατάμαυρα πουλιά με το κίτρινο ράμφος και το ονειρικό κελάηδισμα και περίμενα. Μετά από μήνες, όταν πια μου είχε περάσει η εμμονή είν’ η αλήθεια, μου ήρθε η απάντηση: κοτσύφι!

Μα τι ανέμελη εποχή. Για μήνες ασχολούμουν με το κελάηδισμα των κοτσυφιών, όπως προέκυψε ότι είναι το είδος τους. Τώρα φαντάζει απίστευτο το πόσες λίγες έννοιες είχα τότε. Η δουλειά, δύσκολη αλλά σταθερή, οι φίλοι λίγοι και καλοί και τα κορίτσια, νέα και πρόθυμα. Τότε ήταν που έκανα παρέα μεταξύ άλλων με τον φίλο μου τον Α. Συνάδελφος κι αυτός, ήμασταν μαζί από την ακαδημία, μαζί και στην πρακτική στο νησί, μαζί και στην πρώτη τοποθέτηση στην Αθήνα.

Μετά από λίγα χρόνια, αυτός γνώρισε τη μελλοντική του γυναίκα, πήρε μετάθεση στην πόλη όπου γεννήθηκε και μεγάλωσε κι οι δρόμοι μας χωρίσανε, όπως γίνεται συνήθως με τους ενήλικες. Οι σχέσεις όμως που δημιουργούνται στην κρίσιμη ηλικία του εφήβου που γίνεται άντρας, είναι σχέσεις που διαρκούν για πάντα, ειδικά όταν είναι σφυρηλατημένες με κοινές αξίες και ιδανικά. Γι’ αυτό και ο Α. ήταν από τους ανθρώπους που παρόλο που τον έβλεπα πια μια φορά στα λίγα χρόνια από κοντά και μιλούσαμε μόνο λίγες φορές τον χρόνο στο τηλέφωνο, όταν αυτό συνέβαινε, ήμασταν πάλι 24 χρονών, σαν και τότε. Χωρίς έννοιες, παρά μόνο τις δύσκολες βάρδιες, τους λίγους φίλους και τα πρόθυμα κορίτσια. Α, και ενίοτε κάποια μαύρα πουλιά που κελαηδούν υπέροχα.

Ο Α. όμως δεν είναι πια εδώ. Πριν λίγες ημέρες αποφάσισε να βάλει τέλος στη ζωή του αφού τελείωσε τη βάρδιά του. Ακόμα δυσκολεύομαι να το πιστέψω. Μου φαίνεται σαν μια κακόγουστη φάρσα. Είναι από αυτά τα νέα που σε παγώνουν, που κάνουν το ανέμελο κελάηδισμα εκείνης της νιότης να μοιάζει πια με έναν μακρινό, πένθιμο απόηχο. Βρεθήκαμε από κοντά μόλις πριν λίγες εβδομάδες, οι δυο μας μόνο και ένα μπουκάλι κρασί, όπως παλιά. Γελάσαμε, αναπολήσαμε, περιγράψαμε το πώς φανταζόμαστε το μέλλον των παιδιών μας. Τίποτα δεν μου έδωσε να καταλάβω τι μπορεί να είχε στο μυαλό του. Με τρώνε όμως οι τύψεις. Δεν μπορεί. Κάτι θα μπορούσα να κάνω. Κάτι έπρεπε να καταλάβω. Κάτι να του πω. Κάτι.

Γιατί όμως; Πώς φτάνει ένας άνθρωπος, ένας άνδρας, ένας επαγγελματίας, σε αυτό το σημείο; Δυστυχώς, οι αριθμοί είναι αμείλικτοι και λένε μια αλήθεια που η κοινωνία μας συχνά προσποιείται πως δεν βλέπει. Σύμφωνα με τα πιο πρόσφατα, επίσημα στοιχεία του Παρατηρητηρίου Αυτοκτονιών για την Ελλάδα, σχεδόν το 86% των ανθρώπων που βάζουν τέλος στη ζωή τους κάθε χρόνο είναι άνδρες. Η συντριπτική πλειοψηφία. Και όταν μιλάμε για αστυνομικούς, τα ποσοστά είναι ακόμα πιο συντριπτικά και δυσανάλογα μεγάλα, ακόμα και για έναν κλάδο που στην πλειοψηφία τους υπηρετούν άντρες. Στατιστικές και μελέτες δεκαετιών, τόσο στην Ελλάδα όσο και παγκοσμίως, καταδεικνύουν σταθερά τα σώματα ασφαλείας ως επαγγελματικούς κλάδους με δυσανάλογα υψηλά ποσοστά αυτοχειρίας. Η χρόνια έκθεση στο τραύμα, το διαρκές άγχος και οι εξαντλητικές βάρδιες αφήνουν ανεξίτηλα σημάδια.

Αλλά η ρίζα του προβλήματος δεν είναι μόνο επαγγελματική, είναι βαθιά κοινωνική. Μεγαλώσαμε σε μια κοινωνία που εκπαίδευσε τους άνδρες να πνίγουν τα συναισθήματά τους. Μάθαμε να μη μιλάμε για τα προβλήματά μας, να μην κλαίμε, να μη λυγίζουμε και, κυρίως, να μη ζητάμε ποτέ βοήθεια. Γιατί ο άντρας ο σωστός, πάντα δίνει λύσεις, δεν αποτελεί μέρος του προβλήματος.

Σήμερα, οι άνδρες της γενιάς μας ψάχνουν απεγνωσμένα τα πατήματά τους. Επαναπροσδιορίζουν τον ρόλο τους στην παρέα, στην οικογένεια, στη δουλειά. Έχουμε πια αντιληφθεί την τοξικότητα του παρελθόντος και τα κακώς κείμενα. Προσπαθούμε να είμαστε πιο ανοιχτοί συναισθηματικά, να γίνουμε στοργικοί πατέρες, καλοί σύζυγοι και δίκαιοι επαγγελματίες. Όμως, όσο και αν προσπαθούμε να αποβάλλουμε τη νοοτροπία των προηγούμενων γενεών, κάποια πράγματα είναι τόσο βαθιά ριζωμένα μέσα μας, που δεν διαγράφονται απλώς πατώντας έναν διακόπτη.

Το πιο οξύμωρο είναι πως η ίδια ακριβώς κοινωνία που μας ζητά να αλλάξουμε, την ώρα της κρίσης απαιτεί από εμάς να είμαστε οι άτρωτοι βράχοι. Να είμαστε οι προστάτες. Να αντέχουμε τα πάντα αδιαμαρτύρητα. Ειδικά για τους αστυνομικούς, η στολή γίνεται συχνά μια βαριά πανοπλία που εγκλωβίζει τον πόνο. Ο φόβος του στίγματος, ο φόβος ότι αν ζητήσεις ψυχολογική βοήθεια θα θεωρηθείς «αδύναμος», υψώνει έναν τοίχο σιωπής. Όπως αναφέρουν συχνά οι επαγγελματίες ψυχικής υγείας, η αυτοκτονία στους άνδρες σπάνια είναι μια παρορμητική πράξη. Είναι η τραγική κατάληξη μιας μακράς, βουβής οδύνης. Είναι το αδιέξοδο ενός ανθρώπου που πίστεψε ότι η μοναδική «ανδρική» λύση ήταν να υποφέρει μόνος, γιατί δεν του έδωσαν το δικαίωμα να ζητήσει ένα χέρι βοηθείας. Ως πότε;

Έχει αρχίσει να σουρουπώνει. Πηγαίνω τον γιο μου στην προπόνηση του ποδοσφαίρου. Τα κοτσύφια έχουν κατακλύσει με το κελάηδισμά τους τη γειτονιά. Κοίτα, του λέω, να το! Σ’ εκείνο το κλαδί, το βλέπεις; Εκείνο το μαύρο! Αυτό είναι που έχει χαλάσει τον τόπο! Σταματάμε για λίγο να το απολαύσουμε. Δεν πειράζει να αργήσουμε 2 λεπτά. Κάποια πράγματα, είναι πιο σημαντικά.

Ήθελα να του στείλω ένα μήνυμα εκείνο το βράδυ, πριν από λίγες εβδομάδες. Να του πω πόσο ωραία πέρασα, ακριβώς όπως παλιά. Ότι υπάρχουν ελάχιστοι άνθρωποι σε αυτόν τον κόσμο με τους οποίους νιώθω αυτό το δέσιμο, και είναι όλοι τους μακριά. Αλλά δεν το έστειλα ποτέ. Σκέφτηκα ότι θα με πείραζε που έγινα συναισθηματικός. Και τώρα... είναι πιο μακριά από ποτέ.

Μίλα σε παρακαλώ.

Γιατί οι νεκροί δεν πονάνε. Αυτοί που μένουν πίσω είναι που πονάνε.

1018 24ωρη γραμμή παρέμβασης για την αυτοκτονία.

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Year 168 BC. Pydna, Macedonia. Perseus, the last king of the Antigonid Macedonian dynasty, watches his famous phalanx being crushed by the Roman legions of Aemilius Paullus. This battle seals the definitive end of the independent Macedonian state. Pydna will forever remain in history as the place where the epilogue of an empire was written. A century and a half earlier, on this exact same soil, another, equally dark epilogue had been written. An epilogue concerning the woman who was the wife of the man who birthed this empire, and the mother of the man who took it to the ends of the earth.

(στο τέλος του κειμένου, θα βρείτε το κείμενο στα ελληνικά)

Year 316 BC. Pydna, Macedonia. Since 323 BC and the death of Alexander the Great in Babylon, his generals have engaged in a bloody civil war of succession that will last for decades. Winter has paralyzed everything, and the city on the Aegean coast is slowly dying behind closed gates. Cassander, thirsting for absolute power over the throne in the original core of the Macedonian kingdom in the Greek mainland, has tightened the noose of the siege. Inside Pydna, the situation is described by ancient historians as an absolute nightmare. After seven months of siege, provisions have been exhausted. Soldiers slaughter horses and elephants to feed themselves. When those run out, people resort to eating corpses. In this setting of absolute destitution, Olympias, the woman who gave birth to the man who held the fate of the then-known world in his hands, and to whom many turned after his death to determine the line of succession, is forced to surrender. To persuade her, Cassander had promised her personal safety, without, however, making any promises regarding Alexander’s beautiful Bactrian wife, Roxana, and his son, Alexander IV.

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Yet, Cassander broke his promise. Searching for a way to legally get rid of Olympias, and knowing that if he ordered the execution of Alexander the Great’s mother himself, the Macedonian army, which deeply respected her, would likely mutiny, he organized a sham trial. She was condemned in absentia by an assembly influenced by Cassander’s rhetoric and the hatred of her victims’ relatives. And the list of them was quite long. Olympias had previously ordered the slaughter of at least a hundred prominent Macedonian aristocrats, including the murder of Cassander’s brother, Nicanor, as well as the eradication of Alexander’s half-brother, Philip Arrhidaeus, and his ambitious wife, Eurydice.

Olympias, however, was the Queen Mother. She outright rejected Cassander’s offer to flee and demanded what she had been denied: to appear before the Macedonians to stand trial and defend herself publicly. Cassander panicked. He knew the charisma of her voice and the almost religious reverence Alexander’s veterans held for her. He feared that if she spoke, the crowd would change its mind. Therefore, he gave the order to hand her over to the relatives of her victims.

Her sentence was death by stoning. When they surrounded her, she did not step back. She did not beg, she did not cry. She calmly arranged her hair, covered her face with her mantle, and took the stones standing up. She died exactly as she lived. Like a queen who never apologized for her courage and her cruelty.

To understand how she reached this bloody end, we must untangle the thread from the beginning:

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On a more personal level, the following text was published twelve years ago in an online literary magazine I was collaborating with at the time. It came to mind these past few days following the publication of my recent articles on Saint Philothei, the art related to Holy Week, and the differences between the Western and Eastern Churches. I also thought of it because of a series of Notes on the exact same subject, which prompted some people (mostly on other social media) to comment that I focus too much on religion—and specifically, on Christianity.

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Aside from the fact that they conveniently overlooked my recent piece on Hypatia and the way she was murdered, they also overlook the historical reality that the Christian Church, from the 5th century onwards, replaced the administrative structures in the territories of the collapsing Roman Empire. Not only did it contribute to the survival of the social fabric, but it also enabled the social mobility and visibility of groups that had been marginalized for hundreds of years—a point we analyzed in the Hypatia essay.

Finally, sparked by my latest essay on the 14 paintings related to Holy Week, some people also overlook the fact that art, as we know it today, evolved from and through religious art. The Byzantine iconographers and mosaicists, as well as the Italian masters of the Renaissance, were commissioned by the Church. How we got from them to the abstract art of Kandinsky and Mondrian, the cubism of Picasso and Braque, and the banana duct-taped to Cattelan’s wall, is another, highly fascinating story.

Thus, by studying the evolution of Christianity and Christian art, we are essentially studying the history of Western civilization as we know it today.

And I am not writing all this as a Christian—as you will see below—but as an archaeologist and art historian-to-be—if that counts for anything.

So, here it goes:

I am not sure if God exists or not. How could I be, anyway?

I have never met Him. I have never touched Him. I have never looked Him in the eye.

I have never spoken to Him.

Nor am I sure if the Church truly represents Him.

Actually, I am certain that the way the Church is structured today, there is very little chance it represents God, if He exists.

It’s hard to believe such a thing when, at seventeen, the priest turns you away—discreetly, of course—from confession because you tell him you’re in a relationship with a girl.

Or when a priest refuses to bury your friend who killed herself.

What I do know is that my soul finds peace every time I attend a church service.

Between the incomprehensible chants, the mystical atmosphere, and the intoxicating scent of frankincense and censers, I manage to clear my mind every single time, and I leave feeling lighter and relieved.

A necessary condition, of course, is not being trampled.

Which is hard on days with a massive turnout. But even then, I try.

I try to get into the spirit because, unfortunately, I rarely go to church, and I miss that feeling of religious reverence and devotion.

But this is something entirely personal.

I don’t expect you to understand it, let alone mock you if you aren’t overwhelmed by the same emotions as me every time you find yourself in a church.

Nor do I mock those who are certain (?) about the non-existence of God, considering them, for example, arrogant, haughty, and know-it-alls.

You see, there’s a massive difference that many people—on both sides—pretend not to understand: religious bigotry is one thing, and personal spirituality is another.

Religious bigotry (sanctimony)—that blind, toxic obsession with rules and dogma—is exactly what made that priest turn me away, or refuse to bury my friend. It’s the kind of fanaticism that drains people of their humanity.

On the other hand, what I feel when I walk into a church is a deep sense of spirituality. It’s a calm, personal connection to the mystery, the aesthetics, and the inner peace, without having to sign a contract of blind obedience. I take the reverence, and I leave the intolerance at the door.

And lastly, there is also religiophilia—or threskophilia, if we were to coin the Greek term. It’s that quiet respect for the religious feeling itself. The appreciation for the history, the cultural weight. That deeply human need to believe in something bigger, even if you don’t strictly follow the dogma.

That’s exactly why I get annoyed when some people try to make me feel bad about these deeply personal emotions that overwhelm me in church, especially when those people supposedly champion an ideology of tolerance, equality, respect for diversity, and the freedom to believe whatever one wants.

And if you are among them, and you do it to point out exactly the lack of the aforementioned virtues in the Church—the representative of a non-existent God—guess what: that makes you worse than those you mock and deride.

I may not know if God exists, but sometimes when I pass by a church, crossing myself comes naturally to me–well, it’s a Greek thing.

As a reminder to myself of how small I am before the vastness of the universe.

As a small token of humility.

There, another virtue. You failed the others... Do you have this one?

A Glimpse into the Atmosphere: The Hymns of Good Friday (If you would like to experience the atmosphere I described above, here are two of the most moving Good Friday hymns, performed by two of Greece’s most iconic voices).

1. “O Glyki Mou Ear” (O, My Sweet Spring) – Performed by Glykeria

Glykeria is one of Greece’s most acclaimed and emotionally expressive singers, known for her unique ability to bridge traditional, folk, and Byzantine religious music. O Glyki Mou Ear is a deeply poignant lamentation sung normally during the Good Friday service. It represents the Virgin Mary’s raw, maternal grief as she mourns over the lifeless body of her son, Jesus, calling him her “sweet spring.”

2. “Ai Geneai Pasai” (All the Generations) – Performed by Petros Gaitanos

Petros Gaitanos is a prominent Greek vocalist widely celebrated for his absolute mastery of Byzantine music and Orthodox hymns; his voice is virtually synonymous with the Easter period in Greece. Ai Geneai Pasai is a profoundly moving hymn sung during the procession of the Epitaphios (the symbolic wooden tomb of Christ). Its lyrics express how “all the generations” come together to offer their praise and mourning.

Until the next stack, ἔρρωσθε καὶ εὐδαιμονεῖτε.

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So… I did a thing. I applied for an MA in Education and Humanities using my first degree. Thus, whether it’s just the price of a single frappé coffee or a book, every contribution matters. Donations help cover research, writing, and the resources needed to keep sharing my passion for uncovering the past and bringing history, archaeology, and culture to life:

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As we go through Holy Week in the Orthodox Church, a period of deep devotion, inner reflection, and anticipation, and while the Easter celebrations in the Western Church have just concluded, I thought we could take a different, visual journey through the Holy Passion. Through the following paintings by master artists, I provide a brief description of what transpires each day, highlighting the thematic differences between the Western and Orthodox traditions during the first three days. It is a visual and spiritual journey from the entry into Jerusalem to the redemption of the Resurrection.

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If you are wondering why there is this divergence at the start of the week, the answer does not lie simply in the Great Schism of 1054, which in any case sealed this difference by cutting off any bridges of interaction. The essence lies in the fact that, over the centuries, the two churches developed entirely different psychological and theological approaches to the experience of the Passion among the faithful.

The West followed a linear, historical approach, influenced by Roman pragmatism. Later, during the Middle Ages, the emphasis was placed on the realistic representation of events. This continued into the Renaissance, which perhaps explains why iconography in the Western Church gradually drifted away from the transcendental, Byzantine style. The purpose of the Liturgy and of art was to accurately depict the biblical events for the illiterate believer. This is why the Western Holy Week liturgy invites the faithful to follow the events strictly chronologically, as witnesses: it places them in Jerusalem, right next to Jesus, “walking” in His footsteps, day by day, hour by hour, from the welcoming with palm branches (Palm Sunday) to the Crucifixion and Resurrection (Easter Sunday).

In the Eastern, Byzantine Rite, however, the approach is not strictly chronological, but parabolic, ascetic, and eschatological. Like we did with the Western iconography, we must keep in mind the Byzantine iconography that is preserved to this day in the East: the transcendent gold background, lack of realism and perspective, and minimal or entirely absent ornamentation. The Orthodox Church “suspends” historical time during the first three days to create a psychological and spiritual bridge. The goal is not merely narration, but the preparation of the soul to endure the Passion.

Unlock the final chapters:

• ​Beyond the Great Schism: We dive into the exact moment in history when the East and West truly parted ways, exploring how monks reshaped Christian art and worship, forever changing the way we experience the Holy Passion.

• 14 Masterpieces of the Passion: A daily visual journey through Holy Week guided by the brushes of El Greco, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and Dalí, contrasted beautifully with the metaphysical depth of Greek masters like Gyzis, Damaskinos and Tzanes. Together, we will trace the profound emotional shift from the suffocating darkness of Golgotha to the exquisite harmony of Raphael’s Resurrection and the lyricism of Titian.

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Once upon a time, there was Maria Anna Cecilia Sofia Kalogeropoulos. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, it is because she later chose to introduce herself to the world with the shorter, more elegant name: Maria Callas.

(To read the original text in Greek, scroll down)

Her story could easily begin exactly like a classic fairy tale, suspended somewhere between the Ugly Duckling and Cinderella. It’s a tale without wicked stepmothers or magic wands, but it features a swan who, before realizing her true nature, went through hell at the hands of her own mother and her peers. It is a story woven with exile, war, doubt, sweeping romances, and glory—so much glory. Ultimately, this fairy tale speaks of a voice welling up from the darkest depths of the human soul. And it is a voice that continues to touch millions of souls today, 49 years after her passing.

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Born in New York to Greek immigrants, little Maria was hardly the family favorite, no matter how much her imposing name suggested otherwise. While her American birth certificate originally registered her simply as “Sophie Cecilia Kalos”—as her father had already begun shortening their surname for ease in the US—her Greek Orthodox baptism bestowed upon her the lengthy combination “Maria Anna Cecilia Sofia Kalogeropoulos.” The sheer magnitude of this name reflected both the Western custom of multiple middle names and the immense, aristocratic social ambitions of her mother. Hidden within this long string of names was an ironic yet prophetic detail: the name “Cecilia” belongs to the patron saint of music. Despite this, growing up in the heavy shadow of her older sister, Jackie, who possessed the sociability and conventional beauty the era demanded, Maria experienced the cruelest form of rejection early on: the indifference of her own mother.

Evangelia Kalogeropoulos harbored no particular affection for that shy, introverted girl with the thick myopic glasses and extra weight. This lack of maternal acceptance seemingly opened a wound that never truly healed, driving young Maria to seek comfort in food, but also in an unexpected sanctuary: singing. The family’s “ugly duckling” discovered her ultimate weapon at an early age. It was a raw voice, yet one possessing such staggering intensity that it could make time stand still. Singing wasn’t just a talent; it was her lifeline, her way of demanding the love and attention she was starved of at home.

The family’s return to Athens in 1937, coinciding with the definitive collapse of her parents’ marriage, proved to be a critical crossroads. At the Athens Conservatoire, under the guidance of the great Spanish soprano Elvira de Hidalgo, her voice began to acquire technique and structure. History, however, had other plans. World War II and the Axis Occupation plunged Greece into absolute darkness. Survival became the sole objective, and art was transformed into a means of securing a plate of food.

Unlock the final chapters:

• The dark rumors of the Occupation: Callas’ relationship with the Nazis and the rift with her mother.

• The birth of “La Divina”: Her metamorphosis from duckling to swan and the “authoritarian” behavior.

• The ultimate price of fame: A scandal in Rome, the hostility of the press, and her tragic romance with Aristotle Onassis.

• An enduring legacy: The new Maria Callas museum in Athens, Angelina Jolie, and Callas as a symbol for women branded as “too difficult.”

• Finally: A curated multimedia archive featuring her most revealing English interviews, videos with her ultimate, signature performances and a Spotify best-of playlist, along with an exceptional Greek podcast and a historical Greek documentary.

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For the global significance of the Greek Revolution and the subsequent creation of the Greek state—the first national state in Europe—we’ve also talked in the past, but today Sir Roderick Beaton will take us through it. He’s the English academic I turn to as a source whenever I want to write about modern Greek history, along with Thomas Gallant and other Anglo-Saxon scholars—there’s a special magic in learning your country’s history from foreigners, because while they love Greece, they present its history without any sentimentality, objectively pinpointing the flaws of the Greeks.

Without further ado, Sir Roderick Macleod Beaton*, for Greece Is.

(you can find the text in Greek below translated by me)

Few realize the importance of the Greek Revolution of 1821 for the creation of nation states in Europe and around the world.

The 1821 Greek Revolution was the first national-liberal movement to succeed in the Old World of Europe – after that in the United States, more or less at the same time as similar liberation movements in South America (between 1811 and 1825), and before every one of the new nation-states that would soon become the norm throughout Europe emerged.

The ideological groundwork had been laid – mostly by thinkers writing in French and German – during the previous century. Greeks didn’t invent the nation-state. But it was in Greece and by Greeks that the experiment was first put into practice in Europe.

The French Revolution, which began in 1789, would more famously transform the political life of the continent, and perhaps of the world, in the long run. But after the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte, and after the Congress of Vienna had established an international order for the whole European continent in 1815, it looked very much as though the clock had been turned back to before 1789.

It was the revolution in Greece, that broke out in the spring of 1821, that began to change all that. The outcome of the Greek Revolution was the pivotal point on which the whole geopolitical map of Europe tilted away from the eighteenth-century model of multi-ethnic, autocratically ruled empires and towards the twentieth-century model of the self-determination of nation-states.

The London Protocol and the Birth of a Nation

One key date and event has often been overlooked or downplayed, even in histories of the Greek Revolution. The decisive moment came on 3 February 1830. It happened not on the battlefield or even in Greece at all, but in a dry conclave of dignitaries held at the British Foreign Office on Whitehall.

On that day the foreign ministers of Great Britain, France and Russia signed a document known as the “London protocol”. It declared, for the first time: “Greece will form an independent State, and will enjoy all those rights – political, administrative, and commercial – attached to complete independence”.

Greece (or Hellas/Ellada in Greek) was born at that moment and took its place on the political map of Europe. The Revolution wasn’t yet over – because it would take another two years for all the details to be worked out, including frontiers and the system of government. But that date in February 1830 marks the turning point.

After that, the list of new European states created on the same model is a long one: Belgium in 1831, Germany and Italy in 1871, Serbia, Romania and Montenegro in 1878, Bulgaria in 1908, Ireland in 1922, Turkey in 1923, to say nothing of the broader redrawing of the map of the continent in the wake of the two world wars and the Cold War of the twentieth century.

An Exceptional Nation State

The simple fact of this achievement has been missed by historians of Europe, and of the world, because their focus has always been on the bigger players further north and west: France, Germany, Italy.

For quite different reasons, this aspect of the Greek Revolution has also not, so far as I know, been properly recognized by Greek historians either. According to the well-established historical narrative that was consolidated by Spyridon Zambelios and Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos in the 1850s and 1860s, but goes back to the time of the Revolution, Greece was different. Greece was a special case.

Historians call this approach “exceptionalism”. Exceptionalism isn’t unique to Greece and Greeks. Far from it, that’s the thing about exceptionalism – actually, everybody does it.

The Greeks, so the story goes, had formed a nation since ancient times; the struggles of the 1820s had been about restoring that nation to its former, rightful condition; at the time and often thereafter, Greek independence would regularly be described as the “revival”, “regeneration”, or even “resurrection” of the ancient Hellenic civilization.

But the truth is that it wasn’t a restoration at all. The Greek nation-state that we know and love today and which was created out of the Revolution of the 1820s, is like nothing that had ever existed previously in the three-and-a-half-thousand-year history of the Greeks, as we know it through records preserved in their language.

The ancients, with their fixation on the “autonomy” of self-governing, mostly small city-states, never managed to make that leap. The Byzantine state, for all its fabled wealth, power and geographical reach, was something else again, and certainly never chose to define itself as “Hellas” or its people as “Hellenes”, as Greeks have done since 1821.

The nation-state that became a reality during the 1820s and 1830s was every bit as much of a novelty for Greeks – even if you accept the argument of Greek exceptionalism – as it was for the rest of the European continent at the time.

What made the Greek Revolution truly exceptional was that from the very start, it was never a matter for Greeks alone. In the very first declaration of independence, issued by Alexandros Ypsilantis at Jassy in Moldο-Vlahia on 24 February, under the headline “Fight for Faith and Fatherland”, the call went out to the “enlightened peoples of Europe”, who, “full of gratitude for the benefits bequeathed by our Ancestors to themselves, eagerly await the liberty of the Hellenes”.

A month later, in Kalamata, the leader of the Maniates, Petrobey Mavromichalis, addressed this appeal, which was published in several languages:

“We invoke therefore the aid of all the civilized nations of Europe, that we may the more promptly attain to the goal of a just and sacred enterprise, reconquer our rights, and regenerate our unfortunate people.”

The Revolution ultimately succeeded, after great sacrifices, because the wisest and most far-sighted of the Greek leaders during the 1820s saw the advantages of internationalizing their struggle. In this way, and through astute Greek diplomacy, the three great maritime powers of the day, Great Britain, France and Russia, became drawn into a conflict in which none of the three could afford to allow an advantage to either of the others.

When the three powers agreed in the spring of 1827 to send a joint naval taskforce into the Aegean, charged with enforcing a truce between the Greek revolutionaries and the Ottoman forces ranged against them, it was no surprise that the Greeks welcomed this sign of military intervention, while the Ottomans repudiated it. The unintended consequence was the battle of Navarino, which took place on 20 October that year.

The combined Ottoman and Egyptian fleets were all but destroyed by the guns of the British, French and Russian warships. It was a supreme victory for Greek diplomacy – since very few Greeks even had to take part, and very few Greek lives were lost.

Freedom

From that day, the success of the Greek Revolution was assured. But of course this came at a cost: the eventual settlement had been taken out of Greek hands. It was now up to the three Great Powers to find a resolution. And so that protocol came to be signed in London, on 3 February 1830.

The powers had already decided that the new state must be a monarchy, not a republic as its provisional constitution had declared. Prince Otto, the second son of the philhellene King of Bavaria, Ludwig I, was named as its first king (e.n. after the assassination of its first Governor Ioannis Kapodistrias). Frontiers for the kingdom were determined at the same time. These included only the southern half of mainland Greece as it is today, and those islands closest to it in the Aegean. Neither the Greeks nor the Ottomans had any say in these decisions.

At the time and for long afterwards, even today, many Greeks have felt sore at this outcome. What had been won fell some way short of the absolute ideal of “Liberty or Death” that so many had fought and died for. On the other hand, the revolution had begun with those appeals to the conscience of Europe. And if the outcome had little to do with conscience, and everything to do with geopolitical calculation, it also firmly integrated the newly independent state into the evolving geopolitics of the continent, and indeed of the wider world.

Greece is not alone, among theoretically and legally “sovereign” states, in having so often been obliged to surrender some elements of its sovereignty in return for the security of alliances with others, or for the sake of “protection” by others that are larger and stronger. In practice, in the modern world, all independent states do this, to varying degrees. This is why “America First” and Brexit have brought such havoc, and so little of the promised gains, to their respective nations.

When the future king, Prince Otto, arrived at Nafplio aboard a British warship on 6 February 1833, to a rapturous reception on the shore, the event marked a double first: the first Greek state in all the long history of the Greeks; and the first new nation-state to follow the example of the Americas and win recognition in the Old World of Europe.

* Sir Roderick Macleod Beaton (rod.beaton@kcl.ac.uk), FBA, FKC (born 29 September 1951) is a retired academic. He was a Professor of Modern Greek and Byzantine History, Language and Literature at King’s College London from 1988 to 2018.

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(ακολουθεί το κείμενο στα ελληνικά)

Η Ελλάδα έχει την πρωτοτυπία και στις δύο εθνικές εορτές της, την 25η Μαρτίου και την 28η Οκτωβρίου να γιορτάζει την έναρξη του πολέμου, όχι τη λήξη όπως συνηθίζεται στις περισσότερες χώρες. Για την 28η Οκτωβρίου και την είσοδο της Ελλάδας στον Β΄ Παγκόσμιο Πόλεμο, μιλήσαμε λίγο πριν λίγους μήνες στο The Good, the Bad and the Ugly Invader. Την 25η Μαρτίου εορτάζεται η έναρξη της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης το 1821. Για την ακρίβεια, οι Έλληνες είχαν αρχίσει τις εχθροπραξίες λίγες ημέρες νωρίτερα στην Πελοπόννησο (και λίγες εβδομάδες πριν στη Μολδοβλαχία-τη σημερινή Ρουμανία), αλλά η κυβέρνηση του (Βαυαρού) βασιλιά Όθωνα Α΄ το 1838 καθιέρωσε με διάταγμα την εθνική γιορτή στις 25 Μαρτίου, ημέρα μεγάλης θρησκευτικής εορτής, καθώς εορτάζεται ο Ευαγγελισμός της Θεοτόκου.

Για την παγκόσμια σημασία της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης και την επακόλουθη δημιουργία του ελληνικού κράτους, του πρώτου εθνικού κράτους στην Ευρώπη, έχουμε επίσης μιλήσει στο παρελθόν, αλλά σήμερα θα μιλήσει γι' αυτό ο Sir Roderick Beaton, ο Άγγλος πανεπιστημιακός στον οποίο προστρέχω σαν πηγή όποτε θέλω να γράψω κάτι για την νεότερη ελληνική ιστορία, μαζί με τον Thomas Gallant και άλλους αγγλοσάξωνες-έχει άλλη μαγεία να μαθαίνεις την ιστορία του τόπου σου από ξένους, γιατί ενώ τον αγαπάνε, έχουν την ικανότητα να την παρουσιάζουν χωρίς συναισθηματισμούς, εντοπίζοντας τα κακώς κείμενα όντας αντικειμενικοί.

Του Roderick Beaton* για το Greece is.

Λίγοι αντιλαμβάνονται τη σημασία της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης του 1821 στη δημιουργία εθνικών κρατών στην Ευρώπη και σε όλο τον κόσμο.

Η Ελληνική Επανάσταση υπήρξε το πρώτο φιλελεύθερο-εθνικό κίνημα που πέτυχε στην Παλαιό Κόσμο της Ευρώπης – μετά αυτό των Ηνωμένων Πολιτειών - περίπου την ίδια εποχή με παρόμοια απελευθερωτικά κινήματα στη Νότια Αμερική (μεταξύ 1811 και 1825), και πριν από την εμφάνιση όλων των νέων εθνικών κρατών που σύντομα θα γίνονταν ο κανόνας σε ολόκληρη την Ευρώπη.

Η ιδεολογική προετοιμασία είχε προηγηθεί – κυρίως από στοχαστές που έγραφαν στα γαλλικά και τα γερμανικά – κατά τον προηγούμενο αιώνα. Οι Έλληνες δεν εφηύραν το έθνος - κράτος. Αλλά ήταν στην Ελλάδα και από τους Έλληνες που το πείραμα αυτό εφαρμόστηκε για πρώτη φορά στην Ευρώπη.

Η περίφημη Γαλλική Επανάσταση, που ξεκίνησε το 1789, θα μεταμόρφωνε την πολιτική ζωή της ηπείρου και ίσως του κόσμου, πιο εντυπωσιακά. Αλλά μετά την άνοδο και την πτώση του Ναπολέοντα Βοναπάρτη, και μετά το συνέδριο της Βιέννης που καθιέρωσε μια διεθνή τάξη για ολόκληρη την ευρωπαϊκή ήπειρο το 1815, φαινόταν ότι ο χρόνος είχε γυρίσει πίσω πριν το 1789.

Ήταν η επανάσταση στην Ελλάδα, που ξέσπασε την άνοιξη του 1821, που άρχισε να αλλάζει όλα αυτά. Το αποτέλεσμα της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης αποτέλεσε το κομβικό σημείο πάνω στο οποίο γύρισε όλος ο γεωπολιτικός χάρτης της Ευρώπης, μακριά από το μοντέλο του δέκατου όγδοου αιώνα με πολυεθνικές αυτοκρατορίες που κυβερνώνταν αυταρχικά, και προς το μοντέλο του εικοστού αιώνα με την αυτοδιάθεση των εθνικών κρατών.

Το Πρωτόκολλο του Λονδίνου και η Γέννηση ενός Έθνους

Μια καθοριστική ημερομηνία και ένα γεγονός που συχνά παραβλέπεται ή υποβαθμίζεται, ακόμη και στις ιστορίες της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης: Η αποφασιστική στιγμή ήρθε στις 3 Φεβρουαρίου 1830. Δεν συνέβη στο πεδίο της μάχης ούτε καν στην Ελλάδα, αλλά σε μια ψυχρή σύνοδο αξιωματούχων που έλαβε χώρα στο Βρετανικό Υπουργείο Εξωτερικών στο Whitehall.

Εκείνη την ημέρα οι υπουργοί Εξωτερικών της Μεγάλης Βρετανίας, της Γαλλίας και της Ρωσίας υπέγραψαν ένα έγγραφο γνωστό ως «Πρωτόκολλο του Λονδίνου», το οποίο δήλωνε, για πρώτη φορά: «Η Ελλάς θα αποτελέσει ανεξάρτητο Κράτος και θα απολαμβάνει πάντα τα δικαιώματα – πολιτικά, διοικητικά και εμπορικά – που συνδέονται με την πλήρη ανεξαρτησία».

Η Ελλάδα γεννήθηκε εκείνη τη στιγμή και πήρε τη θέση της στον πολιτικό χάρτη της Ευρώπης. Η Επανάσταση δεν είχε ακόμη τελειώσει – καθώς θα χρειαζόταν άλλα δύο χρόνια για να διευθετηθούν όλες οι λεπτομέρειες, συμπεριλαμβανομένων των τελικών συνόρων και του συστήματος διακυβέρνησης. Αλλά αυτή η ημερομηνία του Φεβρουαρίου 1830 σηματοδοτεί το σημείο καμπής.

Μετά από αυτό, ο κατάλογος των νέων ευρωπαϊκών κρατών που δημιουργήθηκαν με το ίδιο μοντέλο είναι μακρύς: Βέλγιο το 1831, Γερμανία και Ιταλία το 1871, Σερβία, Ρουμανία και Μαυροβούνιο το 1878, Βουλγαρία το 1908, Ιρλανδία το 1922, Τουρκία το 1923, χωρίς να αναφερθούμε στην ευρύτερη επανασχεδίαση του χάρτη της ηπείρου μετά τους δύο παγκόσμιους πολέμους και τον Ψυχρό Πόλεμο του εικοστού αιώνα.

Ένα Ξεχωριστό Εθνικό Κράτος

Το επίτευγμα της Ελλάδας έχει διαφύγει της προσοχής των ιστορικών της Ευρώπης και του κόσμου, επειδή αυτή ήταν τους τελευταίους αιώνες ήταν στραμμένη στους μεγαλύτερους παίκτες πιο βόρεια και δυτικά: Γαλλία, Γερμανία, Ιταλία.

Για εντελώς διαφορετικούς λόγους, αυτή η πτυχή της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης δεν έχει αναγνωριστεί επαρκώς ούτε από τους Έλληνες ιστορικούς, απ’ όσο γνωρίζω. Σύμφωνα με την ιστορική αφήγηση που εδραίωσαν ο Σπυρίδων Ζαμπέλιος και ο Κωνσταντίνος Παπαρρηγόπουλος τη δεκαετία του 1850 και 1860, αλλά που ανάγεται στην εποχή της ίδιας της Επανάστασης, η Ελλάδα ήταν διαφορετική. Η Ελλάδα ήταν ειδική περίπτωση.

Οι ιστορικοί αποκαλούν αυτή την προσέγγιση «εξαιρετικισμό» (exceptionalism). Ο εξαιρετικισμός δεν είναι μοναδικός για την Ελλάδα και τους Έλληνες. Αντίθετα, αυτό ακριβώς είναι το θέμα με τον εξαιρετικισμό – στην πραγματικότητα, όλοι κάνουν το ίδιο.

Οι Έλληνες, σύμφωνα με την ιστορία, είχαν σχηματίσει έθνος από αρχαίων χρόνων· οι αγώνες της δεκαετίας του 1820 αφορούσαν την επαναφορά εκείνου του έθνους στην προηγούμενη, νόμιμη κατάστασή του· την εποχή εκείνη και συχνά μετά, η ελληνική ανεξαρτησία περιγραφόταν τακτικά ως η «αναβίωση», «αναγέννηση», ή ακόμη και «ανάσταση» του αρχαίου ελληνικού πολιτισμού.

Αλλά η αλήθεια είναι ότι δεν επρόκειτο καθόλου για παλινόρθωση. Το ελληνικό εθνικό κράτος που γνωρίζουμε και αγαπάμε σήμερα και που δημιουργήθηκε από την Επανάσταση της δεκαετίας του 1820, δεν έχει όμοιό του με τίποτε άλλο στην τρισχιλιόχρονη ιστορία των Ελλήνων, όπως την γνωρίζουμε μέσα από τα αρχεία που διασώζονται στη γλώσσα τους.

Οι αρχαίοι, με την εμμονή τους στην «αυτονομία» αυτοδιοικούμενων, κυρίως μικρών πόλεων-κρατών, δεν κατάφεραν ποτέ να κάνουν αυτό το άλμα. Το Βυζαντινό κράτος, με όλο του το θρυλούμενο πλούτο, ισχύ και εδαφική έκταση, ήταν κάτι εντελώς διαφορετικό – και ποτέ δεν επέλεξε να ονομαστεί «Ελλάς» ούτε τον λαό του «Έλληνες», όπως κάνουν οι Έλληνες από το 1821 και μετά.

Το εθνικό κράτος που έγινε πραγματικότητα κατά τη δεκαετία του 1820 και 1830 ήταν μία καινοτομία και για τους Έλληνες – ακόμη κι αν δεχτείς το επιχείρημα του της ελληνικής εξαίρεσης – όπως ήταν για την υπόλοιπη ευρωπαϊκή ήπειρο την εποχή εκείνη.

Αυτό όμως που έκανε την Ελληνική Επανάσταση πραγματικά ξεχωριστή ήταν ότι από την αρχή κιόλας, δεν υπήρξε ποτέ υπόθεση μόνο των Ελλήνων. Στην πρώτη διακήρυξη της ανεξαρτησίας, που εξέδωσε ο Αλέξανδρος Υψηλάντης στο Ιάσιο της Μολδοβλαχίας στις 24 Φεβρουαρίου / 8 Μαρτίου 1821, με τίτλο «Μαχού Υπέρ Πίστεως και Πατρίδος», η έκκληση απευθυνόταν στους «φωτισμένους λαούς της Ευρώπης», οι οποίοι, «πλήρεις ευγνωμοσύνης για τα οφέλη που κληρονόμησαν από τους Προγόνους μας, περιμένουν με λαχτάρα την ελευθερία των Ελλήνων».​

Έναν μήνα αργότερα, στην Καλαμάτα, ο ηγέτης των Μανιατών, Πετρόμπεης Μαυρομιχάλης, απηύθυνε αυτή την έκκληση, η οποία δημοσιεύτηκε σε αρκετές γλώσσες:
«Καλούμε επομένως σε βοήθεια όλα τα πολιτισμένα έθνη της Ευρώπης, ώστε να φθάσουμε πιο γρήγορα στον σκοπό ενός δίκαιου και ιερού αγώνα, να ανακτήσουμε τα δικαιώματά μας και να αναγεννήσουμε τον δυστυχισμένο λαό μας.»​

Η Επανάσταση τελικά πέτυχε, μετά από μεγάλες θυσίες, επειδή οι πιο σοφοί και προνοητικοί από τους έλληνες ηγέτες της δεκαετίας του 1820 είδαν τα πλεονεκτήματα του διεθνοποίησης του αγώνα τους. Με αυτόν τον τρόπο, και μέσω της διορατικής ελληνικής διπλωματίας, οι τρεις μεγάλες ναυτικές δυνάμεις της εποχής, Μεγάλη Βρετανία, Γαλλία και Ρωσία, εμπλέκονταν σε μια σύγκρουση όπου καμία από τις τρεις δεν μπορούσε να επιτρέψει πλεονέκτημα στις άλλες δύο.

Όταν οι τρεις δυνάμεις συμφώνησαν την άνοιξη του 1827 να στείλουν κοινή ναυτική αποστολή στο Αιγαίο, με εντολή να επιβάλει εκεχειρία μεταξύ των ελληνικών επαναστατών και των οθωμανικών δυνάμεων που είχαν απέναντί τους, δεν προκάλεσε έκπληξη που οι Έλληνες καλωσόρισαν αυτή την ένδειξη στρατιωτικής επέμβασης, ενώ οι Οθωμανοί την απέρριψαν. Το επακόλουθο άθελά τους ήταν η ναυμαχία του Ναβαρίνου, που έγινε στις 20 Οκτωβρίου του ίδιου έτους.

Ο τουρκοαιγυπτιακός στόλος καταστράφηκε σχεδόν ολοσχερώς από τα πυροβόλα των βρετανικών, γαλλικών και ρωσικών πολεμικών πλοίων. Ήταν η υπέρτατη νίκη της ελληνικής διπλωματίας – αφού ελάχιστοι Έλληνες χρειάστηκε να συμμετάσχουν, και ελάχιστες ελληνικές ζωές χάθηκαν.

Ελευθερία

Από εκείνη την ημέρα, η επιτυχία της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης ήταν εξασφαλισμένη. Αλλά φυσικά αυτό είχε κόστος: η τελική διευθέτηση είχε πια βγει από τα χέρια των Ελλήνων. Ήταν πλέον ευθύνη των τριών Μεγάλων Δυνάμεων να βρουν λύση. Και έτσι υπεγράφη εκείνο το Πρωτόκολλο στο Λονδίνο, στις 3 Φεβρουαρίου 1830.

Οι Δυνάμεις είχαν ήδη αποφασίσει ότι το πολίτευμα του νέου κράτους, έπρεπε να είναι είναι η μοναρχία, όχι η δημοκρατία που είχε κηρύξει το προσωρινό σύνταγμά του. Ο Πρίγκιπας Όθων, δεύτερος γιος του φιλέλληνα Βασιλιά της Βαυαρίας Λουδοβίκου Α΄, ορίστηκε πρώτος βασιλιάς του (μετά και τη δολοφονία του Έλληνα Κυβερνήτη Ιωάννη Καποδίστρια). Τα σύνορα του βασιλείου καθορίστηκαν την ίδια στιγμή. Αυτά περιλάμβαναν μόνο το νότιο μισό της σημερινής ηπειρωτικής Ελλάδας και τα πιο κοντινά νησιά στο Αιγαίο. Ούτε οι Έλληνες, ούτε οι Οθωμανοί είχαν λόγο σε αυτές τις αποφάσεις.

Τότε και για καιρό μετά, ακόμη και σήμερα, πολλοί Έλληνες ένιωσαν πικρία για αυτό το αποτέλεσμα. Αυτό που είχε κερδηθεί ήταν μακριά από το απόλυτο ιδεώδες του «Ελευθερία ή Θάνατος» για το οποίο τόσοι είχαν πολεμήσει και πεθάνει. Από την άλλη πλευρά, η επανάσταση είχε ξεκινήσει με αυτού του είδους τις επικλήσεις στη συνείδηση της Ευρώπης. Το αποτέλεσμα βέβαια είχε ελάχιστη σχέση με τη συνείδηση και πιο πολύ με πολύπλοκους γεωπολιτικούς υπολογισμούς, εντούτοις ενσωμάτωσε σταθερά το νεοαπελευθερωθέν κράτος στην εξελισσόμενη γεωπολιτική της ηπείρου, αλλά και του υπόλοιπου κόσμου.

Η Ελλάδα δεν είναι η μόνη περίπτωση, από τα «κυρίαρχα» κράτη, που τόσο συχνά έχει υποχρεωθεί να παραχωρήσει στοιχεία της κυριαρχίας της, σε αντάλλαγμα της συμμαχίας με άλλους, ή για χάρη της «προστασίας» από μεγαλύτερους και ισχυρότερους. Στην πράξη, στον σύγχρονο κόσμο, όλα τα ανεξάρτητα κράτη το κάνουν αυτό, σε διαφορετικό βαθμό. Γι’ αυτό το «America First» και το Brexit έφεραν τέτοια καταστροφή, και τόσο λίγα από τα υποσχεθέντα οφέλη, στους λαούς τους.

Όταν ο μελλοντικός βασιλιάς, Πρίγκιπας Όθων, έφτασε στο Ναύπλιο στις 6 Φεβρουαρίου 1833 με βρετανικό πολεμικό πλοίο, εν μέσω εκστασιώδους υποδοχής, το γεγονός ήταν εμφατικό για δύο λόγους: επρόκειτο για το πρώτο ελληνικό κράτος σε ολόκληρη την μακρά ιστορία των Ελλήνων, αλλά και το πρώτο νέο εθνικό κράτος που ακολούθησε το παράδειγμα των Η.Π.Α. και αναγνωρίστηκε στον Παλαιό Κόσμο της Ευρώπης.

Διαβάστε το πλήρες άρθρο στο Greece Is.

O Roderick Beaton είναι Άγγλος συνταξιούχος πανεπιστημιακός. Διετέλεσε καθηγητής Νεοελληνικής και Βυζαντινής Ιστορίας, Γλώσσας και Λογοτεχνίας της έδρας «Κοραής» (Koraes), στο Βασιλικό Κολέγιο του Λονδίνου (King's College London) από το 1988 έως το 2018.

And now, whenever we meet

Hypatia, the fearless, starry-eyed Idea,

we slaughter her, we hack her to pieces,

and - oh, the frenzy! - we throw her pieces to the street.

— Kostis Palamas, The Monks

(To read the original Greek text, scroll down)

In March 415 AD, Alexandria was a boiling intellectual cauldron caught between the twilight of Late Antiquity and the dawn of the Byzantine era. It was here that the Neoplatonic philosopher, mathematician, and astronomer Hypatia met her death at the hands of an enraged mob. The circumstances of her death continue to divide historians to this day, and it is exactly these circumstances that we will shed light on today. So, pour yourself something warm and settle in. We’re taking a deep dive into Late Antiquity’s fascinating world.

As March is Women’s History Month, I promised you in my last stack that I would dedicate it to some influential women in history whose work and overall stance remain exemplary today, reminding us why, centuries later, they deserve to be remembered.

Some of them, like Saint Philothei of Athens, are relatively unknown. Others, however, like Hypatia whom we will examine today, are famous—partly due to the importance and timelessness of their work (in this case, in the sciences), but also because Hypatia’s cinematic life specifically provided the perfect script for Hollywood, inspiring films like Alejandro Amenábar’s Agora (2009), starring Rachel Weisz.

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For the general public, the figure of Hypatia became synonymous with the film, which, although an excellent artistic creation, falls into a historical oversimplification: it presents Hypatia as the victim of a one-dimensional religious conflict.

But was that really the case?

From Diocletian to Theodosius II: The Necessary Historical Context

To understand the socio-political landscape of the time, we must look back at the Roman Empire’s path toward Christianization. Hypatia was born in 370 AD in a violently changing world. Sixty-seven years earlier, on February 23, 303, during the festival of the Terminalia, the Emperor Diocletian had issued an edict of persecution against Christians. But within a few decades, the persecuted would become the persecutors, and the intellectual haven of Alexandria would be torn apart by a ruthless struggle for power. To understand why Hypatia had to die, we have to look past the religious veil and expose the brutal socio-political reality.

Unlock the final chapters:

The Life and Death of Hypatia: A woman at the top of a male-dominated pyramid.

Visiting the Sources: What contemporary to Hypatia sources, historians, and her own students reveal about her life and the true circumstances of her death: Synesius of Cyrene, Socrates Scholasticus and Suda Lexicon.

The Forge of Byzantium: A new, Christian, Hellenized empire is being formed.

From Paganism to Christianity: A socio-political, rather than purely religious, transition?

A timeless legacy: The path toward women’s emancipation and scientific truth today. Why Hypatia matters.

(P.S. For my Greek readers, a full translation of the essay is included at the very bottom of the post).

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Today, we are traveling back to 16th-century Ottoman Athens. We will learn about a woman who was born into aristocracy and could have lived a life of quiet luxury and submission. Instead, she defied Ottoman pashas, fought the local elite, and built a sanctuary for abused and enslaved women.

Born Rigoula Benizelos, she was ultimately tortured to death for her defiance, only to be remembered by history as Saint Philothei.

Women like her are exactly why, on the 8th of March, we celebrate International Women’s Day, honoring the historical struggles of women for equal rights, suffrage, workplace equality, and freedom. From Aristophanes’ comedy “Lysistrata,” in which the women of Athens declare a sex strike and occupy the Acropolis to force the men to end the Peloponnesian War; to the Alexandrian mathematician, astronomer, and Neoplatonic philosopher Hypatia; from the first female historian, the Byzantine princess Anna Komnene, and the Athenian Saint Philothei, to the first female admiral in modern history, Laskarina Bouboulina, and the strikes of female factory workers in New York in 1857 up to the present day, this date remains an important reminder of the fight against violence, discriminations and the gender pay gap.

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To mark the occasion, I’ve chosen to highlight one of these remarkable women. I first encountered her story a few months ago while studying the Benizelos Mansion—the oldest house in Athens—as part of my course on Ottoman-era architecture. Since March is Women’s History Month, I plan to spend the coming weeks showcasing the lives of influential women to remind us why these celebrations still matter,, as even today, gender equality remains a goal rather than a given.

Saint Philothei of Athens (1522–1589) is one of the aforementioned women who stands out as an iconic figure. From a feminist perspective, she represents self-determination, female solidarity, and social subversion. Through her actions, Philothei did not confine herself to traditional religious duties; rather, she acted as a pioneering social activist who used her wealth to elevate the status of women, displaying a free spirit that refused to be trapped by the restrictions of her gender or the subjugated society she lived in, only to be tortured to death.

Before we delve into the details of her life, it is worth saying a few words about the historical context in which Saint Philothei lived, as this will make her actions and their significance much easier to understand.

Desecrating the dying body of the Byzantine Empire

Interestingly, the Ottomans did not conquer Athens from the Byzantines. From 1204 to 1456, Athens was under Frankish rule (Frankokratia) as the Duchy of Athens: After the Fourth Crusade, the de la Roche family (French, 1205–1308) became the first dukes, followed by the Brienne family (1308), the Catalan mercenaries (1311–1388) whose rule was notoriously oppressive, briefly the Navarrese Company (1390), and finally the Acciaiuoli (Italians from Florence, 1395–1456)—the family that lost the city to Omer Bey, Mehmed’s general, in 1456, a precursor to the Ottoman capture of the Acropolis fortress in 1458.

In late 1204, Boniface of Montferrat, military leader of the 4th Crusade, after sacking Constantiople and losing the title of Latin Emperor to Baldwin of Flanders, founded the Kingdom of Thessalonica and marched into southern Greece. He captured Athens, and the Franks proceeded to sack the city. The Church of Panagia Atheniotissa (the Virgin of Athens) inside the Parthenon was pillaged, and the metropolitan library with its precious manuscripts—curated by the Byzantine scholar and Metropolitan Michael Choniates—was completely destroyed.

Behind the paywall:

Athens of Knights and Sultans: The time when “French was better spoken in Greece than in France”!

The Benizelos Mansion: Athens’ oldest house and Saint Philothei’s ancestral home.

Philanthropy and resistance: How Saint Philothei’s work infuriated both Ottoman authorities and the local elite.

Martyrdom and a timeless legacy of emancipation: Why Saint Philothei is still relevant.

And finally: The dismissal hymn (apolytikion) dedicated to her—a hauntingly beautiful post-byzantine chant that will immerse you in a world of otherworldly serenity and profound devotion.

Unearthing the true, unfiltered history of Ottoman Athens and figures like Saint Philothei takes more than a quick online search. It requires many hours of meticulous research and on-site study—like that on the Benizelos Mansion—while I balance fatherhood, my work shifts, and my studies in archaeology. If you value this kind of authentic, deep-dive history and want to support the effort behind it, upgrading to a paid subscription makes all the difference. Join our community to unlock the final, gripping chapters of Saint Philothei's story.

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One year of Studying History. One year of documenting my belated academic journey. One year of capturing my love for history, archaeology, and culture. What started as a personal therapy session meant to be read by a few Facebook friends, has ended up being read by over 24,000 subscribers! And right when I started my studies in my 40’s as a hobby, paths I couldn’t have even imagined a year ago are suddenly opening up.

Over the past year, I tried to explain—first and foremost to myself—what pushes a man in his 40s to return to the classroom, using the quote of the ancient Greek lawmaker Solon, “I grow old always learning,” in a stack that was destined to become the “About the author” under every new stack of mine.

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Driven by a dialogue I frequently have with my children, I also explored the reasons why one should study history. That stack eventually got pinned to the homepage of my Substack. It might be simply put, yet I feel it captures my essence completely.

The stories I didn’t have time to turn into a separate stack, became hundreds (literally!) of Notes, where many times an interesting discussion takes place in the comments below, fueling new Notes and new stacks. Thus, we dealt with everything from Mycenaean swords and the evolution of ancient sculpture, to Baroque and modern art, classic literature and the visit of the Pope and the Patriarch of Constantinople to Nicaea, Turkey, or the origins of the true Santa Claus. Αt the same time, we have created a community in the subscriber chat room where we’re able to exchange thoughts in real-time, share our news and interesting finds, and dive deeper into the topics we love.

Out of the dozens of stacks I’ve written, my absolute favorites are the ones that use poetry to comment on current events, bring history to life, or simply describe how I feel—some of these are available exclusively to paid subscribers. Not only do your subscriptions and donations help me to keep my passion alive—uncovering the past and bringing history’s hidden gems to life, but they have one very practical impact: two months ago, I started my Master’s degree in Humanities and Teaching, building on the foundation of my first degree. With your support, you are literally helping me fund it, while I try to balance work, family, studies, and my love for writing.

To celebrate our 1-year anniversary and to thank you for being on this journey with me, I am offering a 24% discount for the next few days. If you enjoy my work and want to support my academic journey, this is the best time to upgrade! Further discount for annual subscriptions.

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Meanwhile, I got certified a few months ago in teaching Greek as a foreign language, and I’m dipping my toes into my next steps in the professional arena.

A lot of exciting things are in the works, starting with a series of articles on Ottoman Athens, as part of my academic research during the past six months on the subject. We’ll explore how a city with the heavy legacy of Athens lived under Ottoman rule for 400 years, only to become the capital of the newly founded Greek state. A history full of Ottoman Sultans, Byzantine aristocrats, Frankish and Italian lords, and even “feminists” who were canonized as saints.

One year later, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. With so many staggering events happening in the world lately, it seems Thucydides, the Father of (scientific) History, was right: history does repeat itself, and human nature remains the same throughout the ages. Ultimately, those who do study history are doomed to stand by helplessly while everyone else repeats it.

Stay tuned!

Whether it’s just the price of a single coffee or a book, every contribution matters. Donations help cover research, writing, and the resources needed to keep sharing my passion for uncovering the past and bringing history, archaeology, and culture to life:

Help me fund my MA in Humanities

About the author