17 December 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS and Hellenic Museum Director Vicki Yianoulatos delve the history of the Greek community in Victoria, at the State Library.

Even before John Batman strode ashore from the Rebecca in 1835 to establish the city of Melbourne, there was a Greek link to the town.

Tucked away somewhere in his luggage was a copy of Homer’s Odyssey. Undoubtedly a source of inspiration and courage for pioneers such as Batman, his copy now rests – signed in his own hand – in the State Library of Victoria.

It’s the only book in the State collection that was previously owned by the founder of the city, and it happens to have been written by a Greek.

Last week Neos Kosmos joined the Director of the Hellenic Museum Vicki Yianoulatos, as she was taken on a behind the scenes tour of the State Library’s Greek holdings, which span hundreds of years of European and local history.

Ms Yianoulatos is now in talks with the Library to design a program of collaboration between the Hellenic Museum and the State Library, in order to better enable the Greek community access to this vast historical record of itself.

“Something like this means so much to people like us,” says Ms Yianoulatos, “people who are stuck in this quagmire of, ‘are we Greek, or are we Australian?’”

The State Library’s collection of materials relating to the Melbourne Greek community is expansive. It ranges from some of the oldest existing printed Greek texts, to photographic archives and homegrown poetry from more recent times.

Most importantly, most people don’t realise the collection exists.

Being led through the Library’s cavernous halls and into the heart of its Greek-focused collection by Executive Director Michael van Leeuwen and Rare Printed Collections Manager Des Cowley, is a strangely moving experience. Laying eyes and hands on the centuries-old Greek-focused books, truly special.

One of the oldest and most important texts in the Library’s Greek holdings, dates back to the 1490s.

‘The Works of Aristotle’ was among the first books in the world to be commercially printed in Greek typeface. It was produced in Italy by Venetian printer Aldus Manutius in 1495, and can be viewed and read at the State Library.

“Where Manutius made all of his money was actually printing in Greek, all of the classic Greek texts,” Mr Cowley says.

“All the students in Italy at the time, doing their Classical education, were actually reading people like Aristotle and Plato in Latin.”

Manutius had the idea of returning to the source, so he began to print all the classical works in their original form.

“It was a huge task because…he had to get letters cut and set in metal to be able to typeset it, letter by letter. Then he had to get compositors that could actually do all that work, he had to get proofreaders – a whole army of Greek people working for him,” Mr Cowley says.

The Library also has in its collection a swathe of historical records from the period of The Grand Tour – when well to do Britons and Frenchmen would travel to Greece and Italy in pursuit of classical enlightenment.

This was the period in which classicism became trendy, and treasure.

One such work is ‘The Antiquities of Athens’ by James Stuart, written and illustrated in five volumes. It documents every classical building and sculpture still standing in Athens in 1794, and has helped shape our understanding of what buildings such as the Parthenon looked like, pre-Elgin.

Another important work is the catalogue of William Hamilton’s art collection – a massive four-volume work that documents each piece in his collection as a hand-coloured, pressed engraving.

There’s also a 1574 atlas by Abraham Ortelius, one of the first atlases printed in book form.

Perhaps the peak in the crown of the Library’s Enlightenment period collection is the Flora Graeca, or The Plants of Greece, a gloriously detailed account of a horticultural study conducted by John Sibthorp and Ferdinand Bauer in the 1780s.

According to Mr Cowley, Bauer provides another very early historical link between Greece and the state of Victoria. Bauer was both the illustrator of the Flora Graeca and the botanical artist who sailed with Captain Matthew Flinders aboard the Investigator, to survey the Australian coastline in 1801.

“This is one of ten volumes, and it was only published in 25 copies. It was the most expensive botanical book ever produced,” Mr Cowley says.

“We bought it 1930. We were really lucky to be able to get one because it’s one of the rarest of all botanical books. We paid a fair bit but it was worth it because one hasn’t come on the market ever,” he says.

The Library’s passion for classical works, and its belief in the importance of studying them, stems from its founder Sir Redmond Barry.

Sir Redmond is inextricably tied to the foundation of Melbourne, not least for presiding as judge over the trials of Ned Kelly and the miners at the Eureka Stockade.

“He wanted to raise the education standard of Victorians,” Mr Cowley says. “One Journalist commented when the library opened, that there were walls and walls of classical learning, from Greece and Rome…which of course the average punter in Victoria had no interest in.”

“There was nothing on sport and no popular novels in the Library’s collection,” he says.

Beyond the library’s classical holdings, there is a seemingly endless archive of local Greek community materials.

Among them, the State Library has every copy of every major Greek community newspaper printed, since printing began. All are available, either in original or digital formats, for public viewing.

Flicking through one, a beautiful broadsheet called the National Bugle from the 1920s, uncovers the daily existence of some of the earliest Greek migrants to Melbourne. Births, deaths, marriages, festivals and politics – nothing really changes.

The Library’s print collection also contains some more recent contributions, including limited edition works by poet Dimitris Tsaloumas and illustrator George Matoulas.

Delving further into the archives reveals photographic documentation of the Greek community’s entire existence in Melbourne and Victoria.

Pawing through the Library’s photo collection with white-gloved hands, Picture Librarian Madeleine Say shows Ms Yianoulatos pictures of a 1920s fruit store in Bourke St, and a 1980s kafeneio full of men playing backgammon in Brunswick.

Gazing into the images Vicki Yianoulatos recognises aunts, uncles, political figures and others that have contributed to the Greek community over the past century.

It’s here that the real poignancy of what the State Library has achieved by establishing it’s immeasurable collection, shines through. It’s a window to ourselves.

The Hellenic Museum is now in discussions with the State Library to establish the terms of collaborative future projects, with the aim of putting some of the Library’s Greek collection on display, and making it more accessible to the Greek community.

“I’d be really eager to do something together, because I daresay that I doubt many young Greek Australians would have any interaction with the State Library otherwise,” said Ms Yianoulatos.

The museum is believed to be considering first hosting a photographic exhibition, which will encourage young Greek Australians to engage with the community’s history in Victoria.

The Library’s entire Greek collection is available for viewing by the general public.

22 October 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

Just inside the walls of old Lefkosia, on the south side of the Green Line, lies Plateia Eleftherias, Freedom Square. It was named this in 1974 as an appeal to the future freedom of Cyprus.

On the northern side of the divide Ozgürlük, Hürriyet and Istiklâl streets speak of the same desire for freedom.

Today that freedom remains but a dream, as Lefkosia remains the world’s last divided capital city.

Despite countless rounds of talks, a UN-imposed military exclusion zone still separates the feuding Turkish-Cypriot north and Greek-Cypriot south, cutting an imposing line through the city.

Walking through the streets of south Lefkosia, there’s an air of tension. It’s like everyday life here runs on a knife-edge, the ever-present fear of the ‘other side’ always threatening to escalate to violence.

Even more threatening are the machine-gun wielding guards sat in concrete bunkers dotted along the Line, ensuring that people on both sides don’t end up where they don’t belong.

In reality the likelihood of violence is incredibly slim.

“My job is pointless,” one young Greek-Cypriot border guard tells me. “No one ever tries to cross the Line,” he says.

However unlikely, the patchwork of concrete-filled barrels, improvised rock walls, hurricane wire fences and razor wire that form the Green Line create a threatening affront to those that seek it out.

The buffer zone itself is eerily quiet. Frozen in time, construction projects started in 1974 stand as they were abandoned by the fleeing Cypriots, houses and cars rust and decay. Every obstacle in the exclusion zone has been labelled for viewing through binoculars and the walls are covered in signs prohibiting photographs.

The buildings entombed in the wound cutting through Lefkosia are pock-marked with bullet holes, their windows shot out. Surveillance cameras monitor every movement.

It’s a dead-silent battle zone, and it’s stood that way for 37 years.

The facts of the division of Cyprus are, of course, disputed. As such it’s near impossible to ascertain an objective account of exactly what happened in the period 1964-74. Even official websites take jibes at the other side and throw about thinly veiled propaganda in a bid to win the sympathies of the international community. It’s difficult to know what to believe.

Despite all the ‘he said, she said’ it’s generally accepted that inter-communal violence between Greek and Turkish Cypriots, sparked by disputes over constitutional reform, ultimately led to a pre-emptive invasion of northern Cyprus by Turkey on 20 July 1974.

The casualties of this decade of conflict include thousands of Greek and Turkish-Cypriots killed, wounded or missing, and hundreds of thousands displaced. Many Cypriots are still unaccounted for today.

Despite countless rounds of talks, as yet no formal solution to the Cyprus problem has been found, though it’s fairly clear to those involved that the framework has already been laid, and that the final steps are purely political.

According to island-wide research conducted by the Cyprus 2015 organisation – co-chaired by Greek-Cypriot and Turkish-Cypriot academics – the only option for a solution in Cyprus is a bi-zonal, bi-communal federation. In other words, a unified Cyprus will actually take the form of two separate states, operating under one federal government.

This is considered the only option because a recent Cyprus 2015 opinion poll shows that Greek-Cypriots prefer a unitary state, where their majority can rule. Conversely, Turkish-Cypriots prefer a two state solution, where they have a chance at self-governance. The only point of convergence between the two sides is that they both consider a bi-zonal, bi-communal federation ‘tolerable’.

To the observer however, the establishment of a bi-zonal, bi-communal federation appears to formally abolish the the Green Line, while keeping most of its divisive restrictions in place. It begs the question, do Cypriots really want a solution?

In recent times there have been some, at least cursory moves towards reunification. Apart from the ongoing talks, the opening of several border crossings has made movement between the north and south of the island relatively painless. In 2008 the Ledra Street crossing in the centre of old Lefkosia was opened as a ‘goodwill gesture’. Today it has become one of the most important tourist attractions in the city.

The practice of crossing is surprisingly simple, despite the abundance of high-powered weaponry at nearby surveillance points. Security at the border crossings is as strict – or as lax – as any other European Union border crossing. It’s as simple as a stamp on a piece of paper on entering the self-proclaimed Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC, recognised only by Turkey), and a flash of a passport on the way back out.

There are few customs checks, with the exception of the Greek-Cypriot customs officers apparently taking great joy in confiscating counterfeit handbags often carried across the Line by ill-informed tourists.

More than it is logistically difficult though, for many Greeks and Greek-Cypriots crossing into the north is ethically difficult. Most Greek-Cypriots that I spoke to bluntly refuse to cross the Line.

“I won’t go there out of protest,” one man, named Ilias, told me.

“I hate them,” another man said of the ‘Turks’ that live on the other side.

The Turkish-Cypriots I asked described their feelings in milder terms.

“It’s difficult for us,” a taxi driver named Yunus told me. He said the reception Turkish-Cypriots receive in the south is often less then friendly.

Of course this acts as a dagger to the heart of reunification talks, given that for any solution to be achieved, the respective leaders – Christofias and Talat – must first convince their constituents that any political solution that is found, is also a favourable social solution. No easy feat, given the open disdain projected across the Green Line.

For me – a non-Cypriot Greek-Australian – crossing the line became an issue of curiosity.

Crossing through the Ledra Street checkpoint is like passing through a time warp.

On the south side of the Line, Lefkosia has boomed into a bustling European city that stretches for miles beyond the old city walls. On the north side, isolation from the rest of the world has left Lefkosia effectively stuck in 1974. The Turkish-Cypriot side presents a sparkling facade for tourists, but beyond it lies a dusty, dirty, derelict old town and a stagnant new town.

Moving beyond the city limits reveals a new set of complications. Entire towns abandoned by fleeing Greek-Cypriots in 1974 have been claimed, renamed and occupied by Turkish-Cypriots, many of whom have migrated from mainland Turkey in the period since 1974. This gives rise to one of the most hotly disputed issues in the reunification talks, the issue of property ownership.

The political solution to this problem has apparently already been found, with a joint governmental advisory group devising a three-step mechanism to either return a property to its original owner, exchange it for another, or provide financial compensation. But whether this political solution will be received positively by the population is still to be tested.

The property issue is further compounded by the fact that vast parts of northern Cyprus – particularly in the coastal areas between Famagusta, the Karpas peninsula and Kyrenia – have been developed into housing and sold, mostly as cheap holiday investments to overseas buyers.

Despite this, the two major towns in the north, Famagusta and Kyrenia, have been well preserved and their medieval fortifications speak of conflicts that reach far further into history than the current calamity.

Perhaps Cyprus, where power has changed hands between countless rulers throughout history, is destined to spend eternity in the grips of a political deadlock.

For now, Cypriots on both sides of the divide have no choice but to continue to dream of the freedom they say they want, but might never have.

17 September 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

In Istanbul there are no Greeks, just Romans. In 2011 they’re engaged in a fight to survive, and the humble rebetiko is leading the way.

In the dirty, smoky rebetiko bars of Istanbul, a movement is forming. It’s an attempt to revive the city’s ailing Greek Orthodox community, with the help of music.

This unofficial movement is being led by Greek political scientist and musician, Haris Rigas. On a steamy summer’s day we meet at a bar in the backstreets of Beyoglu, Istanbul’s teeming social hub.

The city itself is a burgeoning mass of historical and cultural cosmopolitanism, at the meeting point of Europe and Asia, where Greeks have existed for centuries. As a Greek Australian its impossible not to feel a sense of belonging here, an irresistible mystical allure.

“You know, there are two words for ‘Greek’: there’s ‘Romios’ – which comes from ‘Roman’, and its more of a religious term, it means a Greek orthodox person – and there’s ‘Ellinas’, which gained ground after the revolution and it refers back to Ancient Greece, rather than medieval Hellenism,” Rigas says.

“Now these people living here [in Istanbul], they call themselves ‘Romioi’, because at the forefront of their identity is religion, secondarily language and ethnicity. So the turks call them Rums.”

In 2011, the Rums (pronounced ‘Rhoums’) constitute a very minor minority in Istanbul, and they’re engaged in a fight to survive.

The 20th century was a tumultuous one for the Rum community. The 1922 treaty of Lausanne resulted in millions of ethnic Greek Orthodox from across Turkey being uprooted and deported, though the Istanbul Greeks were allowed to stay due to their substantial historical ties to the city.

In 1932 a law was passed excluding Greeks from some 30 professions, thus restricting their influence on Istanbul society.

In 1955 up to 300,000 Turks perpetrated a violent pogrom against the Rums of Istanbul, killing up to 17 people and destroying more than 5000 Greek-owned properties, including  more than 4000 homes, 1000 businesses, 70 churches, 2 monasteries, 1 synagogue, and 26 schools.

As a result of the pogrom the Greek Orthodox population of Istanbul was reduced from more than 65,000 in 1955 to about 49,000 in 1960. In 2011 the city’s Greek Orthodox population sits at around 2500, mostly older people.

“In many ways this community is … frozen in the Ottoman period, so when you speak to the Greek Orthodox here, they have an alternative geography of the city, they have their own Greek names for almost every single street. So its like a time machine…when you come to the city, you go back in time,” Rigas says.

Historically, the Rums are inextricably entrenched in Istanbul. This ethnic group has been here since Byzantine times, yet according to Rigas, in 2011 – after centuries of political and cultural transformation – the Rums are being denied their basic human rights, living in fear and paranoia. This is putting them at serious risk of dying out.

However despite the odds being stacked against them, Rigas says there is room for the Istanbul Rum community to take some steps towards self-determination. Introversion, he says, is something to be avoided.

“Its something of a reflex … but i don’t think it works any more. Being introverted and conservative will just lead to the end of this community. It has to claim its role actively in the Turkish society,” he says.

“This community used to be at the forefront of Turkish society – the best doctors, the best architects, the best artists worked in this community, and now they’re just a relic. I think if they keep being a relic, they will disappear. If they become active and engaged they will prolong their existence here at least some generations.”

Fortunately, political developments in the past decade have created a more amiable environment in which to try to stage such a community comeback. Rigas says that a combination of factors, including the Greek-Turkish rapprochement and a gradual domestic political shift towards democratisation has changed the game for the Rums and other minority communities in Turkey.

“You go around here in Beyoglu and they’re playing Kurdish music on the streets, ten years ago that would have been inconceivable,” Rigas says.

“Ten years ago the Greeks would … hardly ever speak Greek in public, now they do,” he says.

In this environment of social and political reform arises an opportunity for a resurgence. Part of that resurgence lies in the resurrection of the rebetiko, the urban blues of the Greek and Turkish underclasses, led by Rigas’ band Tatavla Keyfi.

Formed in 2008, the band was named to include both Greeks and Turks, to reflect the commonality of the music’s origins.

“Tatavla is the name of a very important neighbourhood of Istanbul, today it’s called Kurtulus but until the 50s it was almost like a Greek ghetto. In the Ottoman period it was an area where if you weren’t Greek Orthodox you couldn’t settle, and it was one of the heartlands of rebetiko,” Rigas says.

“Keyfi also is a common word. In Greek we say ‘kefi’, in Turkish we say ‘keyf’, which means something like fun, but of course its one of those untranslatable words in both languages.”

“In Greek it has more the meaning of huge fun, outrageous fun, like you’re drunk, dancing on tables, breaking plates, whatever. But in Turkish its a more calm state, a state of contemplation, enjoying a view, sipping a bit of tea. Pleasure, simple pleasure,” he says.

Rebetiko was born at a time of social struggle for both Greeks and Turks, in the aftermath of the First World War, the Treaty of Lausanne population exchange, the birth of the modern Turkish nation and the rule of Metaxas in Greece.

“From a sociological point of view its the exact equivalent of the blues, what the blues were for America, is what rebetiko is for Greece, and for a great part of what is today Turkey. So it’s basically music of the underground, it’s urban music…it’s the music of petty bourgeois workers…it’s related to gays, to narcotics, prostitution, all the sorts of activities that were typical of the very lowest strata of an urban setting from the middle of the 19th century to the middle of the 20th [century],” Rigas says.

“Istanbul, Izmir (Smyrni), Athens and New York are the birthplaces of … different schools of rebetiko. If you look at the major artists, even the ones that became very big in Greece, half of them were born here and had their first performances here,” he says.

The commonalities between Greek and Turkish rebetiko are often indistinguishable beyond language, Rigas says, which gives the audience a point of reference from which to relate to the band and the music.

“Many classical rebetiko songs have an equivalent in Turkish, so this is a good starting point for us. We usually sing the song in both Greek and Turkish, the lyrics are often the same, sometimes they can be different but doesn’t matter, its a way to establish contact with the viewer,” he says.

“They’ve been very receptive, they really like them … so we’ve created a bit of a community of very different people from very varied backgrounds, both ethnically, ideologically, socially that have a common interest about this music, about this city’s past.”

Within this community, a relationship of common recognition and learning has begun to develop, according to Rigas, which is helping to bolster the Rum community in Istanbul, and pass on its traditions to the younger generations.

“For us its very touching when local Greeks come, of a certain age, and they remember how it used to be in the old days, and they make requests and dance. This is also important for us, because it’s part of the transmission of know-how, which otherwise would have been lost.”

“For example the way that Istanbul Greek Orthodox dance certain dances is completely different to the way they dance them in Greece, where they’ve been folklorised to some extent.”

“Its a community of knowledge also, so this old guy comes, he dances, he shows us how he dances it, makes corrections, he says ‘this is an Istanbul song but this is not how we sing it, this is how you sing it in Greece’, so its very exciting,” Rigas says.

Ultimately however, rebetiko in Istanbul is working as a part of the mission to bridge the incongruous gap between the few remaining Greek Orthodox Rums, and the city that they have inhabited for centuries.

“It unites people but it does it through the unconventional part [of their brain], it brings out the unconventional part of your mind, the things that you normally wouldn’t say. Also it also brings a lot of ecstasy, the way you dance rebetiko music, its an ecstatic dance, its not the kind of silly dance in the club with your mates, getting drunk. There’s something ritualistic about the way you dance this music, so it goes deep, so its not just casual fun.”

“I don’t know what it is about rebetiko … it’s not that its revolutionary music at all, but it looks at the world from a  certain tilt … and a certain irony … its just the average person on the street saying universal truths, like how unfair the world is, how important money is. These have a class value, whatever society you belong to, they apply somehow.”

10 August 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

There’s something strange happening in Syntagma Square.

Here, in the heart of Athens, in the shadows of the halls of power where the official politics are done, an unofficial parliament has gathered.

They’ve been living here since May, refusing to leave until the problem is solved.

The problem is the omnipresent economic and political crisis that Greece is enduring. The resolution is yet to be found, yet here, democracy is in action, the people are having their say.

The square itself is full of tents. Pitched in the shade of the trees are tents for sleeping, eating and discussing. There are information tents, propaganda tents and even a radio station tent.

The people that inhabit these tents are called the ‘Indignants’ – a raggedy, semi-organised collective of leftist organizations, doing what they do best – talking.

It’s impossible to put a number on exactly how many people there are living here, it could be a hundred, maybe more or less, but every patch of dirt is covered by a tent.

It’s also difficult to ascertain exactly who is represented here. It appears that the regular activist types are here, the unemployed are here, and occasionally a smartly dressed professional appears.

This last group tends to appear during the evening, when the ‘Indignants’ begin to gather for the evening’s ‘people’s assembly’.

They are relatively well organized with a group called Real Democracy Now taking control and dividing them into groups, based on their professions and skills.

The idea is that the protesters spend their days discussing and debating the issues they are assigned, before bringing their findings and resolutions to the assembly.

Around 8pm the teams start to gather in groups around the tents and about an hour later they are invited to bring their discussion points to the assembly, which is meant to be gathered in the middle of the square, though on the evening that I attend – a balmy evening in late July – they take their time.

9:30pm rolls around and still nothing has happened, despite the urgings of one of the organizers, who becomes so agitated that he places the teams’ unwillingness to attend the assembly on the agenda for discussion.

When the teams finally arrive, the assembly begins. A small crowd of about fifty people sits and stands in a semi-circle around a solitary microphone, in a scene reminiscent of what the nearby rock of Areopagus must have looked like in ancient times.

The first speaker, from the Artists Team, comes forward and proposes that the assembly adopt as their anthem The Song of the Square, a song recently recorded by veteran Greek rocker Vasilis Papakonstantinou, a supporter of the cause.

This proposal is then opened up to discussion, questions and rebuttal. One critic stands up and queries the ethics of accepting donations from one of the ‘filthy rich’ that many Greeks blame for the current crisis.

“We’re not forcing him into any sort of economic involvement, more that we’re inviting him to become actively involved, as if to say, ‘come friend, sing with us…we don’t want your money, just come along’,” the original speaker says.

Ultiamtely a vote is held, though the outcome in this case is unclear.

Members of the assembly cast their vote by a gesture of the hand. Thumbs down means the proposal is rejected, fluttering fingers means the proposal is approved, and rolling hands signals ‘we’ve heard this before’.

Another man stands up and argues the point further, suggesting that perhaps it would be best not to reject the contribution of a successful artist who has the ability to fill concert halls and assist the cause. His words are met with thumbs down.

The forum continues in this manner for hours with team after team presenting their points, questions being asked, and votes being held.

It’s real democracy – governance by the people – though it’s questionable whether the resolutions made here hold any potency, whether the passion and determination of these people even registers with the official lawmakers.

Then, suddenly, I am approached by one of the organizers, and asked to stop recording the assembly. After a brief discussion about the undemocratic nature of the control of information, the assembly’s collective skepticism towards the press becomes clear.

“We do not control the information, the information is [on our] sites for everybody to see and read, so whoever really wants to get the information, the information is there,” the woman, who identifies herself only as Maria, says. I stop recording.

It’s easy to think negatively about what’s happening in Syntagma Square.

It’s easy to be skeptical about the potential for any such action to result in tangible change.

It’s exceptionally easy to brand these ‘Indignants’ useless bludgers who are using the economic crisis as an excuse to sit around the square, purporting to be doing something constructive.

However, at least they appear to be doing something, something active, and something that they deem real, even if it is just a bunch of people sitting around a square chatting.

After all, it’s from little things that big things grow.

According to the Real Democracy Now website, police entered Syntagma Square in the early hours of Sunday 31 July, destroying tents and taking protesters into custody.

The site also alleges that those taken into custody have been denied legal counsel.

www.real-democracy.gr

Text by Mike Sweet.

21 May 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

“When the Greeks were invaded by the Germans I was standing up on the Acropolis watching the harbour being bombed.”

Basil Hayler, now 89 was a 19 year-old sailor on the Australian warship HMAS Perth when he watched the bombs rain down on Athens in 1941.

His actions and sacrifices, along with the thousands of other Anzacs who served in Greece in World War II, helped to ensure that we now live in a vibrant, democratic and culturally diverse nation.

Gordon Beal, now 92, sailed into Piraeus as a member of the 2^nd/8^th Australian Field Engineers. In the same flotilla was Tom Morris, now 94 but then an infantryman in the 2^nd/5^th Battalion.

“By the time we got to Piraeus, it had been badly bombed by the Germans,” says Mr Beal.

“The scheme was for everybody to get to Salonika but by then the Germans were already [there]. But we did get as far north as Elasson. From there we were put into the mountains where the infantry had formed a line.”

Tom Morris was in that line.

“Word came through we were to retreat…Honestly, not one of us wanted to go back, we wanted to go on and have a crack at Gerry, that’s what we went there for and what we wanted to do,” Mr Morris says.

“The looks on the Greek faces as we went in were hope, and then as they saw we were going on through, it was just despair,” he says.

On that march Tom Morris’ unit was bombed by a low-flying German Stuka. He was hit on the back by a chunk of rock, an injury the burdens of which he still carries today.

As the infantry withdrew from mainland Greece Gordon Beal’s engineers were readying to delay the German advance.

“We’d do our very best to make a terrible mess, to slow down anyone that was coming,” Mr Beal says.

“We gradually leapfrogged all the way back until the 28^th April when we were eventually evacuated from a small fishing village in southern Greece.”

“We’d sneak in, in the middle of the night, and pick them up off the south coast of Greece, uncharted waters, black as night, silence,” says sailor Basil Hayler.

Tom Morris was also evacuated from the southern mainland. From there his unit was convoyed to Alexandria and that was the end of his Greek campaign. Others, like Gordon Beal were ferried on to Crete.

At a small campsite to the east of Souda Bay, Gordon Beal’s engineer unit was informed by their commanding officer that he had volunteered them to stay for the defence of the island. But without gear, which had set sail for Alexandria, they were essentially reduced to an infantry unit.

“The only equipment we had was rifles,” Mr Beal says.

Then came the airborne German land invasion. Basil Hayler watched it from the deck of the HMAS Perth.

“We watched the troop carriers…towing their gliders. They looked like ants running along the horizon,” he says.

“After the paratroopers landed of course we had to stop the seaborne invasion, which we did successfully, one of the few successes we had in the war up until that time.”

“Then the action got a bit too hot, we were bombed badly and ships were being sunk everywhere. I watched 5 ships go down around us.”

“That was on 21^st may 1941, one of the hottest days of bombing we had.”

According to Mr Hayler, the warships Juno, Gloucester, Fiji, Greyhound, Kashmir and Kelly were all hit.

As Basil Hayler watched the German ants dropping from the sky, Gordon Beal was awaiting them on the ground, .303 rifle in hand.

His unit of engineers-cum-infantrymen had been positioned on the back of a hill near the Rethymnon airstrip, behind the 2^nd/1^st Australian infantry battalion.

He says that even though they had been warned that the invasion would come from the sky, there are still no words to describe the sight of the paratroopers dropping towards them.

“Sheer terror and utter desperation…Everything you do becomes automatic. You think, ‘they’re coming for me’,” he says.

“You just don’t know how its going to end but somehow or other you do what you’re supposed to do. I suppose the sensible thing to do would have been to run away.”

“When the war finished you say, ‘I’m here, I survived it’, and quite a few of my mates hadn’t.”

On the day of the invasion, Gordon Beal had been tasked with running messages between officers.

“[The] instructions were simple, the only Germans that were to be allowed on that airstrip were either to be dead or they’ve put their hands up, surrendered. And that’s the way it was…Very quickly, 500 were dead, 500 were POWs and a few of them had bolted towards Heraklion,” Mr Beal says.

After ten days of fighting, Crete fell to the Germans. The surviving warships, including Basil Hayler’s HMAS Perth were sent in by night to evacuate troops from the south side of the island.

“We loaded up roughly a thousand soldiers and on the way back to Alexandria we got hit by a bomb. That killed about eight soldiers and four sailors and that, as far as we were concerned, was the end of the Greece/Crete campaign.”

Before they could be evacuated, Gordon Beal’s unit was overrun by the Germans.

The last instruction his commanding officer gave was that the unit’s German prisoners were to be protected from the Cretans until the rest of the German troops arrived.

“They really needed that protection because it’s a fact that the local people were absolutely fantastic. They came from everywhere and Lord help you if you were a German,” Mr Beal says.

But the lasting memory of the Greek campaign for these extraordinary men is one of futility.

“Every man that went to Greece wanted to keep fighting and face the enemy but we were ordered back, and there was nothing we could do about it,” Tom Morris says.

“And to see the looks on the faces of the people of Greece, the hopelessness in their eyes when we were departing just tore me apart. I’ve always had the greatest respect for the Greek people.”

Gordon Beal shares Tom Morris’ esteem of the nation they fought to defend.

“[Greece] was the only place, really the only country in Europe that really stood up and opposed the Germans. So for that nation to have done that was an absolutely fantastic thing, and they made us very, very welcome.”

“The Cretans had thrown the Turks out…they were warriors. I could never ever do anything but feel sorry that we failed, and we did. But they were marvelous, they still are. They still love us,” he says, lowering his voice, but with a smile.

Having been overrun, Gordon Beal’s unit was taken prisoner by the Germans. He was transported through Greece to Germany where he spent a bitter winter unfreezing railway tracks. He later discovered that opposite the POW camp, was the Dachau concentration camp.

After four years as a prisoner of war, Gordon Beal was liberated by US forces. He spent several weeks receiving medical treatment for his severe malnourishment, before being shipped back to Australia.

Gordon Beal now lives in Williamstown, Victoria with his wife Audrey.

Basil Hayler lives in Ferntree Gully, in Melbourne’s east.

Tom Morris lives with his wife Doris in the Victorian border town of Corowa.

All three are magnificent, humble men who deserve our utmost respect, and our sincere thanks.

14 May 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

Lucas Papageorge was born in Levissi – a town now abandoned and known as Kayakoy in southern Turkey – on March 17, 1921. When he was very young, his family was forced to leave their village as part of the catastrophic population exchange between Greece and Turkey. What follows is not a comprehensive historical account, but it’s what Lucas Papageorge knows, in his own words.

“I never knew Levissi. I was born there, but I was 11 months old when we were forced to leave.”

“In 1921, my parents, their siblings and two others secretly left Levissi from a nearby beach. At that time the Turks were taking people into the army to fight against the Greeks, as the Greeks had invaded Turkey.”

“From my point of view, my two grandfathers and two of my uncles were taken away into the wild mountains. They were taken along with thousands of others from one place to another so they would waste away on the roads and be eaten by wild animals. They were tortured and never returned, my grandfathers and uncles.”

“No one really knows what happened to them, but I read a book about one American, a Brigadeer, who with his men went in search of them. He said the viciousness and brutality of the Turks was unimaginable. He said he saw the bodies and bones of these men, who were taken from village to village just so they would waste away and die.”

“In a few words,” his voice cracks, “Turkey wanted to rid itself of Christianity and the Greeks in this way. Some were forced to leave, others were tortured like this, and as we say in Greek, ‘the mother lost her child and the child its mother’.”

“I don’t know if they were killed or if they just left them, but I know they made them suffer a lot in the mountains of Turkey. They took them there naked, barefoot and starving. I lost my two grandfathers, one named Loukas Sergiris and the other named Apostolos Papageorgiou.”

“My father’s brother, Georgios Papageorgiou, was taken into the army by the Turks but he was lost. No one [really] knows what happened to him but I…learned later that my uncle, along with some other Greeks decided to flee the army, go AWOL, but someone betrayed them and they were shot, killed.”

“Later in Levissi, some others came to chase us out, and some people heard from sympathetic Turks that we would be given three days to leave. We left with my grandmother, five aunts, myself, my mother and my sister, on a boat that belonged to a Turkish friend of my grandfather.”

“Those that were taken into the army were from 16 years and up. Others were taken into the army and put to work, to build roads, and they persecuted them…It’s estimated that more that 3000-4000 Levissites died, some in exile, some soldiers, some in jail. Now, exactly [how many, we don’t know], there are no books, no records, everything was left behind.”

“These things that I’m telling you, I have learned from my father, my mother and my friends. My in-laws also lived it, and this is what they told me.”

“[The Turks] didn’t take my father into the army, he took off. He left from a hidden place on the coast, where he had arranged to meet a boatman from Kastellorizo…Others went left and right.”

“The majority of Levissites who left were scattered across various islands and mainland Greece. To this point the majority of Levissites and their children and grandchildren who are alive today live in Nea Makri in Pireaus.”

“They were all hard workers, family people, good people, who knew how to live, and their families still live there now.”

“When the war finished and we learnt that my father [had gone to Kastellorizo] we left Rhodes and joined him there. He found work as a lumberjack because Kastellorizo had lots of wood then. We also leased some land, so we lived there. Well, lets say we lived, when you’re a refugee you don’t have…” he trails off.

“As refugees when we first went to Kastellorizo, they helped us…One neighbour, Mrs Hatzivassili…gave us some pots and pans and plates so we could get by. They were very good people.”

“I never lived with Turks, but my parents told me that they lived very well together [in Levissi]. The Turks, whoever shouted them a coffee, they would never forget him. The common people aren’t to blame, it was the government, Kemal and the ‘new Turks’. The ‘old Turks’ were good people.”

“In Levissi itself there were no Turks, it was all Greeks. I think Levissi had a population of approximately 7000-8000. There were some Turks but they were out in the fields, not in the town.”

“My mother and my aunts told me that the Turks wept when the Greeks took their belongings and began the two-hour walk down to Makri, the nearest port to Levissi. They said the Turks wept, asking ‘why are you leaving us?’.”

“As the Greeks went down to the port to leave, the Turkish authorities, who had given the Greeks three days to vacate Levissi, confiscated everything except their clothes and blankets. They didn’t let anything past, no earrings, no rings, nothing, only their clothes. Some of the richer Levissites tried to conceal things in their bedding but the Turks would pierce the blankets with needles and discover the items.”

“I came to Australia [from Kastellorizo] in 1937.”

“I met two Turks here in Port Pirie… [Someone told one of them] who was going back to Turkey…that I had been born in [Levissi] and he got so excited that he wouldn’t let me buy him even one drink. He said, ‘no, you’re a compatriot because you’re from our area. And whenever you come there – he gave me his address – you come and find me’. What else can I say?”

“My uncle and my godfather came to Townsville in far north Queensland and I lived there for 10 years and in 1941 they took me into the Australian army and I served in the Pacific in 1942 when Japan entered the war.”

“My wife was born in Australia, in Port Pirie, but my in-laws were also from Levissi. We had two daughters. One, unfortunately, left us very early.”

“Perhaps you know about football? Do you follow it? Because my son-in-law was one of Australia’s good footballers, Nick Pantelis, and his son now is 29 years old and plays for Adelaide United, he’s one of their best players, Lucas Pantelis,” he says proudly.

“I have 5 grandchildren and 7 great-grandchildren,” he says with a proud chuckle.

“I went to Greece in 1983 but I didn’t go to Levissi.”

“I have learnt from compatriots here, of my own age, who have been to Levissi, that…three quarters of the houses are still standing, but they are naked, bare and not a soul has lived there since we left. They say the people there were afraid…and that at night they can hear voices and cries.”

“I wanted to go if I could have an old acquaintance with me who would recognize something and could show me. But why would I go to an abandoned town, to a cemetery, where I’d never been before, to see who?”

“There’s not a soul there, not a soul.”

The interview for this piece was conducted in Greek and translated by the writer.

16 April 2011

Take a tour of Halkidki’s hidden charms, on the road with THOMAS ANDRONAS.

Halkidiki is off the tourist track, as far as most Australians are concerned. If you’re not from there, you’ve probably never been.

It’s not glitzy, it’s not glamorous. There are no Mykonian windmills and there are few, if any multi-million-dollar celebrity super-yachts.

And they’re five good reasons to go.

Halkidiki is real. It’s where Greeks and other Europeans go on holidays, and despite the recent development of several horrible tourist resorts, there are parts that are truly unspoiled by the scourges of tourism and pollution that infiltrate many other parts of Greece.

However, because it’s unspoiled and underappreciated, it’s also underdeveloped. There are no touristy shuttle buses to get you around and while the public buses are surprisingly regular and efficient, they can’t get you to the places that you want to go.

So if you have a car or motorbike, jump on board. If not, hire one.

Start your drive in Poligiros, the capital of Halkidiki. Here in the breezy hills you’ll find an active little city, springing out of a well-preserved and still inhabited old town.

Strangely, while the rest of Greece has struggled with an economic crisis, Poligiros has continued to develop and grow, with several significant infrastructure and construction projects completed in the last few years.

A morning stroll down the new pedestrian mall will take you past the town hall, the newly erected statue of Aristotle (a Halkidiki native), and a series of shops and restaurants nestled under the shade of a towering old chestnut tree.

If you’re there early enough (or late enough at night) your nose will undoubtedly lead you to the traditional wood-fired bakery that bags up bread, tiropita and sweet pastries. Tell Naki I sent you.

Further down the path you’ll come across the blue-domed church of Agios Nikolaos and at the end of the walk the Exi Bryses (Six Springs), where you can drink the icy water that pours straight out of the nearby mountains.

If you prefer a frappe, the ‘touristiko’ tavern is nestled in the shady 28^th October park behind the springs.

Jump back in the car and head south towards Gerakini, a town that my yiayia tells me was one of the first tourist beaches in Greece, when going to the beach in the summer first became popular. Keep driving.

If you want a taste of the real Halkidiki, give the Kassandra arm a miss. This area caters to package tourists from northern Europe and cashed-up Greeks, and could easily be confused with Faliraki on Rhodes.

Head instead to Sithonia, the middle arm of the Halkidiki Peninsula, for peace, serenity and unrivalled beauty.

After passing through Nikiti follow the signs towards Sarti and take the dirt road turnoff just before you hit Sykia. This will take you down to a tiny, rocky bay called Pygadaki, or ‘the little well’. There are no signs, so you just have to drive until you find it, but you’ll know when you do.

The small sandy stretch of beach is hemmed in on both sides by rocky outcrops that plunge into deep pools. It’s a rock-hopper’s dream, as the further you climb away from the sand, the more you feel like you’re finding a place that has never been found before. It’s the perfect place to bask on the rocks and explore the crystal-blue water.

Once you’re done basking, grab a bite at the taverna that serves up fresh seafood and other treats. Don’t bother reading the menu, just ask what’s available.

After lunch, jump back in the car and continue south on the main road. Some time after Kalamitsi and before Koufos you’ll start spotting dirt tracks to the left. Take one. I can’t guarantee that you’ll end up where I did, but it’ll probably be good anyway.

I discovered a secluded, private sandy beach that apparently only Greeks knew about. Many of them looked like they’d been there for years, their campsites were so well setup, complete with timber decks protruding from caravans, solar power and improvised gas supplies. There was not a solid building in sight.

The beach on this southern tip of Sithonia is so still that these summertime locals place tables and chairs in the water and play backgammon and sip frappe while keeping their feet cool. Pure bliss.

As the shadows start to grow long, hop back in the car and make for Mango Bar at Akti Kalogrias, just outside Nikiti. Here you can float in the sea while sipping on a cocktail and soaking up the last of the day’s sun.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

However, if you have more than one day, or aren’t there in the summer, there are still plenty of things to do in Halkidiki.

Take a drive north of Poligiros towards the village of Taxiarhis in the Holomontas mountains. On the way up, an old man will undoubtedly try to wave you down and drag you into his taverna. If you’re hungry, stop, but don’t go to his taverna, go to the one next-door where at the right time of year you’ll find some of the best freshly roasted lamb ribs and baby goat.

Turning left up the dirt road just after the taverns will lead you to an amazing sunset-watching spot. Beware the military dogs that may be patrolling the area, but the view is worth it.

Continuing back on the main road, just outside Stageira, you’ll come across a giant statue of Aristotle, renowned philosopher and local. There’s a park nearby that features interactive re-builds of some of his most famous experiments and discoveries, that can be accessed for a small donation.

Next stop is Ouranoupolis, the last town before the border with the autonomous monastic state of Agion Oros (the Holy Mountain). The town has some interesting sites including a recently discovered ancient monastery, and a Byzantine tower originally built as a watch-house.

More recently the tower was inhabited by Australian woman Joice Loch, who was a Quaker sent to help refugees from Asia Minor and Eastern Europe. Joice and her husband Sydney lived out their days in the tower.

From Ouranoupolis you can take a tourist ferry that will show you some of the oldest and grandest of the monasteries from a distance of no less than 250 metres offshore.

For a closer look, men can apply to the Pilgrims’ Bureau in Thessaloniki for permission to enter the Agion Oros for a period of three days. As visitor numbers are limited, preference is given to Orthodox males. Sorry ladies, despite several pushes from the EU, the Agion Oros is still a men-only zone.

Halkidiki is also celebrated for its many religious festivals.

In summer the festival of 15^th August is celebrated at the church of Panagia, just outside Poligiros, where festivities last for 12 days.

Poligiros is also famous for its annual Apokries carnival including a colourful parade and endless parties in the lead-up to lent.

In early autumn locals will tell you that if you can think of it, you can find it at the festivals of Agios Mamas and Agios Prodromos.

So next time you find yourself in Greece, give Halkidiki a go. It’s well worth the detour.

9 April 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

It’s funny, how history can be reinterpreted as a means to an end.

On a recent trip to the British Museum I was astounded to find this iconic educational institution engaged in an overt propaganda campaign aimed at justifying the museum’s ongoing refusal to repatriate the Parthenon Marbles to Greece.

In doing so the museum is actively seeking to paint history in a manner favourable to its position.

Recently in Australia to promote his new book, the Director of the British Museum Neil MacGregor reiterated the museum’s position on the marbles.

“In Athens they can be part of a Greek story and in London they can be part of a world story,” MacGregor told The Australian.

Putting personal opinions on the actual debate aside, I was appalled that the British Museum had engaged in this campaign through the information it provides to the general public.

Information that ought to be objective, factual and free from political rhetoric was in fact, the exact opposite.

The British Museum goes to great lengths to paint Lord Elgin as a conservationist, a protector of antiquity and history, who truly had the interests of historical documentation and education at heart when he removed the marbles from the Parthenon in 1802.

“Elgin’s removal of the sculptures from the ruins of the building has always been a matter for discussion, but one thing is certain – his actions spared them further damage by vandalism, weathering and pollution,” says one information board in the gallery.

The truth of this position is hotly contested.

“Rubbish. Absolute rubbish,” says Emanuel Comino, Founder and Chairman of the International Organising Committee – Australia – for the Restitution of the Parthenon Marbles.

“[Elgin’s] original thought was to decorate his mansion in Scotland, not to save [the marbles] from barbarism or from pollution – there was no pollution in those days,” Comino says.

Another information board makes a brazen attempt to lift the historical cloud over Lord Elgin’s actions by branding him a rescuer.

“The second film concentrates on South Metope IV with its scene of a human Lapith fighting a Centaur, a creature that is part-man part-horse. It tells the story of the metope and the damage that it suffered before it was rescued by Lord Elgin.”

Of course, Emanuel Comino has an alternative view.

“[Elgin] actually raped the Parthenon. He didn’t just remove [the marbles], in order to take them out he had to damage the building immensely and the sculptures themselves in the process,” he says.

Reading between the lines of an information pamphlet covering the conflict surrounding the marbles, the British Museum continues its canonization of Lord Elgin while taking a thinly veiled swipe at the Greek authorities.

“Recently the Greek authorities have continued the process of removing the sculptures from the Parthenon, work that was begun over 200 years ago by Elgin.”

“It is also thanks to Elgin that generations of visitors have been able to see the sculptures at eye level rather than high up on the building,” another board reads.

“It’s not correct,” responds Comino.

“First of all they were not made to be looked at at eye level. The 160-metre-long frieze on the Parthenon was up high in a narrow passage to be seen as you walk around, and having it at eye level is not the right way to display them.”

“Most importantly, the frieze was not made to be able to see the whole lot all in one glance. It’s a procession that went right around the building, you’re supposed to walk around and see the procession,” he argues.

In June 2009 the Greek government rejected a British Museum offer to loan the marbles to Greece for a period of three months for display in the new Acropolis Museum, an offer contingent on recognition by Greek authorities of British ownership of the marbles.

“How would you like it if I stole your television and then I come and say to you I’m going to lend it to you for a month or two? How would you like that? It’s ridiculous, just crazy,” says Comino.

“The fact of the matter is that these sculptures belong to the Parthenon, and the Parthenon happens to be in Athens and not in the British Museum or any other museum around the world. And they should all be together now in the new Acropolis Museum, the best museum in the world by far, as has been recently noted by experts,” Comino says.

Of course, the battle over history continues.