If the last seven years were like living in a vacuum, few of us are prepared for the new and, in many ways, unrecognizable world in which we now find ourselves.
Meanwhile a sort of catharsis is taking place in the press and in the theatre. Enjoying their new-found freedoms, they are bringing to light many of the injustices of the recent past and dissecting some of the worst nuisances. It is, no doubt, a necessary exercise. It has its values, but the final measure of the extent of the damage wrought by seven years of dictatorship must wait. The price paid in human suffering and the immense set-back inflicted on the nation are not easily evaluated. In time, the poets, the writers, the musicans, the artists may capture the depth of the destruction. For the present, we simply focus on whatever is at hand and, wherever possible, laugh at the mundane and the trivial.
Ά Time to be Born…’
AN ARTICLE in Ta Nea rivetted our attention. ‘The first children of Ioannidis,’ it said ‘have been born. It may seem strange but it is entirely true. In recent days 4,091 children have been born in the maternity hospitals of Athens and continue to be born with increasing rate.’
‘Well!’ we thought, as our imagination raced off in several directions. Most of us know comparatively little about the private lives of Brigidaire General Ioannidis and the other shadowy figures who euphemistically took over the affairs of state after Papadopoulos, but here, at last, was a snatch of gossip we could get our teeth into.
The next paragraph brought us down to earth and, in once sense, disappointed our lower instincts while, in another sense, it delighted us. Far from being a commentary on the General’s prowess it was, rather, a testimonial to that irrepresible human instinct…sex. They could muzzle speech and bury thought, but they could not harness or dictate to Good Old Sex. Sometimes romantic, sometimes lecherous, it rears its head at even the most impropitious moments. For what the article refers to is the marked rise in births beginning in early August… eight and a half months after what Ta Nea refers to as ‘the Siege’ of November. (For the benefit of the mathematically inclined, we remind our readers that women do not, in fact, carry babies for nine months, contrary to popular belief).
There is considerable irony is this information. The government had instituted various ‘incentives’ in an attempt to encourage a floundering birth rate. They were cerebral plans and produced little notable result. Little did the same regime realize that when they confined the population to the household, either because of forced curfews or sheer fear, the birth rate would soar. That’s defiance for you!
This one, tangible and uncalculated accomplishment of the former regime raises several questions in our mind. Should the present and future governments tackle the problem of the birth rate with economic measures or should they go after the traditional pattern of life? It has been argued that the late hour of the evening followed by an early hour of rising and a collapse at siesta is a deterrent to sexual activity. It is a matter that should be weighed carefully.
The second question that arises is why did the families involved not resort to what has been described as the major form of ‘contraception’ in our country abortion. Is it possible that some instinct
of self-preservation was at work at a time when we felt that our young were in danger?
Former President on Vacation Here
AMONG the illustrious arrivals in Athens recently was Nikos Samson the former president of Cyprus. He came here, he said, to celebrate his child’s birthday.
In his resignation address, Mr, Samson had opined that he had done his country good service and that he was stepping down in its best interests. His address, we imagine, will go down, like Pericles’ Funeral Speech, as one of the monuments of Greek oratory.
Most of the local press observed that upon his arrival, Mr. Samson was wearing ‘a lame blouzaki’… which presumably is what it says — a lame blouse or shirt.
A Phoenix Too Frequent
FLOCKS of birds are sometimes said to darken the sky. But the junta’s Phoenix was an odd sort of bird, and its flocks illuminated the night.
There was at least one in every community, from the smallest hamlet, whose single emblem was warmed by three little light bulbs, to the cities, whose gaudier birds were decorated with neon and fluorescent frames.
For the most part, however, there were two species. The lesser was two-sided and measured 0.65m. X 0.65m The larger, mounted on steel bases, was generally 4m. xlm. An Athenian sign-maker estimates that they cost between 10,000 and 20,000 drachmas each. Unfortunately estimates of how many were actually made fluctuate as greatly as those which try to calculate how many angels can stand on the head of a pin.
Their consumption of electrify is easily estimated and provides more dependable figures. The average bird of prey was illuminated by 15 to 20 lightbulbs for ten hours per day—or rather per night. At five drachmas per hour, this came to 50 per day, 1500 per month, 18,000 per year, or 126,000 drachmas for all the seven years of bad luck.
There were, of course, birds of more brilliant plummage, such as the one in the harbour at Glyfada (o rara avis!). The cost of getting this particular bird airborne might best be compared with the cost of the Concorde: 1,200,000 drachmas.
Not living, fortunately, in the age of Reptiles, the Junta’s ornithologists could find no bird gross enough to perch over the great ‘Zito 21 Apriliou’ sign they placed on Mt. Lycavittos. Had they been able to, we feel certain they would not have hesitated to transform that hill into something resembling an oversized Victorian bird cage. As it was the ‘Zito 21 Apriliou’ sign was worthy of Broadway. By comparison, the spotlights illuminating the Acropolis across the way seemed like submarine signals.
Lycavittos’s birdless but most literate monument to the late regime was also the most costly — two and a half million drachmas. Each letter and number was seven metres high and its illumination over the years cost over ten millions.
The phoenix was the holy bird of ancient Egypt. Every 500 years it flew over from Arabia to be consummed by fire and to be reborn from its ashes in the Temple of Ra.
Local bird-watchers need not be told that the colonel’s variety had different habits and characteristics. It fed on carrion. It was not an energy saver but an energy consumer. And it will never be reborn in the Temple of Tama. Let us hope, too, that it shares one similarity with its predecessor: that it is extinct.
Black List
WE hereby decide, and prohibit the circulation circulation and sale, retail or wholesale, in secret or by agency…’
So, on 12 May 1967, began the banning of the books. Catalogues listing these dangerous publications were circulated. Eventually they carried a list of over 4000 items.
Among them were: Plutus (Aristophanes), Spartacus (Fast), Greek Mythology (Yiorgiou), The Firing of the Reichstag (Rodakis,) Negro Poets (Stavrou), Encyclopaedia for the Young (Patsis).
Included as well were: Constantine Paparrigopoulos’ celebrated History of the Greek Nation, first published in 1853; a book on Alexander the Great; two volumes devoted to the study of Humour; a book on ancient Greek philosophy; many anthologies of poetry including one of Cretan songs; and a study entitled Greek Education: Zero Hour.
On the list was an international atlas called The Universe. It is the most corrupting of subjects, no doubt, but somehow inescapable. The men who drew up the list felt presumably that Greece had been sufficiently isolated from the rest of the world not to need it.
The circulation of other books not on the lists was prevented in more devious ways: by threats to dealers and strongly-worded suggestions to bookshop owners not to promote them, or place them in their windows.
This was true of the works of George Seferis. Not content with obstructing the sale of his books, the authorities sank to harassing the man. They branded as ‘sick’, ‘communist’ and ‘senile’ the poet who had honored his country by receiving the Nobel Prize in 1963.
We actually saw in the summer of 1967 an acting-script of Sophocles that had been red-pencilled by the censors. Seferis, though he died in bitterness, died in good company.
Tama Yok
UP on Tourkovounia, that much pawed-over protuberance rising between Psychico and Kypseli north of the city, there are 714 stremmata in a particularly chewed-up state of distress. The noble purpose of this wasteland, crawled over by caterpillar trucks, has not been achieved. In fact the work was hardly begun.
The aim was this: ‘That by the erection of an impressive and magnificent church, a monument worthy of our Lord Jesus Christ, there should thereby be fulfilled a vow which might express the deep gratitude of the nation for its deliverance.’ In short, the Temple of the Tama.
The vow was first made at the National Assembly at Argos in 1829, which was opened by Capodistrias wearing a Russian uniform. The vow had fallen into abeyance for one hundred and forty years (during which time the wrath of God was felt in many ways) until it was taken up again by the Deeply Grateful, communist-eating Colonels. But the fulfillment of the vow did not get much beyond the spending of a good deal of money.
Without the cornerstone having ever been laid, and without any decided architectural plan, 429 millions were spent. There were three competitions, to be sure, attracting 74 architectural studies; but none of these was consdered worthy of the aim by ‘the one and only who inspired it.’ (Perhaps it should read ‘One and Only’: to whom it refers is obscure).
The nation-saving (ethnosotirios) government raised 477 millions, for a project whose cost was estimated at one billion drachmas, of which 48,500,000 are left.
Of monies paid out, 350 millions went into the appropriation of land, in the process of which many poor families were forcibly moved; four and a half millions for architectural studies; 50 millions for ‘works’, which meant largely the destruction of the natural surroundings’; 20 millions to interest paid on loans and three and one-half million on general expenses.
Of the amount raised 180 millions came, we were assured at the time, as ‘donations’ from banks, state employees, students, etc. (the latter no doubt from the Deeply-Grateful Polytechnic). The rest came from loans which, of course, have yet to be paid back.
Some days ago, Mr. Mangakis, the present Minister of Public Works, reassured the nation that the project had been cancelled. So what are we left with? In sum, a desolate tract of land, an enormous debt and, of course, an unfulfilled vow.
Perhaps the best solution would be to turn the site into a park, and simply offer the payment of the debt as the fulfillment of the vow. If this seems a bit tricky, and it appears that the One and Only is getting the short end of the stick, we further propose that the Deeply Grateful Colonels pilgrimage to Constantinople on their knees.
Mr. Papadopoulos, by the way, has already fulfilled another Vow All His Own. To commemorate his deliverance from the would-be assassin Mr. Panagoulis, he had raised in a niche of rock along the Sounion road (where this foul deed was almost brought to pass), a private iconostasis on which the thanks of all the people are expressed — most fulsomely.
Serious young tourists from the free nations following this route, who feel that looking at ruins by sunset is insufficiently ‘relevant,’ are urged to pause here — and reflect.
