From «Pax Ottomanica» to «Pax Europaea»: The growth and decline of a Greek village’s micro-economy (Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies) [New ed.] 9783034317498, 9783035305685, 3034317492

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ISBN 978-3-0343-1749-8

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

www.peterlang.com

From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea

Dimitrios Konstadakopulos is Senior Lecturer in Strategic Management in the Cardiff School of Management at Cardiff Metro­ politan University. He has spent over ten years researching the mountain community of Tsamantas, in north-western Greece, as well as its diaspora in the United States, Australia and elsewhere. In addition to conducting various research projects in Europe, South East Asia and North America, he has published books, chapters in books, and several articles and reports on innovation, knowledge and learning, local and regional development, and policies on environment and technology.

11 Dimitrios Konstadakopulos

The macroeconomic development of south-eastern Europe has been profoundly affected not only by the region’s major historical events – for example, liberation from the Ottoman Empire, the outbreak of civil wars, and the birth of new nations – but also by global events, such as the world-wide conflicts of the twentieth century, and the recent transnational processes of globalisation and European integration. The rationale of this book is to employ a comprehensive micro-history – that is, the history of one particular community: in this case, the village of Tsamantas, in north-western Greece – as a means of providing a detailed picture that will permit extrapolation to a wider context. Situated in one of the most isolated parts of the region of Epirus, Tsamantas has a complex history and a rich folk culture. At times, it has been a textbook example of how decisionmaking within a community can impact upon the success of the local economy. Its inhabitants have been rational problem-solvers, with a sense of what is in their family’s best interests, rather than passive victims of circumstance, and their choices at critical points in the village’s history have resulted either in growth or decline. The author focuses his groundbreaking analysis on these choices, drawing upon publications, archived materials, and illuminating oral accounts of local events.

Dimitrios Konstadakopulos

From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea The growth and decline of a Greek village’s micro-economy

11

Peter Lang

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

www.peterlang.com

From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea

Dimitrios Konstadakopulos is Senior Lecturer in Strategic Management in the Cardiff School of Management at Cardiff Metro­ politan University. He has spent over ten years researching the mountain community of Tsamantas, in north-western Greece, as well as its diaspora in the United States, Australia and elsewhere. In addition to conducting various research projects in Europe, South East Asia and North America, he has published books, chapters in books, and several articles and reports on innovation, knowledge and learning, local and regional development, and policies on environment and technology.

11 Dimitrios Konstadakopulos

The macroeconomic development of south-eastern Europe has been profoundly affected not only by the region’s major historical events – for example, liberation from the Ottoman Empire, the outbreak of civil wars, and the birth of new nations – but also by global events, such as the world-wide conflicts of the twentieth century, and the recent transnational processes of globalisation and European integration. The rationale of this book is to employ a comprehensive micro-history – that is, the history of one particular community: in this case, the village of Tsamantas, in north-western Greece – as a means of providing a detailed picture that will permit extrapolation to a wider context. Situated in one of the most isolated parts of the region of Epirus, Tsamantas has a complex history and a rich folk culture. At times, it has been a textbook example of how decisionmaking within a community can impact upon the success of the local economy. Its inhabitants have been rational problem-solvers, with a sense of what is in their family’s best interests, rather than passive victims of circumstance, and their choices at critical points in the village’s history have resulted either in growth or decline. The author focuses his groundbreaking analysis on these choices, drawing upon publications, archived materials, and illuminating oral accounts of local events.

Dimitrios Konstadakopulos

From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea The growth and decline of a Greek village’s micro-economy

11

Peter Lang

From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies Vol. 11 Edited by Andrew Louth and David Ricks

PETER LANG

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Wien

Dimitrios Konstadakopulos

From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea The growth and decline of a Greek village’s micro-economy

PETER LANG

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Wien

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche National­biblio­ grafie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Control Number: 2013956718

ISSN 1661-1187 ISBN 978-3-0343-1749-8 (print) ISBN 978-3-0353-0568-5 (eBook) © Peter Lang AG, International Academic Publishers, Bern 2014 Hochfeldstrasse 32, CH-3012 Bern, Switzerland [email protected], www.peterlang.com, www.peterlang.net All rights reserved. All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions, translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in electronic retrieval systems. This publication has been peer reviewed. Printed in Germany

To the remarkable people of  Tsamantas and its diaspora communities

Contents

List of  Figures

ix

List of  Tables

xi

Preword xiii Introduction 1 Part I  The First Half of  the Twentieth Century

13

Chapter 1

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

15

Chapter 2

Tradition and Culture of  Tsamantas through the Eyes of  Nikolaos Nitsos

31

Chapter 3

The Social and Cultural Environment: Foundations for the Village’s Success?

73

Chapter 4

The Economy of  Tsamantas during the First Half of  the Twentieth Century

101

viii

Chapter 5

The First Waves of  Emigration

127

Chapter 6

The Delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian Border, and its Impact on Tsamantas

169

Chapter 7

The Years of  War (1940–1949)

197

Part II  The Post Civil War Era

253

Chapter 8

Tsamantas from 1950 to 1981: Causes and Ef fects of  Decline

255

Chapter 9

Pax Europaea: Life within the European Union

293

Bibliography 329 Index 347

Figures

Figure 1 Tsamantas and neighbouring villages on either side of  the Greek–Albanian border

16

Figure 2 External trade in Epirus (1900–1909) in Gold Francs

104

Figure 3 The routes taken by itinerant tinkers from Tsamantas during the final years of  the Ottoman Empire

109

Figure 4 Demographic changes in the community of  Tsamantas between 1913 and 1940

119

Figure 5 The contributions made in dollars by various members of the St George’s Society in Worcester, Massachusetts to the building of a new school in Tsamantas (1928)

137

Figure 6 Number of immigrants from Tsamantas arriving in New York, 1900–1924 146 Figure 7 Tsamantiot peddler in Worcester, Massachusetts, c. 1910

151

Figure 8 Members of  the St George’s Society at one of  their picnics near Worcester, Massachusetts, c. 1914

156

Figure 9 Population of  Tsamantas 1895–2011

317

Tables

Table 1

Characteristics of emigrants from the village of  Tsamantas arriving in New York between 1901 and 1916

139

Table 2

The relationship of  the contact person in Worcester to the migrant in transit

141

Table 3

Damage done by fire to the buildings of  Lidizda in the German raid of  April 1944

219

Table 4 Loss of  life in selected Mourgana villages, and their material destruction by the occupying forces (April 1944) Table 5

The change in population of  five villages on Mount Mourgana during the 1940s

Table 6 GDP per capita in purchasing power standards (PPS) of  the ten lowest-ranked European regions (1998)

221 250 304

Preword

This book is the history of  the recent past of  the village of  Tsamantas, a mountain community in the region of  Epirus in north-western Greece. It was written with the belief  that the analysis of one village contains implications that could enable us to obtain a new understanding of  the economic, political and social transformation of south-eastern Europe during the last hundred years. I visited Tsamantas for the first time during the summer of  2000, one year after the death of my mother Spyridoula. I stayed in the stone house, which my mother had just rebuilt out of  the ruins of  her ancestral home – burnt down by the Nazis in April 1944. The village was the birthplace of my mother and my maternal grandparents Nikolaos and Paraskevi Vezdrevanis. In 1938, just before the outbreak of  the Second World War, my grandfather, an itinerant tinker, took his wife and his three young daughters to live in the faraway city of  Patras in the Peloponnese. I was born and grew up in Patras in the early 1950s, but since I was a child I felt a sense of  belonging and af finity for Tsamantas, listening to the tales and stories (such as that of  St George’s votive lamp) told by my grandparents sitting around the small charcoal fire during cold winter nights in Patras. When I visited for the first time this place of my imagined childhood, I was amazed by the village’s extraordinary beautiful landscape, rich culture and exceptional people. But I was also saddened by its dramatic socioeconomic decline and abandonment. I felt I had to find out more about the reasons for the village’s illustrious past and uncertain present. My aims were ambitious: departing from the nature of my previous work on aspects of regional development in Western Europe, Southeast Asia and North America, I embarked on an interdisciplinary research over the next twelve years and produced this book. Although I was based in the UK, I made numerous research trips to Greece, including visits to the USA and Australia over that period, to carry forward this project on Tsamantas.

xiv Preword

I looked closely at what the local people and the diaspora said about life in the village, and from these accounts I tried to identify the factors that inf luenced them to stay put or move away. My task was a dif ficult one. There are obvious problems in moving to broader generalisations on the basis of evidence, especially for the early part of  the twentieth century, in which oral evidence was secondary and fragmentary. I have tried not to allow personal and ideological biases to enter my work and allowed the historical witnesses to speak freely. The micro-history of a community such as Tsamantas provides us with a new lens for understanding the complex political economy of south-eastern Europe, based on the study of one village. I owe much to many people and organisations. First, I would like to thank the hospitable people of  Tsamantas, some of whom died while I wrote this book. An important source of information and inspiration was the nonagenarian distant relative of mine, Nikos Stolakis. Gifted with a photographic memory, Nikos could remember persons, events and facts going back to his childhood in the 1920s. He was a model of  how to live as a decent family man from the land in a challenging environment and a dif ficult world. Second, I would like to express my gratitude to the Dr M. Aylwin Cotton Foundation of  Guernsey which generously funded this project in 2005. Third, I am grateful for the honour of  having been invited to be a guest speaker to talk about the community of Tsamantas at the International Seminar ‘Regional Identities, Cultures & Images – a Path to Regional Development?’, at the Department for Ethnic Studies in Norrköping of  Linköping University in Sweden (March 2005). I am also indebted to the participants, who made useful comments on my preliminary findings, at the conferences of: the Transatlantic Studies Association, at the University of  Cork in Ireland ( July 2007); the St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamanta[s], (Worcester, MA), at the Hellenic College in Brookline (Boston) in the United States (October 2008); and the Australian and New Zealand Modern Greek Studies Association conferences at Flinders University in Adelaide ( July 2009) and Macquarie University in Sydney (December 2010). Of particular importance was the workshop that was organised jointly by the Centre for European Studies of  the University of the West of England,

Preword

xv

Bristol with the support of  the Municipality of  Filiates, the Community of  Tsamantas, the St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamanta[s] that took place in Tsamantas in September 2005. I am very grateful to the following colleagues for their contribution which has inf luenced my research: Katharina Eisch-Angus, Mark Angus, Sarah Blowen, Sarah Green, Ann Kennard, James Korovilas, Konstantinos Mantzos, Lynn Morrison, Vasilios Nitsiakos, Annalisa Rellie, Antonia Sagredo and Soterios Zoulas. I am also grateful to the three fraternal societies of  Tsamantas, St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamanta[s] (Worcester, MA), St Nicholas (Melbourne) and St Dimitrios (Athens) for their support and encouragement. Nick Athanasiou, Lynn Morrison, Michael Pantazakos, Antonia Sagredo and in particular Ange Kenos, read parts of  the manuscript and of fered useful comments. Finally, this book would not have been written without the support of  Phil Wood, who besides providing valuable assistance in proof reading and helping to put the manuscript in final form, has inf luenced my thinking in many areas. Phil suf fered stoically my interminable dragging out of  this project over all these years. Thank you, Phil. I very much hope that the readers of  this work will find themselves richly rewarded for attempting to follow the fascinating world of  this idio­ syncratic Greek village. — Dimitrios Konstadakopulos

Introduction

At the start of  the twentieth century, the geopolitical map of south-east Europe was very dif ferent from the one we know today. For one thing, Albania had not yet been created, and what is now its southernmost territory was part of a region – an outpost of  the vast Ottoman Empire – that bore the name of  Epirus. But victory in the First Balkan War (1912–1913) against the Ottomans resulted in the region’s independence, and the subsequent division of its territory between Greece and the newly created state of  Albania. The land subsumed by Greece continued to be known as Epirus.1 Its predominantly Greek-speaking population had long cherished the hope of joining the free Greek state, and the fulfilment of  their objective was an occasion for joyous celebration. However, the new region of Epirus was very much an economically backward area, described by Yotopoulos, a perceptive observer of its development, as having a ‘conclave’ economy, due to both its geographical isolation and the belatedness of its unification with Greece (1967: 36). Furthermore, it was frequently the focus of world attention during the first half of  the twentieth century, due to major battles contested on its stage: not only the war of  liberation, but the longer and more devastating conf licts of  the 1940s. In recent years, however, Epirus has started to emerge as a wealthier and more stable region, but still the poorest in the European Union before the accession of  Romania and Bulgaria in 2007 – an achievement unthinkable a hundred years ago – and, significantly, its economy is integrating with others in the Balkan 1

Throughout this book, ‘Epirus’ will vary in meaning, depending on the period in question: prior to 1913, it refers to the Ottoman-controlled territory, but thereafter to the smaller, modern Greek region of  the same name. Likewise, the meaning of  the term ‘Albanian’ will depend on the context: from 1913 onwards it assumes its modern connotation, but before then refers solely to the ethnicity and language of a people of south-east Europe who did not yet have their own independent country but were already known as ‘Albanian’.

2 Introduction

peninsula, in a process underpinned by the modernisation taking place in south-east Europe. But although this economic integration has brought major development to the Balkans, paradoxically it has marginalised some of its economically weaker areas; indeed, some localities and ethnic minorities have been excluded altogether from the progress being made (Petrakos, 2002: 26; Green, 2005a). As in other peripheral regions of  the European Union, many of  the remote rural communities of  Epirus have missed out on the success enjoyed by the wider region, having been adversely af fected by depopulation, with urban centres increasingly a magnet for those seeking a better life. The economic history of  Epirus in general, and one of its communities in particular, is the subject of  this book. Some of  the questions that will be addressed are as follows: To what extent has the economy of  Epirus been shaped by historical events, such as liberation from the Ottoman Empire, the birth of new nations, and the wars of  the twentieth century? How have the recent transnational processes of globalisation and European integration inf luenced its economy? And how is the region integrating with the rest of south-east Europe? Although these issues have been considered by a number of studies of south-east Europe’s twentieth-century history and macroeconomic development, there is a need for more detailed study at the local level (Gallagher, 2001a: 141–155). The method of using a microhistory – that is, the history of a single community – as a means of extrapolation to a wider context has been successfully applied by David Sabean, in his detailed study of a village in Germany. Marion Gray, in her review of  Sabean’s study, supports his approach, arguing that ‘the analysis of one village contains implications that could lead historians to new understandings of  Europe’s transformation from agrarian communalism to a modern, class-based society’ (2001: 419–431). The present volume will adopt this same approach, and thus attempts to answer the questions posed above by examining the way that one particular community in Epirus – the village of  Tsamantas – has developed in economic, political and social terms.

Introduction

3

Situated right beside the Greek–Albanian border, in one of  the most isolated parts of  the region, Tsamantas has a long and complex history.2 From its origins as an insignificant settlement in pre-historic times, it eventually became a thriving micro-economy based on subsistence farming, pastoralism and male emigrant labour, reaching its peak during the interwar years of  the twentieth century. Since then, however, its economy has dramatically declined, for reasons to be explored throughout the book. Tsamantas shares many of  the features found in other border communities in north-western Greece, as identified in various ethnographical studies (Green, 1998 and 2005a; Hart, 1999; Green and King, 2001; Nitsiakos, 2003 and 2010; de Rapper, 2004 and 2007). One of  these is its remoteness, which has had contrasting ef fects on its history. On the one hand it has allowed the evolution and preservation, over the centuries, of a strong cultural identity amongst its residents. Their folk culture is extremely rich, yet virtually unknown to the outside world, even among ethnographers, anthropologists and historians specialising in south-east Europe; one objective of  this book is thus to bring it out of seclusion and into the realm of  the wider community. However, the isolation that allowed this culture to f lourish has also brought serious disadvantages, in being largely responsible for the economic backwardness that plagued the village up to the start of  the twentieth century. During the Ottoman rule of  Epirus, this backwardness was compounded by the exploitation of agrarian society through the çiftlik land-ownership system, in which peasant-owned land was appropriated by Muslim landlords (or agas) and turned into an estate, to be farmed or used for pasture by the locals. The landlord exacted dues and tithe from his peasant workers, who were also heavily taxed by their Ottoman rulers. When the long-awaited liberation came, incorporation in the free Greek

2

The name probably derives from an aristocratic Byzantine family by the name of  Tsamantouros. However, it could also be of  Slavic origin, like most other toponyms in the locality. The village was originally known as Tsamanta, but has since become Hellenised with the addition of a final ‘s’, and this of ficial version is used forthwith, despite the fact that many locals and members of  the diasporic community still refer to the village as Tsamanta.

4 Introduction

state failed to resolve the region’s economic problems.3 But, in contrast to the situation in Epirus as a whole, the village of  Tsamantas was by now responding admirably to the challenge of overcoming its backwardness, having started to develop, in the early twentieth century, a micro-economy that for a while made it relatively prosperous. A fundamental premise of  this book is that the growth and decline of a micro-economy depends more on the choices made by its people (as well as the decisions of  those elected to local and central government) than on factors beyond their control, such as geographical location, availability of natural resources, the interference of  foreign powers in matters of national significance, and so on. At times, Tsamantas has been a textbook example of  how the making of such choices can lead to a strong local economy, for its inhabitants have always been rational problem-solvers, with a strong sense of what is in their best interests and those of  their family, rather than passive victims of circumstance. For centuries the major economic activity in Tsamantas was subsistence agriculture, from which the inhabitants barely scraped a living. But at the start of  the twentieth century the village experienced a significant increase in its wealth, as a result of the emergence of a form of proto-industry: itinerant labour, mostly involving tinkers (tinsmiths). This domestic industry provided a reasonable income for villagers who would otherwise have been underemployed, or even without employment of any kind. Estimates based both on local documents and oral accounts suggest that, at this time, virtually all of  the adult men in Tsamantas were either master tinkers (or their apprentices) or some other type of itinerant worker. But in the long term, as in many proto-industrial rural economies, the tinsmith profession become backward-looking and resistant to technological change, and its gradual disappearance after the Second World War not only led to a lower standard of  living in Tsamantas but also accelerated the pace of emigration overseas, which had started in the early 1900s.

3

The term ‘peasant’ has been borrowed from anthropology and denotes small-scale subsistence farmers working the land.

Introduction

5

In the catastrophic decade of  the 1940s, the village suf fered a series of painful episodes. It became the focus of resistance during the Italian and German occupation of  the Second World War, and experienced famine, disease, looting and destruction. But the hardships suf fered by the locals were far from over at the war’s conclusion, for the region of  Epirus then became the main battlefield of  the Greek civil war (1946–1949), which traumatised its people and inf licted considerable damage on its economy; on top of  this, the rise of communism and the descent of  the Iron Curtain brought about the closure of  the Greek–Albanian border, severing contact between the closely linked communities on either side for the next forty-five years. The lives of  the people of  Mount Mourgana were changed for ever during the decade of  the 1940s. In the Second World War, the Germans and their allies, the Chams, destroyed and looted properties, and stole the villagers’ precious crops and livestock. Many of  the destitute inhabitants were radicalised by their experiences, and when the war was over, the two political extremes within the resistance movement brought about a civil war that had disastrous consequences for the borderland communities of  Mount Mourgana. Proximity to neighbouring Albania had been advantageous during the Second World War, when it helped to alleviate the ef fects of  the famine by providing access to basic foodstuf fs, through bartering with Albanian villagers or working in the local fields. However, in the civil war this same proximity proved to be calamitous for the local people, since it facilitated the supply of military hardware to the antartes and thus sustained the warfare. Terror and bloodshed reigned for almost a year, as the villagers were surrounded by fierce fighting, suf fered loss of  life and property, and witnessed executions. Many more people were killed during the civil war than in the Axis occupation, and substantially more destruction occurred. Atrocities were committed by both sides, creating an atmosphere of simmering hatred and a vicious cycle of acts of vengeance against people who had once been neighbours but were now regarded as ‘the enemy’. Caught in the crossfire were those – that is, the majority of  the villagers – who were reluctant to align themselves with either side. In the aftermath of  the wars, during the 1950s and early 1960s, living conditions in this mountainous part of  Epirus were so bad that the World Council of Churches sent an international team to help relieve the situation.

6 Introduction

The process of emigration that had begun towards the end of  the Ottoman era continued in earnest, as desperate Epirots moved away to find employment overseas: mainly in the United States (especially the industrial city of  Worcester, Massachusetts), but also in Australia, Canada and West Germany. In Tsamantas, emigration significantly reduced the village’s working population, so much so that the remaining inhabitants eventually abandoned agricultural and commercial activities. In this respect the diaspora was instrumental in the creation of an unproductive middle class and, ultimately, the sharp decline of  the village. Meanwhile, an atmosphere of paranoia and constant scrutiny pervaded both sides of  the Greek–Albanian border at Tsamantas, with intense security, restrictions on movement, and frequent rhetorical aggression. The two countries were in a state of de jure war, which would last until the restoration of diplomatic relations in the 1970s. For the communities on the Greek side of  the border, life would begin to improve in the new era of economic growth that came about as a consequence of  two major national developments: the return of democracy to Greece in 1974, after a seven-year military dictatorship, and accession in 1981 to the EEC (European Economic Community, as the European Union was called at the time). Substantial funding from the latter helped to alleviate the economic and social problems of  these communities. But while the community of  Tsamantas was starting to enjoy the benefits of  Greece’s membership of  the EEC, in the form of  higher living standards, its sister villages just across the border in Albania were enduring unimaginable poverty and desperation. However, in the last week of  1990 and the first of  1991, the collapse of  the draconian border-security system imposed by Enver Hoxha’s regime resulted in the mass exodus of  hundreds of people into Epirus. The refugees were mostly ethnic Greeks. Lacking adequate clothing and food, and subjected to harsh weather conditions, they followed ancient routes and somehow succeeded in reaching the border checkpoint at Tsamantas. This first wave of penniless and destitute emigrants from Albania to Epirus resulted in a sea change in Greek–Albanian relations. Depopulated villages are now benefiting

Introduction

7

from the inf lux of  both skilled and unskilled Albanians:4 in Tsamantas, immigrants can be seen repairing its traditional houses and stone walls, and paving its roads and squares, thus conserving the rural landscape; they have also worked at the village’s café and the museum, and have tended kitchen gardens as well as herds of animals. So, in a sense, the village has come full circle to the time of  the Ottomans, when ethnic and cultural tolerance in the region resulted in a peaceful co-existence and good relationships between its local communities – a situation commonly referred to as ‘Pax Ottomanica’.

Objectives This volume is essentially an economic history of  the village of  Tsamantas, a community that has experienced massive change over the past one hundred years. The principal objective of  the book is to contribute to our knowledge and understanding of  the socio-economic, political and cultural history of south-east Europe, by focusing on a single locality. It is likely to be relevant to academics and students in the fields of regional studies, economics, history, sociology and politics in particular, and could also benefit policymakers in the field of development studies. Beyond the professional world, it should appeal to English-speaking members of  the large and thriving diasporic community with roots in Tsamantas or elsewhere in Epirus, but it is hoped that readers from the wider general public will also find much to interest and inform them within these pages. Various aspects of  the historical development of  Tsamantas will be considered, and the many dramatic political events that have shaped it will be analysed in depth. A detailed picture of  the village, past and present,

4

Throughout this book, use of  the term ‘Albanians’ generally refers to the nation as a whole. Where reference is being made specifically to Albanians of  Greek origin, this will be made clear.

8 Introduction

will be drawn – of its people, their living conditions, and their occupations, culture and customs – and comparisons made with other Epirot communities, drawing from the literature in this field. There will also be a diachronic analysis of  the village’s economic history, examining issues such as domestic production, transhumant pastoralism, and itinerant labour and craftsmanship. The phenomenon of mass emigration from Tsamantas will be explored, as will the cultural identification with the village that its diasporic community has since maintained with so much passion – a connection which is taking on a new significance in the light of globalisation and European integration. Finally, the long-term trajectory of  Tsamantas within the new Europe will be considered. The author’s most important written source – and a major inspiration in embarking on this project – was the academic book of  1926 by local scholar Nikolaos Nitsos (1865–1940), exploring the history, geography, economy, language, and folklore traditions of  Tsamantas and its wider locality.5 As the only major published volume on the village, it is heavily drawn upon in some of  the chapters of  this volume. The Nitsos monograph is scarcely known beyond Tsamantas, and thus a major objective is to disseminate some of its fascinating subject matter, as a source of reference for scholars from a variety of disciplines and for the interest of others. Another important resource was the diminutive but colourful Folklore Museum of  Tsamantas, established in the early 1980s by various former residents who, out of concern for the village’s loss of population and consequent decline, undertook the task of collecting and preserving numerous artefacts representing its rich cultural heritage: photographs, documents, costumes, furniture, equipment used for trade, craft, domestic and agricultural purposes, and many other items donated by individuals over the years. Some of  the founders of  the museum also produced informative literary and scholarly texts on the history and culture of  the village, which provided helpful information, as did a variety of published and unpublished archive materials, including censuses, accessed through a number of  libraries in 5

Nitsos, N., (1926; second edition 1992), Μονογραφία περί της εν Ηπείρου κώμης του Τσαμαντά (Monograph on the Epirot Village of  Tsamantas), Athens: Brotherhood of  Tsamantas, 400 pages.

Introduction

9

Greece. Most invaluable of all, however, were the oral accounts of  local events – largely from first-hand experience, but sometimes handed down from parents or other close relatives – gathered by the author during his research, through the conducting of interviews and informal discussions with more than sixty people, all of whom were generous and patient in sharing their memories. These individuals included most of  the remaining inhabitants of  Tsamantas, as well as former residents now living elsewhere: in other parts of  Epirus, further afield in Greece (Patras and Athens), in Worcester, Massachusetts and in Melbourne, Australia. Although the recollection of events may have been inf luenced, in some cases, by a personal perspective on the subject matter, or dimmed by the passage of  time, these interviews supplied the kind of intimate material that adds rich colour to an author’s palette, and the painting of a comprehensive and balanced portrait of  the village was very much enhanced by their contributions. Moreover, the information gathered by this means has partially replaced the village’s priceless archives, destroyed during the Second World War. The interviews were timely, given that a high proportion of  the residents of  Tsamantas are in the autumn of  their lives. When participants in local history leave us, and their memories of events are beyond reach, historical analysis becomes not only more tenuous but also less compelling.

The structure of  the book The content is divided into two sections. Part I examines the socio-economic history of  the community of  Tsamantas during the first half of  the twentieth century, and consists of  the following chapters: a) Chapter 1 describes the physical environment of  Tsamantas and its surrounding area, emphasising the remoteness that was responsible for the backwardness that plagued it over the centuries, but also for its distinctive culture, customs and beliefs. It concludes that a ‘sense of place’ has been an important factor in shaping local identity.

10 Introduction

b) Chapter 2 turns to the illuminating subject of  the 1926 monograph by the local historian Nikolaos Nitsos, reviewing some of  his dissections of  folkloric traditions in Tsamantas and his explanations of  the linguistic richness of  the locality. A selection of  the songs, stories and local proverbs that appear in the volume – some of which will be translated into English – are analysed from a contemporary perspective. c) Chapter 3 discusses the social and cultural environment of  the village, focusing on traditional values, gender roles and marriage, religion, education, and self-administered local governance, with a view to explaining the development of its unique micro-economy and the motivation of its inhabitants. d) Chapter 4 considers various aspects of  the economic activities in Tsamantas during the period in question, paying particular attention to local specialisation in the form of itinerant tinkers, who not only brought wealth to the village but also introduced new ideas and customs adopted during their travels. e) Chapter 5 examines another important matter that had a major inf luence on the village’s economy: the phenomenon of mass emigration. A profile is constructed of  the first transatlantic emigrants from Tsamantas to the industrialised north-east of  the USA, and in particular to the city of  Worcester, Massachusetts. The motivations driving an individual’s decision to emigrate are explored, and an explanation is given of  the way in which kinship and a strong sense of community – still in evidence today in Tsamantas – forged the system of chain migration that took so many of its people to Worcester, as well as to Melbourne and elsewhere, during the twentieth century. f ) Chapter 6 identifies the wider historical determinants from the early part of  that century that shaped the fate of  the village, starting with the demarcation of  the Greek–Albanian border – an emotionally draining period in the lives of  the inhabitants, that lasted from 1913 to 1926 and

Introduction

11

deprived the village of its north-western economic hinterland – and continuing through the closure of  the border in 1945 to its eventual re-opening. The local interpretation of  these events is analysed, with reference to the writings of  Kostas Zoulas, a local literary figure, as well as the memories of  those few who survive from that time. The emergence of nationalism during and after the demarcation of  the border, and how it shaped economic and social relations in the local community, will also be discussed. g) Chapter 7 covers the dramatic events of  the Italo-German occupation of  the village during the Second World War, and the devastation of  the ensuing Greek civil war, as seen through the eyes of some of  today’s residents. Their stories make a significant contribution to our understanding of  this most tragic period in the region’s history. The second section (Part II: The Post Civil War Era) discusses the broader changes in Tsamantas, and Epirus as a whole, since the wars of  the 1940s. It consists of  the following two chapters: h) Chapter 8 considers economic activities and social changes in Tsamantas from 1950 to 1981, within the context of national politics in these three decades. It discusses the gradual abandonment and decline of  the community, a situation accelerated by the second wave of mass emigration, this time mainly to Australia and West Germany. i) Chapter 9 discusses the consequences of  Greece’s accession in 1981 to the European Union, with reference to the ways in which the Union’s Common Agriculture Policy has benefited the local economy. The situation in the village since the full re-opening of  the Greek–Albanian border in 1992 is described, especially with regard to the economic development and social and cultural transformation of  the village since the arrival of  Albanian immigrants. Finally, we turn to the concept of  the ‘region state’ in a potentially borderless Europe of  the twentyfirst century, and in the context of  Greece’s ongoing economic crisis speculate on what the future holds for Tsamantas.

Part I

The First Half of  the Twentieth Century

Chapter 1

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

The village of  Tsamantas is situated in the Greek region of  Epirus, which occupies the north-west corner of  the Greek mainland. Despite having road access southwards to the Peloponnese and Athens, Epirus is relatively isolated: to the east, the rugged and near-impassable Pindus mountain range separates it from the regions of  Thessaly and Macedonia; to the west it is bounded by the Ionian Sea; to the north lies problematic, post-communist Albania. Epirus is divided into four prefectures – Arta, Ioannina, Preveza and Thesprotia – and Tsamantas lies within the latter, in one of its most remote localities (see Figure 1). A local historian from nearby Povla (of ficially known as Ambelonas) wrote of  his surprise when, as a child, he climbed a peak and saw the village for the first time, nestling in its valley; though aware of its status as the head village locally, he had no idea that it was such an extensive community, significantly larger than his own (Koundouros, 1990). For centuries, before the construction of roads in the area, the Tsamantas’s communication routes were limited to paths that led to neighbouring communities, such as Povla, Vavouri, Lias, and Lesinitsa (the Greek name for Leshnicë, just across the border in Albania).1 There was also a path through the narrow valley of  the River Kalpakiotikos to the market town of  Filiates. The local historian Nikolaos Nitsos tells us that it took eight hours to travel the twenty-kilometre route to Filiates, whether by foot or by mule (1926: 2). An even longer path of  50 kilometres linked the village with Ioannina, an important Ottoman town (and now the economic and administrative centre of  Epirus). To reach it involved 1

In Greek, these villages are, respectively, Αμπελώνας / Πόβλα, Βαβούρι, Λιάς and Λεσινίτσα.

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Chapter 1

an even more arduous journey of eighteen hours. Consequently, life in Tsamantas was, until quite recently, lived almost entirely at the local level.

Figure 1  Tsamantas and neighbouring villages on either side of  the Greek–Albanian border

Although in modern times the problem of isolation has been diminished for many by car ownership, access to a private form of transport is far from the norm; factors such as income, age, gender, health and mobility conspire to deny most people the use of an independent means of  travel. Yet, despite the fact that this is also true of many other mountain communities in Epirus, the region is not well-endowed in terms of public transport and communications infrastructure: it is one of  the few in Europe that has never had a railway system, and until the mid-1960s it had the lowest mileage of roads in Greece (Yotopoulos, 1967: 43–45). Tsamantas itself was not connected to the road network until as late as 1962, when a road built four years earlier through the mountains to the Monastery of  St George in Kamitsiani (Καμίτσιανη) was extended to the entrance into the village, a few kilometres further on.2 Then, in 1968, the military junta 2

Soon afterwards, life in Tsamantas was further enhanced by the supply of electricity.

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

17

added a somewhat basic system of paved roads to serve the interior of  the village, and its border checkpoint just beyond, and this is still in use today. Connection to the road network at last gave the village access to the port of  Igoumenitsa, and thence to the region of  Western Greece, further south. According to Foss (1978), Igoumenitsa was an ‘insignificant place’ until, in 1946, it became the capital of  the prefecture of  Thesprotia; today it is a thriving town, primarily due to its ferry connections to Corfu and Italy, recently improved by the expansion of its port facilities. The construction of a major highway – the Egnatia Odos (Εγνατία Οδός) – has now linked the town to Ioannina and thence to the regions of  Thessaly, Macedonia and Thrace, and on to the Greek–Turkish border. These improvements to the region’s infrastructure have further reduced the isolation of  Tsamantas and have in theory connected the village to the global economy. However, it is still very much a rural backwater: according to the census of  2011, the municipality of  Filiates3 – which covers a large area that includes Tsamantas and forty other communities – has just 7,750 inhabitants. Furthermore, as we shall see, the population of  Tsamantas itself  has been shrinking dramatically. It may be the case that better connections with the outside world have come too late to reverse the social and economic decline that has been plaguing the village since the 1940s.

1.1 In the shadow of  Mount Mourgana 1.1.1 Topography, climate and the natural environment Tsamantas is overshadowed by the massive bulk of Mount Mourgana. Also known as Mount Tsamantas, it has two peaks: Mourgana (Μουργκάνα) at 1,806 metres and Stougara (Στουγκάρα) at 1,770 metres. It forms a part of  the Pindus range that runs in a south-easterly direction from southern 3

Created by the Kapodistrias administrative reforms that took ef fect in Greece in 1999.

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Chapter 1

Albania to the region of  Central Greece, and lies within a section known as the Acroceurania Mountains, referring to the frequent thunderstorms that have destroyed both property and life over the years (Stuart, 1869: 278). Geologically, the area lies within the Ionic geotectonic zone, characterised by three types of rock: serpentine, permeable limestone and impermeable f lysch. Its topography is complex and dramatic, consisting of mountains with steep slopes and high peaks, as well as plateaux and basins. Two limestone ridges, long and bare, cut right across the locality, running parallel with the rest of  the Pindus range. Over the millennia, a pair of streams – the Xera (Ξέρα) and the Platanakis (Πλατανάκης) – have created a narrow valley between these ridges; with sources on the slopes of  Mount Mourgana, they pass through the village of  Tsamantas and unite to form the Xanthos (Ξάνθος), a tributary of  the River Pavla (Παύλας), which follows a southerly course through the Koziakas (Κόζιακας)4 Gorge and then turns west into Albanian territory. The region’s main river, however, is the Kalamas (Καλαμάς), f lowing down towards the coastal plains that border the Ionian Sea; it was the tributaries of  this river that gouged out the valleys, dense with forest, that lie a few kilometres south of  Tsamantas. An aquifer on Mount Mourgana provides a series of natural springs in the village, where the two main outf lows are known as Varina (Βαρήνα) and Rouf liakas (Ρούφλιακας), the latter being a small waterfall. Water is piped from both of  these sources to meet the needs of  the residents of  Tsamantas and those of neighbouring Povla. The volume of  the water supply depends on both the local rainfall and the amount of snow that falls on Mount Mourgana during the winter, but climatic conditions are such that it has never been known to run dry. Due to the village’s high altitude (850 metres), the climate is alpine and can be quite harsh: the winter is long and cold, with high levels of precipitation. Surrounded as it is by high mountains, the village also experiences somewhat fewer hours of sunshine

4

A Slavic name meaning ‘forest’. Nitsos observes that the toponyms of many of  the local geographical features were of  foreign origin, mainly Slavic or Albanian (1926: 7). This suggests that some of  the original Greek names were replaced during the Middle Ages, when Slavs invaded large parts of south-eastern Europe.

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

19

than is usual in Greece; nonetheless, summers are typically dry and hot. Such a climate is conducive to the growth of many kinds of  fruit trees: fig, pomegranate, cherry, plum, pear and walnut are all commonly found in the vicinity. The climate is also eminently suited to the cultivation of vines, pulses and various vegetables, as well as crops such as maize and wheat, and these were all once grown – despite the relatively poor soil – on the terraces created by the locals centuries ago (and only recently abandoned). A small number of olive trees grow locally, too, but their limited crop has never been suf ficient to allow the production of olive oil, which has had to be obtained from outside the village. The area is home to a rich – and, in some cases, rare – f lora and fauna. The gathering of its plentiful wild herbs has long been customary in the village, as has the hunting of  birds (especially partridges) and mammals such as hare and wild boar. Scattered apiaries, with blue-painted beehives, are evidence that bee-keeping is also practised; bees, indeed, are considered sacred in local folklore, providing not just honey but also wax for making the votive candles burned in the village’s churches. The level of  forestation in and around Tsamantas has f luctuated significantly over the years. Residents interviewed by Nikolaos Nitsos in the early twentieth century claimed that roughly a hundred years earlier the whole of  the mountainous terrain surrounding the village had been covered in trees (1926: 2–3). Thereafter, major deforestation occurred, due to both an escalation in logging – for firewood or house construction – and the growing demand for land to cultivate, or to use for the grazing of goats. Nitsos goes on to recall, from his own childhood, that there was once a beautiful, thick forest in the Koziakas Gorge, until a disagreement between two of  the neighbourhoods in Tsamantas over rights to its resources led to intense competition amongst the women whose task it was to collect firewood. As a result, indiscriminate felling over a period of just a few years completely stripped the gorge of its trees. By then, the lone survivors of  the original ancient woodland were the forest in Ripessis (Ρίπεσης) – now across border, in Albania – and the few ancient hollies, cypresses and other trees that stood in the grounds of  local churches, especially the Monastery of  St George. (According to Nitsos, all that saved the latter from being felled was the sanctity of  their location!) In more recent times, the decline of  the

20

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village’s population has led to the gradual re-establishment of  the forest, and today there is once again an abundance of greenery in the locality, with thousands of oaks and planes, as well as the ubiquitous Judas trees, the blossom of which paints the landscape a deep pink every May. However, the woodland is now mostly restricted to the lower ground and the valleys in and around Tsamantas; the upper slopes of  Mount Mourgana are used for the grazing of  herds, and the scarcity of  trees at these higher altitudes has led to erosion of  the landscape through the frequent rainstorms of summer and autumn, accelerated by rocks and gravel tumbling down the sheer slopes. The soil here is particularly poor as a result, supporting a scattering of  hardy shrubs, such as dwarf  Jerusalem sage; those few trees that do grow high up on the mountainsides are mainly firs. But the greatest change to the landscape, compared with former times, is one that Tsamantas shares with the rest of  Epirus – and, indeed, many other mountainous parts of southern Europe – where gradual depopulation has resulted in the abandonment of much of  the land once used for agriculture, despite generous subsidies from the European Union. Eileen O’Rourke notes that the traditional Mediterranean hinterland of  terraces, vineyards and orchards, created by successive generations of peasant men and women, is being overrun by uncontrolled vegetation (1999: 30), and this is certainly the case in Tsamantas. However, the growth of agro-tourism in Epirus, and increasing interest in the region’s cultural history, is generating positive changes in the relationship between society and the physical environment, and, as we shall see, the village of Tsamantas provides us with an interesting example of  these changes. 1.1.2 The built environment Tsamantas is scattered across three mountainsides, forming three distinct neighbourhoods: Pera Machalas (Πέρα Μαχαλάς),5 Thana (Θάνα) and 5

From the Turkish mahala (neighbourhood). A map of  Epirus included in a paper by Major Robert Stuart, published in 1869 in the Journal of  the Royal Geographical Society of  London, suggests that Tsamantas was at one time known as Mahaladhes.

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

21

Pouranthis (Πουράνθης), the former somewhat larger than the other two. One of  the many attractions of  the village is that, despite the convoluted terrain, several vantage points provide a view of all three neighbourhoods spreading across the landscape. The simple houses – mostly of a single storey and built of  local stone and slate – are very much in harmony with the physical environment. According to today’s older residents, less than a hundred of  these stone houses stood in the village at the turn of  the twentieth century, along with a church (also used as a school) and several chapels. But after liberation from the Ottomans, in 1913, many more were built, bringing the total to approximately two hundred; a new school was also provided, together with watermills, communal washing facilities and various commercial establishments. However, the village suf fered a significant loss in the 1930s, when the nearby Monastery of  St George at Kamitsiani was abandoned after the death of its one remaining monk. The monastery had been an important religious centre, not only for Tsamantas but also the wider locality. With the exception of its imposing church, it now lies in ruins. A further devastating blow to the village’s life-force, and one which brought it to the brink of no return, came when many of its houses were destroyed during the Second World War and the ensuing Greek civil war. By the 1960s, the decline of  Tsamantas was very much apparent: roughly two thirds of its houses had been abandoned, as inhabitants turned their backs upon the village and moved away. A decade later, less than fifty remained occupied – mostly by elderly people – and all of its commercial establishments had closed, except for two small grocery-cafés. But in the early 1980s some of its former inhabitants, now living in Athens and other urban centres in Greece, came back and started repairing their family homes, or building new ones, to use as a summer retreat from the heat of  the cities. As a result, today’s village is an attractive mix of stone houses – both ruined and restored – and modern white-washed homes built of  brick. This renovation boom has put on hold the physical decline of  Tsamantas; in societal terms, too, the arrival of a few ethnic Albanian families has breathed new life into the village. Although its future is very much in doubt, the children of  these families are a symbol of  hope. A discussion of what may lie ahead for Tsamantas will be the theme of  the final chapter of  this book.

22

Chapter 1

1.2 Ancient ambiguities: the land of  the Atintanes? Although archaeological research has shown that human habitation in what is now Thesprotia dates back to prehistoric times, it is thought that the first organised settlements did not begin to appear until the second half of  the fourth century BC (Kanta-Kitsou et al., 2008: 21). The Greek archaeologist Sotirios Dakaris uncovered evidence of such a settlement during an excavation at Krania (Κρανιά) – near the site at which Tsamantas would later be founded – in the form of ancient graves and the copper figurine of a wrestler (1972: 160). Even closer to Tsamantas – just a few hundred metres to the south, at a site called Laimiko (Λαιμικό) – the remains of an old acropolis can still be seen at the top of a ridge overlooking the Koziakas Gorge. The land surrounding this site is more or less level and was apparently under cultivation at the time (as it was to remain until the second half of  the twentieth century, when it was converted to grazing pasture). The archaeological remains at Laimiko are described in detail in a seminal work of  1967 by Nicholas Hammond, the foremost historian of ancient Epirus. Hammond had examined the acropolis thirty years earlier and estimated that it would have had a circumference of approximately 500 metres (1967: 90). Its location is naturally fortified, with its eastern and southern sides at the top of precipitous slopes. To the west, the acropolis was protected by a polygonal ‘cyclopean’ wall, and Hammond believed that there would also have been a tower defending the main gateway, at the south-west corner. The site was of strategic significance, he argues, as it exercised control over routes that led from the Kalamas valley, across the mountains, and on to where the Albanian villages of  Markat, Leshnicë and Sotirë can now be found. The route to Markat, which followed the course of  the River Pavla and passed the now-abandoned village of  Lidizda (Λιντίζδα), was an especially important one, since it continued on to key locations, such as the bustling settlement of  Butrint and the coastal city of  Phoenicae – respectively, south and north of  Sarandë (Άγιοι Σαράντα) in present-day Albania.6 6

This route, which still exists, was the most convenient means of access into Albania, and remained so until the country became a communist state at end of  the Second World War, resulting in the closure of  the border.

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

23

The wider area around the Laimiko acropolis – dominated by Mount Mourgana, and lying between the headwaters of  the River Drin (Δρίνος and the basin of the River Thyamis (as the Kalamas was known in olden times) – was geographically the centre of ancient Epirus. When the acropolis was in use, according to Hammond (1987: 17–18), the area was inhabited by an Epirot tribe known as the Atintanes (Ατιντάνες).7 A clue to their territory, he notes, is provided by the ancient Greek historian Polybius. Describing the capture of Phoenicae by Illyrian pirates in 230 BC, Polybius observed that the surviving defenders of the city f led ‘in the direction of the Atintanes’, which he claimed was eastwards, towards Mount Mourgana. Hammond goes on to refer to another ancient Greek historian, Thucydides, who recorded that in 429 BC the Atintanes were in alliance with the Molossis to the east, under a single command.8 At least seventy hilltop settlements are known to have existed in the lands inhabited by these two allied tribes, and several of  them on both sides of the Greek–Albanian border – including the acropolis at Laimiko – were inspected by Hammond when he visited the area in the 1930s. These settlements ‘were not inhabited towns but fortified refuges for village dwellers’, since human habitation in Atintania – as in most other parts of Epirus – was mostly in small villages, consisting of  families within a tribal system that still exists today in the Kurvelesh area of southern Albania (1958: 74). Most of the hilltop settlements were later destroyed by the Romans. Hammond claims that those built in the vicinity of present-day Tsamantas were for defending the Atintanes against their enemies in the lower Pavla valley – and possibly beyond, in the valley of  the Kalamas (1967: 95). Apparently, these enemies were two other local tribes, also in alliance: Chaones, to the north-west of  Atintania, and Thesproti to the south-west (from whom the modern prefecture of  Thesprotia takes its name). Another important source on ancient times – Sakellariou’s compilation of essays contributed by experts in the fields of archaeology and history9 – refers

7 8 9

This tribe is not to be confused with the Illyrian Atintani, who lived to the north of  the Via Egnatia and the River Shkumbi (Genusios) in what is now Albania. The two allies were members of  the Epirote League, a coalition of  tribes that thrived until it was weakened by the Illyrian sack of  Phoenicae. Epirus: 4000 Years of  Greek History and Civilization provides a comprehensive history of  the region, from antiquity to the present.

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to a third pairing of  tribes in the area: the Parauaioi and the Orestai. The alliances between these six Epirot tribes were characterised by unequal relationships, in terms of military power; in each case one tribe dominated its ally, with the Molossis, Chaones and Parauaioi controlling, respectively, the Atintanes, Thesproti and Orestai (1997: 57). In the same volume, it is claimed that an inscribed stele dating from 370–368 BC, found in Dodona (Δωδώνα) to the south-west of  Ioannina, provides evidence that all of  these Epirot tribes spoke the Greek language and had Greek names (p. 141), and that during the Hellenistic period of  330–168 BC they became assimilated within the ancient Greek civilisation (pp. 92–93). It was around that time, according to the same source, that the fortified Atintanian settlement at Tsamantas was built, along with those found nearby in Lidizda and – across the border in Albania – in Maltsani and Plagia.10

1.3 Perceptions, identity, and attachment to place A growing number of economists, geographers, anthropologists and sociologists are being inf luenced by the notion of a ‘sense of place’. Primarily a social phenomenon, it is a complex concept, and defining it has proved to be problematic (Taylor and Townsend, 1976: 133). In a comprehensive survey of  the literature, Giuliani points out that a plethora of  terms has been used to refer to it, including attachment, belongingness, rootedness, embeddedness, identity, dependence, af filiation and investment (2003: 138). 10

Further evidence of a f lourishing civilisation in the locality comes from the fact that in 1993 a family grave, dating from between the second and the first century BC, was unearthed at the village of  Kefalochori (formerly known as Glousta), on the southern slopes of  Mount Mourgana. The grave was found to contain the cremated remains of six individuals, as well as a number of exquisite artefacts, many of which were made of gold. These artefacts – currently on display at the new Archaeological Museum of  Igoumenitsa – are evidence of a high level of sophistication amongst the village’s craftsmen, and were no doubt owned by individuals of superior social status.

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

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Perhaps it is most appropriately defined either as a sense of community shaped by a particular spatial setting, and by culture and history (Bolton, 1992: 186), or as a collection of meanings, attachments and satisfactions held by an individual or by an entire group (Stedman, 2002: 563). The fact that both of  these perspectives acknowledge the importance of  the natural and built environments is crucial, since it has been claimed (Shamai and Ilatov, 2005: 468) that an individual’s attachment to place is strongly inf luenced by the locality’s characteristics in terms of its geology, landscape, climate and wildlife – and surely this is so for the villagers of  Mount Mourgana, whose physical environment is extraordinary. Conceptual problems aside, research carried out by social scientists from dif ferent disciplines indicates that a powerful sense of place commonly exists where social interaction tends to occur within small units, such as close-knit neighbourhoods. In south-east Europe – where, until recent times, most people were born in villages – such small-scale interaction has been the norm, and one’s place of origin has always held great significance. The extensive literature in this field suggests that individuals become bonded psychologically to their immediate environment through familiarity and a sense of  belonging. According to Inalham and Finch (2004: 123), an individual’s personal aspirations may also be inf luential: those with no ambitions to move beyond the locality are likely to retain a sense of attachment to it, whereas those who make the decision to leave on a permanent basis may either sever all emotional links or, in contrast, experience intense feelings of nostalgia. 1.3.1 A place of refuge The inhabitants of  the mountainous parts of  Epirus have traditionally felt a powerful sense of attachment to their locality – although until the second half of  the twentieth century this rarely extended to the wider region, since the constraints of  the terrain largely restricted interaction to the immediate vicinity. In Tsamantas, the residents’ attachment to the village would have been strengthened by their awareness of its long history as a place of refuge. We have noted that in pre-historic times an acropolis occupied the ridge

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Chapter 1

above the site where Tsamantas now lies, protecting the ancient Atintanes from their enemies. But this was just the first known occasion on which the locality of fered a safe haven. In Sakellariou’s compilation of essays on the history of  Epirus we learn that, after its capture by the Ottomans in 1449, the Christian peasants down on the plains of  the Kalamas delta were forced to hand over their fertile land to Muslim in-comers. Having lost their livelihoods, most of  them moved away, not only to find new pasture for their animals but also to avoid the pressure to convert to Islam. Seeking refuge in the forests of  Mount Mourgana, they founded a number of settlements, one of which was Tsamantas (1997: 241).11 According to Nitsos (1926: 7), the site on which the village came to be built was chosen because it was virtually impregnable: the only route up to it from the Kalamas plains was by a mule track that followed the course of  the River Pavla through the Koziakas Gorge, and this had the advantage of  being frequently inaccessible during the winter (due to heavy rainfall) and relatively easy to defend throughout the rest of  the year. Although life was extremely tough for the settlers in their new environment, they became renowned for their tenacity, eking out a living through subsistence agro-pastoralism, despite the conditions that prevail at such a high altitude for several months of  the year. Many generations later, during the second half of  the eighteenth century, sixteen of  the villages on the f lanks of  Mount Mourgana evolved into a sisterhood of communities, sharing the mountain’s grazing land and enjoying a strong inter-relationship, both socially and economically.12 Tsamantas, as the largest of  them, was the natural claimant to its leadership and was known as the ‘head village’. But in 1866 – four centuries after the

11

12

The same publication reveals (p. 289) that the descendants of  the founders of  Tsamantas participated in the unsuccessful uprising of  Epirus against the Ottomans in 1854, during the Russo-Turkish war. The suppression by the Turks of  this revolt – carried out with the acquiescence of  both Britain and France – was followed by atrocities against the population. Numerous villages were burned and looted, and their inhabitants f led to the newly created Greek state. The group of villages was part of  the kaza of  Filiates (an administrative subdistrict within the Ottoman system). This kaza was situated in the vilayet (province) of  Yanina (Ioannina).

The Physical Environment and its Impact on the History of  Tsamantas

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start of  the Ottoman occupation – the Muslim landowners (or agas) of  Filiates made it known that they intended to appropriate the sisterhood of sixteen villages and turn them into a çiftlik (estate). The villages united in sending a delegation to the Ottoman administration in Yanina (the former name of  Ioannina), in protest at the plans. The Turks were ruthless rulers, and when they heard about the two priests from Tsamantas who were leading the delegation, they made plans to have them assassinated. Both survived, however. One of  them was the father of  Nikolaos Nitsos, who later recorded these events in his monograph on the village; Stavros Nitsos f led with his family to Constantinople. The other priest sought temporary refuge in the forest surrounding Tsamantas, continuing to do so, whenever necessary, until his death. Their protest was in vain: in 1866 the çiftlik was legally established (Nitsos, 1926: 44–48; Skopas, 1992). Its crippling ef fects will be discussed in subsequent chapters. Half a century later, Tsamantas once again became a haven, during the 1912–1913 war of independence from the Ottomans. Some of  the inhabitants of  the coastal lowlands, fearful of revenge for supporting the fight to incorporate Epirus within the Greek state, found refuge up in the village. The locals provided hospitality for many months, until the war was won and the occupiers had f led, after which the grateful refugees were free to return to their homes. Thus, on several occasions over the centuries, Tsamantas has been a place of safety and refuge, enhancing its status as the most important of  the villages on Mount Mourgana. 1.3.2 Factors af fecting attachment to place Some researchers have opposed the view that the physical environment plays an important role in an individual’s sense of place. In a major study of  the rural landscapes of  Methana (Μέθανα), a small peninsula in southern Greece, Hamish Forbes concludes that: … landscapes do not have meaning in and of  themselves: it is the humans who give them their meanings, which are culturally constructed through the medium of senses and knowledge informed by a person’s culture (…) Without those meanings given to them by human groups, they are merely environments (2007: 395).

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Similarly, a survey conducted by Taylor and Townsend in north-east England led them to conclude that the natural and built environment does not usually inf luence an individual’s perception of  belonging (1976: 144). They argue that a sense of place derives, for most people, from social attachment to others in the locality, and that the strength of this attachment is correlated to the intensity of  local kinship and friendship networks. In Tsamantas, kinship connections do indeed appear to have contributed to the villagers’ sense of  belonging. But, in contrast to the conclusions of these two studies, another important determinant has undoubtedly been their attachment to the village itself and its attractive and wholesome environment. This may partly explain the fact that although many people emigrated from Tsamantas in the early twentieth century, most of  them intended to return at some stage, to spend the rest of  their lives in the village. Interviews conducted by the author with some of  today’s residents suggest, however, that contemporary perceptions of  the village are not so consistent, and the same is true of native Tsamantiots who have gone to live elsewhere in Greece, or in the United States or Australia. For some, the village is a blue-skied and green-carpeted idyll, where people frequently live to a ripe old age because of  the clean mountain air, the purest of waters, a healthy diet of  home-grown vegetables, and the regular exercise that living in a steep-hilled environment provides;13 for others, the village signifies misery, back-breaking work and dereliction, and presents too great a challenge to the prospect of making a living. But, whatever one’s position, the physical environment has an undeniable potency. Amongst those members of  the diaspora who now spend their summers back in the village is a woman who was born in Lidizda, a now-abandoned settlement beyond the old acropolis at Laimiko. She left Lidizda as a child in 1945, when the village was razed to the ground by the Nazis, and here is how she described her feelings for the place on returning for the first time after more than thirty years:

13

Inspection of the cemetery of the Church of the Dormition of  the Virgin in Tsamantas reveals that the vast majority of its graves are occupied by former residents who were in their eighties – or, in many cases, older – at the time of  their death.

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I went back in ’77 by bus, on a trip organised by the Brotherhood of  Tsamantas in Athens. I had my son with me; he was ten years old at the time. When we’d got beyond Povla, and I recognised the place, my legs started trembling. What you experience as a child is etched so deeply in the memory, isn’t it? You remember every stone, every tree. I went to our house, but only the foundations remained. I recognised it, though. I could also see our two big olive trees, the vines, and the pomegranate and pear trees. The fig, too – that was huge. It used to have hundreds of purple fruit every year. And I recognised our little field; it was a tiny one, but very productive. We then went to see the school, but of course it was burnt down. The village square is still there, but the shops under the plane trees are all in ruins.

This woman clearly retains a profound emotional connection with the place of  her birth, in line with those researchers, such as Lewicka (2008), who contend that attachment to a particular place is an important factor in determining one’s identity. This kind of attachment is described by Yi-Fu Tuan as ‘topophilia’ (love of place). He notes that it occurs universally, and has presumably been experienced throughout the history of  human settlement – as suggested, for example, by the many occasions on which it is expressed in the literature of  the ancient Greeks and Romans (1977: 151–154). In considering the infinite variety of individual attitudes and values relating to the physical environment, he asserts that: Images of  topophilia are derived from the surrounding reality. People pay attention to those aspects of  the environment that command awe, or promise support and fulfilment in the context of  their lives’ purposes. The images change as people acquire new interests and power, but they are still taken from the environment: facets of environment, previously neglected, are now seen in full clarity (1974: 120).

Further to this point of view, Wulfhorst et al. (2006: 181) observe that although a sense of place ‘connotes a positive relationship to one’s surroundings, environment, or community’, it can be ‘contested by another’s reality or defined sense of space’. These dif ferences in perception can result in social conf lict, not uncommon in village communities.14 Regrettably, 14

See, for instance, the seminal work of  Du Boulay (1974) on the dysfunctional ef fects of quarrelling on village life in the mountain community of  Ambeli on the Greek island of  Euboia.

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such conf lict has arisen in recent times in Tsamantas, associated primarily with the management and use of natural resources such as water, and public grazing and hunting grounds. Moreover, a village with a strong sense of community can discriminate against outsiders, and again this has been the case in Tsamantas, where the Albanian immigrants, despite helping to rejuvenate the village, have been marginalised by some inhabitants, resentful of  their presence. In relating a sense of attachment to place to the central themes of  this book, we might fruitfully consider the following questions: What role has attachment to Tsamantas played in its economic development and social organisation? With the village now in decline, how can those members of  the diaspora that retain a strong connection to their former home assist in its recovery? And how can the physical environment, along with the village’s history, culture and folklore, be exploited to rejuvenate the community? An attempt to provide some answers to these questions will be made in later chapters. But, prior to charting the economic growth and decline of  Tsamantas, we need to consider the factors that may have inf luenced its development.

Chapter 2

Tradition and Culture of  Tsamantas through the Eyes of  Nikolaos Nitsos

The publication in Athens in 1926 of  Monograph on the Epirot Village of  Tsamantas, by Nikolaos Nitsos, put in print the first substantial study of a community in the mountains of north-west Epirus, opening a window onto life in this remote corner of  the country. With its wealth of detailed information on the village – soon to play a major role in modern Greek history – it was the inspiration for the present volume and by far the author’s most important source. The monograph ran to 400 pages and was a work of erudition. Nitsos, in the words of one of  his reviewers (Soulis, 1927: 315–316), had produced ‘a remarkable publication’, contributing significantly to our understanding of  the region’s history and to the preservation of its folklore. However, the book’s success was short-lived – not helped by the fact that it was written in katharevousa – and it sank without trace, to be forgotten for more than half a century. Then, in the early 1990s, a member of  the Athens-based St Dimitrios Brotherhood of  Tsamantas found a copy of  the original edition in the capital’s famous f lea market at Monastiraki and donated it to the Brotherhood. A decision was made to finance the publication of a second edition, thus rescuing from oblivion an important piece of scholarly work. The new edition appeared in 1992, with a preface by Nikos Skopas – an educationalist from Tsamantas – paying tribute to Nitsos and his extraordinary work: In contrast to the investigative approach of  the academic or researcher at one remove from his subject matter, Nitsos drew on local knowledge and his own experience (…) He himself  lived what he writes about, and he observes with care and af fection the world around him (…) His descriptions are precise pictures of  the way of  life and thinking of  his fellow villagers, free of any intent either to demean or to glorify reality. Customs and traditions, the wisdom of simple-living folk, the local toponyms and the idiomatic speech of  the people of  this part of  Epirus are all recorded not only in detail but also with faithfulness and integrity (1992: 17–18).

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As an adherent of  the ‘doctrine of survivals’, which maintained that aspects of any ancient culture would still be apparent in its modern incarnation, Nitsos was forthright in stating that his principal objective in writing his book was to provide compelling evidence of ethnic and cultural continuity from the ancient Greeks to the people of  his locality. This approach to ethnography was of paramount importance in Greece when he was working on his project, as will shortly be explained. Although his method was chief ly descriptive, he also made comparative analyses based on data from other parts of  Greece, and he was scrupulous in acknowledging his debt to the work of others. The outcome of  his extensive research was nothing less than a complete social and cultural history of  Tsamantas – an impressive achievement for one of the most isolated intellectuals in Epirus, constrained by limited access to public libraries and other resources. So who was this talented individual, and how did he come to write such an important and distinguished volume?

2.1 Nitsos’s background Born in 1865 in Tsamantas, to Marina and Stavros Nitsos, Nikolaos was the only boy in a family of six children. His father was a local priest and ardent patriot, who represented his village in the lengthy legal dispute over land ownership known as the ‘Claim of  the sixteen villages of  the Province of  Filiates’ (see Chapter 4). Together with a fellow priest in Tsamantas, Stavros fought the village’s Muslim landlords in the Turkish courts at Ioannina, living in constant fear of retribution. In 1876, having survived three attempts at assassination, he took his family to Constantinople, the Ottoman capital, finding refuge there and securing employment, again as a parish priest. But he continued the fight to win the court case, as part of a small of group of  Tsamantiots based in the city, who went so far as to submit a petition to the local embassies of  the Great Powers (Britain, France and Russia), requesting intervention and protection. However, as Nikolaos records in his monograph, their submission fell on deaf ears (1926: 44–48).

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For the young Nikolaos, the relocation of  the Nitsos family from the remote mountain community of  Tsamantas to the bustling metropolis of  Constantinople was the most significant event of  his formative years. It had a hugely beneficial ef fect upon his education and personal development, as he gained the opportunity to study at the Patriarchal ‘Great School of  the Nation’, a venerable academic institution. In 1882, the school moved to new premises near the Patriarchate, in the Phanar district of  the city, becoming known as the Phanar Greek Orthodox College,1 from which Nitsos graduated with honours the following year: My class was the first to receive its diplomas in the grand new building (…) The graduation ceremony that year – held in the spacious and beautiful hall of ceremonies, in the presence of  the Ecumenical Patriarch, Ioachim III – was more formal and full of pomp than ever before. My classmates had voted to bestow upon me the honour of giving the opening speech, as described – along with the other events of  the ceremony – in the yearbook published by the school. During the final year of our studies, one of our teachers – Themistocles Saltellis, an insightful interpreter of  the classical authors – delivered a course on epigrams, and he set us he task of composing one on the subject of  the school’s new building. My own ef fort, which received his praise and approval, went as follows:

Such a grand and solemn house! Who dwells therein? The Muses, the daughters of  thundering Zeus! (pp. 330–331).2

Nikolaos was fortunate in that his studies coincided with an era of educational reform in the Ottoman Empire. The focus in schools was no longer limited to the acquisition of general knowledge; schoolchildren were now also taught about trade and commerce, and learned to communicate in French, the lingua franca of the day. Of particular significance was the fact that Nitsos was able to study the classical authors of the European Enlightenment, such as Rousseau, Voltaire and Goethe, whose works instilled in him the romantic nationalism that would shape his politics and colour his writing. 1 2

The school still exists and, along with other epithets, is locally referred to as ‘The Red Castle’, due to its imposing façade of red brick. Unless otherwise stated, all references within this chapter relate to the 1926 monograph.

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The greatest inf luence in his life in Asia Minor was Nikolaos Papanikas, his maternal uncle, who had risen within the Church to the rank of  Metropolitan. Assuming the name of  Nathaniel, his first post was in the diocese of  Serres (now in the Greek region of  Macedonia); later, he moved to Prousa (modern-day Bursa, in Turkey), and finally, for the last few years of  his life, the diocese of  Nikopolis and Preveza, in Epirus. Nathaniel was a formidable personality, and over the course of  his ecclesiastical career he reached the top echelons of  the Orthodox Church on several occasions, being thrice elected a member of  the Holy Synod in Constantinople and twice appointed Suf fragan (Τοποτηρητής) of  the Ecumenical Throne. The Suf fragan was a locum for the Patriarch, whose appointment was at times deferred due to friction between the Ottoman authorities and the Orthodox Church, and Nathaniel thus became the most important person in Orthodoxy during these two periods. This was, inevitably, a source of immense pride for the people of  Tsamantas and its neighbouring villages. Wielding such power, it is possible that Nathaniel’s inf luence helped to secure his nephew’s place at the famous school. But Nikolaos paid of f any debt he owed him by becoming his personal secretary after graduation, an arrangement that continued for more than two decades. In his monograph, Nitsos pays a glowing tribute to his uncle – born in Povla, but resident throughout his childhood in neighbouring Tsamantas – in acknowledgement of  his role as mentor and patron: He brought honour not only to his two ancestral villages but also to all of  Tsamourgia, which until this time had never produced a man of such brilliance, known throughout Greece (…) Graced with all the virtues of a true shepherd of  Christ’s Church, he was distinguished by his prudence and diplomacy – which made him liked by the Turks, who considered him faithful to the Empire – and served splendidly the interests of  his Christian f lock, as well as those of  the Greek nation. Completely unselfish, and disinterested in personal gain, he was ever generous and helpful to those in need, extremely honest in his relations, and a man of solid character (pp. 92–93).

While working for him in Serres, Nitsos embarked upon his parallel career in journalism, which he pursued with great passion for the remainder of  his life. Whenever his duties as Nathaniel’s secretary allowed, he acted as a local correspondent for most of  the Greek-language newspapers in

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Constantinople, sending regular reports and writing articles on civic, social, political and philological matters (p. 96). He continued in this dual role when Nathaniel was moved to his new diocese, in Prousa. A few years later, in 1890, Nikolaos’s ailing father came to live with him, but Stavros died there during the winter and was buried locally. Nikolaos suf fered further bereavement in 1912, with the loss of  Metropolitan Nathaniel, who passed away in Preveza at the age of  75. By then, Nikolaos was back in Constantinople, where he had become involved in banking and commercial activities. But two years after the death of  his uncle, with Epirus recently liberated from centuries of  Ottoman rule, he returned to his native village after an absence of  38 years. He refers to this emotional occasion: I wanted to pay a visit to my birthplace – which I had left when it was still enslaved – in order to breathe once again the air of  her mountains, now free of  the Turkish yoke. I interrupted my work in Constantinople and arrived in Tsamantas in the middle of  1914. I planned to stay for a few months and then to return to my work in Constantine’s wonderful city, a place that no one who knows it – much less, one who has lived there – can ever forget (p. iv).

But, to his horror, world events conspired against him, with the declaration of  the First World War in August. Trapped by circumstances in isolated Tsamantas, he nonetheless continued with his journalism, submitting articles and reports to various Greek and foreign newspapers. Also, as his father had before him, he became a passionate campaigner for the rights of  his fellow villagers in their continuing land dispute with the Muslim agas of  Filiates. However, at an assembly of  the residents of all sixteen villages, held in Gloutsa (now Kefalochori) in September 1914, he declined the chance to become one of  three elected representatives to lead the campaign – perhaps to avoid being viewed as a persona non grata by the Ottomans, which would have jeopardised his plan to return to Constantinople. In April 1917, when Italian troops began their brief occupation of  Epirus, Nitsos found himself completely cut of f  from the rest of world, through suspension of  both the mail service and the circulation of  his treasured newspapers. This state of af fairs would persist until the end of  the war, around which time Nitsos contracted the deadly Spanish inf luenza virus that killed millions across Europe. Fortunate to recover, but still constrained

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in terms of  finding suitable employment, Nitsos now took the momentous decision to begin a study of  the history and customs of  his native village. This work became the focus of  the rest of  his life, the acme of which was undoubtedly the publication and critical success of  his book. Blessed with a boundless curiosity, he included study of  the local folklore in his remit, despite the fact that much of it was unfamiliar to him, as he explains: It should be noted that I left my place of  birth at a very young age, and since I had lived almost my entire life up to the year of  1914 far away from there, its culture was, for the most part, foreign to me. But the more I collected and studied it, the more interested I became. I began systematically to gather a wealth of material relating to the customs and traditions of  the inhabitants, the lives of  the generations that came before us, the [local] language and expressions, and in general anything about folklore, history and our way of  life. Thus, I came to write this monograph, which I planned to publish upon my return to Constantinople, and in which I included everything I learned about these matters (p. iv).

Nitsos drew on the work of others, of course, and his discussion of  local history in particular is indebted to scholars such as Panagiotis Aravantinos, who wrote a comprehensive history of  Epirus, published in 1856. But he also conducted extensive research of  his own, utilising both oral and written sources, especially the latter. One of  the most fruitful of  these was the collection of documents in the small library at the Monastery of  St George, in neighbouring Kamitsiani. His examination of  these documents was a timely exercise: not long after he completed his research, the monastery was abandoned on the death of its one remaining monk, Abbot Peschos, and its priceless archives were left to rot. Were it not for the fact that Nitsos included what he uncovered within his text, much of what we know about the past in Tsamantas would be lost to us. In March 1920, he completed the first draft of  the monograph. Intending to find a publisher when the war in this part of  the world had of ficially ended and he was free to return to Constantinople, Nitsos was hoping that some of  his wealthy acquaintances in the city would be willing to cover the substantial costs involved. In anticipation of  this, he produced a promotional leaf let summarising the contents of  his book. By August, the future was looking bright, with the signing of  the Treaty of  Sèvres heralding the end of  the war between the Allies and the defeated Ottomans.

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However, as we shall discuss in Chapter 3, hostilities continued between Greece and Turkey, precluding the movement of civilians from one country to the other. Then, in 1922, Greece suf fered a humiliating defeat by Kemal Ataturk’s forces, which resulted in approximately one and a half million Greeks being driven out of  Asia Minor. Although the Greek inhabitants of  Constantinople were exempted from this repatriation, it was no longer possible for former residents of  Greek nationality to return to the city. Thus, as Nikos Skopas comments in the preface to the monograph’s second edition, the so-called Queen of  the Cities – now renamed as Istanbul – was lost to Nitsos, as indeed it was to ‘the entire Greek world’ (1992). Nikolaos would never return to his beloved city, familiar to him since his boyhood; nor would he ever be able to visit Prousa, where he had lived for nearly a quarter of a century, one of  the happiest times of  his life. During this harrowing time for the Greeks, Nitsos suf fered further personal loss: in Appendix I of  his volume (pp. 317–318) he laments the murder, by a frenzied mob, of  his acquaintance and correspondent Archbishop Chrysostomos, during the conf lagration that largely destroyed the ancient city of  Smyrna (Izmir). He was also greatly saddened by the desecration of  his father’s grave in Bursa, and the fact that he was unable to carry out his filial duty by moving his father’s bones to his native village. The most that he could do was to build a memorial to him, and so he constructed a new fountain at a spring called Pigadoulis (Πηγαδούλης) serving half  the population of  Tsamantas. His friend Christos Christovasilis, an important literary figure in Epirus at the time, composed the verse which was carved into its stone: Cold water, good for digestion, ever-f lowing and clean, This fountain unceasingly supplies it for us all… Nikolaos Nitsos built it in memory of His famed and virtuous father, the Priest Stavros, Who was born here and died in Prousa. Drink, and bless him for all eternity (p. 318).

Greece’s defeat at the hands of  the Turks ended its long-held dream of a Hellenic Empire, which was to have included parts of  Asia Minor within its territory, with Constantinople as its new capital. Nitsos was greatly

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subdued by the shame of  his country’s humiliation, and the manuscript of  his book remained on a shelf  for the next few years. He did, however, write a second draft at some point, and this revision allowed him not only to make substantial corrections to the original, but also to incorporate further material, including much of  the content of a pamphlet that he had succeeded in publishing in Ioannina in 1924.3 The new draft was read by Christos Christovasilis, himself an avid collector of  folklore material, who urged Nitsos to try for publication. Heartened by the encouragement of  his illustrious friend, and backed by some of his fellow villagers, he secured a sizeable loan to cover the cost of publication, which he hoped to pay of f  through sales of  the book. Finally, in 1926, nearly six years after the completion of its first draft, the monograph was published. To its author’s delight, the book was well received by the scholars of  Epirus, and an extensive and glowing review by Christovasilis himself appeared in Eleftheria, his Ioannina-based newspaper. As noted earlier, however, its success was only f leeting and local, and the book was soon forgotten. Nitsos spent his final years in retirement, living a somewhat solitary life and known by the other inhabitants of  his village as the ‘hermit scholar of  Tsamantas’. One of  today’s residents – a woman in her eighties – remembers him clearly from her childhood, describing him as an eccentric elderly man, always clad in black, who would stroll through the narrow streets of  the village during the evenings. Another woman, Lopi Vezdhrevanis, spoke of  him as a serious man, who often engaged in long and cultured discussions with her stepfather, Vassilios Milionis, when Vassilios was the local schoolteacher. But others mention a less agreeable aspect of  his personality, recalling their of fence at his aloofness, keeping his distance from the uneducated, despite the fact that he was studying their folklore and culture with such pride. It is clear that he was a man of contradictions: incorrigibly haughty, but also open-minded; a writer with a tendency to pomposity, yet gifted in his lyricism; an avid supporter of  the welfare of  his remote mountain community, fiercely opposed to oppression, but never a radical.

3

‘Monograph on the parochial Monastery of  Saint George at Kamitsiani in Tsamantas, Epirus.’

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To the modern reader, he comes across as excessively patriotic and nationalistic, but this is understandable when viewed in the context of  his era. As Herzfeld points out, it would be unfair to belittle the work of certain Greek folklorists on the grounds that they were politically opportunistic. ‘On the contrary’, he writes, ‘it was a sustained, often painful attempt to discern order in chaos on the part of a people whose national identity was often threatened by the very nations which had appointed themselves as its guardian’ (1982: 144). Despite the fact that his network of acquaintances in Athens and other Greek urban centres – and even in his much-admired United States of  America – could have provided Nitsos with intellectual stimulation, and potentially a far better standard of  living, he chose to remain in Tsamantas (Skopas, 1992). Undoubtedly, old age played a part in this decision, but sadly it meant that his twilight years were lived in poverty. However, right up to his death he continued to be active: although he wrote no other books, he maintained his journalistic output, sending numerous letters to newspapers, magazines and journals in Greece and abroad, some of which contained new material on local folklore that further research had uncovered. Nikolaos Nitsos died in February 1940, at the age of  74. His nephew, Yannis Goulas, remembers his final days, which testify to the integrity and indomitable spirit of  Tsamantas’s most celebrated son: ‘He was acting as an agent for a large bank, countersigning cheques sent from migrants living in Worcester. The doctors were keeping him alive with injections, because he was determined to finish what he had to do.’

2.2 The academic study of  Greek folklore, and its inf luence on Nitsos We must now consider the scholarly context within which Nitsos carried out his research into local history and folklore. In respect of  the latter, a terminological clarification is in order. The word ‘folklore’ is widely used by

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English-speaking scholars4 to refer to the customs and traditions associated with a particular community or area – as opposed to an entire nation, for which ‘ethnography’ is considered the more appropriate term. Although the Greek language also distinguishes between these two concepts, the term for folklore (laographia; λαογραφία) has come to be used in respect of  both. Derived from the word laos (λαός), meaning ‘people’, it was coined towards the end of  the nineteenth century by N.G. Politis, the most inf luential folklore scholar of  his time (Herzfeld, 1982: 96). In the middle of  the eighteenth century, more than one hundred and fifty years before Nitsos embarked upon his project, the Modern Greek (or Neo-Hellenic) Enlightenment emerged: an attempt by the Greek intelligentsia to relate the ideas and values of the wider European Enlightenment to the Greek-speaking world. As a consequence, the folklore of  Greece began to attract the attention of various scholars, as noted by KyriakidouNestoros (1978: 15–16). The most eminent of  these was Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest of  the German romantics. Goethe was an avid collector of  Greek folk songs and he translated a number of  them into his own language (Merry, 2004: 99). His example was followed by other Europeans, such as Claude Fauriel, Dora d’Istria, Arnold Passow, Emile Legrand and Werner von Haxthausen,5 all of whom compiled important collections of  Greek songs that are still a focus of academic attention (Herzfeld, 1982; Beaton, 1986; Merry, 2004). Nitsos tells us that he was familiar with the most comprehensive of  these early studies: Claude Fauriel’s two-volume compendium entitled Chants populaires de la Grèce moderne (Popular Songs of  Modern Greece), published over two years from 1824. Fauriel was the first scholar to use scientific methods in evaluating and editing folk songs, and his collection was widely drawn on by other scholars in the field. He 4 5

Although there is an equivalent word in all other European languages, the concept conveyed by these various terms lacks consistency. Dan Ben-Amos (1998) puts the case for replacing it with one that would avoid dif ferent interpretations of its meaning. Surprisingly, two of  these collectors – Fauriel and von Haxthausen – never visited Greece, relying instead on information provided by the Greek diaspora in Europe (Beaton, 1986: 115). For a critical review of  Fauriel’s contribution to modern Greek folklore, see Deligiorgis (1969).

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was also largely responsible – along with Goethe, the Brothers Grimm and the philosopher Herder, all in Germany – for the spread of romantic nationalism throughout Europe. The inf luence of  these various intellectuals on Nitsos is apparent in his monograph, in which he expresses his admiration for Herder’s espousal of  the concept of  Volksgeist (the collective consciousness of a people) and adopts Goethe’s viewpoint that folk songs, tales, proverbs and the like are expressions of such a consciousness, being rooted in the shared traditions of a nation (p. 175). Academic interest in Greek folklore dramatically increased after the publication of  the first volume of a history of  the Peloponnese during the Middle Ages, by the Austrian polemicist and historian Jacob Philipp Fallmerayer (1790–1861).6 This appeared in 1830, nine years after the majority of  Greeks had won independence from the Ottomans and formed a small state of  their own (although, as we know, this did not include Epirus, which remained a part of  the Ottoman Empire). The issue of identity had long been a central problem in Greek society, as shown in an article by James Verinis on aspects of  the first modern Olympic games, at Athens in 1896. Verinis notes that society was then divided between those people (mostly intellectuals) who thought of  themselves as Hellenes (Ελληνες) – in other words, descended from the ancient Greeks – and those (mostly rural inhabitants) who used the term Romioi (Ρωμιοί) to describe themselves, referring to the Romans who had occupied their land many centuries before (2005: 140). But with the publication of  the first volume of  his history, Fallmerayer turned the issue of identity into a matter of national urgency for the newly liberated Greeks, by rejecting their claims to a classical ancestry, arguing that modern Greeks were of  Albanian, Slavic or even Turkish descent, with barely any blood in their veins from the Greeks of ancient times. In order to refute Fallmerayer’s ‘anti-Hellenic’ standpoint, which undermined the legitimacy of  the new state, scholars in Greece and elsewhere – eventually to include Nitsos himself – adopted what Herzfeld calls the ‘Hellenistic thesis’: that modern Greek culture is a direct descendant of ancient Greek

6

Geschichte der Halbinsel Morea Während des Mittelalters, Volume I, Stuttgart and Tübingen: Cotta.

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ideals, with no Oriental or Slavic inf luences. They supported their position through research within the fields of  linguistics, history and folklore, a significant corollary of which was the preservation of  ‘a vast corpus of  [folklore] material’, most of which would have been lost long before without their ef forts (Herzfeld, 1982: 8). One of  the first to adopt the Hellenistic thesis was Spyridon Zambelios (1815–1881), who was to become a major inf luence on Nitsos more than half a century later. A native of  Corfu, and the author of  Folk Songs of  Greece (1852), Zambelios helped to shape the development of  Greek national consciousness, by referring repeatedly within his work to ‘nation’ (ethnos; έθνος), ‘race’ and ‘national spirit’ (Herzfeld, 1982: 53). He introduced the concept of  Byzantine Hellenism, arguing that Byzantium – the eastern part of  the Roman Empire – was the missing link between antiquity and modern times. Zambelios provided robust evidence of cultural and ethnic continuity from ancient Greece to his own era via the Byzantines (Avdikos, 2010: 159), and in so doing transformed the way in which the Greeks conceptualised their history (Koubourlis, 2009: 60–61). The subsequent growth in Greece of  historicism – that is, the acknowledgment of a direct link between past and present (Walker, 2002: 184) – was meteoric, as indeed it was throughout Europe. Another important inf luence on Nitsos was the philologist and folklorist Nikolaos Politis (1852–1921), whose seminal study Modern Greek Mythology, published in two volumes in 1871 and 1974, enlarged upon the notion that the beliefs and values of modern Greeks were closely linked to those of  their ancient ancestors (Mackridge, 2009: 199–200). Politis systematically collected and analysed a wide range of materials in support of  his position, including myths and tales, folk songs, proverbs and sayings, as well as traditional customs of  the Greek-speaking world. He was also the first scholar to compare Greek mythology to its equivalents in other cultures, and his methods provided the basis upon which Nitsos would develop his own comparative study of  the folklore of  Tsamantas and its surrounding area. Michael Herzfeld notes that Politis was not only the founder of  the highly respected journal Laographia, but also ‘perhaps the most scholarly protagonist of  the Greeks’ claim to [bear] the name of  Hellenes. In his work’, he continues, ‘we reach the climactic point,

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historically and epistemologically, of  Greek folklore studies’ (1982: 96). Like many other European folklorists at the time, Politis was an advocate of ethnocentrism, taking the view that his nation’s culture was of greater importance than any other within or around its territory, the questionable objective of which, in Greece, was the ‘ethnic homogenisation’ of its people through cultural assimilation (Avdikos, 2010: 167). The national government, eager to reclaim former territories, swiftly recognised the potential of  this perspective to justify its aim of imposing the Greek culture and language on those of other ethnicities who would be absorbed in such a process of expansion. As a consequence, funding was made available to encourage further research, and a chair of  folklore studies was established at each of  the country’s two universities: in 1890, Politis himself  became the first professor in the field, at the University of  Athens – held until his death thirty-one years later – and in 1923 one of  his former students, Stilpon Kyriakidis, was awarded the second chair, at the newly founded Aristotle University of  Thessaloniki.7 Under the guiding hand of  Politis, the study of  folklore had become a major academic discipline in Greece by the early twentieth century, when Nikolaos Nitsos was working on his project. Since the focus of  Nitsos’s research was the folklore of  his own part of  Greece, he was inf luenced, to varying degrees, by a number of eminent scholars in Epirus who had emerged from the ranks of its intellectual elite during the second half of  the previous century. In reviewing the Nitsos monograph, on publication, Christos Soulis (1927: 315–316) noted that its author had followed ‘the tradition of  Panagiotis Aravantinos (1811–1870), Ioannis Lambridis (1839–1891)8 and Dimitrios Chasiotis (1846–1897),9 as well as many other Epirots, in preserving the region’s history’. Aravantinos in particular was instrumental in drawing attention to his region, publishing a collection of  7 8 9

Alki Kyriakidou-Nestoros (1978) notes in her book devoted to her father’s career that his greatest achievement was his systematic historical approach to ethnography. An amateur folklorist, Lambridis wrote a significant treatise on the folkloric traditions of  the Zagoria region of  Epirus, which he explicitly asserted (1870: 146–148) was in response to Fallmerayer’s anti-Hellenic perspective. Chasiotis, G.C., (1866), ‘Silloyi ton kata tin Ipiro Dimotiko Asmaton’ (Collection of  Epirot Folk Songs), Athens: Rodamanthios.

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Epirot folk songs in 1880 – probably drawn upon by Nitsos – in which he claimed, somewhat controversially, that much of  the folklore of  the newly liberated state of  Greece, and especially its songs, originated from Epirus.10 He pointed out that in Fauriel’s collection of  126 songs, 70 came from the region, as did half of  Zambelios’s extensive corpus of 200 songs (1880: 7–8). All of  these regional, national and international factors clearly had a profound motivational inf luence on the objectives that Nitsos set himself, and the manner in which he carried out his research and wrote his book. In planning it, he was meticulous in adhering to the traditions of  his field, concerned for his work to be taken seriously, and his thorough approach to the structuring of  his intended publication is considered in the following section.

2.3 The organisation of  the monograph: structure and taxonomy Nitsos organised the contents of his book so that the first six chapters would present the salient facts about Tsamantas, whilst the remaining seven would examine in detail the village’s unique folk culture and of fer a discourse on the local dialect. The opening chapter covers the history, geography and climate of  Tsamantas, and discusses local place names. Particularly noteworthy are the historical facts that Nitsos reaped from the handwritten comments added by priests and monks, over the centuries, to the margins of ecclesiastical books; these reveal the most significant events to have taken place within the locality, illuminating its past and informing its present. Chapter 2 provides a demographic picture of  Tsamantas in Nitsos’s time, and considers aspects of its economy, as well as the phenomenon of emigration. The next two deal with the subjects of religion and education respectively, while chapter 5 assesses the achievements of a handful of  local 10

Aravantinos, P., (1880), ‘Silloyi Dimodon Asmaton tis Ipirou’ (Collection of  the Folk Songs of  Epirus), Athens: Perris.

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scholars and scientists. Chapter 6 looks at the village’s financial management and its resources, with reference to the use made of  incoming funds from members of  the St George’s Society in Worcester, Massachusetts. Although these early chapters provide a wealth of  fascinating information on the micro-history and social organisation of  Tsamantas, some of  this would have applied to many other rural communities in Greece at the time. What sets the book apart from anything else written before or since on a village in Epirus, and makes it a work of distinction, is the fact that the subsequent chapters provide a comprehensive record of  the culture of  Tsamantas in the early twentieth century, revealing what life was like there a century ago, when it was a tightly knit community with shared values. Given that much of what is described is now lost to history, this is an invaluable legacy. Nitsos discusses, with acuity and intellectual depth, the hidden symbolism in the local customs, songs and stories, and the result is a fascinating insight into the hearts and minds of  former Tsamantiots. Comparative research in the field of  folklore studies demands the systematic application of appropriate taxonomic criteria. In planning the final seven chapters of  his book, Nitsos adopted the well-established method of  folklore categorisation devised by N.G. Politis. Chapter 7 provides a comprehensive and detailed account of  the customs and traditions that characterised life in Tsamantas, from weddings, childbirth, baptisms and funerals, to the ways in which the local people celebrated festivals. Next, two chapters focus on linguistic matters: the Greek language as spoken in the village – including idioms used in everyday speech, a selection of  local greetings, blasphemies, incantations and curses, and even the words used in exorcisms – followed by a commentary on some of  the proverbs used by Tsamantiots. In chapters 10 and 11, Nitsos presents his remarkable collection of  folk songs, along with a small compilation of  fairy tales, adding his thoughts on their meaning. The penultimate chapter consists of a glossary of nearly 600 words from the local dialect, while the last considers the ingenious system of slang expressions invented by the village’s itinerant tinkers. Three appendices provide useful supplementary information, including further linguistic material, as well as excerpts from the author’s correspondence with his peers and with newspaper editors. The most significant material in the book will now be reviewed, more or less in the order in which it appears.

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2.4 The natural environment, the history of  Tsamantas, and local toponyms Nitsos was an enthusiastic advocate of a simple life based on nature’s bounty: ‘the bracing mountain air, crystalline waters from alpine springs, wild as well as cultivated vegetables, fresh milk, cornbread, homemade wine, the occasional bit of meat’ (p. 19). But, in contrast to the prevailing attitude in Tsamantas, he believed that the natural world was rather more than a mere provider of resources. He was an early environmentalist, concerned about issues such as sustainability and damage to the landscape, and his views were informed by his reading of  the European literature on modern philosophy and the aesthetics of nature, by Goethe, Rousseau and others. Aware of the problems associated with short-sighted exploitation of  the environment, he was alarmed by the indiscriminate nature of the deforestation of  the slopes of  Mount Mourgana, which he attributed to the greed and ignorance of his fellow villagers. The unrestricted felling of trees by local women for firewood was in his opinion ‘thoughtless’, as indeed was the intentional burning of  large parts of  the forest by shepherds to create new pastures for their f locks. Both practices had impacted upon the sustainability of local resources, and this environmental mismanagement, which he considered a threat to the very survival of  his village, had led to significant deterioration of  the land through erosion: ‘Now that there is nothing to prevent it, rainwater and f loods are gradually sweeping away the soil (…) leaving bare rocks protruding from the ground’ (pp. 2–3). The local landscape had become monotonous and ugly; in fact, the only pristine area left in the locality, he lamented, was the land on which stood the Monastery of  St George at Kamitsiani, where, amongst the ‘thick forest and abundant greenery (…), the never-ending song of various birds, night and day – especially during the spring – delights the ear more than any human concert’ (p. 66). In his espousal of environmentalism, Nitsos was inf luenced not only by the work of  European intellectuals but also by some senior members of  his own family, namely his paternal grandfather and two great uncles, whom he acknowledges:

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It seems appropriate for me to praise the special af fection for trees and plants shown by my grandfather, Kotsias Nitsos, and his brothers Giorgos and Christos, who between them created a garden at the place in Tsamantas known as Skourti [Σκούρτη], or Bourimi [Μπουρίμι]. Although it had been an arid plot of land, they discovered water there and planted fruit trees and vines. They also introduced a small patch of shady forest next to it (…) spending ‘a sack of  Spanish coins’ on the project, as was said in those days to indicate an extravagant sum. My grandfather’s garden seems to me a small oasis in the midst of the treeless, bone-dry and dusty expanse all around, and it is a joy to the eyes (…) It is a wonder that roughly a century ago there were people here whose relationship with trees approached adoration, when today hardly anyone loves green things! But it seems that I inherited [my relatives’] love of nature. I thus considered it my sacred duty to perpetuate the memory of my grandfather and his brothers by means of an inscription on the wayside shrine near to the garden, since I shall not, as a bachelor, be passing on this love of greenery to any descendants (pp. 324–325).

As noted, Nitsos was also passionate about the right of  his community to be considered indisputably Greek. Acutely aware of  the fact that the unusual name of  Tsamantas could be assumed either Slavic or Albanian in derivation – as many other local toponyms probably were – he was anxious to refute any suggestion that the local people were not of  Greek origin, which could have jeopardised the fragile status quo that had followed incorporation within the Greek state. In the hope of avoiding unfavourable decisions in any further realignment of  the border with Albania, he urged his fellow residents to Hellenise these local toponyms (though without much success; old habits die hard). In seeking to establish a firm connection between his village and the ancient Greek past, Nitsos drew from William Miller’s 1922 publication A History of  the Greek People (1821–1921). Miller was an ardent philhellene, a member of  the Historical and Ethnological Society of  Greece, and, according to Brouzas, the ‘greatest living English authority’ on Greece’s modern history (1928: 78). Like Zambelios before him, Miller had criticised Fallmerayer’s ‘anti-Hellenic’ doctrine as an absurdity, favouring instead the notion of continuity of  the Greek race and culture. He used a powerful metaphor to communicate the process of assimilation by which the Greeks had survived successive waves of invaders, and Nitsos borrows it: in the first appendix of  his monograph, he likens Hellenism to an olive tree that never dies, but goes on blossoming and bearing fruit, despite the fact that its branches are constantly being eaten by goats (p. 309).

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To achieve his objectives, Nitsos carried out painstaking research in the manner of  his many predecessors who had likewise adopted the Hellenistic thesis. A detailed account of  the endeavours of some of  these scholars is provided by Alki Kyriakidou-Nestoros, in her volume on the history of  Greek folklore (1978). Most were followers of  the contemporary trend for studying what were then called ‘popular antiquities’ – from early manuscripts, to artefacts unearthed by archaeological digs – in order to inform their work in the field of  folklore studies. They had ample opportunity to make connections with their putative ancestors: as Roger Abrahams has pointed out (1993: 9), evidence of  the past is all around us, in the form of physical remains of ancient civilisations, the oral tradition of passing down beliefs and customs, and, most invaluably, first-hand accounts of  life in former times as recorded by scribes. Nitsos utilised the same methods, in searching for physical evidence of an ancient Greek presence near his village, but was as scrupulous as ever in abiding by the principles of scholarly integrity and objectivity. For instance, he refuted claims made by some Greek archaeologists that the location of  the oracle of  Dodona (Δωδώνη) – one of  the most important religious sites in ancient Greece – had been in Kamitsiani, the hamlet next to Tsamantas: Of course, it would be a great honour for my native village to have in its vicinity this respected centre of  the ancient Greek religion. But there is no real evidence on which to base this bold claim. No ruins or discoveries, no inscriptions, and no monuments of any kind have been found there in support of  this theory. How, then, can it be asserted that legendary Dodona – ‘the oldest of all the oracles built in Greece’, according to Herodotus – was located close to Tsamanta[s]? (pp. 11–12).

He acknowledged that it was impossible to prove any hypothesis on local origins. Nonetheless, he drew his own conclusions, some of which were based upon the work of  the great historian Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos, whom he quotes at length. In the final volume of  the five-part History of  the Hellenic Nation, published between 1860 and 1874, Paparrigopoulos had claimed that a thirteenth-century aristocratic family by the name of  Tsamantouros had fallen into disrepute within the Byzantine Royal Court of  Nicaea (in Asia Minor) and had taken refuge in the Despotate of  Epirus. Nitsos postulated that the area surrounding his village was given as a dukedom to this refugee family and named Tsamantouria after them,

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the toponym eventually transmuting into Tsamourgia, as it was known in his lifetime. He went on to suggest (pp. 13–14) that the name of  Tsamantas itself originated from the same source, having discovered a very early reference to the village in the royal decree of  Andronicus the Elder of  1321, held in the archives of  the bishopric of  Ioannina. In this document, the village bears the name of  Tsamantoura, nearly identical to that of its wider area at the time. Furthermore, the modern name of  the village was – unusually, in Greek – almost always referred to in the genitive case (tou Tsamanta), implying it had once been in someone’s possession.11 Presuming this to have been the refugee family from Asia Minor, Nitsos makes the point that such aristocratic connections ought to instil pride in his fellow villagers: ‘(…) as the French saying noblesse oblige suggests, with privilege comes responsibility. [Tsamantiots] should be inspired by their noble ancestors, the Tsamantouros family from the Byzantine aristocracy, and should always strive to do good deeds, and work towards the common good for the benefit of society’ (pp. 15–16). He goes on to mention a further variation of  the toponym, noting that the inhabitants of  the Albanian Muslim villages to the west of  Tsamantas had always called it ‘Tsamantari’ (p. 15), and he quotes a satirical verse they used to sing, mocking his community: Tsamantari, Tsamantari, you were the pride of all the villages. Tsamantouri, Tsamantouri, how did you become such a donkey?12

11

12

The older residents of  Tsamantas, and most members of its diasporic community around the world, still refer to it in the genitive, without the final ‘s’ that was of ficially added to the name in the 1960s. During that decade, the Greek government Hellenised most of  the Slavic or Albanian names within the locality. (The village of  Povla, for example, became known as Ambelonas, and Glousta was renamed as Kefalochori.) But Tsamantas retained its ancient and idiosyncratic name – with just a minor change to its spelling, to make it consistent with modern Greek – as a direct result of  the evidence that Nitsos presented in his book, postulating Byzantine connections to the village. This is more successful in the original Greek, which uses rhyming couplets to humorous ef fect, employing yet another variation of  the name for the village (Tsamantouri) to rhyme with ‘donkey’ (gaidhouri; γαιδούρι).

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In his determination to gain acknowledgement of a link between Byzantium and Tsamantas, and thereby continuity with ancient Greece, Nitsos sought to publicise his research on local toponyms. In 1920, an excerpt from the manuscript of  his monograph appeared in Ipiros, the regional newspaper; the following year, the same excerpt was published in the Greek-language Monthly Illustrated National Herald of  New York. In response, he received a number of congratulatory letters and positive comments from intellectuals, senior clerics and fellow villagers, which he later incorporated in his monograph as an appendix. A copy of  the excerpt also reached the Athens-based scholar Dimitrios Kampouroglou (1852–1941), an authority on Greek toponyms. However, although Kampouroglou wrote to Nitsos’s friend Christos Christovasilis, praising this ‘splendid, logical, scientific and illuminating piece of work’, he declined to endorse it; instead, he put forward an alternative explanation of  the name Tsamourgia, based upon phonetics, suggesting that ‘Thyamis’ (the ancient name of  the local Kalamas river) might have been its derivation. In a firm but courteous letter to Kampouroglou, Nitsos pointed out that, ever since the Turkish conquest of  Epirus, the river had been called the Kalamas, not Thyamis – confirmed by the fact that those who lived along both banks of  the river were known as Parakalamites throughout the Ottoman era – and thus it made no sense to suggest a philological connection between the ancient name of  the river and the modern name of  the area (pp. 369–370). But he was not always so courteous to anyone who challenged the aristocratic origins of  his village, and one recipient of  his invective was a man by the name of  Mistakidis, from the village of  Droviani in what Nitsos would have called Northern Epirus (the southern part of  the new state of  Albania). Mistakidis had claimed that Tsamantas was so called after someone by the name of  Tsamos, a scion of an illustrious Muslim family from the village of  Linates – four hours’ walking distance from Tsamantas – and the ruler of  the region. Nitsos responded with furious indignation: [These] assertions concerning the name of  Tsamanta[s] are entirely hypothetical and unsupported (…) How or where he discovered this man Tsamos, and in which era he lived, Mistakidis doesn’t mention. He has a weakness for inventing such toponymic creations, led astray by homophony (…) He does an injustice to himself and to his

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other, much more serious, writing by means of  these ridiculous examples, bereft of any scientific authority (pp. 307–308).

Although Nitsos was exceptionally proud of  his village, repeatedly emphasising its credentials as a community of upright and hard-working individuals, he had no scruples about admitting its faults. For example, in discussing its history he mentions the practice of  brigandage that he discovered was a feature of its past; indeed, he relates in detail the story of one particular individual by the name of  Foto-Kikos, as told to him by a fellow villager. This incorrigible thief  had no respect for the possessions of others and thought nothing of ambushing his fellow men on mountain paths. Nitsos explains this criminality as a consequence of poverty and lack of education: several centuries of  Ottoman rule, he argued, had had a negative ef fect on the intellectual and moral condition of  his village predecessors. Even so, Foto-Kikos and his sort were apparently steadfast in their Christian faith and their devotion to the Greek nation (pp. 21–22), and the evidence that Nitsos drew from various sources suggested – irrefutably, in his opinion – that these uneducated peasants from the recent past were true descendants of  the highly civilised ancient Greeks. But if Nitsos was correct in his assertion that their culture had evolved from classical Greece, how did ancient pagan traditions and practices correspond with the Orthodox Christian faith of modern times? And how did Nitsos – the son of a priest, and the nephew of a high-ranking cleric – deal with the apparent contradictions between his own religious beliefs and the pagan ancestry that he claimed for his community?

2.5 Local customs Chapter 7, the longest in the book, discusses many of  the rituals and customs practised in the village, especially those associated with the milestones of  life, such as betrothal and marriage. Included, for example, are some wedding songs with lyrical passages eulogising the beauty of  the bride; in one

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of  these, Nitsos tells us, ‘the gracefulness of  her bearing and litheness are compared to a cypress tree in the wind’, whilst her ‘modest, dark eyes’ are likened to olives (p. 121). Childbirth and baptism are also addressed, and some mesmerising lullabies recorded. By contrast, at the other end of  life’s spectrum, the customs relating to death and burial reveal a more solemn and contemplative aspect of  the local character. Much of what Nitsos writes about the responses of women at funerals still has resonance today. In the past few years, the deaths of some elderly Tsamantiots have coincided with the author’s presence in the village, and it was apparent at their funerals that little has changed, in close to a century, regarding the way in which female mourners express their grief: while the men sit in silence, they engage in dramatic and immensely moving vocalisation of  their feelings, faces contorted in pain – moaning and wailing, and singing dirges with powerful expressiveness. Such conduct was once common throughout south-east Europe, and Nitsos mentions (p. 131) the high regard in which his fellow folklorist, Spyridon Zambelios, held these traditional laments, having described them as ‘unique products of  Greek sensitivity’. Most compelling of all within this chapter are the descriptions of  the festivals and other celebrations that were held in Tsamantas. Nitsos makes a distinction in this respect between the joyful Orthodox Greeks and the ‘sullen’ Protestants of northern Europe: [The Greeks] are a people whose religious festivals are not overly solemn or sad, as is usually the case amongst the northern Christians, who coldly conduct their religious ceremonies by reading from the Bible. Instead, the Greeks reveal their pagan roots by enjoying themselves thoroughly. After fulfilling their obligations on major feast days, according to the ecclesiastical rules, they give themselves over to rich banquets and joyful celebrations, at which songs and dances take centre stage. They even use these religious occasions for practical purposes, such as the buying and selling of goods, making business deals, and resolving disagreements (p. 138).

He also relates some of  the local legends associated with the various saints’ days that form the basis of  the Orthodox calendar and thereby shape the day-to-day behaviour of  the faithful. A common theme links a number of  these legends: the expectation of abstaining from work on a Sunday or other days of religious significance. Typical of  them is one that features a Turkish landlord who was inspecting his corn fields on 18 October, the

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feast day of  St Luke the Evangelist. Finding his Christian tenants at rest, he demanded to know the reason for their idleness, and was told: ‘Agas, today is St Luke’s Day, and it’s a holiday for us Christians.’ The agas became angry and ordered his tenants back to work, saying: ‘I have no use for your Luke! The corn must be gathered. Get to work, you lazy dogs!’ The unfortunate labourers had no choice but to resume their harvesting of  the corn. But in the early evening a violent storm occurred, and heavy rain turned the fields into a lake. The f lood waters carried away the harvested corn and drowned many of  the working animals; the workers themselves survived only by climbing into trees. The impact of  this catastrophic legend was such that the Muslims of  Tsamourgia also refrained from work in the fields on this particular day, despite it being the occasion of a Christian festivity. Nitsos refers to a problem this created for them: Since they forget exactly when the feast day of  St Luke occurs, they [have to] ask their Christian neighbours, so they don’t make a mistake and go to work that day, bringing upon themselves the rage of  ‘the saint who drowns the corn’! (pp. 139–140).

A story with the same theme tells of a farmer from Tsamantas taking his pair of oxen to his fields on St Luke’s Day. The farmer ignores the warning of an old man, who reminds him of  his obligation not to work, and while he is sowing his broad beans a terrible noise is suddenly heard from underground and the earth splits open, swallowing the farmer and his oxen. On every subsequent St Luke’s Day, the story goes, the farmer’s voice can be heard beneath the ground, urging on his oxen. Nitsos argues that the inclusion of specific individuals and locations in some of  these legends was intended to persuade the audience that they were hearing a faithful account of some event that actually occurred within the community, augmenting its ef fect upon them. With regard to this particular story, the frequency of seismic activity in Epirus led him to suggest that an earthquake might well have occurred in Tsamantas on one St Luke’s Day in the past, resulting in some unfortunate farmer falling to his death in the precipitous terrain (p. 139). Another tale included in the text has its roots in the Greek tradition of naming newborn children after one of  the saints. Instead of celebrating birthdays, it is customary in Greece to hold festivities on one’s ‘name day’: the day associated with this saint. (Until fairly recently, however, this was

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only the case for men, society being patriarchal in nature to such an extent that women were not deemed worthy of such an acknowledgment). Name day celebrations commonly involve the preparation of  feasts, to which one’s relatives and friends are invited; if many people share the same name within a community, several such feasts might be organised, at each of  their various houses. Nitsos passes down the story of one especially gluttonous individual, Dimitrios Bountalis, who decided to risk his life rather than miss the pleasures of  the feasts that were taking place on the 6 December, St Nicholas’s Day. According to the legend, Bountalis left his f lock of goats to fend for themselves and headed for the village, only to find that the local river had become impassable, swollen by the winter rains. Nonetheless, the temptation of gorging himself on good food persuaded him to attempt the perilous crossing. Standing on the bank, he speaks aloud: ‘If you make it across, Dimitri, then joy to your stomach! If you drown, so long and goodbye!’ Fortunately for him, he survives, arriving in the village just in time to indulge himself  (pp. 142–143). Name day celebrations were household af fairs, but at certain times of  the year the whole village would engage in festivities: on the Sunday before Lent, again at Easter, and then in August, for the Dormition of  the Virgin, as well as the days associated with St George, the Apostle Mark and certain other saints.13 These communal events – known as paniyiria (πανηγύρια) – were held outdoors, in public spaces, where the villagers could throw themselves with abandon into an orgy of  feasting, drinking and dancing. Paniyiria are still a feature of  life in Tsamantas, although, with such a reduced population, the locals now rely on the inf lux of people from the surrounding villages, and from Tsamantiots based in urban centres, to lend the events a comparable degree of noisy celebration.

13

In addition to the celebration of saints’ days, it was traditional for families in Tsamantas to have a patron saint, regarded as their protector. In honour of  this patron saint, the family would usually donate an icon to the Church, or, if  they enjoyed suf ficient wealth and status, they might build a chapel or a wayside shrine. On their saint’s day, the family would of fer sweets, bread, cheese and alcoholic drinks to all churchgoers after the morning liturgy, and usually invite friends and relatives to their home for (yet another!) feast. The custom continues to this day in Tsamantas.

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In the previous section, we noted that the children of  Tsamantas observed their own particular customs on the eve of  the Annunciation and on Lazarus Saturday, and Nitsos describes in chapter 7 other rituals they performed on these two occasions. In respect of  the former, he makes the following observation (pp. 146–147): On the eve of  the Annunciation, as soon as the sun goes down, the children run through the streets and gardens of  the village, rhythmically clanging the bells they hold, and shouting out in chorus:

Away with you, snakes and lizards! The Holy Annunciation has come, To cut of f your head And throw it in the river, For the monks14 and the frogs to eat!

The feast of  the Resurrection of  Lazarus was particularly significant for the children of  the village. Lazarus Saturday precedes the Easter weekend and as such is part of  the holiest time of  the year for those of  the Orthodox faith. The local children eagerly awaited the event for days, decorating small baskets for the collection of eggs. Fasting would have begun in the run-up to Easter, and so the eggs being laid throughout the village were left uneaten; instead, they were used for the Orthodox practice of exchanging them as Easter gifts, dyed red to signify the blood of  Christ. On the morning of  Lazarus Saturday, crowds of children would leave their houses and throng the lanes, once again ringing their bells and stopping at neighbours’ houses, where fresh eggs would be dropped in their baskets, to take home for dyeing by their mother; they were also sometimes given coins or sweets, as a treat. At each house, the children would sing the Song of  Lazarus, which relates his resurrection by Jesus Christ and foretells the imminent crucifixion of  Christ himself. This religious song was popular in much of  the Greek-speaking world: Puchner (1979) identifies seventeen variants of it in Epirus alone, one of which is the version recorded by Nitsos. This 14

Drawing from the work of  Christovasilis, Nitsos comments (p. 147) that this could be referring to the fact that the monks of  Epirus were in the habit of eating eels and might therefore have mistaken the heads of snakes and lizards for them.

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version includes a section that dif fered according to the occupant of  the house being visited, and the local children knew which of  these variations was to be sung if  the occupant happened to be a shepherd, a newlywed, someone with a breadwinner working in America, the village priest, or the parent of a newborn boy. (Once again, girls didn’t count.) Nitsos describes the Song of  Lazarus as having a ‘unique poetry’, and notes that it was sung ‘with such enthusiasm’ (pp. 148). His concern that this very special custom would disappear was the reason for his diligence in recording the full local version of  the song, with all its variations, and sadly his fears were well founded: despite the ef forts of  the local folklorist Kostas Zoulas in the 1980s to revive the custom, it is no longer practised, although it is still remembered by some of  the elderly inhabitants of  Tsamantas, as the author recently discovered when a married couple performed it for him. Nitsos goes on to describe the custom of  the klidhonas (κλήδονας), practised throughout Greece, in which the older children of a community would light a bonfire on the 23 of  June, the eve of  the birthday of  St John the Baptist. They would stand around the f lames, each holding a sprig of oregano in one hand, to symbolise the girls, and another aromatic plant, St John’s wort, in the other, representing the boys. They would then take it in turns to leap over the fire, showing of f  their skills and singing the following humorous lines: ‘Marry, my little Oregano – marry St John!’ ‘But St John is too proud, and doesn’t want me. He says to me: “Stinky Oregano, you make the whole place smell!”’

This ritual played an important role in the lives of  the young people of  Tsamantas and its surrounding villages, providing a rare opportunity for them to meet and talk, in a part of  Greece where socialising between the sexes was frowned upon in everyday life. Moreover, it was believed that the custom was a means of divination, giving the girls in particular the chance to identify their future husband (pp. 154–155).15 15

According to Rouse, this custom had its roots in antiquity: klidhon (κλήδων) is the ancient Greek term for ‘voice’ and thus might suggest in this context the utterance of an omen (1899: 155).

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A horrifying custom called lithosourgia (λειθοσουργειά; stoning) is also described in chapter 7, although its practice had ceased well before Nitsos’s era. It was a barbaric form of ostracism directed by the community at anyone judged to be harmful to the common interest. On such an occasion, the villagers would convene in a pre-arranged place, after the Sunday Liturgy, to carry out the ritual by throwing stones and cursing the name of  the condemned villager. Nitsos, with a burst of moralistic ire that shows he was capable of  being distinctly reactionary, concluded that ‘the fear of stoning often kept those of wicked character from progressing further down the treacherous, evil and anti-religious road. How helpful would this ostracism be today, if it were still in use!’ (p. 157). But he could also be progressive in his views, and he ridicules the local popularity of  believing in the supernatural powers of witches, herbalists, healers and fortune-tellers. He is particularly scathing about the ‘stupidity’ of  those women, and sometimes men, who would f lock to the neighbouring village of  Achouria (now known as Agii Pantes) in order to visit an elderly woman said to predict the future of an individual and his or her family by interpreting the marks on the bone of an animal. The English folklorist John Cuthbert Lawson notes that it was common in rural communities throughout Greece for local people, and shepherds in particular, to use the shoulder blade of a slaughtered sheep or some other beast for this purpose (1910: 322). Lawson was one of  those who were keen to provide evidence of  the continuation of  Greek culture from ancient times to the present, and he quoted this custom as an example of a pagan tradition that had been sustained over the centuries (p. 327). Papacostas and Thomas (1904) note that many other superstitious rituals involving animals, such as oxen, swallows, snakes and cats, were common at this time in Epirus and other parts of  Greece. To Nitsos, a sophisticated man who was fortunate in having had a good education, these rituals were a source of embarrassment, and yet his sense of integrity was such that he felt obliged to include them in the pages of  his book.

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2.6 The local dialect and the debate about linguistic purity At the time when Nitsos was writing his monograph, there was widespread concern that the presence of ethnic minorities in Greece – especially the Muslim Chams of  Epirus – could provide a pretext for territorial claims by neighbouring countries. As a proud nationalist, Nitsos lived in constant fear of  losing his newly acquired Greek nationality. In trying to prove that the local culture was overwhelmingly Greek, he went to great lengths to emphasise the predominance of  two cultural identifiers. One of  these was the ascendancy of  the Orthodox Church; the other was the fact that the mother tongue of most Epirots was Greek, and it was this in particular that underpinned his defence of  the legitimacy of  his region’s inclusion within the nation’s borders. Far from alone in believing that Greek culture was superior to any other in this part of  the Balkans, he maintained that the language of  the majority, with its roots in classical Greece, af forded its speakers an elevated position in society, in comparison with those whose first language was Albanian, Aromanian, or one of  the Slavic tongues. He was evidently a follower of what scholars such as Mackridge have called the purist tradition, which argued that the best way to demonstrate continuity from ancient times was for modern Greeks to adopt the ancients’ way of speaking and writing (2009: 2). To this ef fect, the Greek intelligentsia gradually began to use katharevousa as their preferred mode of written communication. By the time Nitsos was a schoolboy, it was the language of  the educated elite, and (as we shall see in Chapter 3) was used for teaching in schools. In one of  his appendices he includes a letter of appreciation sent to him by Athanasios Kitsos, a fellow villager who had graduated from the School of  Law at the University of  Athens and was thus familiar with katharevousa. Kitsos refers to the book’s linguistic qualities as follows: Concerning his choice of  language, one can see that the author belongs to the old school, adhering to the ancient beauty of  the language, sprinkled with Attic salt. Pleasing, exact, and easily understood… (p. 382).

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However, by this time dhimotiki had started to gain the upper hand right across the country, and even intellectuals were championing its usage. Nitsos acknowledged this shift towards vernacular Greek and made the decision to present all of  the verbal folkloric material that he included in his volume in the original dhimotiki. He also devoted many pages to an analysis of  the local dialect, and his inclusion of a glossary of nearly 600 colloquial words used in the village,16 with a discussion of  their linguistic origin, constitutes an important piece of scholarly work – described by Christos Soulis, in his review of  the book, as ‘unique in Epirus’ (1927: 317). The opening of chapter 8, in which Nitsos considers the speech of  his fellow residents, bears witness to its beauty: The language spoken in and around Tsamantas is, of course, modern demotic Greek, rich in local idioms and supplemented by various foreign words, as the reader will discover in the glossary. The local accent is free of  the harsh, cacophonous character and lexical truncations that characterize most other Epirot accents, including that of  the capital, Ioannina, where the language of  the people is full of grammatical errors. The pronunciation of words [in Tsamantas] is smooth, gentle and agreeable, and they are enunciated (…) in their entirety and with great clarity. It is notable that the women ‘widen’ their voice, by adding musical tones (…) that make their speech a pleasure to listen to (p. 161).

Persisting with his theme of continuity, Nitsos observed that ‘it is well known that the Epirots of olden times spoke the Aeolic-Doric dialect [of ancient Greek]’, and he pointed out, much less plaucibly that speech patterns in Tsamantas still retained some of  that dialect, presumably because the village’s isolation had precluded the possibility of  linguistic corruption from the outside world (pp. 161–162). He continued: The fact that these isolated mountain-dwellers have preserved the purity of our national language, in terms of  both grammar and pronunciation, comes as a surprise to outsiders. Listening to the people of  Tsamantas, one could say that theirs is the speech of  the Greeks of  [present-day] Constantinople. Indeed, an urban Greek would have

16

Subsequently, Nitsos added a further 172 words and phrases to the linguistic corpus, which were published in two editions of  the journal Ipirotika Chronika: 1931, 6(1) (pp. 170–179) and 1937, 12(1) (pp. 186–189).

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Chapter 2 absolutely no problem communicating with the inhabitants of  Tsamantas, whereas he would be sorely pressed to carry on a conversation with villagers from Crete, or Cyprus, or the Ionian Islands… (p. 161).

Although he was obliged to acknowledge that many of  the words used in his village were of  Turkish, Albanian, Vlach, Latin or Slavic origin, he was insistent that their presence in the local dialect was of  little import in respect of its purity. In his opinion, this foreign vocabulary was not a consequence of dilution of  the local ethnic stock by a significant degree of intermarriage; rather, the majority of  these words were Turkish legal and judicial terms, as well as Islamic religious expressions, that had been introduced by of ficials and Muslim clerics during the Ottoman occupation (p. 248). Not all of  his contemporaries were convinced by his claims, however, and the fact that relations between the folklorists of  Epirus were marred by a degree of competitiveness may have been a contributory factor in these disagreements. At one stage, Nitsos became embroiled in a dispute with Stilpon Kyriakidis, the first occupant of  the chair of  folklore studies at the University of  Thessaloniki. Reviewing the Nitsos monograph, Kyriakidis expressed his scepticism: ‘It is very strange, in an area where the inhabitants speak the northern Epirot idiom, to find an “island” without any significant linguistic inf luence from its neighbours’.17 Stung by what he saw as armchair criticism, Nitsos responded as follows: ‘Unexpectedly, such an “island” does exist, and I would say to anyone in doubt that they should come and witness it’ (1937: 185).

2.7 Songs and dances In a community as remote as Tsamantas, and in the absence of other means of entertainment, people had to amuse themselves as best they could with music, song and dance. Nitsos concluded, through discussions with some 17 In Laographia (1926), 8, p. 270, as quoted on p. 185 of  Nitsos (1937).

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of  the village’s older residents, that Tsamantiots had always engaged in these pursuits with gusto, living their lives to the full on those occasions when freedom from work allowed it. Ever conscious of  the fact that their years were numbered, they took revenge upon ‘the black earth that will eat us’, stamping on it and shouting out their determination to enjoy themselves: ‘Give it to [the earth], then. Give it to her, with your foot!’ (p. 160). As in the rest of  Epirus (Demas and Kyriakides, 1996: 2), folk dancing was one of  the most important elements of  the local culture, providing an outlet for the expression of emotions – crucial for a community that was by nature full of passion and exuberance. Communal dances, which would take place in one of  the village’s squares or in a churchyard, were inclusive events for one and all; it was customary, indeed, for even the local priest to participate. Nitsos reveals his own love of joyous performance, and gives a detailed account of  the standard circular dance practised by his fellow villagers. A strict hierarchy was observed: the dancing was always started by a line of men, and women would follow on, according to age, with the oldest going first to set an example for the others. Although the steps of  the dance were very simple, the leader was expected to demonstrate his skills by means of various rhythmic movements, such as twists and leaps. The villagers usually danced without the accompaniment of musical instruments, merely singing in chorus and matching their steps to the melody, the lyrics sung first by the men and then repeated by the women. With the women dressed in colourful costumes, and a large number of dancers moving as one, it would have been an impressive spectacle. The inclusion in the monograph of descriptions of  the dances proved to be a timely exercise: in the mid1920s, according to Irene Loutzaki, rural Greek society was on the cusp of significant change, and the practice of  traditional dancing would gradually move indoors, to local cafés, where the constraints of enclosed spaces would have a marked ef fect upon this form of cultural expression. For the same reason, there would be a decline in the demand for musicians (1994: 168). Just as invaluable to the preservation of  the local culture was the substantial selection of  folk songs that Nitsos incorporated in his volume. The lengths to which he went in order to collect these songs are remarkable. Unable to carry out recordings – or even listen to any, in order to make comparisons – he had to rely on the skills that he acquired during his

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education. Persisting with his overarching objective in writing his book, he took every opportunity to emphasise the links from classical to modern Greece, by drawing analogies between ancient forms of songs – funeral dirges, pastoral pieces, and so on – and their modern counterparts. In devoting so many pages to local songs, Nitsos was hoping to demonstrate the contribution to Hellenism made by his locality. Greek folklorists had long acknowledged that the wider region of  Epirus was a rich source of  folk songs, and in particular the ‘kleftic’ variety. This term was codified by the French scholar Claude Fauriel, referring to the resistance fighters who based themselves in the mountains during the Ottoman occupation, from the mid-fifteenth century to the war of independence in 1821. Many of  these warriors composed or improvised songs and verses, in order to inspire their comrades. Michaelidis notes that some of  these had ‘a heroic tone’, while others exhibited a sense of  ‘tenderness and love’ or ‘a nostalgic yearning for a peaceful life’ (1949: 22–23). Yet Nitsos includes very few of  these ‘kleftic’ songs in his book, perhaps because they had already been collected by his predecessors, or, maybe, because they didn’t sing them much during that period. Instead, he focuses primarily on songs about love and desire, rejection, death and exile. Informed by the works of  Fauriel, Politis and others, he argued that these local folk songs were of exceptionally high artistic merit, despite the fact that they were composed by peasants, most of whom were illiterate. Indeed, he went as far as comparing them, in terms of  the quality of  their lyrics, with Theocritus, the father of pastoral poetry from the third century BC (pp. 190–191). The songs that were sung in the village were forthright in their use of  language, with messages firmly grounded in local mores and beliefs. They were performed on various social and other occasions, and the selection in the monograph includes some associated with dancing and drinking, as well as ballads, love songs and wedding songs; there are also verses that are mocking or satirical in nature, and pastoral pieces sung by shepherds, or during the harvesting and sorting of grain. Nitsos acknowledges that many were known in other parts of  Greece, some of  them having been brought to Tsamantas by wandering artisans, or by the local men who worked as tinkers and thus made contact with the culture of other places, in particular the Peloponnese. He therefore made the decision to include

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in his volume only those which were unique to the area, or were a significant variation on some other, more widely known, composition. He recorded them as faithfully as possible, according to how they were sung or recited to him by fellow villagers, making minor alterations only when he deemed it necessary. Most were performed polyphonically, with both men and women participating.18 They were not impressive melodically, being somewhat monotonous, and yet Nitsos comments that they never ceased to enthuse him. The first one encountered in his book is a lyrical, haunting lament on the theme of self-sacrifice, and love for one’s spouse and family, subjects dear to the heart of all Tsamantiots. Like Alcestis – the mythical heroine of  the eponymous play by Euripides, who tried to find a cure to save Admetus, her dying husband – the young wife portrayed in this song decides to embark on a dangerous journey with her mother-inlaw, in search of ingredients for a life-saving potion: O Sun, that brings the morning and takes so long in setting, The labourers curse you! And so does a young, newly wedded woman, Whose ailing husband is close to death. The doctors go back and forth, but cannot cure him; Likewise his mother, pulling at her cheeks. He asks [figure of indignation]: cheese from a hare, and milk from a wild goat! Even so, the wife and the mother take to the mountains, Setting traps to catch [them], To bring him the cheese and the milk (pp. 191–192).

In another song, some beautiful young women are heading of f  to work in the fields, without a chaperone, and are worried that someone might approach them: Three slender maidens go alone to the plains. On the way, one says to the others: ‘Do you think there could be someone there, Who might try to kiss the three of us?’

18

Contemporary researchers in the field of  folk songs sometimes visit the Mourgana villages, including Tsamantas, because of  their national reputation as a stronghold for polyphonic singing, still practised at the local festivities.

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Chapter 2 A golden eagle was sitting [nearby], preening its feathers: ‘God give me the strength to snatch one of  them up! And if  I can’t, then cut of f my wings…’ (p. 193).

The willingness of  this eagle – a metaphor for the man who sings the song – to sacrifice its most valuable attribute in order to carry a maiden to its nest, demonstrates the strength of  feeling that the singer has, perhaps for one particular woman in his village. Nitsos observes that the imagery of  the local love songs is typically bold, in contrast to the modest and guarded everyday speech of  the pious Tsamantiots, and in some cases so explicit as to risk scandalising the prudish. But this should come as no surprise, he added: folk poetry – not just that of  the Greeks, but of all peoples – is one of  the primary mediums for free expression, especially when sung, and is often bawdy in nature. He pointed out that even the language of  Sappho, antiquity’s most esteemed poet, was sexually daring (p. 207). Nitsos also included some songs of a mildly erotic nature on relations between Muslims and Christians, who lived in close proximity in this part of  Epirus and sometimes intermarried. The complex nature of  their coexistence is conveyed through love songs in which the spirituality of a particular individual is compromised by desire. For instance, in the following song the singer refers to a Pasha (a high-ranking Ottoman of ficial), who is so taken by the beauty of a Christian girl that for a moment he wishes that he, too, could be one of  those ‘baptized with oil’: Let me open my lips to sing a song, To liven up the dance, that all may join it… Nine dif ferent dances, each with forty circuits, And in the middle of  the circle, Zervopoula is dancing. Just then, a Pasha (…) passes by. He stands and stares, thinking to himself: ‘Dear God, I wish I were a Greek, baptized with oil, So that I could go and dance next to Zervopoula, So her clothes would rub against mine!’ (p. 195)

In typically vivid prose, Nitsos proclaims that Eros – the god of  love, and son of  Aphrodite – was still in the habit of wandering around the fields and steep mountains of  his village, carrying his bow and arrows and aiming at

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the hearts of shepherds, farmers and labourers. Lovesick, but constrained by the austere morality of  local society, they could express their passion only through the medium of song – a passion that might have been frowned upon if noticed by others: It’s been forty Sundays (…) since I’ve seen my love, And it’s driving me mad. Then, yesterday, I saw her at the dance, And she gave me a wink. Don’t wink at me, my love, For others are watching! (pp. 202–203).

The collection also includes a number of songs dealing with the subject of unhappy marriages – or the failure to marry at all, which was considered a great misfortune, especially for women. In the following example of a fruitless union, the singer complains of  her husband’s ill health, which prevents her from enjoying married life. A more reticent version of  the song had earlier been recorded by Fauriel, who notes that it originated from Ioannina (1825: 60). Nitsos’s version, recorded nearly a century later, is a little less reserved: All the young girls marry young men, But I, the beautiful Yiannoula, got this withered old man. I put food in front of  him, and he doesn’t eat. I lay down five mattresses and five pillows for him: ‘Get up, old man, get up and come to bed!’ ‘With what legs shall I stand, and what hands shall I lean on?’ ‘Stretch out your withered hand and lean upon my silver breast!’ But the old man coughed, and sighed heavily… (p. 211).

In concluding his chapter on songs, Nitsos of fers an assortment – from Tsamantas, as well as the wider locality of  Thesprotia – that satirises the clergy. This subgenre of songs, he notes, mercilessly poked fun not only at monks and priests, but also at the latter’s wives. ‘On first glance’, he observes, ‘it seems somewhat paradoxical that a populace as pious and devout as to border on fanaticism and blind faith in their religion’s teachings should so skewer the clergy, but on closer inspection we see that this

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satire is reserved for those hypocrites among them who indulge in immoral activities’ (p. 222). These songs about the clergy illuminate the character of  the Tsamantiots of  former times: irreverent and playful, unafraid to criticise, and with a democratic view of  life that refused to place those who commanded respect on indestructible pedestals.

2.8 Fairy tales and proverbs A volume incorporating a discussion of  local folklore would not have been complete without the inclusion of some fairy tales: just one thread of a community’s cultural tapestry, and yet a potent one. The study of  fairy tales in Greece had occupied several European scholars from the nineteenth century onwards, the principal collectors being Johann Georg von Hahn and Bernhard Schmidt, both of  them German, and three Britons: R.M. Dawkins, an Oxford professor, whose remarkable collection of  tales from the former Greek community of  Asia Minor was published in 1953, and two earlier scholars, Lucy Garnett and John Cuthbert Lawson (Herzfeld, 1982; Beaton: 1986). Continuing this academic tradition, Nitsos researched the fairy tales (paramithia; παραμύθια) that were told in his village. A combination of  local creativity and borrowing from Greek mythology had enriched these stories with all manner of strange, fantastic creatures, from Nereids (sea nymphs) and Lamias (vampiric beings) to demons of various descriptions. There were so many of  these tales, Nitsos noted, that a single volume would have been insuf ficient to incorporate them all. He decided to include just three of  them – in full, and written in the local dialect. Like many fairy tales, and especially those of  the Brothers Grimm,19 they are notably dark and gruesome, and didactic in purpose, each of  them communicating a powerful moral. In one, a cruel wife mistreats her stepchildren – a boy and a girl – who decide to run away. While crossing a desert, the boy drinks from a pool on which a spell has been cast, and is turned 19

For a useful critique of  the Brothers Grimm, see Robert and Powell (1969).

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into a lamb. Continuing on their journey, he and his sister arrive at a royal household, where the girl finds employment as a servant and the boy-lamb is left to graze in the fields. The king has a son, who falls in love with the girl and marries her. One day, standing by a well, she meets an evil gypsy, who tricks her into exchanging clothes and then pushes her into the well. The gypsy goes to the prince, professing to be his wife, but her attempt at deception fails. The girl is rescued from the well, her brother is restored to human form, and the king punishes the gypsy by chopping her into pieces and grinding her remains in the local mill! The second tale, in sharing some of  the details of  the first, sheds some light on the preoccupations of  the villagers and on the features of  their built and natural environment that loomed large in their imagination. In this story, a woman who favours her own daughter over her stepdaughter sends the latter on an errand to the mill, believing that the evil spirits who dwell there will harm the girl. On the way, the girl encounters an old woman and stops to fetch some water for her and to comb her hair. Aware of  her good deed, the evil spirits reward the girl, and when she returns from the mill her stepmother is furious to discover that she has been transformed into a beautiful maiden with fine clothes. The stepmother now sends her own daughter, hoping for the same transformation, but on the way the girl declines to help the same old woman, and in consequence the evil spirits make her ugly and deformed. In the third and final tale, a daughter is sold by her parents for the value of  her weight in silver, and the parents are punished for their greed by the king, who has them tied to a horse’s tail and dragged through the streets of  their village. Dawkins (1953) asserts that Greek fairy tales were generally intended for adults, who might have been ‘simple’ in their outlook but needed something more than would satisfy the ‘simplicity of children’ (p. xx). Likewise, the fairy tales told in Tsamantas were as much for the amusement of adults as for their of fspring, living as they did in circumstances that deprived them of more sophisticated entertainment. The story-teller would have enjoyed the rapt attention of  his audience: after the toils of  the day, in field and pasture, or the drudgery of working in the home, there were few better ways to relax and enjoy the company of others than to share the experience of  listening to a good story.

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Another form of cultural expression discussed in the monograph, and one that shares the fairy tale’s overt didacticism, is the proverb, that powerful tool in everyday communication. Nitsos believed that the origin of many proverbs and aphorisms, as with so much else within the oral tradition, was to be found in the classical world. Passed down the generations – he writes, citing Goethe – they represent the truest distillation of  the philosophical spirit of every nation.20 According to Nitsos, the people of  Epirus were distinguished by ‘their seemingly limitless supply of proverbs (…), displaying their sharpness of wit and remarkable powers of observation’ (p. 175). This was clearly not an empty claim, as Herzfeld mentions the fact that, sometime around the year 1715, the monk Parthenios Katzioulis recorded more than 700 proverbs originating from Ioannina and its surrounding area alone (1982: 12). As a passionate paroemiologist, as those who study proverbs are known, Nitsos included a substantial collection of  them in his ninth chapter, explaining the context in which each of  them was used (pp. 175–189). A common feature of  these local proverbs is their directness and simplicity. Often sardonic in nature, they convey their message through succinct and colourful metaphor: Tis kalis provatinos kremoune to koudhouni (They hang the bell on the best sheep). This was said of  both sycophants and gossipers, the implication being that they target persons of distinction and prestige (p. 184). Plerono san o Frangos tin kotta (I’m paying as much as a Frenchman does for a chicken). Referring to the common Greek practice of overcharging foreigners, this was spoken in the context of excessive payment for goods or services (p. 182).

Another 46 proverbs were added in one of  the monograph’s appendices, and even after its publication Nitsos tirelessly continued to collect further examples, 65 of which were published in 1931 and 1937, in articles in the journal Ipirotika Chronika. These included a number of obscene proverbs, which he may have declined to put in his book through fear of  tarnishing its image. In the second of  the journal articles, Nitsos warned his readers 20 Aristotle, the first Greek philosopher to study proverbs in a systematic way, maintained that proverbs were ‘instances of sophia, the practical and theoretical wisdom possessed by rational men’ (Huxley, 1981: 332).

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of what he referred to as the ‘shocking’21 vocabulary of some of  these, but justified their inclusion by noting that they were the product of  the local people’s wisdom, wit and satirical prowess (1937: 185). The following examples demonstrate the level of explicitness: Apochtise ki i psira kolo, kai chezi ton kosmon olo (The f lea developed an arsehole so it could shit on everyone.) The f lea is a metaphor for those who had once been poor but had risen in the world and, in the process, become arrogant (Ipirotika Chronika, 1937: 188). O Tourkos ine san ton poutso: oso ton chaïdhevis, dhinamonei! (A Turk is like a penis: the more attention you give him, the more he swells!) This was a warning not to be too welcoming or courteous to a Turk, as he would interpret this behavior as a weakness, and become more assertive and dif ficult to deal with (Ipirotika Chronika, 1931: 177). It is likely that this proverb originates from the time when Ottoman tax collectors and other unwelcome of ficials visited the local villages, demanding hospitality for the duration of  their stay.

2.9 Conclusion Nitsos made an immensely valuable contribution to our knowledge of  former times in this part of northwestern Greece. Written in the early days of independence from the Ottomans, an era of great uncertainty, his book reveals his underlying anguish over the security of  his village’s hardwon status. As he walked the narrow lanes of  Tsamantas every evening, pondering the fragility of  the political situation, Nitsos must have felt the burden of  his self-imposed responsibility – as the village’s most educated man – to justify the inclusion of  Tsamantas and its locality within the national borders. It is to his eternal credit that his dedication to the interests of  his community resulted in such a persuasive and inf luential work of academic excellence. 21

For some reason, Nitsos uses the English word ‘shocking’, rather than its Greek equivalent.

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Over time, the Hellenistic approach that he and his contemporaries espoused, based on historical origins and linguistic purism, gave way to a more modern approach to folklore studies, paying greater attention to social aspects of indigenous culture (Herzfeld; 1982, 140; Avdikos, 2010: 163). However, it is heartening to note that archaeological discoveries of recent times within Thesprotia, some of which will be discussed in later chapters, have legitimised the central premise of  the Nitsos monograph, proving as they do an ancient Greek presence in the area, and making the suggestion of continuity from the distant past distinctly credible. Although the collection of  folklore material would continue in Epirus until the eve of  the Second World War, no one ever matched Nitsos for his zeal and thoroughness; indeed, in 1937, when the regional journal Ipirotika Chronika announced a competition for the recording and preservation of customs associated with local festivities, the submissions made by eighteen regional folklorists were denounced by Stilpon Kyriakidis, the chair of  the judges, as ‘unworthy’ (1937: 300–307). The fact that many of  these submissions were from amateur collectors, such as schoolteachers or other educated individuals, is beside the point, since Nitsos himself was untrained in the field of  folklore research, and yet could never have been accused of mediocrity. As we shall see in the following chapters, the period after the Second World War saw monumental changes in the mountain communities of  Thesprotia, where most of  the population was lost to migration and urbanisation. Aware of  this dramatic demographic change and the threat to the survival of  their native community, some of  the Tsamantiots who lived Athens tried to build on Nitsos’s legacy – under the charismatic leadership of  Kostas Zoulas – by attempting to save some of  the physical remnants of  their cultural inheritance. In 1983, they established the Folklore Museum of  Tsamantas, housed in the village’s redundant school building, in which they set up an impressive display of  the many interesting artefacts that they had gathered. But otherwise the world that Nitsos described has largely vanished. Though it lingers in the minds of elderly Tsamantiots, there will come a time when no one living has personal experience of  the events and way of  life that he records, and then we shall be fortunate indeed to have his remarkable work available to us. Geographical isolation always kept Nitsos on the periphery of debate on current af fairs and the popular

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themes of  his time, and regrettably he never achieved national recognition for his work. Recently, however, the Tsamantiot community in Worcester, Massachusetts decided to commission a translation into English of  the Nitsos monograph, funded by the Bellos legacy mentioned in Chapter 5. Along with publication of  the present volume, that project, on completion, should at last confer on Nikolaos Nitsos, gifted scholar of  Tsamantas, the attention and acclaim that he deserves.

Chapter 3

The Social and Cultural Environment: Foundations for the Village’s Success?

When the first wave of modern economic globalisation took place, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Tsamantas was very much on the periphery of  both the Ottoman Empire and the world market, due to its inaccessibility. Despite this, the village became relatively prosperous from the 1900s until the start of  the Second World War. Indeed, as we shall see in the next chapter, its inhabitants went so far as to embark upon what scholars refer to as proto-industrial specialisation, an early stage in the development of industry in a rural community. To facilitate understanding of  the economic success of  Tsamantas during this period, it might be helpful to consider the process of modernisation. Dean Tipps suggests that modernisation can be viewed as ‘a series of  transitions from primitive, subsistence economies to technology-intensive, industrialised economies; from subject to participant political cultures; from closed, ascriptive status systems to open, achievement-oriented systems; from extended to nuclear kinship units; from religious to secular ideologies; and so on’ (1973: 204). It is apparent that most of  these transitions were taking place in Tsamantas at the turn of  the twentieth century. But how do we explain the evolution of  these transitions? Can we ascribe it to something special about the village and its residents? And what role did culture, beliefs and traditions play in shaping individual behaviour? In order to answer these questions, we need to consider the social and cultural environment within which the villagers lived and worked. In a paper written in 1959, discussing the backwardness of  Greece at the time, Pepelasis suggested that the country’s economic situation could be understood through analysis, at the national level, of various determinants: traditional values, family structure, the legal system, Greek political

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organisation, and the inf luence on people’s motivation and aspirations of  both the education system and the Orthodox Church (1959: 184).1 These can also be examined at the local level, and as such they may be pertinent to our discussion of  the socio-cultural environment in Tsamantas, and the connections it might have with the village’s relative prosperity during the period in question. We shall now consider each of these determinants. Some of  them will be seen to have contributed to the village’s economic success, whilst others were associated instead with its resistance to change and modernisation, or even its eventual decline. Observations will be reinforced by material – gathered from interviews – referring to individual or family behaviour that might have inf luenced the village’s economic development. Information will also be drawn from the literature, and in particular the invaluable research of  local historian Nikolaos Nitsos.

3.1 Traditional values The various social anthropologists whose focus of research has been the rural communities of  Greece have identified similar sets of social and moral values common to these communities such as honesty, reciprocity and trust (Campbell, 1964; Du Boulay, 1974; Friedl, 1967; Green, 2005a). John Campbell’s incisive study the transhumant Sarakatsani shepherds of  the Pindus mountain range is particularly relevant in respect of  Tsamantas, since for centuries the herdsmen of  both communities intermingled when they gathered on the plains of  the River Kalamas in wintertime, to graze 1

Nicos Mouzelis (1978), in his scholarly book entitled Modern Greece: Facets of  Underdevelopment, tested the relevance of general theories of development of  the functionalist and neo-Marxist tradition on the problematic development of modern Greece. Mouzelis attributed such backwardness to the tentative links between ‘native and imported institutions’ (p. 138), such as Western parliamentarism. He further argued that such inef fective institutions have not been able to redress the existing economic and social inequality in a mainly agricultural Greek society (pp. 140–144).

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their f locks.2 Regular interaction between these two groups of  Christian shepherds of similar circumstances increased the likelihood that they would develop similar values, and one that Campbell identified amongst the Sarakatsani that was shared with the people of  Tsamantas was the importance of  kinship (συγγένεια) and moral obligations between the members of a nuclear family and its closest relations – a value that is crucial to the understanding of  the history of  Tsamantas, and which will be referred to throughout this volume. Campbell acknowledges the multidimensional attributes of  the Sarakatsani family unit, which he refers to as ‘a domestic group, an economic and property-owning unit, a quasi-political association, a religious communion, and so on’ (1964: 53). But he also notes one of its less commendable aspects: though a family would welcome the support of its community in dif ficult times, it might choose to dissociate if it was considered advantageous so to do. Such self-interested and isolationist behaviour has given rise to what is commonly referred to as ‘familism’.3 In Tsamantas, this phenomenon began to emerge after the liberation of  Epirus, when the communitarian values of  the Ottoman era were rejected in favour of prioritising the material needs of one’s own family.4 Becoming increasingly dominant over time, familism threatened economic development as much as it fostered it, its ethos of extreme self-interest ultimately working against the welfare of  the wider community. Drawing on Campbell’s work, Peter Walcot suggests that ethnic continuity from ancient times has resulted in modern Greeks sharing some basic values with their ancestors, and in particular the following: firstly, a strong sensitivity to shame (in modern Greek, ντροπή); secondly, a wiliness bordering on deceit (πονηριά); and thirdly, a passion for honour (τιμή) (1996: 169–170. In early-twentieth-century Tsamantas, Nikolaos Nitsos was keen to provide evidence of a similar connection between his community 2 3 4

See, for instance, Caftanzoglou (1997) regarding life in two Sarakatsani communities of  Epirus in early twentieth century. Also known as ‘amoral familism’ (as coined by Edward Banfield in 1956), the concept is not without its detractors: see, for instance, Du Boulay and Williams (1987). Regrettably, this attitude of self-interest creates conf licts even today, as will be apparent in later chapters.

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and ancient Greek civilisation, based on ethnolinguistic continuity from pre-classical times, on through the Byzantine period and up to the modern era. He identified two distinct value systems from antiquity that were still apparent in his village: one social, the other religious. In the former, powerful values such as honour, prestige and pride were dominant, while the latter was based on the Orthodox Christian principles of  love (αγάπη), mutual trust (εμπιστοσύνη), truth (αλήθεια) and altruism (αυταπάρνηση). Both of  these value systems inf luenced personal relationships, and although they were at odds in some respects, they nonetheless coexisted, albeit uneasily. One of  the most important values in rural Greek society was respectability, with the acquisition of prestige deriving from wealth and moral character as much as from one’s family ancestry. In Tsamantas, acknowledgement of coming from a ‘good family’, with purity of  bloodline, was highly prized (Nitsos, 1926: 112–113). Defending the family’s honour was a moral obligation, and one dramatic example of  the lengths to which an individual might go in order to uphold it dates back to sometime after the First World War, when Antonis Vesdrevanis – one of  the author’s great uncles – shot and killed a friend and fellow soldier from the neighbouring village of  Lias, who had made a sexual allusion to Antonis’s sister during an otherwise insignificant quarrel. Such extreme behaviour was thankfully rare, but Antonis paid a heavy price for doing what he must have felt was expected of  him: he spent most of  his adult life in prison on Corfu.5 The Vesdrevanis clan was originally considered to be of  low prestige, according to another of its descendants, octogenarian Athina Vesdrevanis. Their arrival in the village (probably at the end of  the eighteenth century) may have been linked to the destruction of  the town of  Moschopolis,6 since they claimed – on appearing from out of  the blue, along with their herds,

5

6

During those years of incarceration, however, the notion of defending one’s honour diminished in significance throughout the country, to such an extent that his crime was passed over by the family in later years, embarrassed as they were by conduct that had once commanded respect. Once a thriving town inhabited by Vlachs and Greeks, Moschopolis was pillaged repeatedly in the last few decades of  the eighteenth century by marauding Albanians (Stavrianos, 1958: 278; Winnifrith, 2002: 131). Its ruins lie in modern Albania.

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armoury and other scant possessions – to be refugees f leeing persecution. Dinos Kiratsis, a Greek-American acquaintance of  the author, recalls being told by an elderly Tsamantiot resident of  Worcester, Massachusetts that the Vesdrevanis family were Vlachs (nomadic inhabitants of  the Balkans who are speakers of  Aromanian, a language closely related to Romanian), although the author’s own research into the family’s female members – who were less likely than their job-seeking menfolk to abandon their mother tongue – produced no evidence that they spoke any language other than Greek. Whatever their origins, their arrival caused great uneasiness amongst the villagers, who sent a priest and some elders to establish their intentions. Evidently, the decision was made to allow them to stay, and at first they lived in a cave, until they were able to buy some land from the Skopas family, in exchange for a rif le and a couple of rounds of ammunition. Another Greek-American, Petros Pantazakos from New York – who remembers the Vesdrevanis clan as proud and witty individuals, and remarkably attractive, with fair or ginger hair and striking blue eyes – told the author that, although they were gradually accepted by the community, for a long time they were considered socially and morally inferior to their fellow villagers, with a reputation for anarchic behaviour. To come from such a ‘bad’ family was to suf fer the contempt of one’s fellow villagers. We have noted that a concept closely connected to respectability – a sense of shame – is referred to in Campbell’s study of  the Sarakatsani. Within their community, he notes, shame ‘relates not only to conduct which is morally bad, but also to any kind of conduct which is conventionally deviant. And anything which leads to, or is the basis of, low prestige is a matter for shame’ (1964: 310–311). In Tsamantas, an example of deviance from the norm resulting in dishonour was provided by a resident who told of  the fact that, in 1935, her mother was forced to marry a man from the neighbouring village of  Lidizda, and to move there with him: My mother was so ashamed. It just wasn’t done for a maiden to go and live somewhere else. She was supposed to get married in her own village and stay there.

This expectation derives from the former practice of endogamy: the custom of forbidding marriage beyond one’s group. Once common in the mountain communities of  Ottoman Epirus, most of which were Christian, it served

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not only to strengthen the bonds of  kinship within the community but also to maintain its language, religion and culture in the face of pressure to convert to Islam. Although the custom of endogamy was eventually abandoned, its legacy is evident in Tsamantas today, as virtually everyone is related – however distantly – to various other residents. In Chapter 5, the significance of  kinship connections will become apparent in discussing the phenomenon of mass emigration, which increased the wealth of  Tsamantas during the first half of  the twentieth century and resulted in its thriving diasporic community, but ultimately led to its decline.

3.2 The inf luence of  the Orthodox Church Nikolaos Nitsos was extremely proud of  the fact that the villagers of  Tsamantas had always been deeply religious: ‘No one approaches or passes a wayside shrine without making the sign of  the cross, and the people’s frequent genuf lection, kissing of icons, and other such displays of piety in church leave little room for doubt about their zeal. They likewise refrain absolutely from blasphemy (in stark contrast with the [nearby] Ionian islanders, and other Greeks), and for this they deserve commendation’ (1926: 72). But organised religion in Tsamantas, as in most rural communities in Greece, existed cheek by jowl with pagan beliefs and customs – some of which still survive, such as the practice of  hanging loops of empty snail shells outside one’s house, to protect the family from the ‘evil eye’. Superstition and ignorance could have hampered the village’s progress in a modernising world, but it was the Church that had by far the greater impact on people’s lives, with fortunate consequences for the local economy. Over the centuries, this relatively small community built three parish churches and five chapels, and maintained a thriving monastery, and the tenets of  the faith that created this religious landscape underpinned the values of its people and the way they interacted with each other. Nitsos mentions that they strictly observed ‘the sanctity of every Sunday, as well as all other

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decreed religious holidays, going regularly to church’ (p. 138). The conformity entrenched in their belief system is apparent in some of  the local folk stories, recorded by Nitsos, on the subject of divine retribution for failing to abstain from work on the Sabbath: God’s disapproval of such behaviour was believed to have accounted for the deaths of entire families! But how did such intensity of religious faith impact upon the village’s economic development? Stoianovich, in his seminal work on merchants in the Balkans, points out that the ethos of  Orthodox Christianity made its adherents fundamentally materialistic. He goes on to identify a specific aspect that might have encouraged the rise of a merchant class: ‘The enormous number of  fast days in the Orthodox calendar forced the faithful to practise frugality religiously and thus accumulate wealth for future investment, when times were propitious’ (1960: 294). This is in line with the Weberian view that Christianity in general, and the Orthodox tradition in particular, encompasses ethics that are favourable to economic advancement. Further support for this perspective comes from Guiso et al., whose comprehensive analysis of  the World Value Surveys undertaken between 1981 and 1997 led them to conclude that Christianity is ‘positively associated with attitudes that are conducive to economic growth, while Islam is negatively associated’ (2003: 280). This might suggest that the fact that Tsamantiots consistently repelled threats of mass Islamic conversion7 – despite the obvious tax advantages – was ultimately beneficial to the village’s economic growth: the retention of  their Christian ethics may well have helped them to avoid the backwardness that af f licted those who did convert, such as the people down on the plains of  the River Kalamas. The Orthodox Church has always encouraged family involvement in business, as well as the practice of  thrift and the creation of wealth for the good of  the community, and these values undoubtedly helped to foster a healthy and robust entrepreneurial spirit amongst the Tsamantiots.

7

One example dates from the second half of  the eighteenth century, when the local priest, Papa-Dimitris, recorded a visit by Saint Kosmas, who urged the locals to keep their Christian faith in the face of intense pressure by the Ottomans to embrace Islam (Nitsos, 1926: 30–32).

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Furthermore, Biblical warnings on greed, gluttony, selfishness, and excessive attachment to material goods – impressed upon the villagers through the ubiquitous depiction of  these sins in religious iconography, as well as in the local folklore – encouraged the growth of a culture of altruism. Over the years, this led to many instances of donations and bequests to the village, made by those who had accumulated significant personal wealth, and today numerous plaques commemorating these invaluable injections of capital can be seen adorning local shrines, churches, springs and even bus shelters. But the sober rejection of moral laxity that prompted this munificence should not be thought to characterise the Tsamantiots to the exclusion of more appealing attributes, for their piety never precluded them from enjoying themselves. In fact, an exuberance of spirit frequently expressed itself  (and still does) in communal feasting, singing and dancing – though with an element of pragmatism, for example in providing an opportunity for business transactions. Celebrations such as these were principally held on days that commemorated the patron saints of  Tsamantas, but they were also organised for christenings and weddings, and it is to the institution of marriage, and the respective roles of men and women in the local culture, that we now turn.

3.3 Gender roles and marriage In Tsamantas, as in so many other rural communities around the world, both past and present, wealth and prestige was directly related to the number of sons born to a family. Sons were the harbinger of good fortune; by contrast, the birth of a daughter was often unwelcome, and anecdotal evidence suggests that female infanticide was practised in the village: one elderly resident recalled instances of men venting their frustration, on finding that their wife had given birth to a girl, by throwing the baby into the local ravine. Attitudes towards the female sex also af fected adult women: despite playing such important roles in the economy of  Tsamantas – being, as Stoianovich

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notes in respect of  the region as a whole, ‘the artisans of  their communities, spinning, dyeing, and weaving the wool from their herd into blankets and carpets’ (1966: 276) – it was the norm for women to occupy a position of subservience in relation to men, always deferring to them, and speaking and behaving with the utmost respect. Nitsos reports that it was common to see men riding around on horses or mules, with women walking behind them. Yet this was condoned by the women themselves, on the basis that men were the heads of  the household and provided for them (1926: 125). Nitsos draws a poignant picture of  the life of women in early-twentiethcentury Tsamantas: they ‘would carry on their backs barrels of water, sacks of grain, firewood and so on. One never saw a man in Tsamantas with anything on his back.’ For major construction projects, such as the building of a house, women were expected to carry around heavy loads of stone; it was even the custom for them to struggle home, on leaving the church after the Sunday Liturgy, with a full load from the local quarry! The strength, stamina and tenacity of  the women of  Tsamantas was remarkable. Their daily work took them up the mule tracks (καλντερίμια) and other narrow, precipitous paths to reach the fields, or sources of  firewood, and then back down again beneath their heavy loads. This strenuous lifestyle, Nitsos comments, began at a tender age and unsurprisingly took its toll: it was rare to find a woman in Tsamantas who was not physically ‘coarsened’ by the hard labour she had to endure. He notes, however, that the local men always treated women with gentleness. Indeed, gender relations in the village were characterised by mutual respect and admiration, reinforced by local traditions and customs: for example, older women would sit with the men and take part in discussions on important issues, in recognition of  their invaluable experience and the worthiness of  their opinions. However, young unmarried women were expected to stay out of view, especially when strangers came to the house; their appearance in public was generally limited to attendance at church on Sundays, and to communal celebrations and festivities (1926: 126–128). The constraints of  the deeply rooted patriarchal culture were most noticeable in the village’s cof fee shops, where the patrons playing cards and discussing local and national politics were (and often still are) exclusively male. However, women did have some degree of  freedom to socialise within their neighbourhoods,

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and regular attendance at church provided a further opportunity to meet with each other and exchange family news. Moreover, their labours at the public washing facilities – traditionally the domain of women only – of fered a sense of  female solidarity, as well as the chance to gossip. In such a limited and somewhat claustrophobic social environment, education would have been the only route to greater independence. But, in general, girls were ambivalent about the value of  being educated, and they limited their aspirations to marriage and motherhood, accepting that their role – especially during the early years of marriage – would be supportive and subordinate. As we shall see in Chapter 9, substantial changes in their status would not come about until the 1950s, when new roles for women started to evolve in the aftermath of  the Second World War and the ensuing Greek civil war. Marriage was the social glue of  the community and was expected of everyone; unmarried individuals, as well as those who failed to produce heirs, were looked upon disdainfully. Until as late as the 1950s, marriages between Tsamantiots were almost invariably patrilocal in nature: a woman was expected to live in the home of  her husband’s parents. However, in contrast to the rest of  Epirus, and Greece as a whole, for a long time it was almost unknown in Tsamantas and other communities within its wider locality for the bride’s family to provide a dowry in the form of money, land or livestock; when a daughter was married, she would be given nothing more than jewellery and some new clothes (Nitsos, 1926: 114). This helped to preserve the economic resources of  families with daughters, especially those with several. But eventually this custom changed and women in Tsamantas began to receive a dowry. One resident of  the village laughed with pleasure as she told the author of  the unexpectedly generous gifts from her father on the occasion of  her marriage in the 1930s: I was married at the village church of  St Exarchis, and was given a dowry chest for my clothes, as well as two velenzes [βελέντζες; blankets made from sheep’s wool], two saismata [σαίσματα; goat’s wool blankets], two mattresses and fifteen ewes!

A married woman’s life in the home of  her in-laws was nothing less than domestic enslavement. The head of  the household was normally the fatherin-law – or his wife, in his absence. He or she was in charge of managing

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the family’s wealth and dividing labour among its members. A young wife, in addition to all her other duties, was expected to cook, bake bread, and fetch wood and water for the extended family, which might include not only her father- and mother-in-law but also her husband’s siblings and their partners, and any other relatives who happened to reside in the household. Firmly at the bottom of  the pecking order, she had to satisfy every whim of  the family’s senior members (the mother-law in particular relishing her power in this respect), often leaving her overwhelmed and exhausted. Emancipation from the tyranny of  her in-laws would only come about when her husband took the decision to move into separate accommodation, which normally happened when his eldest child attained school age. Here is how a woman from the village described the role she played in her new home after she was married: I went to live with my mother-in-law; her husband was over in America. I did all the household chores myself, collecting firewood, grazing the goats, doing everything for twelve long years. My mother-in-law owned several fields, as a dowry from her father. They were used for growing lentils, maize, wheat and beans, and I had to work in them, but they were scattered in ten dif ferent places – some nearby, around the church, but others up on the mountain. When I went to work I had to carry my children up the mountain with me, on my back in a sarmanitsa [σαρμανίτσα; wooden rocking cradle].

The harshness of married women’s lives was compounded by the fact that they were often left to cope alone, since many of  the husbands spent long periods away from home, either moving around as itinerant labourers or living and working abroad as temporary migrants. Needless to say, this would have opened up the possibility of extramarital af fairs. One retired tinker told the author that such relationships were generally conducted by men who had come to the village from other localities, seeking work: There was always some mangas [μάγκας; a cunning, untrustworthy person] waiting for his chance with one of  the more vulnerable wives left at home by a tinker, or someone in America – the younger wives in particular. One of  these fellows – maybe a teacher, a rural policeman, or some other man who wasn’t a local – might have an af fair with her. The women were ignorant about sex and knew nothing of  birth control, so they sometimes had an illegitimate baby, and they would kill it and bury it somewhere, so their husband wouldn’t know about it.

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When asked whether men who left the village as tinkers or emigrants ever engaged in such af fairs, he was emphatic in his answer: ‘No, certainly not. At that time, o kosmos itan mazemenos [people had morals].’ But his faith in the probity of  his fellow workers is not entirely justified: for example, bigamy was not unknown, as revealed by a woman in her late eighties who discovered the existence of  five half-sisters living in Patras, where her tinker father had started a second family during the inter-war years. Relationships inevitably suf fered under the strain of  long-term separation. Another elderly native of  the village spoke of  the break-up of  his parents’ marriage in the late 1920s, when he was a boy. His father had told his wife to leave Tsamantas and join him in the town of  Pyrgos, in the Peloponnese, where he was working as a tinker, but she refused, preoccupied with caring for her elderly parents. The man re-married, and the boy eventually joined his father and stepmother. Happily for him she proved to be a good parent, and her death, in old age, left him grief-stricken. The author was also told of a man returning home after many years away, to find that his wife had just given birth. It seems that he was suf ficiently broadminded to accept this consequence of having been abroad for so long, as the newborn baby stayed within the family, but loss of respectability led him to move away from the village with his wife and children, never to return.

3.4 The education system The children of  Tsamantas were raised to cherish the deeply rooted values and beliefs of  their parents, a process reinforced by their schooling. Education had always been held in high esteem in the village. In the early nineteenth century, a school was established in the village under the auspices of  the Orthodox Church, and throughout the Ottoman years the cost of running it was borne entirely by the community. Although it of fered only a rudimentary education, it strengthened the villagers’ sense of pride in their society. Church and school were inseparable, and the first

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teacher to be appointed was a priest (whose skills in reading and writing, according to Nitsos, were somewhat limited). Classes were held in the church hall throughout the cold winter months, and then outdoors during the summer. Materials were limited to various ecclesiastical books, and the school’s modest educational objectives are demonstrated by the fact that when a pupil had studied the Psalter, it was assumed that he had reached the pinnacle of  learning. Nitsos tells us that the method of  ‘education’ – if  that is not too generous a term – was such that children would learn to read from these ecclesiastical books without developing the skills needed to fully comprehend the text (1926: 78). He adds that the atmosphere within the school in these early years was not a happy one, and pupils endured horrific punishments: all manner of  beatings, the tying of arms behind the back, enforcement of  fasting, and even shutting recalcitrant pupils in a room containing human remains! These and numerous other cruel procedures turned the school into a child’s worst nightmare; the teacher came to be seen as a bogeyman, and the mere sight of  him was enough to send children running of f in fright. No doubt the consensus at the time was that fear of punishment was the most productive route to learning (1926: 81–82). In 1838, a purpose-built schoolhouse was constructed, next to the church, providing for the first time an adequate educational environment. However, Nitsos observes that it failed to enhance the teaching methods of  the time (1926: 83–84).8 In fact, the quality of  teaching in the school only began to improve during the last two decades of  the nineteenth century, with the introduction of properly trained teachers with diplomas. But even then the local children were given only a few years’ schooling; further education was beyond the means of most families, since it would have required sending their child to board at a school in a distant centre of  learning, such as Ioannina or Patras. In any case, it is likely that most parents did not fully appreciate the potential benefits of extending their child’s education. 8

Nor was there an increase in the miserable annual salary received by the teacher, which in 1853 was just 300 grossi (the Ottoman currency, alternatively known as piastre) – although at least this paltry sum was supplemented by the small gifts habitually brought to him by pupils.

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Ottoman Epirus traditionally produced a wealth of notable scholars, scientists, merchants, entrepreneurs and other men of distinction, but Tsamantas – along with its neighbours throughout Tsamourgia9 (as this part of  Epirus was called at the time) – was unable to match the intellectual output of  the wider region.10 Nitsos was at pains to stress that this was not because of any inherent weakness, but rather the fact that Tsamourgia was unique in Epirus in having a large Muslim population, which did its best to oppress the local Christians and keep them undereducated; furthermore, the area had not yet experienced significant emigration to more developed countries, unlike other parts of  Epirus, and thus had foregone the advantages that this could bring to local society (1926: 89–90). The education system in Tsamantas was nonetheless successful in teaching its pupils to read and write, as evidence suggests that literacy levels in the village were comparatively high during the first two decades of  the twentieth century: the author’s examination of  the online archives of  New York’s Ellis Island, where migrants to the United States disembarked, revealed that the vast majority (94 per cent) of  116 young Tsamantiots entering the country during this period were able to read and write. This figure compares very favourably with the level of  literacy in the rest of  the country: Leften Stavrianos notes that the census of  1928 showed that only 61 per cent of  the population over eight years old was literate (1958: 684).11 The Orthodox Church – through its Patriarchate in Constantinople – was responsible for setting the curriculum in Greek schools throughout the Ottoman Empire, and had always been given the freedom to allow its teachers in Epirus to promote a degree of self-determination for the region. However, for fear of upsetting the authorities, the Patriarchate 9

10 11

The term Tsamourgia (Τσαμουρ[γ]ιά) was used before the Second World War to refer to an area that includes the modern Greek prefectures of  Preveza and Thesprotia (thus including Mount Mourgana), and a small part of  the prefecture of  Ioannina, as well as the southern extremity of  the district of  Sarandë in Albania. However, Nitsos does provide profiles of a number of eminent Tsamantiots (including himself !) from the second part of  the nineteenth century and the early twentieth. By the inter-war years, according to Stavrianos, the provision of education in Greece had become ‘poor in quality as well as inadequate in quantity’ (p. 684).

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avoided any reference in its schoolbooks to those ethnic Greeks in Epirus who wanted to leave the Empire altogether and join the Greek state. These Epirots were passionate in their desire to evict the Ottomans, and so it is ironic that when liberation finally came, the centralised Greek education system, with its highly bureaucratic structure and limited resources, did little to advance the progress made within the Ottoman system. A few positive changes were implemented: the government assumed responsibility for payment of  teachers’ salaries, and a new national curriculum was introduced, which, although it still taught reading and writing to only a basic level, now included lessons in mathematics. But generally speaking the standard of education remained static (Nitsos, 1926: 85–86). Moreover, although the new emphasis on religious studies, history, classical Greek literature and the language of ancient Greece augmented the acquisition of  knowledge and reinforced morality and spirituality, it failed to equip students with the practical and technical skills required in a modern economy. In Tsamantas, a further disadvantage was that not all children were free to attend school on a regular basis. During the inter-war years, a socially dif ferentiated peasantry started to emerge in the village, with a relatively wealthy and economically inactive elite – often in receipt of remittances sent from abroad, living alongside poor, hard-working neighbours who had to struggle to survive by means of subsistence agriculture. The memories of one woman in her late eighties convey the challenges that this disparity presented to some: Those children with a father in America who sent money over were able to go to school every day. But our family was poor, and I often had to graze our goats. So I would go to the teacher on those days and ask her to let me of f school. I would always bring her some firewood, to say thank you, or maybe a couple of eggs: one for her and one for her servant. Anyway, she would give me permission, and of f  I’d go. But when I came home in the evening I would have to see a fellow student, to ask her what the teacher had taught during the day, and get my homework. So I’m basically self-taught. But even though I went to class only about twice a week, I used to get good marks: usually seven or eight out of  ten. The teacher knew I was clever and she always allowed me to move up a grade at the end of  the year, even though I hadn’t attended regularly. I was so pleased that I did well. But, of course, we didn’t know as much as kids do today.

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Chapter 3 One thing I remember very clearly about my schooldays was having to learn a poem by heart, one year, for the 25 March festivities [the dual celebration of  Annunciation and Independence Day]. I was supposed to be portraying the city of  Constantinople and I was all chained up, to show that what had once been our city ought to be liberated from the Turks. I had to say: ‘Cut my chains, little by little, in order to set me free.’ Although I was only very young, I kept my nerve and recited all of it.

At the time, the many Greek inhabitants of  Constantinople had been suf fering under the Turks, and the fact that pupils in Epirus were being asked to recite a poem such as this reveals the importance placed by the Greek state on its objective of  taking control of  Constantinople. However, teachers were responding to pressure to sow the seeds of nationalism in the minds of young Epirots partly as a distraction from the shortcomings of a much-distrusted state, with its corrupt patronage system and its inability to provide employment opportunities for the growing numbers of young school-leavers. School attendance in Tsamantas had begun to increase dramatically, and by the time it was made compulsory by Greek law, in the mid-1920s, the village school had approximately 120 male and 60 female pupils (Nitsos, 1926: 85). Most primary schools in rural Greece at the time had just one room and one teacher, but in Tsamantas there were now four classrooms, each for a dif ferent age-group. There was also a nursery – again, for girls as well as boys. Facilities were still fairly basic, and pupils had to sit on the f loor. But eventually a generous donation by Tsamantiots living in the United States enabled the purchase of desks and a supply of  books and other materials; the expatriates also financed the construction of a new school building, which began in 1925 and was completed three years later.12 This building is now the village museum, where photographs show that

12

A commemorative bronze plaque dating from 1928 (see Figure 5) tells us that the following contributions were made towards the construction of  the school: US$ 1,500 from the St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamantas in Worcester, Massachusetts; 100,000 drachmas from the Community of  Tsamantas; 65,000 drachmas from the local church funds; and 100,000 drachmas from the Greek State.

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the school had as many as 300 pupils at its height.13 The headmaster of  the new institution was Panagiotis Gogos, a native of  the village who had been educated in Constantinople. He was a properly trained teacher of rich and varied experience. His assistant was Spyridon Kentros, a former baker who had lived for some time as an immigrant in Worcester, Massachusetts. The headmaster’s wife, Ourania – originally from Thrace – ran the nursery, and photographs of  the couple are also on display in the museum. Further progress was made during the 1930s, when opportunities for girls increased significantly, leading to an improvement in the ratio of  female pupils to males. The school also began to include in its curriculum the teaching of  basic English, perhaps in response to the fact that so many young Tsamantiots aspired to emigrate to the United States. However, one major drawback persisted, in common with all Greek schools at the time, namely the problems inherent in educating pupils using two dif ferent forms of  the Greek language. In their everyday lives, the people of  Greece spoke demotic (δημοτική; vernacular Greek); in Tsamantas and the rest of  Epirus, this was supplemented with a sprinkling of  Slavic, Albanian, Turkish and Italian words. But the of ficial form of  the language was katharevousa, a literary version derived from ancient Greek that was used by the intelligentsia and most professionals. Katharevousa played no part in the life of  Greek peasants, and so had to be learned from scratch. In Tsamantas, pupils in the school’s lower forms were taught in a mixture of  both versions of  Greek, but older children had to leave demotic behind and undertake their studies solely in the of ficial language. Not only was much valuable learning time wasted on something that would never be of use to most of  these children, but also they finished school without properly mastering either version of  the language. (This explains the regrettable fact that the fascinating book about Tsamantas by Nikolaos Nitsos has been read by so few local people, written as it was in katharevousa.) Despite the shortcomings of  the local

13

In the 1930s, however, numbers dropped when a school was built in the nearby hamlet of  Kamitsiani, which had grown suf ficiently to justify construction of another educational establishment – a welcome development to those local children who previously had to walk to and from the school in Tsamantas.

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education system, however, it was certainly one of  the main determinants in motivating the youth of  Tsamantas to improve their lives, and the basic skills in literacy and numeracy that they acquired enabled many of  them to participate in the world economy, either as an itinerant labourer or as a transatlantic emigrant.

3.5 The legal and administrative systems and local politics By the late Ottoman period, the western and eastern halves of  today’s prefecture of  Thesprotia had become demographically dissimilar: the communities in the mountainous and remote landscape of  the east were small, and entirely Christian, whereas the west was home to larger towns, such as Paramythia, Margariti and Filiates, that were predominantly Muslim, albeit with a significant Christian element. As the nearest market town to Tsamantas, Filiates14 was the usual destination (eight hours’ walk away) when Tsamantiots needed to purchase goods and services not available in the village. Although the town had its fair share of poor workers – muleteers, servants and so forth – it must have struck its visitors from isolated Tsamantas as a prosperous and lively place, with its mosques, communal baths, and a çarşi (bazaar). Its many businesses were thriving. As elsewhere in Epirus, the language of commerce was primarily Greek, but this did not present a problem to the local Albanian Muslims, as most of  them were conversant in the language; indeed, those who had graduated from the ‘Zossimea’ Greek school in Ioannina, the region’s top educational institution, could speak not only their native tongue and f luent Greek (both spoken and written) but also Turkish (Gawrych, 1983). A substantial number of  these Albanian Muslims were successful merchants, and the small number of  Greek residents in Filiates were also doing well, engaging 14

The Ottoman census of  1895 revealed that Filiates had 1,575 inhabitants at the time (Kokolakis, 2004). It was at the centre of  the kaza (district) of  the same name until 1910, when it became part of  the sanjak (administrative area) of  Igoumenitsa.

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in transactions with their Muslim neighbours. By contrast, most rural communities in the Balkans – including Tsamantas and the other villages of  Mount Mourgana – were ‘the home of oppressed and exploited Christian peasants, taxpayers and food-producers’ (Vucinich, 1962: 603), who were subject to a feudal agricultural system administered by Ottoman-appointed Muslim landlords (known as agas). Between them, the various agas residing in the town of  Filiates owned a vast amount of  land, mostly granted as fiefs in return for their military service. As Muslims, they were favoured by their Ottoman rulers, and over the years they had amassed considerable wealth and power. Like their counterparts throughout the Empire, they were invaluable to the Ottomans: according to Stavrou, they not only acted as tax-collectors but also provided the Sultan with ‘faithful governors (…) brutal policemen [and] janissaries’ (2001: 68). The prestige of  the Filiates agas was further strengthened when the Démis family, one of  the most powerful in the town, had the good fortune to become associated with the Sultan through the marriage of a son to one of  the Sultan’s sisters. Nitsos informs us that members of  this family – and those of another in Filiates by the name of  Seiko – were the principal landlords of  the Tsamantiots and as such were despised by them.15 A book by Arthur Foss includes an intriguing suggestion of a link between the Démis family and the future Liberal prime minister of  Britain, William Gladstone. Foss gives a vivid description of  Gladstone’s visit in 1858 to an Albanian Muslim family in Filiates. At the time, Gladstone was based in Corfu, as Lord High Commissioner of  the Ionian Islands, and he was invited to stay with ‘an old lady, called the Valideh, a great proprietress who lived in a large, ruinous castle’. Drawing on a letter written by Arthur Gordon – Gladstone’s secretary, who referred to this woman as ‘the greatest personage in these regions’ – Foss speculates that she may have been a member of  the Démis family, and this is indeed a strong possibility, given that one of  the family’s sons served on Gladstone’s staf f in Corfu (1978: 175–177).16 15 16

As we shall see in a later chapter, however, Nitsos could be somewhat extreme in his opinions, and the views of some of  today’s elderly inhabitants of  the village provide a more balanced perspective. Another member of  the family, Tahir Démis, became commander of an Albanian brigade, consisting of exiled Muslim Chams, that joined the Italian forces during

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Nitsos states that the agas from the Démis and Seiko families treated the villagers of  Tsamantas with contempt, and that they and their representatives were often negligent. He complains, in referring to the rapid and catastrophic felling of  the forest surrounding the village, that although the Ottoman forestry constabulary was responsible for its protection, they consistently turned a blind eye to illegal logging – no doubt a consequence of  bribery, which was endemic amongst the Ottoman of ficials (1926: 3–4). He adds that it was customary for these of ficials to line their pockets by extortion, hence the following popular verse, which expresses the sentiments of  the ethnic Greeks at the time: So you saw a Turk? It’s money he wants! So you saw another one? Yet more money!

Although the political system in the Ottoman-controlled territories of south-eastern Europe was oppressive, most of  the Christian communities were permitted a certain degree of self-determination. For example, they were able to take both civil and ecclesiastical matters to the Orthodox Church for resolution. The villagers of  Tsamantas lived within the Diocese of  Paramythia, and thus their first recourse was to its bishop, who exercised judgement over such matters, especially those concerning land, inheritance and dowries. But the supreme court was the Holy Synod of  the Ecumenical Patriarchate of  Constantinople, and when, during the early eighteenth century, the people of  Tsamantas became embroiled in a quarrel with the nearby village of  Lesinitsa, an appeal was made directly to the Synod. The dispute arose when the villagers of  Lesinitsa attempted to extend their territory and thereby appropriate an important spring in Tsamantas, called Aetopigado (eagle’s spring). The conf lict soon became violent and a number of  Lesinitsa’s inhabitants were killed by angry Tsamantiots.17 Now

17

the Second World War. Together with Admiral Tene Seiko, also born in Filiates, he was executed by Enver Hoxha when the Communists assumed power in Albania (Stavrou, 2001: 79). Nitsos, who relates the entire af fair, notes that the victims were buried near the spring (1926: 24).

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afraid to confront their neighbours, the Lesinitsa claimants approached the Patriarchate, who decided in their favour and excommunicated the people of  Tsamantas for their criminal actions. Even so, they kept possession of  the spring by continuing to threaten violence. It was a Pyrrhic victory, however, since the disputed spring and its surrounding land were eventually assigned to the Albanian state, after the creation of  the new Greek–Albanian border in 1923 (Nitsos, 1926: 8). A second system by which the Ottomans allowed the Christians of south-eastern Europe a degree of self-determination – this time at the local level – involved the management of village matters by the traditional elders of a community ( Jelavich, 1999: 2). In Tsamantas, these were the so-called Dhodhekara (Δωδεκάρα), an unelected executive aristocracy that administered the village’s af fairs and acted as the agents of  Ottoman of ficialdom.18 The Dhodhekara (meaning ‘group of  twelve’) consisted of a council of  twelve elders, who would gather after the Sunday Liturgy in order to dispense justice to their fellow villagers. In addition to their function as a small claims court, they controlled the prices of  locally produced goods, thus relieving the local peasants of  the burden of  having to haggle with itinerant peddlers; any person who disagreed with the fixed price would be obliged to leave the village at once. In acknowledgement of  this service, it was customary for the villagers to pay a small commission, in money or in kind, which the elders would share with the church in equal proportions. Commending this system of justice – which originated in the time of  Homer – Nitsos observes that it helped to avoid unpleasant disputes, and that it helped the local economy, since it saved the villagers precious time and money by obviating the need for them to journey further afield, to seek justice in the Islamic courts. A current resident of Tsamantas, Spyros 18

In a damning article in the Athenian newspaper Skrip, the Dhodhekara of  Tsamantas was accused for displaying ‘inhuman behaviour’ and of  being a ‘ruthless tax collectors’ of  their Ottoman rulers. The newspaper, names nine elders, who did not allow the priest to lay to rest in the village’s graveyard a foreign woman who accidentally fell to her death in the precipitous snowcovered terrain, demanding from her companion the payment of an exhorbitant fee for her burial. ‘Vandalism in Epirus’, Skrip, 5 February 1911.

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Kentros, told the author that decisions made by the elders were always respected, by both of  the parties involved, and that the locals continued to favour this means of resolving disputes in the village until as late as the 1960s. The dhodhekara was also responsible for the maintenance of paths, irrigation channels and public laundry facilities, as well as the planning and building of infrastructure, such as roads and bridges – all vital to the local economy, but a matter of no concern to the distant Ottoman authorities. These works were achieved through a combination of  hard peasant labour and financial contributions by the wealthier members of  the community. It appears that the proactive approach of  the Dhodhekara was the driving force behind the construction of many remarkable buildings between the late eighteenth and the early twentieth century, including the beautiful Monastery of  St George at Kamitsiani, a number of chapels, and some important bridges, particularly the one known locally as the Bridge of  Grika: an impressive, high-arched construction of stone that crosses the River Pavla, to the funding of which the villagers of  Povla and Lidizda also contributed. This enlightened system of self-administration, which had suited the Christian communities of  Epirus so well, of ficially came to an end in 1913, when the region became a part of  Greece, and the government in Athens extended its highly centralised system – modelled on the French, and managed from the capital – to its new territories, intent on ‘westernising’ the country’s public administration (Ioakimidis, 1996: 344). Nonetheless, some matters of routine administration were still dealt with by local communities on behalf of central government. In Tsamantas, responsibility for local af fairs had by now passed from the Dhodhekara to a council chosen by election. The council conducted the registration of  births, marriages and deaths, established grazing charges to be levied on the local shepherds, and drafted the communal budget for the approval of  the governmentappointed local prefect, based in Ioannina.19 It also appointed a president of  the village, responsible for its day-to-day administration. Over the years, 19

The regional capital of  Ioannina was responsible for administrative matters until the creation, in 1946, of  the modern prefecture of  Thesprotia, with its capital in the port of  Igoumenitsa.

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the role of president gained in power, until eventually the post-holder was the sole person with whom Tsamantiots were expected to conduct their af fairs. Relations between the villagers and dif ferent levels of government had thus become more vertical than horizontal, with a clear hierarchy of command: from the central ministries in Athens, down through the prefect, and ending with the president of  the community of  Tsamantas. However, all important decision-making and political power gradually shifted to Athens, the centre of economic, commercial and cultural activity in Greece, and the location of  the country’s notoriously over-centralised administration. In addition to the loss of  local autonomy that resulted from this centralisation, one drawback for the newly incorporated region of  Epirus was that the political elite in Athens failed to make a clean break with the practices of  their Ottoman predecessors, proving to be just as negligent, corrupt and inef ficient. The Greek state functioned by means of a plethora of  laws and regulations – mostly borrowed from other countries – as well as an informal system of patronage, or ‘clientelism’. This system was not only inequitable, in that transactions were settled within a context of submissiveness on the part of  the village client, but also grossly unfair, since the exchange of  favours that took place between client and patron was often detrimental to the rest of  the community. Abercrombie and Hill point out that clientelism – a consequence of  the shortcomings of government departments, courts, and other institutions – is commonly found in what they refer to as ‘less developed societies’, and has always been endemic in rural Greece (1976: 415). It manifests itself in many dif ferent ways. The variant that was most commonly encountered in the mountain communities of  Epirus has been extensively studied by Campbell (1964). He notes that uneducated local peasants were helped in their dealings with the central administration in Athens through the mediation of a member of  the local elite: a person of power (most likely a politician or civil servant) usually based in one of  the region’s larger towns. Through his connections, this individual facilitated the villagers’ encounters with inf lexible government bureaucracy; in addition, however, he gave his clients licences, jobs and pensions, with complete disregard for meritocratic criteria, and even allowed the illegal appropriation of public lands. In return, he expected the client and his family to vote for him in local and national elections.

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3.6 Conclusion The economic growth and eventual decline that occurred in so many microeconomies in south-eastern Europe during the twentieth century appears to have been the result of a wide variety of  both endogenous and exogenous factors, ranging from the presence or absence in a community of collective social values, or a degree of self-governance, to the consequences of global events such as warfare. This interplay of  the endogenous and the exogenous is mirrored in the challenges faced by the inhabitants of  Tsamantas in the early years of  the century. At the start of  this remarkable period in the village’s history, its population had reached an unsustainable level; at the same time, external forces were at play in the locality, the most significant being the delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian border by the European powers, which deprived Tsamantas of its economic hinterland. However, as we shall see in subsequent chapters, the villagers proved themselves eminently capable of minimising the economic disadvantages of  the problems they encountered, and of maximising their collective well-being through sheer determination and drive. As a result, the village underwent a gradual transition from a backward community to one that was in many respects modern and thriving. Some contemporary scholars, writing from the perspective of classical or neoclassical economics, suggest that economic growth is usually dependent on the ability of members of a society to engage in rational economic behaviour (Branco, 2007: 410–411), and this was certainly true of  the people of  Tsamantas, who responded to adversity and challenge with intelligence, foresight and good judgement. But it is clear that their success was underpinned by the nature of  their social and cultural life. Researchers in the field of  business culture have classified numerous societies on the basis of whether they are characterised by collectivism or by individualism.20 Collectivist societies have a sense of shared responsibility, and value cooperation, solidarity, and reciprocation of  favours,

20 See, for instance, the seminal work of Geert Hofstede (1991), Culture and Organisations: Software of  the Mind, New York: McGraw-Hill, pp. 50–51.

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even when their obligations to the group are personally disadvantageous. Individualists, on the other hand, value self-reliance, competitiveness and personal freedom; in a conf lict of interest, an individual tends to prioritise his own goals over those of the group. Traditionally, the people of Tsamantas and the other mountain villages in this part of  Epirus were individualistic, partly due to their faith. In stark contrast to the Muslim communities in the region, they benefited perhaps from the fact that Orthodox Christianity is based upon a set of values that favour the development of  the individual, providing fertile ground for the growth of  business culture and the creation of wealth. Although the Orthodox dogma was opposed to ostentatious materialism, it nonetheless endorsed the emergence of a mercantile class consisting of small businessmen, merchants and artisans, and as a consequence the underlying culture in Tsamantas was one of entrepreneurialism and profit-maximising behaviour. Moreover, the Church encouraged the practice of  thrift, and the accumulation of resources as a safety net against hard times. Yet its leaning towards individualism co-existed with an emphasis on altruism and community welfare. Thus, despite the fact that one of  the most dominant values in Tsamantas – the importance of  kinship, with its expectation of assisting any relative in need – favoured one’s clan before the wider community, its underlying principle of caring for others did contribute to the success of  the village as a whole. Networks based on kinship, which prioritised the advancement of one’s extended family, were a key factor in the establishment of overseas emigration, and many individuals improved their personal circumstances by working abroad, regularly sending money back to their families (as, indeed, did those who embarked on itinerant labour). But the villagers were true to the teachings of  their faith, and their wealth was shared amongst the whole community – for example, by subsidising the provision of education at the village school and by supplying funds for philanthropic purposes, thus contributing not only to the village’s success in peacetime but also to its survival during the wars of  the twentieth century.21 21

Migration had its down side, however: as we shall see in Chapter 5, it encouraged economic dependency and unproductive consumption, and widened socio-economic inequality.

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The importance of  kinship and family pride in Tsamantas, and the maintenance of  honour and prestige, must have driven individuals to strive for success and establish a business for themselves. However, entrepreneurship was very much the preserve of men. The community was at heart strongly patriarchal and conservative, perpetuating the status quo in which boys grew up to work within the local economy, while girls were destined to be housewives. Indeed, the girls only gained extensive access to primary education after liberation from the Ottomans, when the Greek state introduced compulsory education laws to its annexed territories. Nonetheless, for boys the provision of education brought a better understanding of  the world, motivating them to achieve their aspirations in terms of social mobility and independence. The Tsamantiots were proud of  their school, and most people approved of  the fact that their sons were being educated. However, as the quality of education improved it engendered a plurality of values, creating a cultural tension that pitted those with modernising attitudes against those who were less comfortable with the idea of change. Since progressive ideas were generally frowned upon within the family, it is likely that this tension inf luenced the decision of so many young men to leave the village, in order to participate in the world economy as an itinerant labourer or a transatlantic emigrant (the latter option entirely dependent on ef fective education, since the ability to read and write one’s native language to a basic level was a requirement of entry to the United States). Ironically, the eventual success of so many local men was to have a major impact on the patriarchal system that had excluded girls from the opportunities that education provided. The dividing line between women and men gradually blurred, and in the often prolonged absence of  their menfolk, women began to play an important role in sustaining the life of  the village. Furthermore, increasing af f luence enabled many married women to escape the domination of  their in-laws and move to separate accommodation, becoming important decision-makers as managers of  the household income. The people of  Tsamantas were fortunate in having their own, relatively autonomous, system of administration, which had gradually evolved over the centuries. This local administration coexisted with the larger and more rigid system of control that the Ottoman regime exercised over the peasantry. The Dhodhekara proved to be an ef ficient institution, and was

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responsible for keeping records, calculating the taxes owed to the Ottoman authorities by each household, collecting these taxes, paying them in the case of destitute families, adjudicating disputes arising within the village, and reporting any violation of  law. The fact that it was also responsible for the execution of public works, and maintenance of the local infrastructure, meant that the environment was well looked after, and this would have inf luenced the villagers’ sense of civic pride – increasing the motivation of  those who had gone beyond the bounds of  the village, as overseas migrants or itinerant workers, to return to their homes and invest their hard-earned money in the place of  their birth. Unfortunately, after liberation from the Ottomans, the Dhodhekara was replaced by an elected community council, which became an agent of  the repressive central government and corrupt and malfunctioning public administration. Corruption was (and still is) deeply rooted in Greece, the result of collusion between local politicians, businessmen and civil servants. This is not to say that the preceding Ottoman era was significantly better in this respect, but rather that the widespread practice of patronage that followed liberation was the context within which political corruption and maladministration was able to f lourish. In the long term, the contentious and problematic political culture, and the ensuing polarisation of  the community of  Tsamantas between republicans and royalists, adversely af fected its economic development and contributed to the erosion of its cultural values by triggering the waves of emigration that led to the abandonment of  the village. However, in the first half of  the twentieth century – an era of rapid economic development, political instability and social change – Tsamantas fared well in comparison with many other communities in Epirus, and it is clear that some of  the social and cultural aspects of  local life, as examined in this chapter, helped to shape a distinctive set of values that began to modernise the village. These distinctive values undoubtedly encouraged behaviour and decision-making that helped the inhabitants to increase their personal wealth and that of  their kindred. They started to participate in the world market (through emigration), to embrace specialisation (by joining the tinsmith profession), and to practice entrepreneurialism (through the creation of small-scale coppersmith businesses), and these aspects of  the micro-economy that emerged in Tsamantas will be explored in detail in the following two chapters.

Chapter 4

The Economy of  Tsamantas during the First Half of  the Twentieth Century

In recent years there has been a growing trend amongst researchers specialising in regional and local economies to consider globalisation issues when investigating economic growth and decline. Katharine Rankin notes that most of  these researchers are economic geographers, who are especially concerned with exploring ‘the social and institutional dimensions of production, consumption, value and exchange’. Their investigations into the spatial factors of capitalist accumulation and economic growth have added substantially to our understanding of  the development of  local economies (2003: 720). But what exactly is meant by globalisation? David Held (1999: 84–85) defines it as ‘a set of processes which shift the spatial form of  human organisation and activity to transcontinental or interregional patterns of activity, interaction and the exercise of power’. He goes on to say that this involves ‘a stretching and deepening of social relations and institutions across space and time such that, on the one hand, day-to-day activities are increasingly inf luenced by events happening on the other side of  the globe and, on the other, the practices and decisions of local groups or communities can have significant global reverberation’. According to William Robinson, a standpoint encompassing such processes has the potential to shed light on a region’s history. The concept of globalisation, he asserts, can facilitate scholars in developing a macro-historical perspective, necessary for a view of  the ‘big picture’ (2002: 221–222). One of  the negative ef fects of globalisation has been the economic and social marginalisation of  border peoples and their culture, and this important issue is increasingly the subject of research by anthropologists, some of whom have focused specifically on the Greek–Albanian border area (Hart, 1999; Green and King, 2001). In her volume of  2005a, Sarah

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Green – one of several feminist scholars who have analysed the role of women in political and economic processes at the macro level – investigated the issue as it af fects the inhabitants of  the Pogoni region of  Epirus, next to the border, and adjacent to the Tsamantas locality. We shall return to Green’s invaluable work in Chapter 8, in order to borrow essential tools with which to analyse current social and cultural conditions in Epirus within the context of economic globalisation. Although globalisation has only recently become a buzzword, it is widely acknowledged that it is not a new phenomenon (Keohane and Nye, 2000; Hopkins, 2002). In Globalisation and History (1999), O’Rourke and Williamson claim that the first great wave of globalisation took place in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century within the so-called ‘Atlantic economy’ – a term referring to the integration of  American and western European economies, which created an international system of  trade, migration and f low of capital – and that it was facilitated by the rapidly falling transportation and communication costs that were a consequence of  the growth of railways, the introduction of steamships and the advent of  the international telegraph system. It transformed the poor, agrarian nations of  Europe into consumer societies that soon became increasingly industrialised and urbanised. Similar changes began to take place in Epirus, and in the first half of  the twentieth century the region underwent three distinct periods of  transformation. The last of  these – in the 1940s, when the Second World War and ensuing Greek Civil War took countless lives in Epirus and completely destroyed its infrastructure – will be discussed in Chapter 7. But now we shall consider, in turn, the first two periods of  transformation: the rapid capitalist modernisation that occurred between the start of  the twentieth century and the end of  Ottoman rule in 1913, and then the period of stagnation and marginalisation that followed, up to the eve of  the Second World War.

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4.1 The final years of  Pax Ottomanica: a time of relative prosperity (1900–1913) Any discussion of  the comparatively successful micro-economy of  Tsamantas during the early years of  the twentieth century must be put within the context of  the wider region of  Epirus, where the economy was in decline. Like the rest of  Europe, the region experiences radical changes to the structure of its economy, largely due to the ascendancy of  the afore-mentioned Atlantic economy during the first wave of globalisation. This resulted in the relocation of  trade routes away from the eastern Mediterranean to western Europe, peripheralising the Balkan peninsula and the rest of  the Ottoman empire (Bideleux and Jef fries, 2007: 101). Together with changes to south-eastern Europe’s geopolitical configuration, this restructuring of  the economy had a profound ef fect on resource utilisation, wealth creation and the production of goods. At this time, the production system in Epirus was dependent upon a variety of participants: the Christian and Muslim peasant farmers whose labours provided agricultural produce and raw materials; the Ottoman landlords who owned most of  the land on which the peasants worked; proto-industrial capitalists, who managed the local industries; and the merchants (mostly Christian, but some Jewish)1 who controlled most of  the commerce in Epirus. The production system was based mainly on three areas of economic activity: agriculture (despite the fact that a meagre 5.8% of  the land in Epirus was cultivated), cattle breeding, and traditional proto-industries such as the weaving of cotton and the making of jewellery, leather goods and woollen garments (Vakalopoulos, 1992: 504–505). The system was well connected to the world 1

The regional capital, Ioannina, was home to the Romaniotes, a thriving community of  Greek-speaking Jews who settled in the city during the Roman era. At the turn of  the twentieth century, there were approximately six thousand of  them. By the 1930s, however, roughly half  had followed other Greek Epirots in emigrating to the United States (Fleming, 2007: 1–2); those who stayed behind either perished in the Nazi concentration camps or emigrated to Israel. For a scholarly treatment of Greek Jews, see Fleming (2007).

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market through a wide range of imports and exports. But the latter – mainly of  live animals, wool, and various agricultural products, including olive oil, cotton and tobacco – were far outweighed by the region’s imports (Figure 2). It is generally acknowledged that the reason for this imbalance was that manufacturing enterprises in Epirus were unable to withstand the increasing competition from those other European countries that were producing more sophisticated and cheaper goods, a situation that eventually led to the demise of most of  these Epirot enterprises. The two largest competitors were Italy and Austria, who between them supplied nearly a quarter of all the goods imported by Epirus. These two countries constantly vied with each other in exerting economic and political inf luence over the region (Vakalopoulos, 1992: 512), as we shall see in Chapter 6 in respect of  the emergence of an independent Albania and the partition of  the Ottoman province of  Epirus.

Figure 2  External trade in Epirus (1900–1909) in Gold Francs Source: Ploumidis, 1977: 361

The economic decline of  Epirus during the early part of  the twentieth century was also partly attributable to the absence of a bank credit system; the only accessible banks were in Corfu, which was part of  the free Greek state, but these were out of reach to all but the most well-travelled Epirots. Even more significant, however, was the fact that the regional administration was inef fectual and corrupt – contrary to the norm, in regions with a strong tradition of autonomy. Moreover, the central administration in far-of f  Constantinople was not only indif ferent to the needs of 

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Epirots but also incapable of providing infrastructure to exploit the region’s resources (Bieber, 2000: 21). A major disadvantage was the lack of adequate roads, which hampered the transportation of goods from the ports to the main commercial towns.2 The road to Ioannina, the regional capital, from Igoumenitsa – not yet the region’s largest port, as it is today – was in poor condition, and the network of secondary roads radiating from Ioannina to the towns of  Metsovo, Filiates and Paramythia was somewhat rudimentary. Arthur Foss points out that passengers and cargo carriers travelling between Corfu and Ioannina found it easier to use the port of  Sarandë, north of  Igoumenitsa (1978: 18). Of all the ports in Epirus, Sarandë experienced the greatest increase in commercial traf fic in the early twentieth century, due to its status as a stopping point for many foreign shipping lines, as well as the fact that it was the only commercial outlet for Ioannina and the important towns of  Gjirokastër (Αργυρόκαστρο) and Delvinë (Δελβίινιο) (Stickney, 1926: 36; Vakalopoulos, 1992: 513–514). But not all of  the region was in decline as a result of  these factors: some of  the Christian communities in the mountainous parts, including the village of  Tsamantas, were bucking the trend, for their connections to the global economy – through itinerant labour and the new phenomenon of emigration to North America – were sustaining the growth they had enjoyed for well over a hundred years. 4.1.1 The economy of  Tsamantas It is apparent that the seeds of prosperity had already been sown in Tsamantas by the final quarter of  the eighteenth century: the construction of a number of notable ecclesiastical buildings during that period suggests that the 2

A further hindrance, not only to transportation but also to the safe passage of  travellers, was the rampant brigandry that had for centuries plagued rural areas. This should not surprise us, given the character of the region’s inhabitants in former times: in a paper presented at the Berlin Geographical Society in 1894, Alfred Philippson described them as being ‘an excitable race (…) always ready to exchange the plough and shepherd’s staf f  for the musket and yatagan [sword]’ (p. 325). During the eighteenth century, there were bandits even amongst the Tsamantiots: see Nitsos (1926: 21–23) for anecdotal evidence of  the robbery and plunder committed by a local man, Photos-Kykos, during the early years of  that century.

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community had by then acquired significant wealth. These included the Church of  the Dormition of  the Virgin (1784) – the village’s main place of worship – as well as St Mark’s chapel (1797) and the Byzantine-style church and Monastery of  St George in Kamitsiani (1773), all of which were decorated with murals and gilded woodcarvings. The building boom also saw a trend towards the replacement of modest dwellings by more solid stone houses. Nitsos relates how this prosperity continued to grow right up to the end of  the Ottoman regime (1926: 98–99 and 355). At the start of  the twentieth century, for example, public donations from wealthy individuals and families funded the construction of more new places of worship, such as the parish church of  St Nicholas in the Pera Machalas district, and the chapel of  the Prophet Elias in neighbouring Thana. Once again, religious piety ensured that their interiors were richly adorned with iconographies, painted mostly by skilful itinerant artists from the north of  the Balkan peninsula (whom the locals have always referred to as ‘Serbians’). More stone houses were built, as well – large, impressive, and often with a second storey. The accounts for the Diocese of  Paramythia, which includes the community of  Tsamantas, show that by 1912 – the last year of  Ottoman rule, when the village had grown to around 270 households, with 1,423 inhabitants3 – the joint church and school income had risen to the considerable sum of  22,005 grossi. The relative prosperity of  the region’s rural Christian communities – the outcome of increased demand by western and central European countries for produce from Epirus, such as grain, hides, wool, cattle, tobacco and cheese – aroused the envy of  Ottoman of ficials and local landlords (Stoianovich, 1960: 255).4 According to Nitsos, this was the reason why the land belonging to the villages of  Mount Mourgana was seized in 1866 by Albanian Muslim agas from Filiates, thereby augmenting their economic

3 4

In the Ottoman census of  1895, Thamantas had 227 households and 1,296 inhabitants (Kokolakis, 2004: 271). Unlike the Christian communities in the region, the Turkish residents of  Epirus (as in most of  the European part of  the Ottoman Empire) had no middle class in the form of merchants, craftsmen and intellectuals, and thus were incapable of entering into economic competition with the Christians (Karpat, 1972: 249–250).

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and social status (1926: 38).5 This presumption of  land ownership in the Tsamantas locality was known as the ‘Claim of  the sixteen villages of  the Province of  Filiates’. It sparked an uprising amongst the peasants, and thousands of them marched to Ioannina, where tortuous legal proceedings began – first in the Turkish courts and then, after independence, in the Greek courts of  Epirus (Skopas and Charamopoulos, 1998). Pepelasis points out, however, that these new courts were subject to the ‘same Byzantine provisions already in force in the rest of  Greece’ and as such were hampered by delays and inef ficiency; throughout the country, the issue of land ownership became a major social problem that ‘festered for decades’ (1959: 180–181). The sixteen villages of  Mount Mourgana did eventually win their case, to become the legal owners of  their land, but it took until the early 1930s. Nitsos tells us that during the final decades of the feudal period, one or other of  the agas – or their overseer – was normally resident in Tsamantas. He deeply resented them, not least because they forced his peasant neighbours to provide free labour (1926: 313). The agas appropriated one third of  the agricultural produce (although, as proven by deeds issued by the Ottoman authorities, now on display in the village’s Folklore Museum, a small but unspecified number of  households were exempt from this obligation, having purchased the land that they farmed). In addition, every household had to pay various taxes to the Ottoman authorities6 and were further burdened by other financial obligations, including contributions to the church and the school and to the upkeep of  the community’s infrastructure. Due to the mountainous terrain, most agricultural land in Tsamantas was divided into small fields dispersed over a wide area, producing low yields and of fering insuf ficient employment for the ever-increasing population, but the detrimental ef fect of  feudalism on their income prevented the villagers 5 6

Apparently, this happened after an amendment of  the Ottoman State’s Land Code of  1858, which facilitated the transfer of state lands to individuals (Karpat, 1972: 260). Nitsos gives an itemised account of  the six types of  taxes paid by the community of  Tsamantas to the Ottoman authorities during the last few years of  the regime (1926: 309–310). At that time, the total amount of  tax paid annually was the very significant sum of  77,813 grossi. For a comprehensive list and explanation of  the Ottomanimposed taxes, as well as a discussion of  their incidence in Epirus in general, and that of  the Zagoria villages in particular, see Papageorgiou (1995, chapter 4).

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from abandoning this primitive agrarian system. Nevertheless, the people of  Tsamantas were highly motivated, and were adept at finding solutions to their problems, rather than being victims of circumstance.7 Evidence of  this lies in the fact that from the start of  the twentieth century, many local men had the courage and foresight to abandon their reliance on subsistence farming and jump on the bandwagon of economic globalisation – either by emigrating to North America, or becoming itinerant labourers. In so doing, they relieved the unemployment problem and brought relative prosperity to their community through the accumulation of capital. The phenomenon of emigration will be discussed in depth in the following chapter, but now we turn to a discussion of  that other group of pioneering Tsamantiots: the itinerant tinkers. 4.1.2 Local specialisation: the growth and decline of  the tinkers Although itinerant workers first began to operate from Tsamantas in the early 1800s, the fact that muleteers from other parts of  Epirus had been travelling to Austria, Hungary and Russia throughout the previous century (Stoianovich, 1960: 277) suggests that their counterparts in Tsamantas were slow to exploit this particular employment niche. Nonetheless, when the village at last began to embrace itinerancy, its travelling workers included not only muleteers but also tinkers and shepherds. Initially their range was limited: Nitsos tells us that they went in search of work only as far as the Muslim town of  Konispol and the Christian village of  Nivitsa, near Delvinio (all now in Albania); indeed, it was not until well after the creation of  the Greek kingdom8 in 1832 that they began to broaden their horizons by heading south (1926: 26–27). 7

8

The afore-mentioned Alfred Philippson made a more complimentary reference to the area’s inhabitants in his presentation to the Berlin Geographical Society, when he noted that the valleys of  Western Epirus were home to ‘an energetic agricultural population, in numerous thriving townships’, describing the extreme north-western part, around the Upper Kalamas river (which includes Tsamantas), as being ‘the best peopled’ (1894: 325). Known at the time as Morgias or Moreas.

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By the start of  the twentieth century, due to a combination of increasing competition and shortage of  local custom, itinerancy was practised extensively throughout the locality of the Upper Kalamas, from the Pogoni region on the north-east f lank of  Mount Mourgana (Green and King, 2001: 271) to Tsamantas and its surrounding villages. Traders and men in many dif ferent occupations were involved, including bakers, coopers, builders and tailors. In Tsamantas, however, the vast majority of itinerants were tinkers (including the author’s maternal grandfather, Nikolas Vesdrevanis, who covered hundreds of  kilometres on foot during each of  his many years in the profession, despite the stroke suf fered at an early age that paralysed one side of  his body and severely af fected his mobility). Most of  these tinkers followed well-established routes, and by the later years of  the Ottoman era these extended not only to all parts of  Epirus (including what is now southern Albania) and the free Greek state, but also to Ottoman-controlled Macedonia, Thrace and the Aegean islands, and even Constantinople and Asia Minor (see Figure 3).

Figure 3  The routes taken by itinerant tinkers from Tsamantas during the final years of  the Ottoman Empire

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The emergence of  this specialisation in Tsamantas can be contextualised by considering the concept of  ‘proto-industrialisation’:9 the first phase in the process of  becoming industrialised. In an inf luential volume on this topic, Kriedte et al. discuss the roots of rural industrialisation, in western and central Europe, during the transformation from feudalism to capitalism that started in the late Middle Ages and accelerated in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They point out that rural industries developed in those parts of  the countryside where there was already a socially dif ferentiated peasantry, most of whom were underemployed, and where the economic power of village communities had weakened with the fading of  their socio-economic cohesion (1981: 136). This could equally apply to the same transformation – from feudalism to capitalism – that happened in south-east Europe at the start of  the twentieth century, during the final years of  Ottoman rule. Proto-industrialisation was f lourishing in Epirus at this time, with a number of cottage industries concentrated in the region’s major urban areas, namely Ioannina, Gjirokastër and Korçë (Κοριτσά). The specialisation in itinerant metalworking that was emerging in Tsamantas and its surrounding area10 was a further example of a proto-industry that might have led to greater industrialisation, but such development was never realised. Nonetheless, this proto-industry did bring important changes to the locality, such as the development of skilled artisans and labourers, 9

It should be noted that this concept has its detractors, who have criticised it on theoretical and empirical grounds – see, for instance, Butlin (1986). 10 Similar proto-industrial businesses emerged during the first quarter of  the twentieth century in the nearby villages of  Mount Mourgana, which, with Tsamantas, became collectively known as the kalanzochoria, meaning tinkers’ villages (Nitsos, 1926: 292, fn 1). The existence of  this specialised enclave economy was unique within the region of  Epirus. Together with the market town of  Filiates, the kalanzochoria were one of  two main centres of  the itinerant tinsmith profession in south-eastern Europe, the other being the villages of  Agrafa in the mountains of central Greece (Papageorgiou, 1988: 50). Long before, in the first half of  the nineteenth century, there had even been a tinkers’ guild in Ioannina, with a small number of  Christian members (p. 36). The importance of  the tinkers in Ottoman Epirus is ref lected by the number of dif ferent words in Greek for ‘tinker’: ganomatis, ganotis, kassiterotis and kalaitzis (the latter coming from the Turkish kalayci).

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the emergence of a new class of middlemen and merchants, and – most significantly – the creation of new markets. Metalworking, in both copper and silver, has been f lourishing in Epirus since the eighteenth century. Traditionally, the silversmiths (αργυροχόοι; argyrochoi) based themselves in a town or a village – principally in Ioannina (still an important centre for the industry) or either of  the twin communities of  Syrrako and Kalarrytes – but they would also travel around with their tools, seeking work, or peddling the jewellery and silverware they made in their workshops. However, it was the output of  the region’s coppersmiths – (χαλκοματάδες; chalkomatades) or (χαλκουργόι; chalkourgoi) – that led to the need for itinerant tinkers: the copper used by the craftsmen to produce pots and pans, and other household items, would oxidise over time and thus require a coating of  tin, providing employment for the tinkers as they moved from house to house, cleaning and restoring such utensils. The main materials used in their profession were various metals (tin, lead and solder), spirits and chemicals for cleaning, and cotton wool for polishing. Everything – including all their tools – was carried around with them as they travelled from one place to another. Theirs was a dirty and unpleasant job, viewed with some contempt by those who lived beyond the itinerants’ villages. One of  the last tinkers in Tsamantas (now retired), who sought his custom in the mountains around the city of  Corinth, recounted some of  his experiences: When we arrived in a village, we’d set up a base – in a hut, or whatever – and take everything we’d been given at people’s homes back to this base, to work on. And then, after we’d delivered the pots and what have you, repaired and cleaned, the lady of  the house would sometimes give us food, which we had to take to the hut to eat. If we weren’t given food, though, we had to cook for ourselves, as there weren’t any bakeries or hostelries in these villages. So we always had to carry a pirostia [πιροστιά; a f lat stand for placing over a fire] along with everything else we needed, in our megalosaki [μεγαλοσάκι; a large sack carried over the shoulder]. Sometimes we bought a piece of meat, wrapped it in foil and buried it in the fire we were using for work. Delicious!

He went on to reveal a somewhat ignoble aspect of  his trade. Many tinkers weren’t very scrupulous, you know. They used to adulterate the tin used for coating the pans, putting lead in, which was cheaper. The trouble was, it

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Business opportunities for itinerant tinkers were subject to the vagaries of  the global economic system, and so at times the f low of work was disrupted. For the Tsamantiot tinkers, the most lucrative market was the Peloponnese, where the local economy was to a great extent dependent on the export of raisins and sultanas, and variations in the success of  the annual grape harvest, along with changes in demand from European customers, sometimes left the tinkers’ customers with less money to spend on having their utensils repaired. More often than not, however, working as a tinker provided a reliable source of income, and for the men of  Tsamantas it became the usual route out of  the unemployment (or underemployment) that was a consequence of overpopulation and limited natural resources. The profession had some other advantages: very little initial capital outlay was needed, no intermediaries were involved, and the remoteness of  the villages that the men travelled to ensure that there was seldom competition from other tinkers. The same retired tinker spoke of  the financial rewards of  his trade: We always made a good profit. We charged 10 drachmas for polishing a copper pan, for instance, but the materials we used cost us only one and a half. And every six months we were back with the same customer, polishing the same pot.

Even so, the average tinker earned only just enough to maintain his extended family (Zoulas, 1989). Tinkers were generally organised into hierarchical groups, with a master tinker in charge of  the business, a secondary tier of men that visited neighbourhoods in search of custom, and then the men whose job it was to do the repairs and cleaning: mostly young apprentices who had cut short their education in order to make a financial contribution to their family (Zoulas, 1989; Koundouros, 1990: 61–87). These boys would work for very low wages – just 200 drachmas per year, according to one of  today’s residents of  the village – or even, in the early stage of  their apprenticeship, for nothing at all. (Some of  them were also at the mercy of a master with a reputation for cruelty, and it was not unknown for apprentices to run away from their employer.) The exploitation of young

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workers enabled some of  the master tinkers to save enough money to open a small workshop in a town, and to buy the equipment needed to become a coppersmith – a more lucrative and secure profession. Thus, there was a powerful incentive to work one’s way to the top of  the trade, and several men from Tsamantas became successful in this manner. Only a few were conspicuously wealthy, however. One of  these, Dimitrios Zikos, amassed suf ficient funds to develop a more large-scale metalworking business. He left Tsamantas as a young man, during the first decade of  the twentieth century, and moved to Patras, the capital of  the Peloponnese, where he owned a thriving shop in Markatou, the commercial centre of  the city. Zikos benefited from the patronage of other tinkers from Tsamantas who were working in that part of  Greece and bought their materials from his shop. Later on, he was able to do something in return for his native community, when he and his wife, Christina, helped out impoverished fellow villagers seeking refuge in the city, or passing through it, during the troublesome years of  the 1940s and 1950s. Their three sons – Spyros, Andreas and Giannis, all born and educated in Patras – worked with Dimitrios, and in the 1960s, after his death, they took over the management of  the business, which had by then expanded and had relocated to the outskirts of  the city. The firm still exists, employing over twenty people and manufacturing steel components and wheelbarrows for the aggregate and building trades. Nikos Stolakis, a former shepherd in Tsamantas who was in his late nineties when he died in 2009, remembered meeting not only Zikos but also other tinkers from the village, in 1931: I was in Patras, on my way to join the army, when I came across Dimitrios Zikos. By that time he had a big copper smithy in the city. I also met another Nikos Stolakis – my namesake, but no relation! – who’d married a woman from Patras and inherited her father’s copper business. He used to make and sell new copper pots and kettles, and so on.11 And your old granddad [the author’s maternal grandfather, Nikolas Vesdrevanis] was in Pyrgos, you know, running a coppersmith’s shop, together with a fellow called Nikolas Kitzos, from Pera Machalas [in Tsamantas]. 11

Like Dimitrios Zikos, Stolakis bequeathed his business to his sons, and the shop – in the old quarter of  Patras – is still run by one of  them. Another important copper business in the city was owned by the Skopas brothers, also from Tsamantas.

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One major disadvantage of the itinerant tinsmith profession, which af fected all of its members – from the master tinker down to his apprentices – was the fact that it obliged them to cover enormous distances on foot. Nikos Stolakis spoke of  the dif ficulties that this could present: Getting out of  Tsamantas to start their journey was a problem for them, as there wasn’t a road into the village back then. There weren’t any bridges over the [Lower] Kalamas, either; they weren’t built till the Second World War, or afterwards. There was just a boat with a ferryman to get you across it, and we’d pay him two drachmas to take us to the other side. Some tinkers used to try for custom over in Pogoni, on the other side of  Mount Mourgana. Because it was so close, they were able to go for just a month and then come back. But most of  them went a long way south, to Patras and the rest of  the Peloponnese.

Their journeying usually kept them away from home for lengthy periods: it was customary not to return until October, when harsher weather conditions obliged them to abandon their work and live in Tsamantas for the winter. For some, however, separation from their families lasted rather longer, as Nikos explained: My father-in-law, Dimitrios Pantazakos, left the village and didn’t come back again for four years. I remember it very well. I’d got married the previous autumn, and in February 1937 he went away. The war was on by the time he came back, in ’41. Throughout this whole period he didn’t once get to see any member of  his family. And this was the case for many of our itinerant tinkers, who were based in places like Patras, Pyrgos, Zacharo and Andritsena. But even those who were working relatively nearby could sometimes be away from the village for a long time. One of my father’s brothers-in-law, from Kamitsiani, was based down in Igoumenitsa, and the first time he went away he didn’t come home for three years.

When tinkers returned to the village from their travels, it was always an occasion for lavish celebration. Presents would be handed out to members of  their families, and drinks bought for fellow villagers. There was also an opportunity to pay of f any debts that had accumulated in their absence. The tinkers would have enjoyed a sense of well-being, and the chance to relax after months of  long-distance walking and hard work. But eventually the time would come when they were obliged to leave – traditionally, on ‘Clean Monday’ (the first day of  Lent in the Greek Orthodox calendar). Having

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to go back on the road once again must have sorely tested them. The local poet and author Kostas Zoulas, in his short but illuminating account of  the life of  the village’s tinkers, points out that it was especially challenging for newly-weds, and those leaving behind a pregnant wife12 (1989: 12–13). Yet these hard-working individuals showed remarkable commitment to their familial duties, as demonstrated by the fact that while they were away they regularly sent letters and money back to their loved ones. It was also customary for those who were particularly successful to provide financial assistance to those fellow villagers who were just setting up in the trade. The fact that itinerant labourers spent so much time in distant communities explains the evolution of a curious custom practised by the tinkers of  Tsamantas and its neighbouring villages (along with some others in Epirus). Possibly in response to the sense of exclusion they would often have experienced, in living temporarily within an established community, they developed a secret system of communication – based upon their everyday vocabulary, but with changes to the meanings of many words – in order to converse without being understood by others. Both Nitsos (1926: 293–296) and Zoulas (1989) provide an extensive glossary of words and phrases utilised in this extraordinary example of  linguistic creativity. Travelling around in search of custom not only stimulated innovation, as with this communication system, but also broadened the tinkers’ perspective on the world, encouraging them to embrace new ways. Zoulas observes that by the inter-war years the tinkers were the main actors in bringing progressiveness and an air of cosmopolitanism to the village of  Tsamantas. Their eagerness to engage with the market economy made them more individualistic and entrepreneurial, and diminished their attachment to the land. However, as so often happens in proto-industrial rural economies (Anderson, 2001: 7–8), after decades of success the profession eventually fossilised, turning its back on innovation and becoming resistant to technological progress.

12

One of  the demographic consequences of proto-industrialisation was that it encouraged men with very little capital to marry young and start a family, with the assurance of a reliable source of income. For this reason, proto-industrial areas across Europe often became densely populated (Anderson, 2001: 7–8).

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After the Second World War, aluminium and stainless steel replaced copper in the manufacture of cooking utensils and cutlery, precluding the need for tinkers, and thus leading to the demise of  the profession (Koundouros, 1990: 101–106; Balafoutis, 1995: 68–70).

4.2 After independence: contrasting fortunes up to the start of  World War II The joy that followed the liberation of  Epirus from Ottoman rule, in February 1913, was cruelly short-lived. The creation of  the new state of  Albania resulted in the region’s partition, with disastrous economic consequences (to be discussed in Chapter 6). Not long afterwards, in August 1914, dramatic events led to the start of  the First World War, and a significant part of  Epirus was occupied by the Italian army. The situation worsened in 1916, when a blockade of  Greece by the Allied Forces – intended to compel the country to abandon its neutrality – led to rises in the cost of  food and other basic necessities, with dreadful consequences for the Greek people (Nitsos, 1926: 50). In Epirus, the crippling economic hardship that ensued was compounded by the spread of diseases such as typhoid fever, which, together with the Spanish inf luenza pandemic of  1918, drastically reduced the region’s population. Nitsos, who himself was seriously ill for a while with inf luenza, tells us that villages commonly lost around one half of  their inhabitants. The mountain communities of  the region were left to fend for themselves throughout this crisis, which resulted in a widespread feeling of  having exchanged an indif ferent Ottoman administration for a similarly unconcerned Greek state. Even though Tsamantas suf fered far fewer deaths from these epidemics – allegedly due to its pure water and clean air – its people nonetheless shared this sense of  having been abandoned, as Nitsos pointed out in a letter of  January 1919 to the editor of  Atlantis, a Greek-language newspaper in New York: ‘During the pandemic no one cared about us. We were left to the mercy of  God, and to our bodies’

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resistance, in the fight to survive or die.’ His letter praises the generosity of  fellow Tsamantiots living in Worcester, Massachusetts, who had sent home a remittance of  3,300 drachmas in response to the crisis, a significant sum of money at the time. Later, in his monograph of  1926, Nitsos makes it clear that, had the emigrants not stepped in to help their village, many would have died from famine (pp. 299–302). Even when the First World War ended, the country’s troubles were far from over. For many decades, Greek nationalists had cherished the irredentist notion of  the megali idhea (the ‘grand idea’), which sought to extend the nation’s territory to incorporate all of  the regions beyond the Greek state that were inhabited mostly by Greeks. The Balkan Wars of  1912–1913 had begun the process, by taking back Epirus, Macedonia and part of  Thrace from the Ottomans, and during the Greco-Turkish War of  1919–1922 substantial territory in Asia Minor was won from the Turks. However, soon afterwards Greece suf fered a disastrous military defeat, and the land they had gained was taken back by the Turks in what is known as the Asia Minor disaster (Pentzopoulos, 1962: 25). As a result, nearly 1.5 million refugees f looded into Greece, increasing its population by roughly a quarter and putting a tremendous strain on the public purse. The country descended into political chaos and experienced several consecutive military coups – in 1925, 1926, 1933 and 1935.13 The repercussions for the economy were devastating: by 1926, high inf lation and enormous public debt had resulted in the drachma losing approximately 95 per cent of its pre-war value. A number of major institutional reforms introduced at this time did slightly improve the situation. These included the adoption of  Gold Exchange Standards, the establishment in 1928 of a central bank (the Bank of  Greece), and the creation of  the Agricultural Bank, which according to Dafnis (1955: 87) was able to provide (and indeed still does) much-needed credit to farmers, who saw an increase in their agricultural production as a consequence. But even these reforms could not prevent the most severe depression the country had ever experienced (Christodulaki and Penzer,

13

See chapter 8 of  Woodhouse (1991) for a detailed analysis of  the period from 1924 to 1940, one of  the most turbulent in Greek history.

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2004). The government of  Eleftherios Venizelos was, however, too busy dealing with internal problems to take direct action on the dire state of  the economy. Moreover, when the Great Depression began, in 1929, the ensuing instability of  the world system precluded the Greek government from developing a long-term, systematic and consistent economic policy (Roucek, 1935; Pepelasis, 1959). Nevertheless, the country’s economy did recover fairly quickly from this unprecedented crisis: by 1938, after two years of  harsh dictatorship under General Ioannis Metaxas, unemployment had started to decline and income per capita had substantially increased (Mazower, 1991). In addition, Greek industry expanded, due to the growth in the market and the availability of cheap labour – perhaps the only positive consequence of  the massive inf lux of refugees from Asia Minor. But major industries, such as food, textiles and chemicals, were concentrated in the urban areas of  Athens-Piraeus, Thessaloniki, Patras and Volos, where most of  the refugees had settled; the region of  Epirus, by contrast, lacked a manufacturing industry, and like the rest of rural Greece it remained predominantly agricultural. According to census statistics (see Figure 4), the population of  Tsamantas shrank by 18% in the first fifteen years after liberation from the Ottomans. The number of women in the village actually grew by 6%, but the male population suf fered a dramatic decline, from 730 to just 422. This is explained by the fact that so many men were absent from the village at the time of  the 1928 census – either due to their work as itinerant tinkers or because they were based overseas – as well as by male fatalities during the First World War and the subsequent ill-fated Asia Minor expedition. From 1928 until the early years of  World War II, however, the village’s population was fairly stable. But Epirus in general – despite absorbing very few of  the refugees from the Greco-Turkish War – had experienced rapid growth in its population, due to high fertility, improved nutrition, and the low death rates that were a consequence of medical advances. This presented a serious problem, since the region’s lack of industry meant that additional employment had to be found within the limits of the agricultural system. The problem was compounded by the fact that the new Greek– Albanian border of  1913 prevented the region’s itinerant merchants and craftsmen – including those from Tsamantas – from journeying to large

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parts of  their traditional market, obliging them either to seek out work in agriculture or to emigrate. These factors resulted in intense competition; many individuals were underemployed, or even jobless, and poverty levels increased, holding back the region’s modernisation.

Figure 4  Demographic changes in the community of  Tsamantas between 1913 and 1940 Source: Greek Census Statistics

In some ways, people’s lives had improved. The mass departure of  the Turkish landowners after liberation saw the break-up of  their large estates, resulting in the redistribution of  land to local peasants,14 and in the 1920s large areas of  fertile land owned for centuries by the Church, and known as metochia (μετόχια; church estates), were also redistributed. But, despite these changes, the region’s agricultural production did not substantially increase. In Tsamantas, the situation was exacerbated by the fact that the issue of  land ownership was not resolved as speedily as in other parts of  Epirus. As mentioned, Albanian Muslim landlords had assumed ownership of its land through the ‘Claim of  the sixteen villages of  the Province of  Filiates’. As Albanians, they were not expelled along with the Ottomans and 14 Stavrianos (1958: 677) notes, however, that in the third decade of  the twentieth century a total of  410 estates still existed in Epirus, from a total of  2,259 in Greece as a whole.

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so were able to persist in this claim, which remained unresolved until the 1930s. Furthermore, although the Monastery of  St George at Kamitsiani owned substantial land in Tsamantas and the surrounding area – including over the border in Albania – this land was not taken back by the village’s peasants, since local superstition made them fearful of appropriating church property.15 Even those villagers who did have land of  their own struggled to be self-suf ficient, since inheritance over successive generations had divided and re-divided the land, gradually diminishing a household’s agricultural potential. Furthermore, as in many other parts of  Greece, it was common for families to have several small parcels of  land scattered around the village, rather than in one place, making it dif ficult for them to consolidate their production system (Stavrianos, 1958: 595).16 Here is how an elderly inhabitant of Tsamantas described some aspects of agricultural practice in the village during the inter-war years: Times were hard back then. Every square inch of  land – however dif ficult it was to get to – had to be cultivated, mainly for wheat and maize. Altogether, this was only about 800 to 1,000 stremmata [80–100 hectares]. Not very much! There was about another 27,000 stremmata of  land [2,700 hectares] for grazing. I know these figures because of my work at the time, as an agricultural constable. We didn’t have tractors, of course, because of  the terrain – and anyway, even if we could have used them, there weren’t any roads to bring them in! Instead, the fields were ploughed by oxen. The owner of a field guided the ox, while his wife steered the plough. She would have prepared and brought along a meal, usually either beans or a kind of pie

15 16

As a consequence, the monastery still owns a substantial amount of  land in the vicinity, which it rents out to local shepherds. Land fragmentation persisted well into the post-war years. According to a survey by Yotopoulos in 1967 (pp. 79–80), the average size of a land parcel in Epirus was 4.3 stremmata (0.43 hectares, one stremma being equal to one tenth of a hectare). The average number of parcels per farm was as high as 5.9, despite ef forts by the national government to encourage land consolidation. Kasimis et al (2003: 172) point out that this figure is consistent with previous agricultural censuses in 1950 and 1961; they also note that the 1950 census revealed that the average size of a farm in Epirus at the time was 22 stremmata, or 2.2 hectares, whereas today, in Greece as a whole, the average farm is almost twice that size (4.3 hectares), though still subdivided into land parcels (6.5 on average).

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that you could eat in the fields. There would also be some fodder for the beast. This kind of work is what nearly all of us did, although we barely scraped a living from it. Very few people here were involved in large-scale animal husbandry: maybe three or four had herds of  100 or 150 cattle, but most of us didn’t have enough land to support a herd, so we had just five or six animals [probably a cow, plus a few goats or sheep] that we kept at home with us in a stable.

According to another resident, it was customary for the village to pay a shepherd, from mid-May to mid-October, to take all of  these small-scale cattle holdings up to the grazing land in the mountains: a meadow near the spring that bore the local name of  Korpi. The cows were raised mainly for meat, since their milk yield was low.17 By contrast, the oxen that were used to plough the fields were so highly revered by the people of  Tsamantas – considered almost a part of  the family – that they were never eaten. Meat, in any case, was consumed only a few times per year, on certain religious holidays and festivals. This was partly due to its shortage, but also to the observance of fasting, which lasted for lengthy periods before the three most important dates in the Orthodox Church calendar: Easter, the Dormition of  the Virgin (15 August) and Christmas. During these fasts, the villagers abstained from certain other foods, too, such as milk, eggs, cheese and butter, which they continued to produce but either sold to non-observers of  the fast or put aside for the harsh winter ahead. Production of  food was of paramount importance to the people of  Tsamantas, due to their isolation, but the soil in this mountainous terrain was poor, and yielded low-grade maize and wheat, so the villagers’ daily bread was sub-standard in quality. According to Nitsos, in the 1920s the village produced approximately 130 tons of grain per year (roughly 86 kilograms per capita), but in his estimation this was only half of what was needed (1926: 44). The rest had to be bought, or bartered for, elsewhere. For example, Nitsos tells us (1926: 44) that olive oil – an important constituent of  the local diet – was obtained from Igoumenitsa, Parga or Corfu, and the limited production of cheese meant that most of it had to come from the nearby villages of  Grasdiani

17

Likewise, the 500 or so cattle kept by today’s villagers are for meat; milk is provided by sheep and goats.

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and Sminesi (Grazhdan and Zminec, now across the border in Albania). Moreover, although the range of additional foodstuf fs available to them was nutritious – seasonal fruits and vegetables, homemade pasta, pulses and nuts – the supply was limited.18 Despite this, however, life in Tsamantas for some of its residents compared favourably with the general situation in Epirus. Whilst the majority of  the villagers were poor subsistence farmers, shepherds or itinerant tinkers, living in one-roomed houses and constantly in debt to the grocer,19 a growing number were either well-of f merchants or lived in a household where the father (or a son) was working in the United States and sending home money. Eliot Mears (1923: 538) calculated that in the second decade of  the twentieth century, Greek immigrants in the United States were saving somewhere between $125 to $175 annually, and on the assumption that the 200 or so Tsamantiots who were living in America at this time were saving similar amounts, and sending all of it home, it is possible that as much as $30,000 was received in the village every year during this ten-year period.20 Their families could thus af ford to build a new home, from stone; larger than the norm, they were often ostentatiously decorated with finely crafted woodwork and beautiful murals, advertising the owners’ prosperity to their neighbours. The distribution of wealth gradually became more unequal, and as a consequence the old egalitarian character of  the village began to change, as ref lected in the fact – referred to in the previous chapter – that a child’s schooling might be disrupted by the need to graze her family’s goats, while others were able to enjoy a full education. Nikos Stolakis, in recalling some of  the trades represented in the village, provided a picture of a thriving micro-economy: 18

Food consumption was barely adequate throughout the nation as a whole: on the eve of  the Second World War, daily calorie intake per capita was between 2,300 and 2,500, putting Greece at the bottom of  the European table, with neighbouring Albania and with Portugal (Stavrianos, 1958: 683). 19 In the post-war years, however, high inf lation rates reduced the peasants’ long-term debts, as income grew in line with inf lation. 20 Moskos notes that the total sum sent to Greece in remittances between 1910 and 1930 amounted to over $650 million (1990: 31).

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My maternal grandfather, Christos Vesdrevanis, was a tailor. He made very beautiful clothes, so he had a good reputation. He used to go to the villages of  Xechoro, Palamba and Ai Nikola [all near the town of  Filiates] for a week or ten days at a time, staying in the customer’s house, sewing costumes and so on. When he was here, at home, I could see him by the window whenever I passed, with the needle between his fingers, embroidering these lovely things. I was nineteen years old when he died. It was 9 July 1933, and I remember it clearly. The next day, I left my herd up on the mountain and came down for his funeral. He was buried by the church. There were two brothers in the village who were also tailors. They made clothes for both men and women, and they, too, used to embroider everything by hand. There was also a father and two sons who were builders: the Tzafis family. Their grandchildren are now in Corinth, and they have their own successful business there. The Tzafis brothers built most of  the houses in Tsamantas, you know. We had quite a few shops. There were four grocery stores, two of which were quite large, with everything you needed. There were also three shoe shops. One of  them used to make and sell tsarouchia [τσαρούχια; traditional shoes] with red pompoms; the other two were just for shoe repairing. Till 1947 we even had a confectionery shop. There were four watermills, for grinding our maize and wheat, but they’re all in ruins now. And there was a nerotrouvia [νεροτρούβια; a communal clothes-washing facility] and a mantania [μαντάνια] for beating the woollen cloth that women weaved at home.’

Weaving was an important activity, producing many essential items for everyday domestic use, such as clothing, shepherds’ capes, blankets and carpets, all made from local sheep’s wool, goat’s wool or f lax. More than twenty looms were being used in the village at the time, according to another villager. The women were very skilled at their craft, and working at the loom was a matter of pride for them. Lynn Morrison, a conservator who recently worked on the costume collection at the village’s Folklore Museum, acknowledges the artistic quality and craftsmanship of  their work, noting that the woollen items ‘are often embellished with braid and ribbon, and are skilfully woven’. She adds that she found the costumes ‘very touching, the endless mending of  the rough homespun woollens speaking eloquently of poverty and simplicity’ (2010: 34–35). Aside from clothing, other household necessities – cof fee and sugar, kerosene for lamps, and manufactured goods such as furniture and glassware, for example – were now becoming available in Filiates, although as Nitsos observes (1926: 44) the fact that they were heavily taxed and had

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to be transported by mule to the village, at significant expense, put them out of reach of all but the most af f luent. Nevertheless, consumerism was gradually taking hold in the village, and the demand for certain products resulted in further occupational specialisation, providing not only those tradesmen already mentioned – the tailors, cobblers, weavers, millers, builders and grocers – but also coopers, commercial cheesemakers and moneylenders. There was an agent of  the commercial National Bank of  Greece, providing credit to the inhabitants and depositing their savings, and at least one insurance company operated in the village: metal plaques still attached to the walls of some of  the larger stone houses show that some of  the wealthier individuals were able to af ford building insurance. There was also a resident doctor, for a decade during the inter-war years.21 Tsamantas was richer than at any stage in its past, and many households had become significant economic units, with the spending power to purchase goods that could make life more comfortable and more fulfilling. The villagers even had the opportunity to watch the occasional silent film – an extremely rare event in remote Greek communities at the time – thanks to the generosity of one of its emigrants to the United States, who donated a projector and some films to the village school, where they were shown, with the help of a small generator. For some, at least, life was getting better in Tsamantas.

21

Despite the advances that had led to lower death rates in Epirus in general, infant mortality was high in Tsamantas. Furthermore, as in other parts of  Greece where living conditions, hygiene and nutrition were inadequate, cases of  tuberculosis and other common diseases, such as dysentery, typhoid and trachoma, were prevalent. One notable exception was malaria: though rife in the marshy plains of the Kalamas, down towards the coast, it was largely absent from the mountainous terrain of  Mourgana.

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4.3 Conclusion The growth of  the economy in Tsamantas began during the ‘unifying and pacifying’ era of  Pax Ottomanica (Vucinich, 1962: 631), and Stavrianos rightly observes that, despite the feudal system and the heavy taxation imposed, Ottoman rule throughout the Balkans was ‘a boon rather than a disaster’. He argues that the peasants were better of f than their pre-Ottoman ancestors, ruled by Byzantine emperors, Greek despots, Frankish nobles and Venetian signors who had ‘ravaged the [Balkan] peninsula with incessant wars and severe exploitation’ (1958: 112). In Tsamantas, these benevolent times continued into a period of economic ascendance in the early part of  the twentieth century, which, though shared by some other Christian communities in the mountainous parts of  Epirus, ran counter to the situation in the region as a whole. However, despite the relative prosperity of  Tsamantas, it never enjoyed the kind of wealth that transforms a community on a permanent basis, and employment opportunities remained limited. So when the phenomenon of mass emigration to North America took root in the 1900s, a large number of young men left the village and their families to join the exodus. The emigration of so many men of working age – some of whom were considered skilled labourers – destabilised the community’s labour market, as it did throughout the region. Although the money they were eventually able to send home to their families was of great benefit, and largely responsible – with the wealth accrued through itinerant labour – for improvements to the socio-economic conditions in Tsamantas during the inter-war years, the consequent reduction in the workforce precluded optimal exploitation of  local resources (Papageorgiou, 2004). Furthermore, constraints imposed by the prevailing farming system, dispersed as it was across small, fragmented plots of  land, prevented the rational allocation of  these resources to suit market needs. Even the village’s success stories – the skills of its industrious women, and the entrepreneurial f lair of its itinerant tinkers – were never fully exploited by the establishment of  highly organised and productive industry. The village was also at the mercy of  factors beyond its control: it was now heavily dependent on the state for

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services such as education, and for its infrastructure. Transportation and communication in the region was woefully inadequate, perpetuating the isolation of its mountain communities. Moreover, a combination of  the Greek state’s inef fectiveness and the diversion of  finances to urban centres marginalised the village and left it to fend for itself. This was the status quo at the end of  the 1930s, when dark clouds began to loom on the horizon, threatening stability in Europe. The events that followed – the outbreak of  the Second World War, and then the Greek Civil War – will be explored in Chapter 7. But first we turn to an in-depth study of one of  the most significant factors af fecting the village’s fortunes: the waves of emigration that took so many workers overseas.

Chapter 5

The First Waves of  Emigration

During the early part of  the twentieth century, numerous young men from the Ottoman region of  Epirus – along with many of  their counterparts elsewhere in Mediterranean Europe – were swept up by the growing trend of emigrating to the United States of  America. Although there are no statistics on emigration from Epirus at this time, the figures are likely to have been significant, given that approximately 170,000 individuals in neighbouring Greece – representing one tenth of  the country’s population – left their homes and journeyed across the Atlantic (Kitroef f, 2004: 346; Voultsos, 1992: 8). What we know for certain is that the destination of  the vast majority of  Epirot emigrants was the industrialised north-east of  the States. Many of  them originated from Tsamantas and its sister villages on Mount Mourgana; most of  the rest came from other remote communities in the Pindus mountains. Large-scale migration was not a new phenomenon within these communities: the men of  Tsamantas, for instance, had sometimes been obliged by lack of work to move to the major commercial centres of  Epirus and the rest of  the Ottoman Empire, as well as those of  Greece and other countries around the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. But by the early 1900s the population of  Tsamantas had increased to such an extent that a significant number of men were unable to find work in the fields and pastures, and as the wider region of  Epirus lacked the industries and natural resources that could have provided employment beyond the village, the notion of emigration to the United States, with its abundant opportunities for work, came to be seen by many as an attractive option. Researchers such as Castle and Miller (1993) have pointed out that the main motivational factor when individuals decide to emigrate tends to be the prevalence of poor socio-economic conditions in the country of origin. This was certainly the case with regard to early-twentieth-century

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Tsamantas, where the peasants had long been obliged to pass over a third of  their agricultural yield to the Ottoman authorities and pay the heavy taxes they imposed. But any number of other factors might have played a part in the decision to seek work in another country: for example, the deeply unpopular Ottoman law of  1908 that required ethnic Greeks living in the Empire to serve in the Turkish army (Moskos, 1990: 10), the impact of political upheavals, such as the Balkan Wars of  1912–1913 and the long and painful dispute over the drawing of  the Greek–Albanian border, or the desire for greater personal freedom, due to the constraints of  the social environment. Of course, most of  these factors af fected everyone in Tsamantas – so why did some choose to emigrate, while others remained in the village? It is widely accepted that attitudes towards risk-taking amongst people in rural areas are a major determinant of rural development, especially in relation to opportunities for generating income and maximising profit.1 Those who live in subsistence societies, where land, food and capital resources tend to be in short supply, are usually risk-averse and this can impair economic progress. The fact that many young men from Tsamantas left the village during the first half of  the twentieth century to work in other parts of  Greece, as well as in the United States and Australia, might suggest that some of  them were atypical of subsistence peasants, in being achievement-orientated risk-takers. However, Stark and Levhari (1982) argue that choosing to emigrate is usually a manifestation of risk avoidance. They suggest that a risk-averse small-farming family can cope better with its limited resources and inadequate agricultural yield by sending its bestsuited members to work in an urban centre, so that some of  their wages can be sent home to assist the family. But undoubtedly another key factor inf luencing emigration from Tsamantas was the character of  the individuals concerned. Theodore Saloutos, in his study of  the first Greeks to emigrate to the United States, rightly observes that the decision to emigrate was made primarily by those who were ‘courageous and resourceful rather than helpless and hopeless’ (1956: 5), and this was undoubtedly so in respect of  those first bold young Tsamantiots, blessed with a spirit of adventure, who left behind the relative security of  their family to settle in America. 1

See, for instance, Moscardi and de Janvry (1977).

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The history of  the first Greek emigrants to the USA has been widely researched,2 and most of  the studies focus primarily on the so-called ‘push factor’, which views the emigration process as the inevitable movement of surplus labour within the world market (Constantinou and Diamantides, 1985: 352). However, Constantinou and Diamantides suggest a less simplistic explanation of  the phenomenon. Drawing from data on emigration from Greece to the United States between 1820 and 1980, they observed that migration was heavily inf luenced by what is more accurately described as a push-pull factor, whereby a pool of potential emigrants is created not only by ‘push forces’ in the sending country but also ‘pull forces’ in the receiving country; once emigration has begun, the process is reinforced by the information that f lows from the latter to the former (1985: 368). This f low of information typically occurs between the members of a network of relatives, friends and acquaintances. The importance of  kith and kin in Greek immigrant communities was first addressed in 1909 by Grace Abbott, in her short but illuminating sociological essay entitled ‘The Greek Community in Chicago’, which describes how groupings based primarily on family relationships, but also on friendships, tended to share accommodation, food and money. But it was not until the early 1970s that the inf luence of such networks on the process of emigration was properly acknowledged, with 2

For example, Greek Americans: Struggle and Success, by Charles Moskos (1990), provides a sociological and historical account of  the lives of  Greek immigrants in the United States and considers their social mobility in becoming members of the middle class; The Greek American Community in Transition (Psomaides, H.J., and Scourby, A., (eds), 1982), includes a variety of essays written by distinguished American and Greek scholars, covering identity, politics, religion, education, language, culture and traditions; They Remember America: The Story of  the Repatriated Greek Americans, by Theodore Saloutos (1956), of fers a perceptive account of  Greek immigrant life in the US, and the first scholarly analysis of why many immigrants decided to repatriate to Greece; A History of  the Greeks in the Americas, 1453–1938 (Koken, P. et al, 1995), discusses the economic, social and cultural life of  the first Greek immigrants in the United States; The Greeks in America 1528–1977: a Chronology and Fact Book (Hecker, M., and Fenton, H., (eds), 1978), presents a useful compilation of  factual details on the life of  those first immigrants; and Transatlantic subjects: acts of migration and cultures of  transnationalism between Greece and America (Laliotou, I., 2004), discusses the cultural history of migration.

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the emergence of  the concept of  ‘chain migration’. Kevin Cox developed this concept in order to explain the way in which potential emigrants were often provided with practical information on promising sites for relocation (1972: 81–85). The notion of chain migration is important, since it not only provides insights into the motivation behind the decision to emigrate, but also explains how kinship networks can ease the challenges that most migrants face, once they act on their decision. Surprisingly, however, it has attracted relatively little attention. One of  the few researchers to pursue the topic was Harvey Choldin (1973), who studied the emigration of individuals to Chicago in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He demonstrated that kinship networks played a significant part in the migration process of various ethnic groups, not only providing financial support and information to prospective migrants, but also assisting with the problems of settlement and adjustment on arrival by of fering material assistance and facilitating social connections. But Choldin points out that such connections are a double-edged sword, as immigrants who have to cope without them tend to find jobs more quickly, and maintain higher morale, compared with those who belong to a kinship network. This paradox will be revisited in the conclusion to this chapter, with regard to the emigrants from Epirus. More recently, an insightful study by Yukari Takai (2001) analysed the role of  family and friends in the migration process of  French Canadians to the city of  Lowell, Massachusetts, from 1900 to 1920. Takai observes that these migrants relocated not as single individuals but as groups of  kith and kin. She paints a vivid picture of  the networks directing emigration to this specific locale; composed of neighbours, friends and relatives familiar with the manufacturing centres of  New England, these networks allowed the emigrants to bypass the formal recruiting agents who had previously been instrumental in controlling migrant f lows. Takai concludes that the decision of  these French Canadians to emigrate to Lowell ‘was not made in desperation or in the delirium of  American fever’, but instead was based on well-informed judgments intended to optimise their welfare (2001: 390). Drawing on the work of  both Takai and Choldin, the aim of  this chapter is to shed some light upon the migration process of  the early transatlantic emigrants from Tsamantas to the United States, most of whom were involved in chain migration to the industrial city of  Worcester,

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Massachusetts. A profile of  these emigrants was constructed by examining online the ships’ manifests that are held in the archives of  New York’s Ellis Island, the main reception point for migrants to the United States. These manifests provide a wealth of information, including the passengers’ occupation, their education, and their nationality and ethnicity. Most importantly, by providing the names of relatives and friends already settled in the United States, they enable identification of  the networks that facilitated the chain migration process, and this in turn allows us to speculate on the motivation of individuals in deciding to emigrate. The chapter is structured as follows: first, we shall consider the meteoric rise of  the city of  Worcester as a magnet for successive waves of migrants, including those from the mountainous parts of  Epirus; after this, a profile of  the early migrants from Tsamantas will be presented, based on the Ellis Island archives; in the third section, the chronology of  the migration of  these individuals will be charted, and the inf luence of  kinship networks and chain migration on individual decisionmaking will be discussed; next, we consider the journeys that the migrants undertook in travelling to the United States, and what awaited them in Worcester, where a complex interweaving of  family, neighbourhood, business, church and fraternal association shaped their lives; the penultimate section presents an overview of  those Tsamantiots who initiated a second system of chain migration, by emigrating to Australia; and finally, some concluding remarks will be made about the relevance of  kinship networks to contemporary migration.

5.1 The industrial city of  Worcester and its immigrant communities The city of  Worcester lies 45 miles to the west of  Boston, in the state of  Massachusetts. Albert Southwick, one of  the city’s historians, tells us that in 1848 it had approximately 16,000 inhabitants – most of whom were native-born Americans of  English or Irish descent – and that the majority

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of its employees were in manual jobs (1998: 38). A few French Canadians had come to work in its shoe factories and textiles mills, but the city’s first significant ethnic community was established on the arrival of some of  the victims of  the 1845 potato famine in Ireland. Roy Rosenzweig observes that Worcester’s industrial development was very much facilitated by their presence, and by 1850 most of  the manual jobs were being undertaken by these Irish immigrants (1983: 17). The next wave of  European immigrants consisted of  Scandinavians: principally from Sweden, but also Denmark and Norway. They started arriving in Worcester from 1880 onwards, mostly gaining employment in the city’s steelworks, and their reputation as capable, industrious, law-abiding citizens meant that they were considered highly desirable immigrants. It is unlikely that others were welcomed with such open arms: Markel and Stern point out that since the early days of  US independence, the belief  had prevailed that certain immigrants, especially those from south-east Europe, were ‘inassimilable and potentially destructive to American society’ (1999: 1314), and so the fact that the immigrant population in Worcester was becoming increasingly diverse suggests that the practice of discrimination may have been rife. One likely target was the community of 400 or so Armenian immigrants that had become established by 1888. According to Washburn, they had worked as farm labourers in their own country and thus had brought few transferable skills that would be useful for employment in the factories (1917: 313). They, and others like them, would have been viewed in a very dif ferent light to the Scandinavians. With few restrictions on emigration to the United States at this time, the ethnic landscape of  Worcester now included large numbers of  Italians, Jews, Poles and Lithuanians, and smaller groups of  Germans, Finns, Russians, Ukrainians, Syrians, Assyrians, Albanians and Greeks. By 1900, the city was ranked the twenty-ninth largest urban area in the country, with a population of nearly 120,000, and was still absorbing large numbers of immigrants annually – from most of  the countries of  Europe, as well as from neighbouring Canada (Southwick, 1998: 38; Rosenzweig, 1983: 29). But this expansion came to an end with the imposition of stringent quotas in the early 1920s. The First Quota Law, introduced on 19 May 1921, greatly reduced the number of immigrants permitted to enter the United States, and the ensuing Immigration Act of  1924 virtually closed the door to the country for the next four decades. However, the ‘civilised’ nations

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of northern and western Europe were allocated more generous quotas than the Catholic south and Orthodox south-east, which between them were allowed to send just 20,000 migrants per year. Furthermore, in 1917, the process of refusing entry to illiterate individuals arriving at the ports – till then, based upon a passenger’s self-declared literacy skills, as listed in the ships’ manifests – became more rigorous, with the introduction of  the Literacy Test Law, which required prospective immigrants to pass a test of  their ability in reading and writing (Markel and Stern, 1999: 1320). Fortunately for the people of  Tsamantas, emigration from the village started well before the imposition of  these constraints, when the substantial benefits of  living and working in the United States were attainable for all who were able to make the journey overseas and successfully proceed through immigration control. We do not know for certain why the pioneering migrants from Tsamantas chose Worcester as their destination, as opposed to any other town, but somehow they must have become aware of  the employment opportunities the city had to of fer. At the turn of  the twentieth century, when these first Tsamantiots arrived, it was still experiencing the phenomenal growth that began with the arrival of  the Irish immigrants in the 1840s, and was becoming a major industrial centre in North America, facilitated by the introduction of steam power in local manufacturing and by the development of  transport infrastructure in the region, such as the opening of  the Blackstone Canal and the extension of  the railways (Washburn, 1917: 31). Rosenzweig, in his seminal work on industrial Worcester, notes that in the four decades from 1880 onwards ‘the average number of wage earners grew by two and a half  times, and the average capitalization of each firm jumped almost seventeen times’ (1983: 14). Worcester proudly boasted that it had not only the largest textile mills in the United States, and the country’s foremost envelope-making factory, but also the world’s largest wire-making plant, producing thousands of miles of  barbed wire annually for fencing in the Midwest.3 Moreover, every kind of machine used in the woollen and cotton-mill industries was 3

This was the Washburn and Moen Wire Manufacturing Company, which in 1899 was Worcester’s largest firm, employing more than 3,000 workers. In 1901 it became the US Steel Corporation, and by 1919 its workforce numbered 6,000 (Rosenzweig 1983: 13).

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manufactured in the city, and shoe and paper factories were springing up, providing further job opportunities (Rice, 1899). The city’s historians give a plausible explanation for its growth and dynamism. Rosenzweig observes (1983: 13) that the founders of its industry were a group of poor young men with engineering skills who moved to the city from rural New England in middle of  the nineteenth century and established a business in one of  the new, af fordable factory buildings constructed by the property speculators Stephen Salisbury II and William T. Merrifield. According to Charles Washburn, it was this supply of reasonably priced premises, attractive to individuals with limited capital, that was the main determinant in the growth of  Worcester as a major manufacturing centre with several hundred businesses (1917: 299–300). Washburn claimed that Worcester was ‘uniformly prosperous’, but in fact the emergence of an industrial elite in the late nineteenth century polarised the city in terms of power and wealth. Rosenzweig notes that this elite consisted mostly of  those graduates of  the Worcester Polytechnic Institute who had become factory owners or top executives in the city’s thriving steel and wire-making industry. An intricate web of  businesses was established, with interlocking directorships in manufacturing, banking, insurance and real estate. He describes its supremacy: These men did not agree on all major issues, nor did they rule every aspect of  life in Worcester, but their overwhelming economic power, their close business and social ties, their civic generosity and corporate paternalism made them the pre-eminent force in late nineteenth and early twentieth century Worcester (1983: 15–16).

In the early 1900s, this powerful industrial elite began to show a darker side, when they mobilised against the city’s workers and created local trade associations opposing trade union activity. They even kept a citywide blacklist, in order to exclude union organisers, who, as Southwick notes, faced a ‘solid wall of company opposition’, as well as paternalism and blackballing (1998: 42).4 To make matters worse, the atmosphere of repressive anti-unionism was supported by the city’s public of ficials, and the local press willingly toed 4

On the other hand, Worcester never experienced the crippling strikes that hit other large Massachusetts cities – in particular neighbouring Lowell, where a large Greek

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the line: the Worcester Magazine claimed that the city was an excellent place in which to establish a factory, as ‘new nationalities do not af filiate, [and] concerted ef forts for promoting strikes, labor union, and similar movements among the working class [have] become impossible’ (Rosenzweig, 1983: 24). Astonishingly, despite being themselves victims of  the elite, the local trade unions, too, were at times hostile to new immigrants – or ‘foreigners’, as they often called them.5 Their failure both to protect existing members and embrace newcomers undoubtedly contributed to the fact that the city’s immigrant communities now became somewhat insular, relying on alternatives to the unions and the various political parties, in the form of clubs, fraternal associations and local churches. These institutions of fered immigrants the space in which to find respite from hard work and gave them the opportunity to preserve and develop their own distinctive way of  life, with values that were often very dif ferent from those prescribed by the dominant industrial elite (Rosenzweig, 1983: 27). Although Worcester’s industry was eventually reorganised and consolidated, its industrial and business elite stubbornly refused to cede control to outside corporations; even in the 1960s, when manufacturing in the city was rapidly declining, industries were still under local ownership and management (Rosenzweig, 1983: 14). By the end of  the twentieth century, most of  the city’s heavy industry was gone, a victim primarily of changing markets, but also of  takeovers by major corporations. Nevertheless, some of  the old, familiar manufacturing firms remain, and, together with the retailing and service industries, and the research and education sector, they continue to attract new immigrants, though now from Latin America and Asia rather than Europe.

5

immigrant community had become established (Southwick, 1998: 42; Rosenzweig 1983: 22–23). See Rosenzweig (1983, pp. 16–26) for a detailed and perceptive discussion of  the shortcomings of  the labour movement in Worcester.

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5.2 Creation of  the database of migrants Much of  the rest of  this chapter draws from the author’s analysis of data obtained online from the archives of  the Ellis Island Immigration Station at New York. These archives contain the ships’ manifests for vessels bringing prospective immigrants to America, from 1892 until the Station closed in 1924. The starting point in ascertaining names to search for in the archives was a commemorative bronze plaque on display in the Folklore Museum in Tsamantas (see Figure 5). This plaque provides the names of more than 70 former residents of  the village who, as members of  the St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamanta[s], in Worcester, Massachusetts. a donation in 1928 towards the construction of  the new village school, along with the sum that each donated. Most of  those listed on the plaque were successfully identified within the manifests, and leads provided by these individuals to other emigrants from Tsamantas enabled the creation of an extensive database of  123 Tsamantiots who arrived in New York – though not necessarily for the first time – between 1901 and 1916. This database is not exhaustive, since not every ship’s manifest has been scanned electronically and made available online. Nonetheless, it includes details of  85 per cent of  the 144 migrants from Tsamantas reckoned by Nikolaos Nitsos (1926: 321) to have been living in Worcester – or elsewhere in the United States – by 1918. The information in the archives covers not only the name of each ship, the port of embarkation and the dates of departure and arrival, but also substantial information on every immigrant: their name, age, gender, marital status, occupation, literacy, ethnicity, nationality, place of  birth, home address, state of  health, and the presence of any identifying characteristic, such as a scar or tattoo. In addition, it gives the name and address of  the migrant’s closest relative in his place of origin; the city and state of  his final destination; whether it was he who paid for his passage on the ship, or someone else; and whether or not he possessed either a valid ticket to his final destination or suf ficient cash to purchase one. Table 1 summarises the results of  the search, and shows that the vast majority of  the migrants from Tsamantas were exactly the kind of individual sought by the American

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labour market: they were literate, healthy and young (on average 26.6 years old), had enough money for their onward journey, and most importantly had a relative (or a friend or some other compatriot) who could support them on arrival at their destination.

Figure 5  The contributions made in dollars by various members of  the St George’s Society in Worcester, Massachusetts to the building of a new school in Tsamantas (1928) Source: Author’s photograph.

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All but three of  the emigrants were men.6 According to an article entitled ‘Greek Life in Worcester’ by Anthony Simollardes, published in the Worcester Telegram of  8 July 1973, the fact that only a tiny proportion of  them brought a female partner with them explains the tendency to return to Tsamantas whenever they could, either to be with their wife (just over half of  the men in the sample were married) or perhaps to find one. The archives enabled identification of  the three pioneering women emigrants from Tsamantas. One of  them was Paraskevi Kentros, later known as Eva Kentros, a 25-year-old housewife. She accompanied her husband, Athanasios, on the SS La Provence, which sailed to New York from Le Havre on 6 April 1912. It is not clear whether Athanasios was related to other emigrants from Tsamantas by the name of  Kentros, but we do know from a ship’s manifest that he travelled to the United States for the first time in 1909. He had married Paraskevi before he left, according to their grandson, Arthur Kentros of  New York, and had earned the money to buy his first outward ticket by working as a baker in Constantinople. When he took his wife with him to Worcester in 1912, their destination was 54 Hanover Street, where Athanasios had been sharing accommodation with his brother Dimitrios. (It was common in both Worcester and Tsamantas for married brothers to live in the same house.) By the time of  the 1920 census, Eva and Athanasios were well established in Worcester, with a large family. The other two pioneering female migrants in our database were Sophie Boukalis – an 18-year-old woman originally from Ioannina, who followed her husband, Vassilios Boukalis, to Worcester on board the SS La Savoie, sailing from Le Havre to New York on 27 December 1913 – and Marina Tsockas, who arrived in April 1915 en route for Chicago, to join her husband Nikolas.

6

Women and children from Tsamantas only began to join their husbands and fathers in Worcester during the second decade of  the twentieth century, hence the presence of only three women in this sample ending in 1916. See Voultsos (1992) for a comprehensive account of  the emigration of  the first Greek women to the United States.

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The First Waves of  Emigration Table 1  Characteristics of emigrants from the village of  Tsamantas arriving in New York between 1901 and 1916 Male

Female

All

120 (98%)

3 (2%)

123(100%)

26.7

22.3

26.6

Married

63

3

66 (54%)

Single

57

-

57 (4%)

Unskilled (farm labourers, etc)

84

-

84 (84%)

Skilled (merchant, baker, cook, etc)

9

-

9 (9%)

Other (students, housewives etc)

4

3

7 (7%)

New immigrant

79

3

82 (72%)

Returning immigrant

32

-

32 (28%)

Relative

63

3

64 (60%)

Friend or compatriot

42

-

42 (40%)

Literacy (ability to read and write) (N = 116)*

105

3

108 (93%)

Number of  immigrants Average age Marital status

Occupation (N = 100)*

New or returning immigrant (N = 114)*

Status of contact person in the US (N = 108)*

Average number of  US dollars in their possession*

23

Source: Ellis Island archives, accessed online between September 2004 and October 2008. * Reduced sample due to incomplete or illegible data in the archives.

Unfortunately, no immigrant records from this period have survived in Worcester, and in Tsamantas all of ficial documents and records, including those of  births, deaths and marriages, were destroyed by fire when German soldiers raided the village in April 1944. However, an insight into

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the lives of  these first Greek immigrants in Worcester was obtained from two detailed articles that were published in the Worcester Telegram during the 1970s: the afore-mentioned ‘Greek Life in Worcester’ by Anthony Simollardes, and ‘Our Greek Community’ by Susanna Seymour, which appeared on 25 March 1977. In addition, valuable information regarding family migration patterns was obtained by the author, from 2004 onwards, through face-to-face interviews with individuals – in both Worcester and Tsamantas – whose relatives had been pioneering immigrants. Along with the database, these sources of information will inform our observations in the following sections. Principally for the interest of  those readers with connections to the migrants identified, details of  the journey undertaken from Tsamantas to the US by many of  these individuals will be provided, including the name of  the ship that took them across the Atlantic.

5.3 The establishment of chain migration from Tsamantas to Worcester As noted, the New York immigration authorities required all migrants in transit to declare their relationship with the person they were meeting on arrival at their destination, and extraction of  this information from the Ellis Island archives provided invaluable statistics about the network of connections between the Tsamantiot migrants (see Table 2). In 61 per cent of cases, the contact person was a relative: usually a brother, or a member of  the extended family, such as a cousin, uncle or brother-in-law; for the remaining 39 per cent, the contact was a ‘friend’, and the recorded names of nearly all of  these individuals identified them as fellow Tsamantiots.

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Table 2  The relationship of  the contact person in Worcester to the migrant in transit Contact person’s status in relation to the migrant

Number and percentage (N=108)

Immediate Family Brother

34 (31%)

Father

2 (2%)

Son

1 (1%)

Husband

1 (1%)

Extended family Cousin

17 (16%)

Uncle

6 (5%)

Brother-in-law

5 (5%)

Other Friends (compatriots) Friends (non-compatriots) Total

39 (36%) 3 (3%) 108 (100%)

Source: Ellis Island archives, accessed online between September 2004 and October 2008.

Just over two thirds of  the emigrants in the database – a total of  74 individuals (69%) – were first-time migrants, and so the fact that, almost without exception, they were joining a relative or friend from Tsamantas suggests that they were participants in chain migration, as defined in the introduction to this chapter. The process would have been initiated by the small number of men from the village who made the pioneering decision to relocate to Worcester, and then supplied information on employment prospects in the city to others back in Tsamantas – some of whom, over the years, decided to join them. On arrival in Worcester, these individuals would have been welcomed and assisted by the established immigrants, and would in turn have sent back news about the city to friends and family at

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home, thereby extending the tentacles of  the chain migration system. By this process, nearly every emigrant from Tsamantas to Worcester made his or her way across the Atlantic; the journey was seldom embarked upon as a result of a spontaneous decision to set up on one’s own abroad. But what of the men who initiated this mass migration, which had such far-reaching consequences – good and bad – for the village of  Tsamantas? The Ellis Island archives reveal that the first four emigrants were all members of  the Kentros family, an extensive clan in Tsamantas. However, which of  them made the very first journey is less clear, since the available records are not only incomplete, but are based on what was declared in answer to the questions of  the immigration authorities – which, for some, necessitated casting back their minds to the dates of journeys long since undertaken. The testimony of  their descendants might have helped in this respect, but unfortunately their claims are contradictory. The only incontrovertible fact is that two of  the first four emigrants – distant cousins Spyridon and Fotios Kentros – travelled to Worcester for the first time in September 1901. The other two Kentros men were brothers – Stavros and George – and George’s son, Evangelos, recalls his father telling him that he first went to Worcester sometime in the late 1890s to live with Stavros, who was already there. However, the first of ficial reference to either of  these brothers is in the ship’s manifest for one of  Stavros’s return journeys to Worcester (after a visit to Tsamantas in 1909), which shows that he told the immigration authorities that he first arrived in the United States in August 1902 – that is, a year later than Spyridon and Fotios. To further complicate the matter, the manifest for the SS La Touraine – travelling to New York from Le Havre two months earlier, in June 1902 – refers to a man by the name of  George Kentros. If  this is ‘our’ George, it would suggest that Stavros misremembered the date of  his first voyage, since Evangelos is certain that his uncle preceded his father in moving to Worcester. But the place of origin in Greece was not recorded for this ‘George Kentros’, and since the name is far from uncommon we cannot be certain that he was from Tsamantas. Whatever the truth, however, it is clear that the link with Worcester was first established by members of  the Kentros family, who took the unprecedented and highly courageous decision to leave the village in search of

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a better life. Indeed, they may well have been the very first men from the Ottoman region of  Epirus to emigrate to the United States. Distant cousins Spyridon and Fotios Kentros began their journey in Piraeus, and later boarded the SS Pennsylvania in Boulogne. On arrival in New York on 12 September 1901, they were listed in the ship’s manifest, respectively, as a 34-year-old married farmer and an illiterate 25-yearold bachelor. Their stated destination in Worcester was the home of a ‘friend’, whose name and address is not clearly legible. (It appears to be G. Bologimasis.) Although they were citizens of  the Ottoman Empire, they gave their nationality as Greek, rather than Turkish; this may have been to improve their chance of gaining entry, since there were greater restrictions on Turkish nationals, but it is equally possible that they misunderstood the terminology used by the immigration authorities and confused ‘nationality’ for ethnicity. Fotios Kentros reappears in a ship’s manifest eleven years later, on 3 April 1912, having travelled once again to New York, this time from the port of  Patras on the SS Laura. His entry in the manifest shows that, by now, he too was married, and was still unable to read and write. The manifest also reveals that Fotios was intending to join his friend and fellow villager Vassilios Boukalis at 24–26 Spring Street in Worcester, which suggests that his cousin Spyridon had by then returned to live in Tsamantas. (As mentioned in Chapter 3, Spyridon was to become the assistant schoolteacher in the village.) An interview in 2008 with Spyros Kentros, a retired high-school lecturer from Athens, provided further information on these two pioneering emigrants. Though separated in age by just nine years, Fotios and Spyridon were his father and grandfather, the former having married the other’s daughter. According to Spyros, his mother always maintained that they were the first two men from the village to settle in Worcester. They found employment there with a baker, learned the trade, and eventually opened their own successful and very profitable bakery. Spyros recalled that his father and grandfather had been persuaded to emigrate by a man who owned a business in Patras and a confectionery shop in Worcester. This businessman lent them the money to buy their transatlantic tickets and provided them with a recommendation letter and an address in Worcester,

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in order to meet the requirements of  the immigration authorities in New York. Unfortunately, Spyros could not recollect the man’s name, as told to him by his mother, but it is likely that he was the afore-mentioned individual that the cousins declared as their contact in Worcester, whose surname appears to be Bologimasis. Spyros was told that his father and grandfather were so overwhelmed on arrival in Worcester that they kept on passing the address they had been given, until eventually the owner spotted them and took them in. The noise and bustle of  their new surroundings, and the lack of  familiarity, completely bewildered them – so much so, according to family legend, that Fotios’s hair ‘turned white overnight’! Living and working in the industrial city of  Worcester certainly took its toll on the emigrants. Nikolaos Nitsos, noting the condition of  those who periodically returned to Tsamantas, observed that while ‘the previous generation had excellent health, and were tall and strong, while [the emigrants], despite their pockets being full of dollars, did not enjoy the same physical health and stature (…) They were mostly feeble and short. Of course, this was to be expected, as they lived in damp and dirty basements (…) and worked in unhealthy conditions’ (1926: 49–50).7 A third group of emigrants, who arrived in New York from Le Havre on 24 July 1904 aboard the SS La Bretagne, provide evidence that chain migration was by now in operation. Antonios Lennis (aged 25), Nikolaos Sdrinis (31) and Vassilios Malamis (28) – all of whom were married farmers – gave their destination as the home of  their friend George Kentros, one of  the four pioneers. Eventually, they themselves became the contacts for the next group of emigrants, consisting of six married men, all in their twenties: Spyridon Filis, Dem[etrios?] Goulias, George Stolakis, Nikolas Stavroulis, George Kyratsis and Theodoros Ioannou, who sailed from Patras on the SS Neustria, arriving in New York on 21 May 1906. Three days later, a smaller group – Elias Photos (a 32-year-old single labourer), Evangelos Tsockas (a married 25-year-old confectioner) and Christos Kentros (a 19-year-old student) – arrived on the SS Georgia, again from Patras. Christos Kentros declared that he was planning to join his ‘brothers’ (presumably 7

See also Laliotou, 2004: 108.

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the pioneering siblings, Stavros and George), whilst Elias, a friend of  the Kentros brothers, was also planning to live at their address in Worcester (no. 5 Brackett Court). Evangelos Tsockas, however, was heading for Chicago and had supplied the name and address of a friend already there. His destination was unusual: every other emigrant from Tsamantas included in the database travelled to Worcester, with the exception of  the afore-mentioned pioneering woman, Marina Tsockas, who was also Chicago-bound, arriving in April 1915. Marina was presumably related by marriage to Evangelos, since the records show that she was joining her husband, Nikolas Tsockas, in the city. (Nikolas, incidentally, could not be located in the archives.) Examination of  the ships’ manifests reveals that subsequent emigrants from Tsamantas also tended to travel in groups, some of which were quite substantial. On 9 June 1910, for instance, twenty-two young men from the village arrived from Patras on the SS Patris, and all but four of  them were new emigrants.8 The gaps between successive waves of emigrants to Worcester now became shorter: typically just two or three years in length. Constantinou and Diamantides note, with reference to emigration from all parts of  Greece between 1820 and 1980, that ‘migration occurred in surges, increasing at first, reaching a peak, and then declining because of depletion of  the pool of potential immigrants. New and important occurrences replenish the pool and initiate a resurgence of emigration’ (1985: 367). Figure 6 shows that this was certainly the case in respect of  Tsamantas, with peaks of emigration occurring in 1910 and 1913, and then a tailing of f, with just one individual leaving the village at the end of  this first major migration period. By then, however, Worcester was home to a significant concentration of migrants from this small mountainous village: the consequence of a successful chain migration process.

8

The others were married men who had returned to Tsamantas to see their families. One of  these was Vassilios Malamis, a member of  that first small group of men to follow the pioneering Kentros emigrants. Now known as Bill, he was listed on the manifest as a merchant.

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Figure 6  Number of  Immigrants from Tsamantas arriving in New York, 1900–1924 Source: Ellis Island Archives

5.4 From Ottoman Europe to New England: the transatlantic journey Migration overseas was made significantly easier towards the end of  the nineteenth century by the development of  transatlantic steamers9 (Manitakis, 2007; Keeling, 2002). Emigration from Epirus and all other parts of  the Ottoman Empire was in fact prohibited at the time, but Kemal Karpat (1985: 187) tells us that middlemen and shipping company agents

9

The 4,390-ton steamship Patris, for instance, could reach a speed of  14 knots and carry 1,420 passengers (60 in first class, 60 in second, and 1,300 in steerage). The Patris was built by the Northumberland Shipbuilding Company in England in 1909 for the National Greek Line, to serve the Piraeus-New York route. In 1920, she came under new ownership and was renamed the Claude Chappe, f lying the French f lag and serving the Marseilles-Far East passenger line. Another Greek-owned steamship built in England was the Athinai, which served the same Piraeus-New York line until fire destroyed the ship in the North Atlantic in 1925 (Ellis Island online: www. ellisisland.org, accessed 20 March 2006).

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were of fering tickets on the black market, and corrupt of ficials at the port of departure were being bribed to authorise the ticket-holder’s onward journey. Over the years, this parallel economy facilitated the illegal passage of numerous emigrants; indeed, Evangelos Kentros commented that this was how his father, George, arranged his first transatlantic crossing. There was no direct link by ship between Greece and the United States at the time, so George faced a somewhat daunting voyage. Evangelos remembers the route that his father took: It lasted 40 days in all. He walked all the way from Tsamantas to Sagiada, you know, and when he got there he took a boat to Corfu. [Here, he would have boarded another ferry, to either Patras or Piraeus, since regular sailings connected these two ports with Marseille.] From Marseille he went by train, up to Le Havre, where he had to stay for over a fortnight, waiting for his boat to America.

George’s relations, Spyridon and Fotios Kentros, likewise had a gruelling journey on their pioneering crossing in 1901, travelling first to Piraeus and then to Boulogne, where they embarked on the SS Pennsylvania, bound for New York. Other early emigrants sailed from Naples, and even from Liverpool. Direct passage from Greece to the United States was not introduced until 1904 (Manitakis, 2007: 68; Voultsos, 1992: 20). Two years later, for the first time, emigrants from Tsamantas sailed to New York from the Greek port of  Patras, on Austrian f lag steamers: one group on the SS Georgia and the other aboard the SS Giulia. By 1910, most emigrants from Epirus were starting their journey at Patras. The local ticket of fices of  Greek, Italian, French and Austrian steamship companies competed fiercely for their custom, and newspaper advertisements extolled the virtues of each vessel. The ships normally began their voyage in Piraeus, and would stop to pick up passengers at Gythion, Kalamata, Katakolon and Zante before arriving in Patras, the last port of call before the eighteen-day journey to America (Kitroef f, 2004: 347–348; Voultsos, 1992: 20–21). A small community of  Tsamantiots lived in Patras – mostly itinerant tinkers or bakers who, as noted in the previous chapter, had set up small shops in the commercial area of  the city – and they were able to provide practical assistance to the travelling emigrants in the form of  lodgings and food.

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The journey across the Atlantic in the first two decades of  the twentieth century was far from pleasant, especially for those – like the emigrants from Tsamantas – who could only af ford to travel in steerage (third class).10 They had to endure the discomfort of  living in cramped conditions for days on end. But at least the transatlantic steamers were relatively new vessels, and their passage was generally safe and uneventful. By the 1920s, the steamships had become larger and more comfortable. However, as noted, immigration quotas were now in operation in the United States and so the easing of  the journey was countered by the possibility, however slight, of  being rejected by the authorities on reaching New York. The shipping companies now had to time the arrival of  their ships to the opening of new quotas for the ethnic groups that they were carrying, but these were sometimes reached within just twenty-four hours of  being issued. Another problem concerned the administrative processing of newly arrived immigrants. On 1 August 1923, the Times of  London reported that fifteen transatlantic steamers, with approximately 15,000 immigrants on board, were scheduled to arrive at New York after midnight, to coincide with the new quotas. However, the constraints imposed by the size of  the Ellis Island Immigration Station meant that the passengers had to remain on board for up to a week, before being processed. According to New York port of ficials, such congestion was a consequence of  the commercial greed of  the steamship companies.11 The Immigration Station – a red-brick building that replaced the original wooden structure three years after a fire destroyed it in 1897 – was in operation until 1924.12 Initially, it had the capacity to carry out the inspection of just 5000 immigrants per day: for physical, mental and ‘moral’ fitness, as well as their ability to read and write, and possession of funds for proceeding to their final destination. By 1907, however, this capacity had doubled, and in the year before the Station’s closure it was processing as many as 15,000 immigrants daily. 10

Voultsos notes in her volume on the journeys made by early Greek immigrants that a steamship ticket from Piraeus to New York, in first-class accommodation, cost $73 (equivalent to £15 at the time), and roughly half that amount in steerage (Voultsos, 1992: 62). For another detailed account of the transatlantic journey, see Kitroef f (1999). 11 The Times, ‘15,000 Seeking Entrance to New York’, 1 August 1923. 12 It now houses the United States Immigration Museum.

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From the ships’ manifests for 1900 to 1923, the period of our sample, it is clear that only a small percentage of migrants from Tsamantas were sent back home (just three men, representing 2.5 percent of  the total). One of  these must have been sick, as it is recorded that he was sent to hospital for treatment, prior to repatriation. Markel and Stern point out that public health of ficials and physicians in the American ports were concerned to avoid admitting migrants with infectious diseases such as typhoid and cholera; they were also keen to identify ‘ambiguous conditions and syndromes such as feeblemindedness, constitutional psychopathic inferiority, and poor physique’. However, a much more common reason for repatriation was evidence or suspicion of  ‘extreme poverty, criminal or immoral behavior, being a contract laborer, [or holding] subversive political beliefs’ (1999: 1316).13

5.5 The economic, social and spiritual life of  the Tsamantas immigrants in Worcester When the pioneering emigrants from the Kentros clan arrived in Worcester, on one of  the dozens of  trains stopping daily at Union Station, they would have encountered a noisy, dirty industrial city. Albert Southwick vividly describes the cityscape at the time: ‘Black smoke belched from hundreds of  factory smokestacks and thousands of  house chimneys (…) Most of  the streets were rutted and bumpy and trod by thousands of  horses every day’ (1998: 43). But, of course, it must have seemed a lively and exciting place to these men from a small rural community in Epirus. It was a modern city, with a complex infrastructure, and Southwick notes that its transportation system was steadily expanding, providing ever more convenient means of getting around: ‘The Worcester Consolidated Street Railway (…) was fast extending the tracks for its new electric street cars north, south, east and 13

See also Laliotou (2004: 33–37) regarding the use of eugenics by the American immigration authorities.

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west for a nickel, people could travel from one corner of  the city to the other’ (p. 48). Although the Kentros men may well have been the earliest emigrants to the United States from Ottoman Epirus, they were not the first ethnic Greeks in Worcester, having been preceded by a handful of individuals from the Greek state – in particular from the Peloponnese – who arrived in the mid-1890s, bringing their families with them. But the Tsamantiots were at the vanguard of a growing trend in Epirus: the great majority of  the 413 immigrants from Ottoman Europe who were residing in the city by 1910 hailed from the region. Five years later – by which time liberation from the Turks had made most Greek Epirots citizens of  Greece – the Massachusetts state census revealed that the Greek population in Worcester stood at 678, all but 78 of whom were males (Washburn, 1917: 313). According to Anthony Simollardes (1973), this community included the highest concentration of  Epirot Greeks in any city in Central Massachusetts. Although the arrival of new immigrants in Worcester brought a supply of additional labourers, eager to work in its factories, it also reinforced the existing ethnic, religious and linguistic divisions in the city. A hierarchy of immigrant groups had begun to emerge based on perceptions of suitability for work: the Swedes became the most likely to secure highly skilled jobs in the steel and wire factories, whilst the Irish and the newly arrived Lithuanians, Poles, Finns and Armenians were usually of fered unskilled positions. Manual work was mostly undertaken by the sizeable contingency of  Italian immigrants. Those in the Jewish community tended to start up small businesses (Rosenzweig, 1983: 17–18), as did the Greeks, who, accustomed to working in the fields back home, found it hard to adapt to the discipline required in the production line of a factory and thus tended to avoid seeking positions in the steel and wire factories. It may also be the case that discrimination by these firms, on ethnic grounds, contributed to the Greeks’ reluctance to apply to them for work. Some of  the men from Tsamantas became bakers, or worked as dishwashers or cooks in restaurants. Others started up small businesses – like the Kentros brothers, Stavros and George, who bought fruit and vegetables wholesale and became peddlers, a trade which George’s son, Evangelos, claims was the commonest amongst the Tsamantiots in Worcester. Figure 7 shows a photograph of one of them,

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Markos Bitzas, sitting proudly on his laden cart; the orthographical error painted on its side is a touching reminder of  the challenges that faced many workers, especially those from overseas.

Figure 7  A Tsamantiot peddler in Worcester, Massachusetts, c. 1910 Source: The Folklore Museum of  Tsamantas

Statistics included in Grace Abbott’s journal article ‘The Greek Community in Chicago’ (1909) suggest that the Tsamantas peddlers in Worcester were probably earning around $9–10 per week; of  this they would have had to spend around $4 on rent, food, and the wages of a man employed to cook for them and clean their shared accommodation. But they were extremely thrifty individuals, and most of  their remaining wages were sent back to their families in Tsamantas. This source of additional income in the village made a significant dif ference, especially during the First World War and the ensuing Spanish f lu epidemic, when it helped to save many lives in Tsamantas. By the 1920s, increasing af f luence in Worcester meant that some of  the Tsamantiot peddlers were able to amass suf ficient profits

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to run their own grocery store or restaurant. Here is how Susanna Seymour described the process, in her article in the Worcester Telegram: The Greek immigrant would begin with a pushcart, then rent a store to sell fruits. Soon a soda fountain was added to sell hot chocolate in the winter, then sandwiches, hot dogs and hamburgers. Tables were added. The shop would evolve into a cafeteria, a lunchroom and, finally, a restaurant.

Nitsos (1926: 49) mentions several Tsamantiots – the Boukalis brothers, Athanasios Kentros, Michael G. Alexis, Ioannis Zoulas, and the Kiratsis brothers – who became successful businessmen in Worcester during the first quarter of  the twentieth century, perhaps in a similar way to the immigrants described by Seymour. Although the pioneering emigrants from Ottoman-controlled Tsamantas were helped to settle in Worcester by men from the free Greek state, they soon established their own community. Data from the ships’ manifests reveal its location, in the city’s East Side. The most common addresses given by immigrants from Tsamantas in the first two decades of  twentieth century were as follows: 1. Spring Street (Nos. 14, 16, 21, 24–26, and 28) (mentioned 52 times) 2. Mechanic Street (Nos. 21, 113, 153, and 135–164) (14 times) 3. No. 5 Brackett Court (mentioned 13 times) 4. No. 20 Arch Street (mentioned 5 times) Immigrants had been encouraged by the industrial elite to live in enclaves in the East Side, based principally on ethnicity and religion. Sharing this part of  town with native citizens of  the working class, many of  them occupied the ‘triple-decker’ homes that were a characteristic form of  housing in Worcester; by contrast, the middle and upper classes usually had detached family homes in the city’s West Side (Rosenzweig, 1983: 31). Susanna Seymour’s Telegram article reveals that, unlike the majority of  Worcester’s ethnic groups, who had formed cohesive communities, each in a dif ferent part of  the East Side, the Greek immigrants lived in various small enclaves scattered throughout the district. But in other respects the Greeks were no dif ferent from their fellow immigrants in the city, sharing a similar life-style, housing and employment, and providing a refuge and

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source of support for those who were unlucky enough not to find employment, or were af fected by the poverty, disease and accidents that were rife in rapidly industrialising Worcester (Rosenzweig, 1983: 31). Social life amongst the Epirot community in Worcester was initially centred on the various Greek cafés, those bedrocks of  Greek-speaking communities across the world. But in 1908 a group of immigrants established the St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamanta[s] (henceforth referred to as the St George’s Society), funded by annual membership fees. Just one of many immigrant associations in the city, it of fered opportunities for socialising, and raised money for projects to benefit individuals both in Worcester and back home in Tsamantas. It also helped to prepare those who were planning to return to Epirus on a permanent basis. However, Moskos observes (1990: 39) that disagreements and personality clashes were a common characteristic of such fraternal societies in the United States, and they would come and go with alarming frequency. The same fate befell the St George’s Society in 1915, after the arrival of some new migrants from Tsamantas brought to Worcester the animosity that was dividing the Epirot village, due to opposing political af filiations. The situation in the village mirrored the National Schism that had arisen as a result of complex issues in the controversy over Greek participation in the First World War, setting republicans against royalists. We know from Nitsos that the St George’s Society was disbanded because of  the persistent political wrangling initiated by these new arrivals (1926: 331–332).14 But it was soon re-established, continuing its philanthropic activities with renewed vigour; indeed, a letter from Nikolaos Nitsos to the Greek-language Atlantis newspaper in New York refers to the fact that its members raised the very considerable sum of  40,000 drachmas (approximately $8,000) for the construction of a new village school in Tsamantas (1926: 322). These members were the men commemorated on the bronze plaque shown in Figure 5, whose names initiated the online search that resulted in the database. Ten years later, a further $1,500 was donated to the same project. 14 Here, Nitsos also mentions a letter he received from the defunct Society, dated 16 December 1915, enclosing a cheque for 1,180 drachmas (roughly $236 at the time) for distribution to needy causes in the village. This apparently constituted the remaining funds held by the Society.

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The Society was one of  the first in Worcester to organise picnics at Lake Quinsigamond: a long, narrow body of water about two and half miles east of downtown Worcester. A photograph of what appears to have been one such picnic – taken in 1914 and now on display in the folklore museum in Tsamantas – shows more than 50 men from the village, all smartly dressed (see Figure 8). Another photograph, from 1926, and with many more individuals present at the picnic, provides further invaluable evidence of  the Society’s members. Unfortunately, no membership lists survive from before the early 1970s, when a fire in the Hotel Aurora – owned by Gregory Pantazis from Tsamantas, and the venue for the Society during its heyday – destroyed all of  the minutes and other documentation. But this group photograph suggests that in 1926 the Society boasted at least 70 members, including four women; a few children were also present. A third photograph, this time from 1937, reveals a membership of at least 130, including substantially more women and children than previously: thirty of each. For these women, the Society would have played a crucial role in providing a meeting place for them, since traditionally they were excluded from the cafés that men used for socialising.15 The Society continued to grow – as noted in the article by Anthony Simollardes in the Worcester Telegram – eventually becoming one of  the largest and most active fraternal associations in Worcester, with 350 members in 1973. It is still, today, very much an active organisation, maintaining strong links with Tsamantas, and is one of  the very few in the United States that supports academic work, sponsoring conferences and workshops. The Society received an unprecedented fillip in 1999, when it was bequeathed a substantial sum by one of its members: Stavros Bellos, a pre-Second World War emigrant from Tsamantas. Bellos left the bulk of  his estate (altogether worth two million dollars) to his native village, and 15

Although such associations are often viewed as obstacles to the assimilation of immigrants within their host society, others argue that they act as mediating institutions. For instance, research carried out by the sociologist Ulrike Schoeneberg in the Greek, Italian and Turkish immigrant communities of  Germany concluded that such institutions can have positive ef fects on social integration within the host country (1985: 432–433).

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a fine bronze bust erected in the main square of  Tsamantas is testament to the villagers’ gratitude for his generosity and loyalty. But he also gave to his community in Worcester, remembering in his will not only the St George’s Society but also the city’s Greek Orthodox Church. This bequest to his church ref lects the importance of  faith to the migrants from Tsamantas. The Greek religious community in the city was part of  the larger Greek Orthodox Church of  America, and the immigrants were visited from time to time – especially at Christmas and Easter – by priests from other American cities, who administered Holy Communion and performed baptisms, weddings and funerals. These initially took place at the St George’s Syrian Orthodox Church on Wall Street, Worcester, which the Greeks were obliged, through a lack of  their own ecclesiastical building, to share with the Syrians. Relationships between the two communities were cordial, but, as Rosenzweig points out with regard to all of  the immigrant groups in Worcester, such harmony was more the result of an absence of daily interaction – due to living in separate communities – than any particular sense of mutual respect (1983: 29–30). The church was of paramount importance to the Epirots in Worcester as a social and cultural focal point, and soon after the Greek community was of ficially established, with the creation of its own constitution on 15 October 1914, the decision was made to build a Greek Orthodox church, devoted to St Spyridon. According to a local (anonymous) church historian,16 two factors inf luenced the decision to dedicate the new church to this saint: one cultural, the other pragmatic. The former was connected to the fact that most of  the Greek immigrants in Worcester originated from Epirus. Just of fshore from the region, the island of  Corfu was an important place of pilgrimage and trade for Epirots, and thus it seemed appropriate to name the new church in honour of  St Spyridon, the island’s patron saint. The second factor was that in the old Julian calendar, still in use by the Greek Orthodox Church at the time, St Spyridon’s Day coincided with Christmas Day, a public holiday in the United States. This presented the immigrants

16

The History of  [the Greek Orthodox] Community [in Worcester, MA.], pamphlet, c. 1960.

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with an irresistible opportunity: up to then, in observing their traditional Orthodox Christmas holiday in early January, they had always lost a paid working day, but now, by making 25 December the most important day in the winter season – like everyone else in America, but in their case in celebration of  St Spyridon – they could avoid this financial sacrifice. Grigorios Kenos

Stavros Peschos

Mitsi [Dimitrios] Sdrinis Figure 8  Members of  the St George’s Society at one of  their picnics near Worcester, Massachusetts, c. 1914 Source: The Folklore Museum of  Tsamantas. Someone in the village put a number next to each man in the picture and wrote down the corresponding names, enabling identification of  these individuals.

But in 1917, before construction of  the new church had begun, the Greek community in Worcester split in two, partly as a result of  the aforesaid conf lict between royalists and republicans.17 One group continued 17

Another factor, according to the same anonymous local historian, was ‘business competition among members of  the community’, especially those in the ice-cream and

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using the hall at 69 Grafton Street to which the Greeks had moved after the of ficial establishment of  their community; the other, assuming the name of  St Taxiarchai, held its services in a building on Trumbull Street, shared with a bowling alley! Despite this division, however, the community still intended to build its own church, and members of  the St Spyridon Church committee, including some from Tsamantas, investigated potential sites. Their main preoccupation with regard to its construction was that it should be large enough to accommodate the increasing number of  Greeks in Worcester (some 450–500 at this time). An unusual and innovative fundraising activity was initiated, to help provide suf ficient funds: for every loaf of  bread eaten by members of  the community, one cent was to be donated to the church. This supplemented the fund by the significant sum of $250 to $300 for every month the scheme was in operation. In addition, various factory owners with Greek employees were approached for financial support, on the basis that it might be beneficial for their workers to have the spiritual comfort of a church, and two of  these industrialists pledged five thousand dollars each. However, for various reasons the construction of  the church was postponed. It was not until 1924, in fact, that the new church of  St Spyridon was erected in Orange Street, at a cost of roughly $65,000, half of which was mortgaged. The problems of  the immigrant Greeks in Worcester were not yet over: for a second time, political upheaval in Greece brought disunity, with the result that a number of  families broke of f  to form a separate community, adopting the name of  The Assumption of  the Virgin Mary. This second rift came to an end in 1928, however, when the two communities reunited. The following year, despite the economic crisis in the United States that was a result of  the Wall Street Crash, mortgage payments on the church were completed. This allowed the community to plough its resources into the establishment of an afternoon school, for the many children who had by now been brought to Worcester from Greece. The school’s remit was to supplement the children’s formal education, by giving them lessons on Greek language and culture, and instructing them in the Orthodox faith.

candy retail businesses. See also Susanna Seymour’s article, ‘Our Greek Community’, Worcester Telegram, 25 March 1977.

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In 1940, the Hellenic Orthodox Association of  Worcester was established, with the aim of raising money for a new church and school, since the existing facilities were by then deemed inadequate. Eventually, a plot was purchased on Elm, Russell and Cedar Streets, and the new St Spyridon’s church was erected, with adjoining community facilities. The impressive building was of ficially consecrated on 13 April 1952, and since then it has been the spiritual and social centre for Greek-Americans in the city.

5.6 The start of emigration to Australia In the early 1920s, a second migratory route overseas was initiated by some men from Tsamantas, to an even more distant location, thousands of miles away in the southern hemisphere: the large and thriving city of  Melbourne, in the Australian state of  Victoria. An online search of  the National Archives of  Australia identified these first few emigrants from Tsamantas to Melbourne as Nikolaos Kenos, Dimitrios Sdrinis and Stavros Peschos. Listed as arriving at the city’s docks on board the French steamer Ville de Strasbourg in July 1924, they were part of what was described in a Brisbane newspaper article as a ‘mixed lot’ of immigrants from south-east Europe and the eastern Mediterranean – consisting mainly of  Greeks, Yugoslavs, Maltese, Italians and Syrians – who had earlier been cleared by the Australian Immigration authorities at Fremantle, the of ficial port of entry, and then allowed to disembark in Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane.18 All three of  the migrants from Tsamantas had previously lived in Worcester, which begs the question: Why did they decide to move to Australia? One determinant is likely to have been the fact that, as non-naturalised persons, they were still subject to immigration quotas whenever they returned to the States from a journey back to Tsamantas. The tightening of  these quotas by the American authorities was making it more dif ficult for them to re-enter 18 The Brisbane Courier, ‘A Mixed Lot’, 3 June 1924.

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the country, presenting them with a dilemma in respect of whether or not to spend some time with their family back home, if  the opportunity arose. Another contributory factor may have been that they were potential victims of  the hostility directed by of ficials, businessmen and members of  the public towards returning immigrants, who were perceived as reluctant to assimilate into American society (Shumsky, 1992: 56). Interviews conducted in Melbourne and in Tsamantas with descendants of  the various emigrants to Australia provided further explanations: some maintained that these three pioneering men had not been happy with life in the United States; it was even jokingly suggested that they had become so accustomed to Anglo-Saxon ways that Australia, with its ample opportunities for betting on horse races, seemed an attractive destination! The first three emigrants from Tsamantas were healthy, energetic men, with skills that could help them gain employment. Determined and courageous, they were willing to take an enormous risk in travelling halfway round the world in search of work. Nikolaos Kenos was the oldest of  the three, and the most well travelled. A recent compilation of memoirs, produced in Melbourne by members of  the Brotherhood of  St Nicholas Tsamanta,19 reveals that Nikolaos had worked in Constantinople before emigrating to America in 1905, as a young and able 25-year-old in search of  the means by which to support his wife and the rest of  his family back home. He returned to Tsamantas on at least two occasions, heading back to Worcester each time, to resume his work. Dimitrios Sdrinis was also an experienced migrant. He had arrived for the first time in New York as a 23-year-old married man – coincidentally in July 1905, like his fellow villager Nikolaos Kenos, though having travelled on a dif ferent steamer. Dimitrios does not re-appear in the archives as a returnee immigrant, so he may have stayed in Worcester for many years without going home. We know that he was in Worcester in 1913, when his elder brother, Nikolaos, declared to the immigration authorities that he was re-entering the States to join Dimitrios; he was also in the city in 1914, as shown by his presence

19

‘From Tsamanta to Melbourne: Stories from Melbourne’s Tsamantiot Community’ (2009), The Brotherhood of  Saint Nicholas Tsamanta, Melbourne.

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amongst the members of  the St George’s Society, in the group photograph shown in Figure 8. The other pioneering emigrant to Melbourne was another former resident of  Worcester: Stavros Peschos, the youngest of  the three. He is listed in the Ellis Island archives as arriving in the US for the first time as a 20-year-old unmarried labourer, sailing from Patras to New York in June 1907. The group photograph at the Lake Quinsigamond picnic shows that he, too, was still in Worcester in 1914. Gaining entry to Australia was not always a straightforward process: when the French mail steamer Dupleix docked at Melbourne in late 1924 – just a few months after these three Tsamantiots arrived – nine of  the nineteen Greek migrants on board who were travelling to the city were refused disembarkation, since they were ‘not able to produce the amount of capital necessary (£40), nor could they find friends in Melbourne to give a guarantee for their maintenance until they found work’.20 But the men from Tsamantas were experienced enough to have come prepared to meet the conditions of entry. Moreover, after years of  living and working in America, they were able to communicate in English, and this would have been of great advantage to them on arrival in Melbourne; many of  their compatriots, by comparison, were in ‘distressed circumstances’, penniless and lacking language skills, and as a consequence obliged to roam the Australian outback in search of work.21 Our three pioneers, however, swiftly gained employment as loggers, and their success in securing a regular income would have been admired by friends and acquaintances back home. Subsequently, information and advice on living and working in Melbourne would have been exchanged, initiating a new system of chain migration – for many years much smaller than the one that took so many Tsamantiots to Worcester, but destined to gain momentum in the 1950s. Chain migration to Melbourne was facilitated by the fact that immigrants in Australia were allowed to nominate other potential migrants, and in the process guarantee their upkeep until they could find employment. In 1926, according to the records of  the National Archives of  Australia, Stavros

20 The Melbourne Argus, ‘Greeks Arrive’, 31 December 1924. 21 The Melbourne Argus, ‘Stranded Greeks’, 27 August 1924.

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Peschos nominated his brother Nikolaos, along with another Tsamantiot, Theodoros Lagos, and in July 1927 these two men arrived from Port Said on board the French steamer SS Ville d’Amiens. Travelling with them was one of  Nikolaos Kenos’s brothers, Grigorios,22 and although no evidence has been found that Nikolaos nominated him, this was probably the case. The three new arrivals were followed a week later by a fourth Tsamantiot, George Gogorosis, who sailed on the SS Veltiamiene, and then, in September, by another: Thomas Douros, who arrived on board the SS Commissaire Ramel.23 These five early migrants, together with the three pioneers who preceded them, had come to a thriving city with a growing Greek community.24 In the 1920s, Melbourne was experiencing significant growth in its manufacturing industry, due to the protection provided by the Greene Tarif f of  1921, which penalised the importation of goods. New manufacturing sectors began to appear, producing technologically advanced products such as electrical appliances and automobiles. However, very few of  the Greek immigrants in Melbourne were able to find work in these industries, as they lacked the requisite skills; an article entitled ‘Greeks as Unionists’ in the Brisbane Courier of  26 May 1924, written by its Melbourne correspondent, reveals that nearly all of  the 1,000-plus Greeks living in the city at

22

We know that Grigorios lived in New England for a time; in May 1906, as a 21-yearold bachelor, he arrived in New York from Naples, having stated that he was joining his brother Nikolaos, who resided not in Worcester but in Newburyport, an important port situated to the north of  Boston. Records show that by 1909 Grigorios was living in Worcester, and he too is in the group photograph of  1914. 23 According to one of  his granddaughters, Angela Ballas – as quoted in ‘From Tsamanta to Melbourne: Stories from Melbourne’s Tsamantiot Community’ (2009) – Thomas had an adventurous life, taking any job available to him, from kitchen hand at one of  Melbourne’s restaurants, to work on a tobacco plantation in Queensland. 24 Melbourne was not the only Australian city with a Greek community. The Commonwealth census of  1921 indicates that there were 3,654 Greek-born residents in Australia as a whole; twelve years later, the census recorded a rise in their numbers to 8,329, and the 1947 figure was 12,291. The most common places of origin for Greek emigrants to Australia during this period were the islands of  Ithaca, Kastellorizo and Kythera (Allimonos, 2004).

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this time were employed in its cafés and hotels.25 Nonetheless, the Greeks were described in the Melbourne Argus as ‘industrious and skilful workers, who had been attracted to Australia by the prospect of  better wages, as the conditions in their own country made it dif ficult for the working classes to earn a livelihood’. By 1927, their community was f lourishing, with the ‘fish-shop industry and a portion of  the fruit trade having fallen into their hands’.26 But there was fierce competition amongst traders in Melbourne at the time, and a great deal of animosity developed between Greek and Australian fruit traders in South Melbourne Market over competition for custom, leading to wide-spread disturbances;27 there were also acts of violence by native Melburnians against the patrons of  the ubiquitous Greek cafés.28 And then, during the depression years of  1928–1932, unemployment amongst the Greek-born workforce in Australia grew rapidly, to around 16 per cent, obliging many of  them to repatriate (Allimonos, 2004). The majority of  trade unions in Australia, like their counterparts in Worcester, were becoming hostile towards immigrants from south-east Europe, and in October 1928 serious riots rocked Melbourne, in which foreigners – and in particular Greeks and Italians – were ‘singled out for rough treatment’.29 As a consequence of  these various problems, the number of  Greek migrants to Australia fell in 1928 to a mere 796 individuals, in comparison with the figure of  1,510 for the previous year.30 Despite this, the system of chain migration from Tsamantas to Melbourne now became firmly established, as the first few migrants continued to nominate and sponsor their relatives and friends back home. In June 1930, Nikolaos and Grigorios Kenos were joined by their brother

25

These Greek immigrants were responsible for the creation and subsequent maintenance of  the community’s local institutions, such as its Orthodox Church and the Orpheus Greek Association of  Victoria. 26 The Canberra Times, ‘Greek Church Troubles’, 4 November 1927. 27 The Melbourne Argus, ‘Disturbances in Market’, 12 February 1925. 28 The Melbourne Argus, ‘No Love for the Greeks’, 24 August 1925. 29 The Adelaide Advertiser, ‘Riots in Melbourne: Unionists Registering in this State’, 2 October 1928. 30 The Melbourne Argus, ‘Migration Statistics’, 13 February 1929.

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Sotirios, who arrived on board the SS Città de Genoa. A married man with three daughters, Sotirios had struggled to make a living as a tinker in Greece and had thus been working for some time as a ‘labourer’ in Worcester. A fourth Kenos brother, George, who had likewise worked in Worcester, also came to Melbourne (date unknown). In 1932, Nikolaos went back to Tsamantas for the marriage of  his daughter Adriana, but by now the worsening situation for immigrants in Melbourne had disillusioned him, and he longed to return to the United States. According to his great-grandson, Ange Kenos,31 Nikolaos verbally abused the Australian authorities on leaving, in the belief  that we would never be returning to such an inhospitable country. Back in Greece, however, he was frustrated in his attempt to secure a passage to America, due to the country’s strict immigration laws. Eventually, in 1935, he returned to Australia, thanks to his eldest son, George, who had gone to Melbourne five years earlier and whose acquaintance with a number of inf luential people holding important posts within the Australian administration facilitated his father’s re-entry to the country.32 There were now five members of  the Kenos family living in the city: the four brothers and Nikolaos’s son. At least three of  the four brothers – Nikolaos, Grigorios and Sotirios – had moved on from their first jobs and had acquired horses and carts, from which they sold fruit and vegetables, becoming known as ‘the Veggies’ of  Melbourne. One of  the other pioneering emigrants, Dimitrios Sdrinis, was also joined by members of  his family: his eldest son, Spyros, accompanied him on the journey back to Australia after a visit to Tsamantas. Although robust, the system of chain migration established between Tsamantas and Melbourne was slow to get going, and by the beginning of  the Second World War the immigrant community of  Tsamantiots in their adoptive Australian city consisted of just ten individuals, all of  them male. Furthermore, it is likely that at this stage they were discouraging friends and relatives back in Tsamantas from joining them. Although the growth

31 32

Communication by e-mail, October 2010. Amongst these was Frank C. Menzies, an inf luential lawyer in Melbourne and brother of  the future prime minister of  Australia, Sir Robert Menzies.

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of industry in Melbourne had resumed in the mid-1930s, lasting until the start of  the Second World War (Dingle and O’Hanlon, 2009: 57), there was still high unemployment in the city, and anti-immigrant sentiments were rife: as Anastasios Tamis notes (2002: 92–93), xenophobic hostility towards Greeks, and other southern Europeans such as Yugoslavians and Italians, was common – even by of ficial government agencies, trade unions and political parties (just as it had been in Worcester). The consequent reduction in the f low of migrants from Tsamantas would persist until the 1950s, when the immigration authorities began to actively encourage migration to Australia, and Melbourne became the new home of many more migrants from the village. Despite the tension over immigrants in Melbourne, in 1948 three of  the Kenos brothers – Nikolaos, Sotirios and Grigorios – simultaneously applied for naturalisation under the Nationality Act of  1920–1946.33 It can be seen from their applications, filed in the National Archives of  Australia, that they were sharing a home at Grattan Street in the Carlton district of  Melbourne. The documents also reveal that Nikolaos, now 68 years old, and Sotirios, nine years his junior, had abandoned fruit selling and secured factory jobs with GMH (Holden), a subsidiary of  General Motors. The wives of  these two brothers were still residing in Tsamantas. (No further details on Grigorios have been found.) Another naturalisation application in the same year reveals that George Gogorosis, now 49, was a ‘fruiterer’, with his own fruit shop – shared with a partner – at 81 Punt Road in Windsor. His wife, Paraskevi, was also still in Tsamantas. Yet another application in 1948 shows that Dimitrios Sdrinis, then 69 years of age, declared his occupation as a kitchen hand, residing in Lonsdale Street. As with the others, most of  his family were in Greece, but in 1951 he was the first of  the men to be permanently reunited with his wife, when Anastasia Sdrinis34 became the pioneering woman to emigrate to Australia from Tsamantas.

33 The Melbourne Argus, 22 December 1948, page 20. 34 Anastasia was his second wife. The fate of one of  their daughters, Eleonora, will be related in Chapter 7.

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The long separation from family that these loyal, hard-working men endured is a testament to their commitment and sense of responsibility. Nikolaos Kenos had to wait until 1950 to be joined by another of  his sons, Spyros, a veteran of  the Greek army; a third son, Achilles, arrived in 1955. Nikolaos’s wife, Ekaterini, emigrated the following year, a full thirty-two years after her husband had first gone out to Australia. Nikolaos continued working with GMH (Holden) beyond his retirement age, until one day, out of concern for his health, his three sons went to the factory and told his boss how old he was. He was forced to quit that same day, but he was not to enjoy a long retirement: he died less than a year later. His great-grandson, Ange, believes that this was ‘in part due to losing the job he loved and the opportunity to remain busy, as he had no hobbies or other interests outside of  his family’.35 Perhaps most poignant of all, when Stavros Peschos left Tsamantas in 1924, his wife, Eleni, was pregnant with his only son, Panagiotis, and the boy would have to wait nearly thirty years to see his father for the first time, joining him in Melbourne in the early 1950s. By then, Stavros – who was a fruit and vegetable peddler in East Melbourne – had opened his own fruit shop in Flinders Street, and his son helped out with the business, as did Panagiotis’s wife, Eftichia, who arrived in Melbourne a year later, having suf fered terrible sickness throughout the long voyage. Stavros died from a heart attack in his late sixties, not long after witnessing the birth of  his first grandson, who was named after him.

5.7 Conclusion The decisions taken by individuals to emigrate from Tsamantas to Worcester, and later to Melbourne, were not exclusively due to the problems of overpopulation and economic stagnation. Like the French Canadian emigrants to early-twentieth-century Lowell, Massachusetts, as researched by 35

Communication by e-mail, October 2010.

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Takai (2001), the Tsamantiots were trying to optimize the well-being of  their immediate family and other close. The decision to emigrate was an informed one, based on information supplied by a relative or friend already living in Worcester. The prospective emigrants would also have been aware of  the availability of practical and financial assistance on arrival, to facilitate the process of settling in and, crucially, finding employment, and the challenge of adjusting to a new life would have been eased by the provision of elementary English language teaching and help with familiarising themselves with local customs and the layout of  the city. However, as a number of researchers have noted, support provided by a kinship network is not always a positive inf luence on immigrants: paradoxically, it has been shown that those without kinship af filiations often fare better than those embedded in their own ethnic community. Harvey Choldin has observed they tend to find jobs more quickly and that their morale is higher: ‘Social af filiation and support during the early months following emigration do not contribute to the maintenance of  high morale. The explanation [seems to be] that continued attachments to persons from the community of origin may provide a frequent reminder to the migrant of what he left behind. The [solitary] migrant must confront the new social situation alone, however, and may be forced to make a more rapid psychological adjustment’ (1973, p. 175). An interview in Tsamantas with one former migrant from the village – now a successful American businessman – suggests that reliance on kinship networks might also have restricted an individual’s long-term aspirations: he believes that if  he had stayed with his family and compatriots in Worcester, and not moved to New York, he would still be a factory worker. Nevertheless, chain migration can be a spectacularly successful process: the Tsamantiot community in Worcester grew to such a size as a consequence of it that it could almost be said that a large part of  the village of  Tsamantas had been lifted from the slopes of  Mount Mourgana and transposed to the industrial landscape of urban Massachusetts. Indeed, chain migration was so successful in creating a thriving community that eventually its members began to modify their aspirations. The earliest migrants had always intended to return to Tsamantas on a permanent basis, once they had made enough money. A substantial number of  them

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had left a wife behind on emigrating – 44% of  those in the database for whom this information is available – and in many cases they would have had children, too. Furthermore, although life might have been a perpetual struggle in Tsamantas, it was nonetheless ‘home’, and socially and culturally it provided a richly rewarding environment. Consequently, some of  the migrants did return to Greece, including all four of  the pioneering emigrants to Worcester. Evangelos Kentros recalls that his father and his uncle were relatively wealthy men by then: They had a lot of money when they came home, and their bank deposit was in gold sovereigns. I remember my mother saying that, when they decided to go their separate ways, after all those years working together, they went to Corfu to close their joint account at the Ethniki Trapeza [National Bank]. They came back with a load of gold sovereigns – not in a bag, but in a sack! It was quite a lot of money. They converted all the gold to Greek banknotes, but unfortunately it all became worthless during the Second World War, because of  high inf lation. My father died in 1953, at the age of  82. He never returned to Worcester.

But the later migrants, by contrast, tended to reject any notion of  ‘going home’. This turnaround was partly due to a shift within the American Greek community as a whole: during the period following World War I, the insularity and ethnic separatism of  the country’s Greek immigrants began to diminish, along with their ties to the motherland (Hecker and Fenton, 1978: 28). Consistent with this trend, the Greeks in Worcester – once a somewhat inward-looking group that kept itself apart from others in the city – became more engaged members of  the wider working-class community. Then, in the early 1920s, political af filiations back home in Tsamantas started drifting towards republicanism, in allegiance with Petros Bebis, one of  the most inf luential Tsamantiots of  the time and a member of parliament in Venizelos’s government. The political instability of  the inter-war years, coupled with the economic stagnation of  the country as a whole, generated a sense of disenchantment amongst the Tsamantiots living in Worcester, which dissuaded many of  them from returning to Greece, as originally planned; instead, they decided to bring their families over to Worcester, with the intention of residing permanently in the United

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States.36 Indeed, this disenchantment encouraged even more individuals to leave the village, including many of  the young men unable to find work when they were lucky enough to return alive from the disastrous military campaign in Asia Minor. Over time, continuing migration gradually reduced the village’s population, draining its life-force and helping to consign this historic community to its current state of decline and economic stagnation. But emigration was not the only reason for this decline: amongst other contributory factors were the two long and destructive wars that were fought in and around Tsamantas in the 1940s, to which we shall turn in Chapter 7. Before that, however, it will be necessary to consider some dramatic events that had a major bearing on local participation in these wars: the protracted dispute over the border between Greece and Albania, and the ensuing rise of nationalism.

36 Surprisingly, though, the 2000 census revealed that as many as 2,431 residents of  Worcester (comprising 1.4% of  the population of  the city) still identify as Greek rather than American.

Chapter 6

The Delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian Border, and its Impact on Tsamantas

The land that constitutes the modern Greek region of  Epirus was for many centuries the greater part (about 80%) of a wider region controlled by the Ottomans and likewise known as Epirus. This wider region – nowadays known as ‘historic’ or ‘classical’ Epirus – also encompassed territory to the north of  the modern region, where the ethnicity and language of a large proportion of  the population was referred to as ‘Albanian’. These people cherished hopes of someday living in their own country, and they assumed that this new nation of  Albania would include much – or even all – of  historic Epirus, despite the fact that ethnically they were in the minority in all but its northern part. However, with Greece determined to claim the region for itself, and even the Slavs wanting a share of it, it was apparent that the issue could never be resolved satisfactorily for all concerned. Even so, no one at the time would have guessed that the eventual outcome would be the cause of such intense human suf fering over so many decades. At the start of  the twentieth century, the geopolitical situation in Europe was largely controlled by its six leading powers: Austria–Hungary, Germany and Italy (together known as the Triple Alliance) and Britain, France and Russia (the Triple Entente). In 1912, the London-based ambassadors of  these so-called ‘great powers’ were charged with securing peace in the war-torn Balkans, and protecting the powers’ interests in the region. The Greeks and the Serbians – eventual victors in the First Balkan War (1912–1913), which brought about an end to Ottoman rule – were expecting to divide between themselves all of  the territory occupied by ethnic ‘Albanians’: not only the northern part of  historic Epirus, but also extensive territory beyond it, further north and adjacent to Serbia. However, some of  the great powers took issue with this proposed solution to the ‘Albanian

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question’, and there was serious disagreement on the best way to resolve it.1 On the one hand, France and Russia backed Serbia’s fierce opposition to the creation of a new state for the Albanians and supported its claim on the territory in question; on the other, Italy and Austria–Hungary, as adversaries of  Russia, lobbied for Albanian independence, primarily to curb the expansion of  Serbia and thus deny it access to the Adriatic, along with its Russian ally (Georgiou, 1994: 206; Guy, 2008: 453). As we shall see, it would be left to Britain and Germany to provide some degree of objectivity in the face of  the ‘diplomatic intrigue’ that was hampering the resolution of  this issue (Stavrianos, 1958: 510–511). In December 1912 – by which time most of  Epirus had already been liberated from the Ottomans – the London Conference of  Ambassadors decided to favour Italy and Austria–Hungary by establishing an independent Albania, thus depriving both Greece and Serbia of  territory that they had expected to absorb. However, the land designated for the ethnic Albanians (which more or less constitutes the modern nation) was somewhat smaller than they had wanted. In respect of  Epirus, for example, they were to be given only about a fifth of  the former Ottoman region2 – an area that will henceforth be referred to as southern Albania – the rest becoming the modern Greek region of  Epirus. At a subsequent meeting of  the Conference of  Ambassadors, during the spring of  1913, an agreement was reached in principle on most of  the new country’s borders with its neighbours. Two commissions were then established: one to agree the finer details of  Albania’s northern frontier with Montenegro and Serbia, and the other those of its southern frontier with Greece.3 It was decided

1 2 3

For a detailed account of  the involvement of  the great powers in this matter, see chapter 3 of  Stickney (1926). By now, this territory excluded the town of  Arta and its immediate locality, which had already been ceded by the Ottomans to Greece in 1877. At a further meeting, in August of  the same year, Sir Edward Grey expressed the opinion that this latter commission should be instructed to give Koritsa, Cape Stylos, and the strategically significant island of  Sasseno to Albania, and assign the Corfu Channel as neutral waters (The Times, 14 August 1913; Stickney, 1926: 33). These recommendations were duly accepted.

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that both commissions should take into account not only geographical considerations but also – and more importantly – people’s ethnicity, which should be determined by ‘the maternal tongue’ of  the each community, rather than the nation with which they identified (Stickney, 1926: 34). However, historic Epirus had been so complex ethnographically, both in respect of  the multilingualism of its inhabitants and the diversity of  their religious observance, that progress on the delimitation of  the southern frontier with Greece became a protracted af fair, subject to extensive international adjudication. In this chapter, we shall examine the main events of  this fraught and convoluted episode in the history of south-east Europe, with particular reference to its consequences for the people of  Tsamantas and the other villages of  Mount Mourgana. In addition, we shall attempt to explain how a region that had once been relatively free of nationalistic fervour now became a hotbed of extremism, as a result of its geopolitical division.

6.1 The 1913 international boundary commission The first of  two boundary commissions with the remit of determining Albania’s border with Greece was established in 1913. Although the London Conference of  Ambassadors had decided the general principles on which the border should be determined, the first commission faced the daunting challenge of agreeing its delimitation such that it would satisfy the two opposing rationales espoused by the great powers. The position adopted by the Triple Entente (Great Britain, France and Russia) had its origins in the French ‘civic’ interpretation of ethnicity, based on citizenship and national consciousness. The Entente took the view that the main criterion for deciding which parts of  the disputed territory should go to Albania, and which to Greece, should be whether or not the majority of  the inhabitants of a community exhibited a Greek ‘consciousness’ and ‘civilisation’. This implied the acquisition of a Greek education, the practice of  Orthodox

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Christianity, and the use of  the Greek language for commercial and cultural activities. On this basis, most of the territory of  historic Epirus would have been given to Greece. In sharp contrast, the standpoint of  the Triple Alliance (Italy, Germany and Austria–Hungary) was rooted in the contemporary German discourse on ethnicity, based primarily on language, though also on religion and tradition. But, as Nicola Guy has pointed out, the Alliance’s definition of ethnicity was ‘too vague and ambitious’ (2005: 28). Within the context of  Epirus, religion in particular was an unreliable criterion for identifying ethnicity, given the fact that, while all of its Greek population was Orthodox Christian, the Albanians were more diverse in their religious af filiation, with roughly a quarter of  them practising a faith other than Islam (either as Orthodox or Catholic Christians). Today, most scholars4 consider it inappropriate to use just one or two criteria to define ethnicity. As Eriksen asserts, the concept is inf luenced by a multiplicity of racial, social, cultural and other factors (1993: 161–162). Nevertheless, the German perspective was the prevailing one in Europe at the time, and so the Triple Alliance decided that the language spoken within a community should be the primary indicator of  ‘racial belonging’. The problem was that a substantial number of communities in the land between the northern and southern parts of  historic Epirus were Albanian-speaking but Greek in every other way, and were insistent that they should be assigned to Greece. But the Alliance’s criterion of  language dominance would result in most of  this disputed territory across the middle of  Epirus being assigned to Albania (Budina and Hart, 1995: 6; Guy, 2008: 451). Although the constitution of  the first boundary commission, and the way in which it operated, is not fully documented, we know that it consisted of ten representatives from the six great powers. Four of the powers – Britain (which headed the commission), Italy, France and Austria–Hungary – had two members each, but were limited to one vote so that Russia and Germany would not be disadvantaged. No representation was granted to any of  the countries that would be directly af fected by the commission’s decisions, namely Greece, Albania, Serbia and Montenegro. Edith Stickney (1926: 4

See, for example, Gellner (1983) and Eriksen (1993).

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36) tells us that the ten members of  this first boundary commission were as follows: Lieutenant-Colonel Doughty-Wylie and Captain King, from Britain; Lieutenant-Colonel Lallemand and Monsieur Krayer (France); Constantine Bilinsky and Carl Buchberger (Austria–Hungary); Vitorio Labia and Captain Castoldi (Italy); Colonel Goudim-Levkovitch (Russia); and Lieutenant-Colonel von Thierry (Germany). These ten members were either military of ficers or consular of ficials, and most of  them had some experience of service in the Ottoman Empire or elsewhere in south-east Europe. However, none of  them had a specialist ethnographic background, and only two had any knowledge of  the languages of  Epirus (Cassavetes, 1919: 138; Guy, 2008: 455–456). The chairman of  the commission, and one of its most inf luential figures, was Doughty-Wylie, a distinguished soldier who graduated from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst and had served in many of  the British Empire’s colonial wars. In 1906, he had become vice-consul in the Ottoman province of  Konya, in Asia Minor, and just prior to his appointment as chair of  the commission had commanded Red Cross units attached to the Turkish Army during the First Balkan War of  1912–1913. (Ironically, he was killed by the Turks in Gallipoli, in 1915.) The Russian, Goudim-Levkovitch, had served as a military attaché in his country’s embassy in Athens. The Italian, Vitorio Labia, and Constantine Bilinsky, from Austria–Hungary, had both been consuls in Ottoman-controlled Ioannina, and these two men – along with Captain Castoldi, the second Italian member – were viewed with great suspicion by the Greeks. According to Nouskas (1988: 36–37), they were known for their anti-Hellenism. Bilinsky, indeed, had endorsed the hanging of Greek civilians by the Turks in Ioannina, where a photograph was taken of  him and his wife next to the gallows (Puaux, 1918: 132). The German representative, von Thierry, had never served in the Balkans (Guy, 2008: 455–456), but as we shall see he played a crucial role in the fate of  the borderland communities of  Mount Mourgana.

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The commission’s activities were to be guided by the London Conference of  Ambassadors,5 which would issue protocol documents for the delimitation process (Stickney, 1926: 34). As noted, the Conference expected the border delimitation to be based on both geographic and ethnographic determinants, but the commission would make the decisions that would determine the actual course of the border. When deliberations began, Italy and Austria–Hungary immediately tried to inf luence the commission, by submitting a map suggesting a border that suited their interests. However, as Laurie Hart has pointed out, their proposal failed to acknowledge the complexity of  the problem, which was ‘nothing less than the central issue of  turn-of-the-century anthropology, namely the puzzle of race, language, culture and civilisation’ (1999: 205). Even so, as Nicola Guy observes, the commission eventually came to an agreement ‘on the basis of ethnography, which for them meant language, specifically the mother tongue of  the population or the language spoken within the family’ (2005: 27). As with the decision to create an independent state of  Albania, the Triple Alliance had once again been favoured over of  the Triple Entente. Britain agreed to this alternative to its position on the disputed territory in order to protect its strategic interests.6 Guy asserts that Sir Edward Grey – the British Foreign Secretary, who had overall control of  the delimitation process through his chairmanship of  the London Conference of  Ambassadors – was keen to maintain the balance of power in the eastern Mediterranean and was thus reluctant to grant Serbia any territory on the coast of  the Adriatic, which might in due course have accommodated a base for the Russian f leet. The border proposed by the Triple Alliance would avoid this outcome. Grey was also concerned about the fate of  the various strategic islands in the Aegean captured from the Ottomans during the Italo-Turkish war (1911–1912) and was very much opposed to Italy gaining permanent possession of  them, 5 6

See Nicola Guy (2005) for a discussion of  the role played by Britain during the various meetings of  the London Conference of  Ambassadors (1912–1913). See Gallagher (2001b) for a discussion of  the great powers’ conf licting ambitions and interests in the Balkans, and Guy (2005) for an impartial account of  how they prioritised their own concerns throughout the deliberations of  the first and subsequent boundary commissions.

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which would have challenged Britain’s dominance in the area and jeopardised her access to the Suez Canal (2008: 453). In making his concession to the Triple Alliance, he was expecting Italy to withdraw its claim on these islands. As we shall see, his intention was to use them as a bargaining chip to placate the Greeks for the loss of  Northern Epirus. A simple geographical solution to the border problem might have been provided by the course of  the River Kalamas, were it not for two major f laws in thus dividing the Greek- and Albanian-speaking populations of  historic Epirus. The first of  these was that, to the south of where the Kalamas f lows into the sea, a long stretch of coastline – down as far as the town of  Preveza – was inhabited by Muslim Chams, who were speakers of  Albanian. The second was that significant Greek enclaves were situated north of  the Kalamas, at Butrint, and in various communities in two other areas: one known as Chimara, on the coast, and the other by the River Drinos, near the town of  Argyrocastro (Gjirokastër). Eventually, a compromise proposed by Grey was accepted by the great powers, in which the border would follow the northern edge of  the Kalamas basin, up to the town of  Delfinaki and on through the Voyusa valley as far as Mount Grammos, in the Pindus range. But although this middle-ground alternative resolved some issues, it left a number of  Greek communities stranded in Albania, and vice versa. The delimitation commission was therefore charged with settling the matter, by visiting the area and mapping out the parts that were inhabited mainly by people who considered themselves Greek and spoke the Greek language, and those where most of  the people identified as Albanian (Shqipetar) and spoke one of  the dialects of  the Albanian language (Shqip). Nicola Guy’s thorough research of  British national archives containing the reports and correspondence of  Doughty-Wylie (2005; 2008) reveals that the boundary commission began its work on 4 October 1913 at Monastir, at the eastern end of  the frontier, with the aim of  heading south-west towards the Corfu Channel. However, the commission had received no specific instructions beyond what was stated in the Conference protocol documents, and furthermore it lacked an adequate map of the region. It was only after repeated appeals by the commission that topographers were sent to assist them with the delimitation process (2008: 456). But even then, the

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production of new maps was hampered by the mountainous terrain and the time of year (late autumn and early winter, reducing the quality and duration of daylight, and resulting in frequent showers, and snow on high grounds). Guy observes that the commission’s members declined to meet any delegation or be escorted by of ficials from either side, anxious to avoid being lobbied by either Greek or Albanian nationalists. This was in line with the directive from the Conference of  Ambassadors that ‘the commission shall not take account of attempts at plebiscite or other political manifestations’ (Stickney, 1926: 34). It was also decided, for some unaccountable reason, that the commissioners’ interpreters should not accompany them during their inspection of  the villages in question, despite the fact that the of ficers were distinctly lacking in linguistic facility. Cassavetes notes that the situation was made even more absurd by the fact that Herr Bilinksi – one of only two members of  the commission with a grasp of  the local languages, being a speaker of  both Greek and Albanian – was housebound due to terminal illness, while the other, Captain Castoldi, ‘made so many mistakes (…) that the commissioners lost all faith in him as interpreter, and decided to ask for further instructions from their Governments’ (1919: 138). The commissioners now proceeded to examine the delimitation area in sections, interviewing and questioning inhabitants of  the villages and towns, and then striving to achieve unanimous decisions on the course of  the border (Guy, 2008: 456). However, the process proved to be controversial and fraught with dif ficulties. Indignant Greek authors7 have pointed out that, during its two-month visit to the southern part of  the new state of  Albania, the commission visited no more than six villages, consulted only fourteen individuals and convened on just twelve occasions. The Greek communities within this Albanian territory were angry that their interests had been overlooked, and they tried to express their fronima (φρόνημα; national consciousness) by every possible means in order to convince the commission of  their right to be a part of  the Greek nation. In the city of  Korçe, for example, the commission was confronted by a crowd of 

7

See, for instance, Nouskas (1988: 36–37); Krapsitis (1988: 26–27); Georgiou (1994: 207–210).

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locals demanding acknowledgement of  their Greek identity. The members were obliged to watch as six thousand or so schoolchildren and soldiers paraded up and down, singing Greek songs and waving the national f lag (Georgiou, 1994: 209).8 Nicola Guy informs us that Lieutenant-Colonel Doughty-Wylie, in his reports to Sir Edward Grey, accused the Greek government of involvement in these attempts to inf luence the commission, which included painting houses in the Greek national colours of  blue and white, and ringing the bells of  Orthodox churches when the commission entered a village or town. She also notes that the doors of some houses were kept closed, to conceal the fact that some of  the women living within spoke Albanian, since, unlike their working menfolk, they had not found it necessary to learn the Greek language (2008: 457). The history of multilingualism in Epirus was long and complex (Hart, 1999: 221) and manifested itself in dif ferent ways within the population. Many of  the locals not only used both Greek and Albanian but were also familiar with Turkish, which, until the recent demise of  the Ottoman Empire, had been the of ficial language. The Vlachs – transhumant pastoralists who lived in the Pindus mountains to the east – were another example of a polyglot society, speaking Albanian, Aromanian and Greek, and sometimes even a Slavic language, too. Cassavetes points out that the fact that multilingualism was widespread in the disputed territory made it inevitable that the commissioners’ remit, which precluded them from making use of anything other than linguistic evidence, would have ‘no determining ef fect one way or the other in regard to the nationality of  the people’ (1919: 138). Eventually, some members of  the commission began to acknowledge this problem and questioned whether it was appropriate to use the language spoken at home as the sole criterion for determining the ethnicity of  local populations. Moreover, Doughty-Wylie had become concerned by the manipulative actions of  the junior Italian delegate, Captain Castoldi. To

8

In his emotive book entitled the ‘The Sorrows of  Epirus’ (1918), the French journalist René Puaux, who visited the region just a few months after the commission carried out its work, paints a similar picture of a population desperate to persuade the commission to make it part of  ‘mother’ Greece, rather than abandon it to an ‘unruly’ Albania.

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protect Italian interests, Castoldi had suggested that only elderly people should be interviewed, aware as he was that they were more likely to speak Albanian than the younger generation. In response, Doughty-Wylie telegraphed London to petition that the criteria for delimiting the border should include not just language but also ‘nationality, geographical features and economic and strategic considerations’ (Guy, 2008: 458). Authorisation was granted to proceed on this basis, and the commission started making substantial progress – partly due to the mediation of  Doughty-Wylie and one of  the French commissioners, but also because of  the death of  the Austrian consul Bilinski, whose need for medical attention had been delaying the process (Nouskas, 1988: 37–38). On 25 November 1913, when the commission began its four-day visit to the town of  Gjirocastër, it was faced by the largest and most vocal demonstration thus far. The vast majority of  the district’s inhabitants took part, demanding union with Greece (Georgiou, 1994: 209–210). However, despite the fact that the request to broaden the criteria used in the delimitation process had been approved by the Conference of  Ambassadors, the Italian representatives – along with Vice-consul Buchberger, who had replaced Bilinski as the chief  Austrian representative – were still adamant that the border should be determined solely by the language spoken, and since (according to them) most people living in Gjirocastër were Albanianspeaking Muslims, they argued that the town should be Albanian. In order to proceed beyond the impasse that had been reached, the vigorous objections of  the French representative, Lieutenant-Colonel Lallemand,9 and Colonel Goudim-Levkovitch from Russia were overruled, and the commission gave its agreement to this proposal. Then, in early December 1913, the members travelled to Italy, hoping to finalise the boundary delimitation in Florence. The Greek prime minister, Eleftherios Venizelos, expressed his concerns about the possible outcome to Sir Edward Grey, fearing that

9

Lallemand, in one of  his reports to his government, was very critical of  the Austrian and Italian representatives, who appeared to be ‘frightened to visit the Argyrocastron valley, with its many Greek villages inhabited by people in a state of  high agitation’ (Nouskas, 1988: 36–37).

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the commission would recommend a boundary that was to the Albanians’ advantage. Grey responded by promising that the Greeks would be compensated for the loss of  Northern Epirus by granting them the afore-mentioned islands in the Aegean that Italy had captured from Turkey (Guy, 2008: 459–460). According to a Greek-Albanian who aired his views on this deal during a conversation with the author, it was commonly felt at the time that, if a compromise had to be made, the sacrifice of  the northern part of  Epirus was the lesser of  two evils, since the prospect of  Turkey regaining access to these strategic islands, just a short distance from Athens, was too alarming to contemplate. Nonetheless, it was a bitter blow to the Greeks of  Northern Epirus to find themselves excluded from what they considered to be their mother country. On 17 December, the commission announced that it had completed its work and had accepted – with some minor modifications – the borderline previously proposed by Great Britain, which had sought to satisfy the two opposing camps by following the northern edge of  the Kalamas basin to Delfinaki and then Mount Grammos. This assigned to Albania the territory surrounding the major towns of  Gjirocastër and Korçe, and to Greece the area around Konitsa (Stickney, 1926: 40). The details of  this agreement – known as the Protocol of  Florence – clearly favoured Italian and Austro–Hungarian interests, by setting the border well to the south of  the line preferred by Greece (which followed the River Shkumbi in central Albania), thus giving Italy control of  the strategically important Strait of  Otranto and granting the northern part of  Epirus to Albania. At the time, this latter area was occupied by Greek forces, but the army was ordered to withdraw, and they complied ‘amid the lamentations of  the population’ (Cassavetes, 1919: 2). The Greek-speaking Christian inhabitants of  the disputed territory subsequently revolted and on 28 February 1914 they proclaimed independence as the Autonomous Republic of  Northern Epirus (Penzopoulos, 1962: 28; Nouskas, 1988: 41–42; Winnifrith, 2002: 130–131). Its provisional government, headed by George Zographos, sought union with Greece, but Prime Minister Venizelos denied the Epirot deputies right of admission to the Greek parliament to present their case, fearing that unification would jeopardise Greek relations with the rest of  Europe (Cassavetes, 1919: 2). The issue of  ‘Northern Epirus’ now became a constant

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source of  friction. In the words of  Stavrianos, an astute reviewer of  Balkan history, it was a ‘veritable powder keg’, doomed to explode with ‘disastrous consequences for Europe and the entire world’ (Stavrianos, 1958: 541).

6.2 The first boundary commission’s visit to Tsamantas Despite its liberation from the Ottomans, historic Epirus was still divided along religious lines, as it always had been under the so-called millet system, in which the Ottoman Empire’s non-Muslim populations were af forded a considerable degree of self-management. The dominance of a particular religion in any given community was as much an indicator of its ethnic identification as the language spoken by its inhabitants. As noted, the ethnographic make-up of  the region was extremely complex, and ethnic identity varied according to the locality; even the names of  the villages themselves (as well as local features such as springs, streams and mountain peaks) contributed to the locals’ sense of identity, being in origin either Greek, Albanian or Slavic. Most of  the villages on Mount Mourgana and in the surrounding area were, according to the British archaeologist and historian Nicholas Hammond, ‘Greek in speech and outlook, and [had] been so for centuries’ (1967: 89).10 This was confirmed by an elderly shepherd from Tsamantas, with an excellent knowledge of  the area on both sides of  the border, who told the author that all of  the communities immediately surrounding his village had been Greek-Christian. These included: to the west, Sminesi (the nearest settlement across the border) as well as Grasdiani and Karroki; to the north, Maltsani, Theologos, Agios Andreas, Tsarcovitsa and Dibri; and to the east, Ai Sotiras, Pepeli and Kosovitsa.11 Tsamantas

10 11

In the Ottoman census of  1551 Tsamantas appears to be a fully Christian village (Balta et al., 2011: 359) Some of  these are Greek versions of  Albanian toponyms, as used in the locality of  Tsamantas.

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itself, with a population of more than fourteen hundred, was exclusively Christian Orthodox and Greek-speaking, and everyone would have identified as ethnically Greek. By contrast, the market town of  Filiates – and its surrounding area in the Kalamas basin and delta, to the south-west of  Tsamantas – was home to a large number of  Albanian-speaking Muslim Chams. It is estimated that there were between 20,000 and 30,000 of  them, representing a fifth of  the population of  Epirus.12 The ethnographic diversity of  the region was to have a significant bearing on the response of  local people to the creation of  the Greek–Albanian border, which was a matter of paramount importance to the communities caught up in the dispute, not least the sisterhood of sixteen villages on the f lanks of  Mount Mourgana. Sir Edward Grey’s proposal at the London Conference of  Ambassadors in 1913 had placed those on the north-western slopes – for example Leskovitsa, Sminesi, Perdikari and Yanari – within the new state of  Albania, despite the fact many of  their inhabitants, though bilingual, chose to identify themselves as ethnic Greek and were averse to becoming Albanian citizens. The Conference had left undecided the fate of  Tsamantas and its sister villages to the south, but although the Greek state had laid claim to them by including them in the 1913 census of  the territories newly acquired from the Ottomans, there was nevertheless considerable disquiet within the locality. It was feared that the border would be redrawn, assigning them to Albania, where living conditions and the unstable political situation would have diminished their quality of  life. The visit made to Tsamantas by the first boundary commission was a momentous occasion, and the Tsamantiot folklorist Kostas Zoulas gives an eloquent account of  this dramatic and critical episode in the village’s history (1991). He notes that, at the time the commission arrived, the villagers were preoccupied by a rumour that the Italian representative – inclined to support Albanian interests, in keeping with policy of  the Italian government – would condemn Tsamantas and its sister villages to the south to life under Albanian rule, joining their neighbours on the north-west f lanks

12

The inf lux of  16,000 refugee Greeks during the 1920s, mostly from Anatolia, shifted the ethnic balance even further in favour of  the Greeks (Pentzopoulos, 1962: 130).

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of  Mount Mourgana. According to Zoulas, the head of  the section of  the commission that was responsible for the Mourgana area was a German of ficer, who happened to be an archaeologist and who was conversant with ancient Greek. (Although he does not mention the of ficer’s name, Zoulas must have been referring to Lieutenant-Colonel von Thierry; he also mentions only one Italian representative, when in fact there were two.) The commission was hosted by Abbot Peschos,13 a charismatic cleric at the Byzantine Monastery of  St George in Kamitsiani, just outside Tsamantas. Zoulas relates that the German commissioner was very impressed by the beauty and artistic merit of  the three priceless votive lamps that had been presented to the monastery by the Patriarchate of  Constantinople and which hung in front of  the gilded iconostasis in St George’s church. The Abbot sensed the German of ficer’s eagerness to own one of  these lamps and cunningly engineered an agreement – in contempt of  the ‘loathsome’ Italian – that he could take one, on the understanding that the commission would push the border further back, leaving the villages on this side of  Mount Mourgana within Greece.14 In the words of  Zoulas: ‘[The German] hurriedly opened his briefcase, unfolded a map of  the border area, and with a thick red pencil drew a line. Bending over anxiously, the cleric saw that he had put our villages – Povla, Lidizda, Tsamantas, [Vavouri], Lias and Lista – on the Greek side of  the border.’ Lidizda-born historian Ilias Regas provides a more detailed account of  the commission’s visit in 1913 (1989: 47–49), based upon interviews with local residents who had witnessed the events. According to Regas, while

13

14

The Abbot was known as Papa Dimitris (Damianos) Peschos. He was born in Tsamantas in 1840 and served as Abbot from 1898 until his death in 1927. Zoulas (1991) records the reminiscences of elderly locals who knew the Abbot, and the accuracy of  their accounts was confirmed by several people who were interviewed in Tsamantas by the present author. One of  these, a man in his nineties, remembered the Abbot in person, having been obliged to ask him to minister a funeral. There is, however, a discrepancy in the story as told by Zoulas. He claimed that these events took place in 1923, but there was no German representative in the international delimitation commission visiting that year. The incident must have occurred during the visit of  the first commission in the autumn of  1913.

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Lieutenant-Colonel von Thierry was being guided around the monastery by Abbot Peschos, he asked the Abbot whether he might be allowed to purchase one of  the votive lamps. The Abbot told him that it belonged to St George – after whom the monastery was named – and therefore no one had the right to sell it. The next day, the German returned to the monastery and pleaded with the Abbot. Peschos replied that in his sleep he had been visited by St George, who told him he could give away one of  the lamps, provided that Tsamantas and its neighbouring villages on the southern slopes of  Mount Mourgana would remain within Greece. However, in this version of  the story, Peschos craftily extended the territory in question to include the land in an area called Ripessis (Ρίπεσης), by the River Pavla, on which stood the small Monastery of  the Virgin of  Ripessis and the chapel of  St Nikolaos. Regas implies that the Abbot did so out of self-interest, as his family lived in the area, owning houses, fertile land and f locks of animals. During the afternoon of  that same day, the German of ficial – accompanied by his interpreter, and Filippos Peschos (a nephew of  the Abbot) – went to visit the locality in question, and subsequently the decision was made to assign the disputed land to Greece. Filippos was interviewed by Regas during the 1980s, and confirmed that his uncle did indeed give the votive lamp as a gift to the German, together with an icon of  the Virgin.15 The Abbot told him: ‘The lamp was the reason why [von Thierry] and I became so well acquainted, discussing for hours on end our religious and national problems. The German was an educated man and knew about the history of  Greece and its ancient civilisation, which he had long admired. He was obviously a philhellene, and this undoubtedly helped his decision to go in our favour’ (Regas, 1989: 49).

15

Evidence in support of  the suggestion that the German of ficer was a collector of ancient artefacts is provided by Tom Winnifrith (2002: 163), in his appendix concerning the notebooks of  Stewart Clarke, a research fellow at Exeter College, Oxford, and a member of  British School of  Athens, who visited the border area in early 1924. Clarke had referred to a ‘German member of  the Boundary Commission purchasing an icon for £65 in 1914’, and this must have been von Thierry. However, whether this relates to the events in Tsamantas or to some other locality is uncertain.

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The news that the boundary commission had at last acknowledged that Tsamantas and its neighbours on the southern f lanks of  Mount Mourgana should belong to Greece came as a great relief  to the local inhabitants. However, this was far from being the end of  the story: the outbreak of  World War I the following year brought further upheaval and insecurity to the area, with the delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian border subjected to the adjudication of  two further boundary commissions.

6.3 The second and third international boundary commissions (1922–1924) From 1914 to 1919 – a turbulent period not just for Epirus but for most of  Europe, owing to the devastation of  the First World War – the disputed territory of southern Albania was variously occupied, at dif ferent times and to dif fering degrees, by French, Italian and Greek troops,16 adding to the ‘confusion and discord’ in the Balkan peninsula (Stavrianos, 1958: 542). When the war ended, the Greek–Albanian border came under scrutiny for a second time, at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919. Eager to reward Greece for her allegiance during the war, Great Britain and France supported Greek claims to the northern part of  Epirus.17 However, the Italian diplomats in

16 17

See Vakalopoulos (1992: 832–844) for a detailed, albeit subjective, account of  the occupancy of southern Albania by these dif ferent forces. As discussed in Chapter 4, nationalists had long been intent on winning all the territory beyond the Greek state that was mostly inhabited by Greeks – including Northern Epirus – as part of  their megali idhea (the ‘grand idea’). This same objective led to the Asia Minor disaster of  1922, in which territory won during the GrecoTurkish War was swiftly taken back by the Turks. Despite the consequent upheaval in Greece, as vast numbers of refugees f looded into the country, the international commission was able to carry out its work on the Greek–Albanian border unaf fected. However, in November 1922 the work was interrupted by the advent of winter and was only resumed on the 1st of  May 1923 (Dafnis, 1955: 79; Georgiou, 1999: 280–281).

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Paris, concerned about their country’s national security, still favoured the Germanic view that race, religion and language were the determinants of a nation and thus argued once again that the disputed territory should continue to belong to Albania (Hart, 1999: 205–207; Triadafilopoulos, 2000: 155–159). A third point of view was of fered by the United States, which wanted to assign some parts of  the disputed territory to Greece and others to Albania. The Americans suggested that Greece should regain the territory south of a line stretching from Himara to Tepeleni, and then along the River Vjoses, which formed a natural frontier. Winnifrith (2002: 132–133) asserts that this compromise would indeed have been the best solution, as it did ‘correspond in some ways to ethnic realities, since then, as now, Greek speakers were concentrated in the south-west of  [Albania], although not in a solid block’. But, as Stickney notes (1926: 161), the divergence of opinion at the Paris Peace Conference prevented any action being taken on the border. In November 1921, the Paris Conference of  Ambassadors (from Great Britain, France, Italy and Japan) formally recognised Albania as an independent and sovereign state, following its admission to the League of  Nations during the previous year. The Conference also agreed, in principle, a new delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian border, with only minor variations to what had been determined in 1913. A second international boundary commission was established, with of ficers from France, Great Britain and Italy, and at the end of  September 1922 it commenced the physical demarcation of  the border. However, unlike its predecessor in 1913, it was allowed to refer to advisers from the governments of  Greece and the newly created states of  Albania and Yugoslavia. The new commission was once again instructed to use linguistic criteria in making its decisions, where the course of  the border was still in dispute. Eager to continue protecting its own interests in southern Albania, Italy succeeded in appointing its delegate, General Enrico Tellini, as head of  the commission, making him responsible – with the help of  Italian topographers – for the ultimate decisions on where the border should run. The appointment of  Tellini was the cause of  further apprehension amongst the Greek population in the borderland communities (Guy, 2008: 463–464). Once again, there were rumours that the Italians would inf luence the new commission to the locals’ disadvantage,

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this time by shifting the border further south from its current position – possibly even as far as the southern border of  the former Ottoman Empire – in order to include within Albania the minority of  Chams scattered widely throughout the coastal plains of  Thesprotia (Regas, 1989: 50). It is not entirely clear whether – and if so, when – Tellini and the other members of  the commission visited Tsamantas. If  they did, as suggested by an elderly inhabitant of  Tsamantas, it must have been before 27 August 1923, the day on which Tellini and several colleagues were assassinated while on their way from Ioannina to the border checkpoint of  Kakavia, to resume their delimitation work. The assassination took place in Greek territory (approximately 20–30 kilometres north-east of  Tsamantas) and dramatically changed the course of events. Various Albanian diplomats in European cities, especially those in London, claimed that the assassins were Greek. However, the Greek authorities blamed three Albanian criminal gangs known to be operating in the vicinity of  the border at the time, about which they had repeatedly complained to the Albanian government.18 Even though responsibility for the murders was never established, Mussolini assumed the Greeks were to blame and ordered the bombing and brief occupation of  the island of  Corfu in retaliation.19 (People in the village of  Tsamantas – close enough to Corfu to allow, on clear days, a panoramic view of  the island from the upper slopes of  Mount Mourgana – heard the deafening roar of cannon fire echoing through the mountains, which increased their apprehension about the intentions of  the Italians.) The incident resulted in delaying the work of  the commission, as well as in tarnishing the reputation of  the Greeks. Although the case was never brought before the Permanent Court of  International Justice, the Greek government eventually accepted the decision of  the League of  Nations on the matter and agreed to pay the 18

19

For the background to this incident, and the various conspiracy theories concerning the identities and motives of  the murderers, see Medlicott et al (1983). In addition, Dafnis (1955), Nouskas (1988) and Georgiou (1994) provide impassioned accounts of  these events from the Greek nationalist point of view. See Barros (1965) for a comprehensive account of  the Corfu incident. See also Glenny (1999: 422–423) on Italy’s inf luence over Albania, and Medlicott et al (1983) on the Anglo-Italian diplomatic negotiations over the Corfu crisis.

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exorbitant sum of  fifty million lire in damages to the Italian government. The so-called Corfu Crisis is seen as an early example of  the unwillingness of  the Council of  the League of  Nations to confront Italy, despite the fact that it clearly had designs on Greek territory and was using its occupation of  Corfu as a pretext for a wider invasion. In contrast to the tense relations between Greece and Italy, those between Greece and Albania were ‘fairly amicable’ that year, according to the Athens correspondent of  the London Times. Moreover, it was expected that relations would further improve with the completion of  the border delimitation, and the conclusion of an agreement to provide guarantees for the Greek minorities in Albania’.20 A third and final border commission visited the area sometime in 1924, the exact date being unknown. According to Regas (1989: 51), it was led on this occasion by the member from France, who was again accompanied by representatives of  the Greek and Albanian governments. Despite the pleas of villagers from Tsamantas and Lidizda, the commission decided to assign to Albania the fertile land around Ripessis (which Lieutenant-Colonel von Thierry had earmarked for Greece in his negotiations with Abbot Peschos in 1913), to the consternation of  those who used some of  this land for agricultural purposes. Although they were given permission to cross the border and cultivate their fields, on presentation of a pass, access was limited by customs of ficials on both sides of  the border to daylight hours only; their previous practice of staying overnight in the area thus had to be abandoned, and they lost valuable time every day in travelling to and from the fields. Ripessis was not the only territory given to Albania by the reconvened second commission: during the same year, the Greek government reluctantly ceded control of  the so-called ‘fourteen villages’ just on the Greek side of  the border, near to Albanian city of  Korçë (Pettifer, 1994: 182). The commission completed its work in 1925 and the final agreement on the demarcation of  the border (known as l’Act final) was signed by both Albania and Greece, in Paris on 30 July 1926, concluding a dispute that had lasted for nearly fifteen years.

20 The London Times, 5 December 1923, ‘Greece and her Neighbours: New Trends of  Policy, Suspicions of  Italy’.

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It could be argued that the outcome was in most respects a resounding success for the community of  Tsamantas, since, despite the fact that its land at Ripessis was now in Albania, the border lay just to the north-west of  the village, pushing a wedge into Albanian territory and leaving some of  the Mourgana–Stougara range and the uppermost part of  the Pavla valley in Greece. But in fact, as Guy has pointed out, it created many problems for the Greek borderland communities (2008: 465). With specific regard to Tsamantas, it prevented communication between the village and its northern and western economic hinterland; elsewhere it brought disruption to the main communication route in Epirus, from Greek Ioannina, through the Albanian town of  Korçë (Koritsa), and on to Western Macedonia and Thessaloniki, back in Greece. In economic terms, moreover, the demarcation was disastrous, in that it hampered the trading of produce from the fertile district of  Tsamourgia to its traditional markets in Korçë and two other large Albanian towns: Sarandë and Gjirocastër. (Tsamourgia was roughly equivalent to modern-day Thesprotia, along with a small part of  the adjacent area of southern Albania.21 The Albanian term Çamëria (or Chameria) was used – and still is used, in the irredentist claim by Albanian nationalists on parts of  Greece – to describe a somewhat wider region, including territory further south in modern Epirus.) As a consequence, Tsamantas now began to suf fer major emigration, since the reduction in its land and grazing pastures meant that its expanding population could not be supported. Furthermore, as we shall now discover, the emergence of nationalism on both sides of  the border impeded all attempts to foster trans-border co-operation.

21

See Balta et al. (2009) for a comprehensive history of  the Ottoman Thresporotia during the nineteenth century.

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6.4 The emergence of nationalism Before the demise of  the Ottoman Empire and the subsequent fragmentation of  historic Epirus, the various communities of  the region – whether agrarian or urban – had their own unique identity that distinguished each from the other (Hart, 1999: 201; Green and King, 2001: 272–275). However, those anthropologists, ethnographers and geographers who have analysed the ethnicity and culture of  these communities have suggested that their inhabitants thought of  themselves not just in terms of what made them unique, but also as belonging to wider social groupings: firstly at the level of what we would now call the prefecture or province, and then at the regional level. Thus, despite the fact that the residents of  Tsamantas would have identified first and foremost with their village and its sister communities on the slopes of  Mount Mourgana, they would also have felt a strong connection with people in the wider territory of  Tsamourgia. Although this powerful bond did not extend to other communities further afield in Epirus – such as the Pogoni people to the east – there was nonetheless a sense of pride amongst the Mourgana villagers, and others in the region, in being Epirots and thus a part of an area that was in many ways culturally dif ferent both to Greece and to the nascent Albanian state.22 The distinctiveness of each of  the various communities on either side of  the Greek–Albanian border was not a product of isolation. There was constant exchange and communication between the neighbouring villages and towns, unconstrained by dif ferences in religious af filiation; in fact, communities of dif ferent faiths regularly shared celebrations, and interfaith marriage was not uncommon.23 It was widely believed that local Christians and Muslims were of  the same racial stock, and Nitsos provides evidence in support of  this notion. He points out that during the seventeenth century,

22 23

Minahan (1996: 407–409) goes as far as suggesting that Epirus was a nation without a state of its own. See, for instance, the French journalist René Puaux’s account of  his visit to southern Albania in 1913.

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when the Ottomans were attempting to convert their subjects to Islam,24 some of  the villagers in Linates, Yanari, Markates and St Panteleimon – to the west of  Tsamantas, and now in Albania – found refuge in the village, which then consisted of just a few households. Since they left behind relatives who chose to convert to Islam, their descendants in Tsamantas, over the generations, were related to Muslims in those Albanian villages (1926: 20). Such links created a cultural continuity between the communities, which persisted through the inter-war years until the closure of  the Greek–Albanian border. As a result, it is likely that the people of Tsamantas identified themselves more in terms of  their locality and its wider region than as citizens of  the Greek nation. Social interactions between the local communities, whether Christian or Muslim, were based on economic cooperation, friendships, and the mutual celebration of religious festivities. An elderly shepherd from Tsamantas, who spent most of  his working life tending his animals on the slopes of  Mount Mourgana, spoke of one such event: One of  the biggest festivities around here took place every year on the sixth of August, at the village of  Ai Sotiras25 – we call it just Sotiras, now – over on the eastern side of  Mount Mourgana, in Albania. Only a few of us from Tsamantas would go, as you

24 The conversion of  Christians in the area was facilitated by Bektashism (a form of  Islam practised by the many Muslim Albanians who belonged to the Bektashi Sufi sect during the Ottoman era), since it allowed for a certain symbiosis between Islamic and Christian beliefs and practices. There was also a similarity between many Bektashi and Christian rites, and Bektashi Muslims tolerated Christian saints and allowed Christians to go on pilgrimages. The legendary Ali Pasha of  Janina (Ioannina) was himself a Bektashi and was instrumental in spreading this form of  Islam throughout his realm (Poultron, 2000: 57–58). 25 The village of Ai Sotiras, a small community of around 800 people, was much admired by the villagers of  Tsamantas. As the same elderly man commented: ‘Its people emigrated all over the world, as far as Egypt and Constantinople, and they sent money back to build large houses, schools and churches. They even paid for the construction of a road from the village to Kakavia [one of the Greek–Albanian border posts], long before the Italians built a proper one in 1939.’ (He was referring to the major road from Gjirocastër to the Greek–Albanian border which the Italians built in preparation for their imminent attack on Greece in October 1940.)

The Delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian Border, and its Impact on Tsamantas 191 had to cross the high peak to get there. Most of  the people came from the Pogoni and Drinos areas, as far away as Argyrocastro and the villages near it. Back then, I was always up on the higher slopes of  the mountain, tending my herd, so I could easily drop down to Sotiras and take part in the festivities. You could see a thousand horses, laden with pears and peaches and huge watermelons, and other goods being taken there to sell. The festivities lasted for three or four days, and Christians and Muslims feasted together and danced to the music being played. I can remember the most popular song that we danced to. It was called O Smantakas [the name of a heroic Albanian brigand].

The most important paniyiri (religious festivity) for the communities of  Mount Mourgana was that associated with the Dormition of  the Virgin, held annually on 15 August at the Monastery of  the Virgin of  Ripessis.26 The building was relatively new and was situated in the fertile and picturesque valley of  the Pavla, serving the peasants who came from Tsamantas and Lidizda during the summer to irrigate their plots of maize and protect them from the wild boar that roamed the nearby forest.27 The festivities for the Dormition enabled the people of  Tsamantas and their neighbours in other villages to reconnect with friends, relatives and acquaintances living in communities just across the border, and to worship with them. They would travel to the paniyiri along the mule tracks that criss-crossed the mountainous terrain and passed through the River Pavla. As the local 26 Robert Elsie (2000: 38) notes that as many as half of  the churches in Albania in the pre-communist era were named after the Virgin Mary or one of just three other saints: Nicholas, Veneranda and George. This tradition is still evident in the villages of  Mount Mourgana: in Tsamantas, for instance, there is a church devoted to three of  these four, the exception being Saint Veneranda, who, although she has only a wayside shrine named after her, is nonetheless as greatly revered as the other three saints. The name Paraskevi (derived from Veneranda) has traditionally been one of  the commonest for women in the village (Zoulas, 1989). 27 Another building, intended to serve as a reception room for local dignitaries, was eventually erected next to the church by the abbot of  St John in the village of  Theologos, who was responsible for the overall management of  the monastery. In 1914, the management temporarily passed to the Bishopric of  Paramythia, when the area of  Ripessis was assigned to Greece by the first border commission, but it reverted to the abbot of  St John when the second commission gave the area back to Albania in 1924 (Regas, 1989: 32–35).

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historian Elias Regas notes: ‘At the festivities, Albanian Muslims attended from the “Turkish” villages of  Markati, Linati, Yanari and so on, including many merchants and traders, in order to meet, have fun and do business with their friends and Christian acquaintances, with whom they had a very good relationship… musicians used to come and play their clarinets and violins under the big trees, while raki, wine, and roast meat were provided’ (1989: 34). But the situation changed when the creation of  the Greek–Albanian border began to elicit religious prejudice, replacing what had once been a relatively high degree of  tolerance. It also encouraged nationalism,28 in a region where ethnic af filiation had never been of great significance. It did so by intensifying national allegiances at the local level, so that a new perception of  ‘otherness’ began to emerge. The creation of  the border also led to some confusion regarding ethnic identity, especially for the Greek Christian minority in southern Albania and the Muslim Chams in Greek Thesprotia.29 For the Chams, the issue was resolved by the agreement reached at the Lausanne Convention in 1923, which led to the exchange of  ‘stranded’ ethnic populations between Greece and Turkey. The Chams

28 According to Gellner (1983: 55), ‘it is nationalism which endangers nations, and not the other way round’. Indeed, Sardelis (1994) describes its Greek manifestation (Elladhismos) as the curse of  Hellenism. For a more recent discussion regarding the origins of  Greek nationalism and the consolidation of  Greek identity, drawing from authors from a variety of academic disciplines, see Beaton and Ricks (2009). With regard to nationalism across the border, the Albanian diplomat and fierce nationalist Mehmet Konitza discusses its emergence in his country in the context of  the ‘Albanian question’ (1918); his views are in sharp contrast to Cassavetes (1919), who supports the Greek position. Finally, Behar (2001) provides an informative discussion on contemporary border disputes in the Balkans as a whole, and the emergence of nationalism and ethnic identity within the region. 29 As previously mentioned, the number of  Chams in Epirus at this time was estimated to be between 20,000 and 30,000. By 1940, according to the Greek census of  that year, there were 16,890 Albanian-speaking Muslims in Greece as a whole, and the vast majority of  them (15,015) lived in Thesprotia. One year after this of ficial census, the occupying Italian administration controversially put the number of  Muslim Chams in Thesprotia at 28,000 (Kallibretakis, 1995: 37–38).

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were given the option of identifying themselves as Turks, and therefore relocating to Turkey, or to be ‘Greek nationals of  Albanian origin’, and thus remain in Greece. In fact, most of  them opted to stay in Greece. However, unlike the Christian Albanians in Greek Epirus, the Muslim Chams would remain unassimilated within the Greek state (in which, of course, the Orthodox Church played a central role) and would continue to consider themselves Albanian. Likewise, the Greek Christians who were stranded in Albania thought of  themselves as Greek. But all other residents of  the border communities now began to identify as nationals of  the country in which they lived, and the regional underpinning of  their identity gradually faded away, until their sense of  being as Epirots was very much of secondary importance. Despite the fact that the communities on the Greek side of  the border were now part of  the Greek state, anxiety about their future persisted and they began to assert their national af filiation, in order to consolidate their newly acquired status. In Tsamantas, an attempt was made to establish a strong Greek connection to the village’s name. Nikolaos Nitsos was the driving force behind this objective, and he wrote numerous letters to the editor of  Thesprotia, the local newspaper, in which he suggested that the name of  Tsamantas originated from an aristocratic Byzantine30 family called Tsamantouros (discussed in greater depth in Chapter 2). He also claimed that the name of  Tsamourgia, as most of what is now Thesprotia was known in the early twentieth century, shared the same derivation. In his monograph, Nitsos frequently uses the term Cham (Τσάμης) to refer to the people of  this part of  Epirus (whether Christian or Muslim), evidently proud of  the historical implications. However, whether ‘Tsamis’ is also derived from the name of  Tsamantouros is a matter of dispute: in a book 30

Byzantium was central to Greek national identity during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. It was primarily Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos – the author of  the monumental (but somewhat biased) work ‘Istoria tou Ellinikou Ethnous’ (The history of  the Greek nation; 5 Vols, 1860–1874) – who persuaded the Greek-speaking world, and Greek intellectuals in particular, to view Byzantine history as that of  the Greek nation (Kitromilides, 1998). In Chapter 2, we have discussed how his work came to inf luence Nikolaos Nitsos.

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on the origins of  local place names, Athinagoras – the bishop of Paramythia and Filiates between 1923 and 1942, and a prolific author – suggested that the term might in fact have originated from ‘Isam’, the name bestowed on the first local Christian of ficial who converted to Islam in order to gain prestige, money and favours from the Sultan (Athinagoras, 1934: 49–53).31 After liberation from the Ottomans and the incorporation of  this part of  Epirus within the Greek state, the area gradually came to be known as Thesprotia, and the term ‘Tsamis’ (or ‘Cham’) was used exclusively to refer to the Muslim minority. The status of  the Chams was put in peril at the end of  the Second World War, when they faced the wrath of Greek nationalists for having collaborated with the Italian and German occupying forces. Eventually, as we shall see in the following chapter, they were expelled en masse to the town of  Konispol and its surrounding villages in southern Albania, and some of  their mosques were razed to the ground. Another major development after the war was that the Communist rulers of  Albania ordered the complete closure of  the Greek–Albanian border in 1945, fencing it of f and burying land mines. However, the mountainous terrain prevented continuous fencing from one end of  the border to the other, with unfortunate consequences for some: when a shepherd from Tsamantas crossed the border on one occasion, to gather his stray f lock, he was shot and killed by Albanian guards. The closure of  the border was a terrible blow to the communities on both sides, and in particular those villagers in Tsamantas and Lidizda who now lost access to their land in Albania. The local way of  life was disrupted, and traditional patterns of social interaction had to adapt to the new situation. The communal festivities in August for the Dormition of  the Virgin, for example – the most important event in the local calendar – could no longer be shared with others, as Ripessis was now inaccessible to those on the Greek side of  the border; ever since, the paniyiri has been

31

The most common explanation of  the origins of  the word Cham given by the Greek media is that the term derived from the name of river Thyamis (as the Kalamas was known in antiquity). See for instance, Greece’s largest rivers, (accessed 10/8/2013).

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held at the main church in Tsamantas, which bears the Virgin’s name. Far worse, however, was the fact that all contact with individuals across the border was prohibited, and thousands of people were completely cut of f  from relatives and friends for the next four decades. Athina Vesdrevanis told the story of  her relative – and the author’s great aunt – Andhroniki Vesdrevanis, the only daughter in a family of seven children. Prior to the Second World War, Andhroniki was given in marriage, against her will, to a Greek–Albanian widower, who took her over the border to live in the village of  Grasdiani. Although it was far from a happy marriage, Andhroniki bore several children, some of whom were later to become important members of  the Communist elite. But when the border closed she was isolated from the rest of  her family and never saw them again. Her only contact – with her eldest brother, Nikolaos (the author’s grandfather) – was through a handful of  letters sent and received via the Red Cross. At the end of  her life, aware that she was dying, she asked one of  her sons to take her into the mountains on a donkey, up the path that led to Tsamantas, so that she could look down on the village for one last time. Once there, unable to go any further, she turned her head and was led back down to Grasdiani. In just a few years’ time the border would re-open – too late for Andhroniki and others like her. The closure of  the border marked the start of a period of  tense relations between Greece and Albania. Just two years later, Mount Mourgana became the main battlefield of  the Greek civil war (1947–1949), during which the communist regime across the border provided logistical assistance to leftwing guerrillas in Greece. Albania eventually became the refuge of many hundreds of defeated fighters and their families, who were subsequently trapped behind the Iron Curtain, like all the inhabitants of  the villages on Mount Mourgana that had the misfortune to be assigned to Albania by the decisions of  the border commissions. As we shall see in the following chapter, the Greek civil war was the last – but also the worst – in a series of  traumas that af f licted the people of  the area during the painful decade of  the 1940s.

Chapter 7

The Years of  War (1940–1949)

The decade of  the 1940s was without doubt the most wretched era in the long and complex history of  Epirus. The Axis occupation, and the traumatically divisive civil war that followed, brought prolonged terror and suf fering into the lives of its people, the scars of which remain to the present day. The borderland communities of  Epirus, in particular, were profoundly af fected by the fighting and consequent devastation, and the events that occurred in and around the village of  Tsamantas have a significant part to play in our understanding of  this momentous decade in the history of south-east Europe. In order to interpret human behaviour and motivation in a time of crisis, we will utilise the testimonies of people who lived in or near the village during the 1940s, describing their experiences in the wars, and how their community changed as a result of what happened. Alex Kingsbury points out that the value of using local accounts is that dif ferent people’s stories provide a mosaic, and that ‘the more pieces are collected, the clearer the overall picture’ (2007: 48). A more cautious view of this approach is put forward by Anna Collard, who carried out extensive fieldwork in a remote village in central Greece between 1977 and 1979: although she agrees that the data provided by oral testimonies can be invaluable in the absence of written accounts, she warns that they are no substitute for properly documenting the past (1989: 90).1 But in the context of  Epirus in the 1940s, the existing documentation is somewhat sketchy, and often biased, and so exploring individual perceptions of events will add new dimensions – from many dif ferent perspectives – to what has been written about the impact

1

See also Papailias (2005: 97), who notes that ‘oral testimonies are always fictions of a kind’.

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of  these wars on the Tsamantas locality. In particular, some insights will be provided into decisions made by local people, both during and after the wars, on whether to remain in Tsamantas or to leave, and live elsewhere.

7.1 The Second World War In early April 1939 the stability of  life in the Mount Mourgana villages was on a knife-edge, as ominous events began to unfold across the Greek– Albanian border. On the weekend of  the 8 and 9 April, Italian troops marched unchallenged into Albania, and King Zog had f led to Greece. The communities of  Tsamantas and Lidizda in particular were apprehensive about these developments, as some of  their residents had a specific dispensation allowing them to cross the border, to farm their fields, and they were fearful of  losing their right of access. Their anxiety increased during the summer, when the Greek government, led by the dictator General Metaxas, called up 10,000 reserve soldiers and stationed them along the border – allegedly for training in the use of new weapons, but in fact in anticipation of military action, should Italy attempt to invade. The British and the French, in response to Italy’s sudden annexation of  Albania, now pledged to guarantee the territorial integrity of  Greece (and of  Romania). But although this announcement brought some relief  to the Greek public, it also raised fears that the country would have to abandon its tentative neutrality and be pushed further into military dependence on Britain, the greatest power in the Mediterranean (Close, 1995: 53). The tension in Epirus went up another notch when Germany’s sudden invasion of  Poland, early in September, led to a declaration of war by Britain and France, sidelining the pledge that they had made to Greece and Romania. The people of  Epirus now became concerned that the Italians would soon stage an invasion of  Greece, emulating the aggression of  their German allies. There were rumours that the Italians might also try to push back the Greek–Albanian border to its pre-First World War position, making Tsamantas and most

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of  the rest of  Epirus part of  Albania. In January 1940, just a month prior to his death, Nikolaos Nitsos sent his final despatch from Tsamantas to the Ethnikos Kirix (National Herald) in New York, in which he made the following portentous observation:2 ‘… the horizon is turning darker and darker, foretelling the coming storm. The provocative activities of the Italian invaders along the border, in blatant cooperation with the Albanians, are a clear threat to the independence and territorial integrity of our fatherland.’ He was right to be concerned. As Bernd Jürgen Fischer observes, Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini’s Foreign Minister, was indeed planning an invasion of  Greece and had been indulging in ‘his usual penchant for spies and saboteurs, ordering that Albanian irregulars from both sides of  the border be recruited to cause unrest in Çamëria’3 (1999: 73). By fabricating diplomatic incidents, he was trying to establish a pretext for a military of fensive against Greece. In June 1940, the leader of  the Muslim Chams in Thesprotia, Daut Xoxha – who, according to the Greek government, was a notorious bandit and a suspected Italian agent – was murdered by persons unknown, near the Greek–Albanian border. It is possible that this incident was not engineered by Ciano, but was instead the work of others; nevertheless, the Italian government took full advantage of it: the murder was roundly condemned, and reported with outrage in the Italian-controlled Albanian media as an example of  Greek suppression of  the Chams in Çamëria (Fischer, 1999: 74). In a tactic reminiscent of  Mussolini’s use of  the 1923 assassination of  General Tellini as an excuse to bomb Corfu, Ciano now attempted to stir up the Albanian public, playing on their desire to expand Albanian territory and liberate the Muslim Chams in Epirus, who were living on the lowland plains of  the River Kalamas and further south, in the town of  Preveza. The local historian Elias Regas, from Lidizda, notes that in response to the mounting tension in this part of  Epirus, a second call-up for reservists

2 3

As noted by Nikos Skopas in his foreword to the second edition of  the Nitsos monograph (1992: 22). Çamëria is the Albanian term for Tsamourgia, the territory referred in previous chapters.

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was announced by the Metaxas regime later that summer, to further reinforce the defence of  the Greek–Albanian border (1989: 177). On August the 4th, the regime celebrated the end of its fourth year in power, in an upbeat atmosphere of national strength and unity. An article in the London Times of  the following day4 reported that, despite the authoritarian nature of their government, the Greek people were now grateful to General Metaxas for thus far having kept them out of  the war. However, Italian provocations continued unabated, and on the 15 August the Greek warship Elli was torpedoed in the port of  Tinos. A subsequent article in the Times5 observed that the Metaxas government had shown ‘exemplary calm’ following this act of aggression, but noted that measures were being taken in preparation for conf lict, since the number of  Italian troops across the border in Albania had reportedly to risen to 170,000. 7.1.1 The Axis invasion and occupation The fragile peace of  the borderland communities was shattered early in the morning of  28 October 1940, when the people of  Tsamantas woke to the sound of  heavy artillery fire coming from just across the Albanian border, aimed at the base of a Greek army regiment stationed in neighbouring Povla. (The Italians were presumably unaware that the border guard-posts at both Povla and Tsamantas had been abandoned overnight, following the order to withdraw and take up defensive positions a few kilometres further south.) The people of  Tsamantas were deeply concerned about the implications of  this manoeuvre, but it struck them that the Italians might have been imprudent in beginning their of fensive now, with the winter looming. Even so, the Italian troops now began to advance, untroubled by resistance, and having crossed the border at Povla they continued on to Tsamantas. Their approach is vividly described by Michalis Noussis, who witnessed the event as a youngster:

4 5

‘Authoritarian Greece’, the London Times, Monday August 5, 1940. ‘The Axis Plans for the Balkans’, the London Times, Thursday September 5, 1940.

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My mother and I [his father was in America] were living in the neighbourhood of  Pouranthis. On the first day of  the war, when the women saw Italian soldiers coming down towards the river, holding up their regimental banners and Italian national f lags, they started screaming and crying. There were about 150 soldiers, and most of  them camped outside the village, in the fields.

Over the next three weeks, fierce battles were fought further to the south, mainly along the River Kalamas. The Italians had expected to advance with comparative ease towards Athens, but they had not reckoned with the tenacity of  the Greek army, and on 17 November, after a decisive battle in which the advancing Greek troops attacked the Italians from two opposing hills – one in Tsamantas and the other in Povla, respectively known to the locals as Antikamenos and Tavera – the Italians were forced to retreat to Albania (Regas, 1989: 178). Here is how Michalis remembers their withdrawal: The Greek army came from [the neighbouring village of ] Lias, with artillery loaded on mules. One night they fired two missiles, which fell near some houses in Pouranthis. There were some Chams with the Italians, and the next morning they all withdrew to the edge of  the village, near the chapel of  St Dimitris, in order to escape. Then we saw an Italian aeroplane overhead, making a smoke circle in the sky. This was apparently a signal, telling the Italian soldiers that they were about to be encircled by the Greeks. Their only way out was towards Lesinitsa [in Albania]. When we saw the Italians coming, heading for the road to Lesinitsa, we got scared and ran up Mount Mourgana, while they went of f past the empty border post. But there were a few of  them up on the mountain, too, and one by one they ran past us, shouting out in appeasement.

The crushing of  the first incursion of  the Italians into Greek territory is celebrated as one of  the most impressive victories in Greece’s recent military history. Its army subsequently drove deep into Albanian territory, to the town of  Tepeleni, and by the end of  the year had occupied much of what the Greeks still referred to as Northern Epirus, where most of  the population was ethnically Greek. During the winter of  1940–1941, hostilities between the Greek and Italian armies continued on the snow-covered mountains of  Albania. Many young men from Tsamantas were fighting on the front line – a source of great anxiety for their families. Then, in April 1941, Hitler decided to intervene and thereby rescue Mussolini, who had

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suf fered such a humiliating defeat at the hands of  the Greeks. German troops began to attack Greece from Yugoslavia and Bulgaria, with such might that the Greek government capitulated and ordered its army to surrender on all fronts. The Italians now staged a second incursion into Epirus from Albania, this time successfully occupying the whole of  the region. Their return to Tsamantas was related by the same interviewee: In April, during the Easter festivities, the Italians invaded once again. We left our home and went to a relative’s house on the edge of the village. But my mother and another woman decided to go back, to find out what was going on. They saw the Italians and the ‘Albanians’ [a derogatory alternative for ‘Chams’] passing by, and they heard one of  the Albanians shouting: ‘Tonight a black snake’s going to bite you all!’ [A local idiom, meaning that a disaster will befall you.] My mother was alarmed by what he said, and wanted to get us further away. She crossed the river, to avoid the invaders, then passed the church and came back through the fields, to take us up to the Koziakas gorge so that we could hide. We stayed there for a night or two. But when we came back the Italian troops had gone, without leaving any garrison stationed in the village.

By the middle of  May, just weeks after the start of  the second invasion of  Epirus, the whole of  Greece had been occupied by the Axis powers (Germany, Italy and Bulgaria). Having put in place a puppet government in Athens, they now set about partitioning the country. In Thesprotia, according to Fischer, the Italian troops were welcomed with open arms by the minority Muslim Chams, whose long-held dream that this part of  Epirus would become part of a Greater Albania now seemed a real possibility. However, Italian plans to annexe the region were rejected by the Germans. Furthermore, although the Italians were given nominal control of  Epirus as a whole, the region was in fact under the ultimate command of  the German military in Athens. The local administration in Epirus was initially left intact by the Italian occupying forces, but eventually they handed over the management of  Thesprotia to the Chams, by appointing Xhemil Bey Dino – a maverick diplomat and former Foreign Minister of  Albania – as the ‘high commissioner of Çamëria’ (1999: 85). Regas informs us that the rest of  1941 was relatively uneventful in Thesprotia – so much so, in fact, that some of  the men who had returned from the Albanian front, and who were tinkers by profession, left their villages for their customary areas of work in other parts of  Greece. Those who remained – mindful of  the hardship and famine their community had

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experienced during the First World War, and with no means of predicting when the current war would end – had the foresight to prepare themselves for dif ficult times, farming their small plots of  land with a sense of urgency in order to accumulate as much food as possible (1989: 181–182). However, those villagers without enough land to support their family were at a disadvantage – especially if  they had been relying on remittances sent by relatives working in the United States or Australia, since all means of communication with them had been cut of f. The Italians were trying to keep an iron grip on the activities of  the local population, and they established a gendarmerie in Agii Pantes, the next village after Povla on the way down to Filiates, with the aim of sending its men – accompanied by local Chams – to nearby villages, to demand the handing over of any arms and weapons concealed by the residents. Even so, their tactics were softened by some humanity: not only did they allow the villagers to travel to Filiates and Ioannina to purchase supplies, but for a short period during the summer of  1941 they even started supplying the locals with necessities such as f lour and sugar, selling them at reasonable prices. 7.1.2 Economic consequences of  the occupation In early 1942, consumer goods and basic foodstuf fs started disappearing from the local markets of  Thesprotia, and prices rose dramatically. This was due to the fact that the puppet government in Athens had been compelled by its German masters not only to provide supplies for the occupation army of about 400,000 men but also to pay a huge indemnity to the Axis forces. Michael Palairet notes that approximately 20 per cent of  Greece’s Gross National Product during World War II was consumed by the financial burden of  the Axis occupation (2000: 27). The consequent shortfall in the government’s finances meant that it had to resort to increasing the supply of money, thus setting in motion one of  the longest and most severe periods of  hyperinf lation in Greek history,6 which had a devastating ef fect 6

As Palairet records in his well-documented monograph on the economic and political conditions that prevailed in Greece at this time, the notorious spell of hyperinf lation started in June 1941, when prices rose by 52.3 per cent. It peaked in October 1944 – the

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on the economy (Makinen, 1986: 796–797; Palairet, 2000: 27–28). From its onset, the Second World War had brought about a period of economic deglobalisation, a term coined by Walden Bello in 2002 to refer to the process of diminishing integration and interdependence between nations. In Greece, which was still dependent upon imports of grain to feed its population, the negative ef fects of deglobalisation were compounded by the fact that the British Royal Navy had imposed a blockade, preventing ships from leaving or entering Greek ports. The blockade also had a catastrophic impact on the nation’s industry, denying it the raw material needed to continue operation. As a consequence, Greece retreated to a state of autarky, or self-suf ficiency. Furthermore, its economy was ruthlessly exploited by the Germans, who ‘allowed their soldiers to strip the country clean by requisitioning or “buying” with freshly printed marks whatever caught their fancy’ (Stavrianos, 1958: 786). The brutal plundering of  Greece’s limited agricultural resources,7 in order to reduce food shortages in Germany, is poignantly described by the American correspondent of  Time magazine,8 who wrote in February 1942: The Nazi Army of  Occupation last year worked like a pack of driver ants and left the country bone-clean. More than half of  Greece’s wheat (which had to be supplemented by imports in normal times) was ‘sold’ to Germany. Greek tomatoes, even green ones, were hurried to scurvy-ridden German troops in Africa. Livestock, dried vegetables and fruits went the same way. The Germans fried Greek potatoes in Greek fat and shipped them, cooked, back to Germany. The Nazi Army of  Occupation, during the two months it was in command, bought up all stocks of clothes with bundles of  their worthless ‘occupation marks’. By report, the only relief  the Axis has given to Greece has been 10,000 tons of grain which Italy sent from her own slim stores – secretly, so that underfed Italians should not protest.

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month in which Greece was liberated from the German occupation – with prices having risen by 5,459 per cent. Palairet adds that this was one of  longest periods of  hyperinf lation ever experienced in economic history (2000: 9). Greece had never been self-suf ficient in the production of certain agricultural produce, such as cereals or cotton. Statistics from the years just prior to World War II indicate that at the time it had to import one third of its wheat in order to satisfy domestic demand (Pelt, 1998: 26–27). ‘Greece: Hungry Country’, 9 February 1942.

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To make matters worse, those foodstuf fs that were not appropriated by the occupying forces found their way into the hands of profiteers, who sold it on the black market (Hionidou, 2004). The draining of  Greece’s resources by the Germans resulted in a sudden drop in the nation’s overall economic production. With regard to food, in particular, Stavrianos notes that the annual yield of cereals – a vital element of productivity – dropped by 60% between 1938 and 1943, which he ascribes to a lack of  fertilizers, draft animals and machinery (1958: 786). Mark Mazower, in his insightful volume on the occupation of  Greece in World War II, adds to these problems the ef fect that the disruption of war brought to harvesting and distribution (1993). A further issue was the fact that a sharp rise in unemployment had reduced the available income of many individuals. These factors were undoubtedly major contributors to the catastrophic famine that would devastate Athens and Piraeus during the winter of  1941–1942. However, some scholars suggest a more complex explanation for the disaster. Violetta Hionidou, in Famine and Death in Occupied Greece, 1941–1944 (2006), astutely argues the case for acknowledging certain other underlying causes, namely: the partitioning of  the country, which fragmented its market and thus disrupted the internal f low of goods; the attempt by the collaborationist government to impose controls on the movement of goods and the prices they fetched; the lack of suf ficient means to collect and store surplus agriculture produce; and the absence of reliable information on demand and supply. Vassilios Valaoras, writing in the immediate aftermath of  the war, noted that a total of  450,000 people lost their life in the ‘great famine’ (1946: 225), despite the provision of  food aid by neutral countries such as Sweden9 and Turkey.10 But the situation improved from the summer of  9 10

In addition to the aid contributed by the Swedes, their ships brought seven hundred thousand tons of  food, clothing and medicines sent by Greeks in the United States, through that country’s Greek War Relief  Association (Moskos, 1990: 49–50). Time magazine (ibid.) reported that the desperate Greek Government had begged their Turkish neighbours to supply them with basic foodstuf fs, and quoted a Greek of ficial as saying: ‘We are not asking for food that Turks would eat, but for food they refuse to eat.’ The Turks responded by sending a small steamer, the Kurtulus, from Istanbul to Piraeus with weekly supplies of wheat, corn, vegetables, dried fruits and

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1942 onwards, when the British Royal Navy partially lifted the blockade in response to pressure from the American government and the International Red Cross. The latter, along with Oxfam – which came into existence in order to alleviate the Greek famine – saved many human lives by sending food, clothing and medicine supplies, despite the fact that much of  this ended up in the hands of of ficials from the collaborationist government and black-market traders. In the remote villages of occupied Greece, including those of  Epirus, the situation was not so desperate as in the famine-stricken large urban centres. Many households in Tsamantas had stored their meagre harvests of wheat, maize, pulses and other crops during the autumn of  1941, providing them with just enough to live on. However, the Axis occupation brought about fragmentation of  the rural markets of  Epirus, for two reasons: high inf lation had forced the banks to reduce the provision of agricultural loans, and the number of commercial transactions had gradually declined as the country’s transportation network ceased to function, due to prohibition on the movement of people and goods between the three occupation zones (German, Italian and Bulgarian). As a consequence, any surplus from agricultural production could be sold only in the local markets. The region’s villagers now began to rely on self-suf ficiency, as well as on bartering, both the inevitable consequences of  the rampant hyperinf lation which, in June, had begun to erode the purchasing power of  the Greek drachma. Elias Regas notes that in Thesprotia one oka (approximately 1.23 kg) of maize cost the exorbitant sum of  1 million drachmas (1989: 182). Those former emigrants who had returned from the United States before the war broke out, to settle back in Tsamantas, were hit particularly hard, as most of  their savings had been converted from dollars to drachmas and had thus become almost worthless. Villagers who had amassed gold sovereigns as an alternative to drachmas fared somewhat better: Michael Palairet informs us that the value of sovereigns rose in relation to the drachma by 642 per

medicines. People came to rely on these sources of aid, and so it was a terrible blow when the Kurtulus struck a reef just of f  the Turkish coast and sank, depriving the population of  Athens of  their most regular source of  food supplies.

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cent between May 1941 and February 1942 (2000: 27). Even so, by 1944 one sovereign purchased only 3 or 4 okas (3.5 to 4.8 kg) of olive oil, compared with 25 okas (32 kg) in 1939 (p. 45). One of  the most notable ef fects of  the great famine was that significant numbers of people who had moved to the cities from rural areas started returning to their largely self-suf ficient villages, and anecdotal evidence suggests that many Tsamantiots did likewise. It is believed that the population of  the village reached nearly 1800 inhabitants during the occupation, an all-time high, putting extreme pressure on the community’s food resources. In the summer of  1942, in response to this situation, some of  the villagers took advantage of  the lax border control to find work down on the marshy plains at Butrint in Albania. They were usually paid in kind, with rice or maize from the fields they had harvested, and some of  this would be bartered for the olive oil brought to Tsamantas by Cham peddlers. The villagers were also increasingly in contact with the Chams in Filiates and on the plains of  the lower Kalamas, in their attempts to provide their families with food and other necessities. But they started becoming concerned about the behaviour of  these Chams: encouraged by the despised Italians, they were acting in an increasingly predatory and aggressive way towards the Greeks. As a result, the villagers of  Mount Mourgana began limiting, or even abandoning, their visits to the markets of  Filiates. There were even rumours that some of  the Chams had become informers for the occupying forces (Regas, 1989: 182–183). But, despite this situation, many villagers were confident that they would soon be liberated by Britain, aware of  the fact that a small military mission consisting of  three British of ficers had already been despatched to Mount Mourgana. Others, however, were less optimistic, especially the defeated young soldiers and petty of ficers who had returned to Tsamantas after the defeated Greek army was disbanded. Loathe to rely on the assistance of  the Allies, they decided to fight back against the Axis occupiers by joining the ranks of a nascent resistance movement.

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7.1.3 The national resistance The seeds of  the resistance movement in Greece during World War II were sown late in 1941, when the government lost its authority as a result of its collaboration with the occupying forces and its slow response to the ef fects of  the devastating famine. The political vacuum was gradually filled by the left-wing EAM, the National Liberation Front (Close, 2002: 11). In the villages of  Mount Mourgana, the mood was such that EAM’s activists could expect to attract recruits with ease: in early 1942, the situation there had worsened, as restrictions on movement, the requisition of people’s meagre food supplies and the scrutiny of  their daily activities by the occupying forces made life barely tolerable. In response, the characteristically tough and resilient Epirots secretly began to align themselves with the resistance movement. As noted in Chapter 4, political af filiation had been a source of  tension in Tsamantas since liberation from the Ottomans, with many villagers supporting either the right-wing royalists or the left-wing republicans, and it was the latter group – which included a small number of communist supporters11 – who first became involved in the resistance movement on Mount Mourgana. Lidizda-born Elias Regas, who himself  became a resistance fighter, states in his memoirs that during the spring of  1942 some left-wing activists from Tsamantas began recruiting members to EAM. However, its military wing, ELAS (the National Popular Liberation Army), did not acquire its first active resistance unit from the Mount Mourgana area until December (1989: 183–189). Soon afterwards, ELAS was strengthened by the formation of many more groups of guerrilla fighters – or antartes (αντάρτες), as they are known in Greek. With others across Epirus, they began to gather on the region’s precipitous mountains. In Thesprotia, meanwhile, the Italians were responding to rumours about the existence of such resistance groups by arming the Chams, who had 11

Despite the fact that, as Nachmani observes, communism had been spreading across Europe since the Russian Revolution of  1917 and had been a serious threat to every Greek government during the inter-war years (1990: 489), there is no evidence that prior to the Axis occupation it had a major presence in the mountain communities of  Thesprotia.

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thus far been assisting them in a non-combative capacity but were now actively enlisting with the occupying forces. The only serious rival to EAM in Epirus was the right-wing resistance organisation EDES (the National Democratic Greek Army), which had started operating back in September 1941 – mainly down on the plains of  Thesprotia, in particular in the towns of  Margariti and Paramythia. EDES was headed by an Epirot by the name of  Napoleon Zervas. Although formerly a colonel in the Greek army, it seems that Zervas was not ideally suited to this new role: Leften Stavrianos (1958: 788–789) asserts that he lacked the personal qualities and organisational capability needed to develop a strong resistance movement. In February 1943, recruiters from EDES came to Tsamantas with the aim of enlisting new members and organising a local group. But, although a fair number of sympathisers existed in the village, the expansion of  EDES was strongly opposed by former army sergeant and village resident George Ntilios, an inf luential left-winger, and as a result no local EDES group was ever formed (Regas, 1989: 187).12 According to Marantzidis and Antoniou (2004: 227), the Greek people’s motivations in joining one or other side of  the antartes is one of the most under-researched and misunderstood issues of  the civil war, despite the extensive literature in this field. However, Juliet Du Boulay’s in-depth study of  life in a mountain village on the Greek island of  Euboia led her to conclude that, there at least, some had joined ‘because they were forced to, others as a means of implementing private grudges, others as a result of an ill-timed spirit of  heroism or a general sympathy with the Left’ (1974: 238). It is likely that similar factors inf luenced people in many other rural communities, including Tsamantas. Nationally, EAM was very much the dominant force within the resistance movement, and wherever the absence of  Axis forces permitted – principally in the more remote parts of  the country – its members began to establish a system of self-governance, which soon became very popular. This was the case in the villages on Mount Mourgana, where the

12

See also Foss (1978: 21–22) in respect of  the activity of  EDES in Thesprotia, and its association with the Allied Military Mission during 1943–1945.

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new system brought a degree of stability and order (Regas, 1989: 183–186). Self-governance enabled rural Greeks to participate in their village’s af fairs to a greater extent than in past, by allowing the establishment of directly elected community councils, and by enabling ad hoc settlement of  local disputes, speedily and inexpensively, through the so-called people’s courts (Stavrianos, 1952: 50–51; Close, 1995: 74). In return, the villagers provided EAM’s resistance fighters with provisions and shelter. Initially, the primary objective of  the antartes in Epirus was to prevent the requisition of  food supplies by enemy troops. However, as the local resistance movement grew in strength it began to ambush the enemy forces, who in January 1943 were forced to withdraw from the village of  Agii Pantes to Filiates. The left-wing activists now continued to court young recruits – including, for the first time, women – by of fering them food and education, as well as either a non-combatant role in EAM, or a combatant one in ELAS (its military wing). EAM had been founded on a widespread and long-standing aversion to the Greek state and the political class in Athens, and so was not only concerned with the immediate challenge of resisting the Axis forces, but also had broader objectives, for example in being opposed to the return of  the Greek monarchy, in exile since the start of  the occupation. EAM portrayed the country’s traditional elite as the lackeys of an ‘international plutocracy’ and demanded Greece’s liberation from the shackles of  British capitalism. However, as Mazower points out, its aim was not to achieve Bolshevik rule, but rather to fight ‘a dual war of  liberation – for national liberation against an external oppressor, and for internal social reform’ (1993: 113–115), ultimately leading to ‘the emancipation of  the chorio (village) from domination by the “political world” of  the capital’ (p. 306). From the summer of  1943 onwards, some of  the region’s left-wing guerrilla fighters began to visit Tsamantas and its neighbouring villages in order to recruit new members. Mazower notes that it was the practice of  the ELAS antartes at this time to demand that villagers attend speeches given by the communist cadres of  their movement, advocating unity against fascism, disparaging capitalism, and exalting the benefits of communism (p. 306). Thus, when the ELAS recruiters arrived in the Mount Mourgana villages, they set about appealing to the locals’ sense of  filotimo (φιλότιμο; the honour of serving one’s country) through speeches such

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as these, and through the contents of  the left-wing newspapers that were passed around. These attempts at indoctrination were extremely af fective: after the meetings, many young villagers either volunteered on the spot or were recruited later by a respected local figure. Most of  those who joined were young: between fifteen and twenty-five years old. The Mourgana resistance movement set up its headquarters in the village of  Lias, while neighbouring Vavouri was the base for three British of ficers13 who liaised between the Greek resistance and the Allied Forces. An interviewee from Vavouri, who was a teenager at the time, described the British operation in his village: A young British of ficer gave an introductory speech to the people gathered in the village, explaining that he and his colleagues had come to help us. They were staying in the house of  Yannis Karabinas. The village authorities, and everyone else in Vavouri, helped to shield them from the spying eyes of  the Chams and their Italian masters, whenever they came to look for evidence of resistance. The of ficers were the link between the Allied Headquarters in Cairo and the resistance units of  Mount Mourgana and the surrounding area, and they had wireless communication equipment, powered by a generator. They used this to organise regular f lights over the village by the Royal Air Force, always at 23.00 hours, and guided by the f lares of  the resistance. The plane would drop military hardware, medicine and food supplies, as well as boxes of gold sovereigns, all by parachute.

Despite the distances involved and the treacherous terrain and weather conditions, it is estimated that the Allies dropped approximately two and a half  thousand tons of supplies to Greek resistance units throughout the country, in over a thousand sorties. They also provided nearly 400 military personnel to assist in the resistance operations. However, the supply of sovereigns, although worth ‘several million dollars’, was insignificant 13

These three of ficers, who were part of  the British Military Mission, relocated to Lias in 1944, where they remained until the departure of  the Germans in the autumn of  that year. The previous year, following the addition of a number of  American liaison of ficers, the organisation was renamed the Allied Military Mission, although it was primarily controlled by the British, for whom the protection of  Greece was of paramount importance, due to its strategic location in the Mediterranean (Condit, 1967: 129).

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when considered in the context of  the enormous economic and human cost of  the occupation of  Greece (Condit, 1967: 146). From the outset, those on the left of  the resistance movement criticised the British for what they considered paltry support, and the provision of weapons and money – which they suspected was an attempt to put the resistance ‘in their debt’ – was accepted only with great reluctance (Mazower, 1993: 313). Despite this, and the fact that relations in general between the Mission and EAM were ‘often execrable’ – in stark contrast to the ‘excellent’ rapport with Napoleon Zervas and his EDES forces (Condit, 1967: 132) – initially no distinction was made between the recipients of  this aid, in terms of  their political af filiation. Eventually, however, fear of  the growing threat of communism led the Mission to focus its ef forts on supporting EDES, in the hope that Greece would remain under the Allies’ sphere of inf luence.14 Nonetheless, the presence of  the British of ficers in Vavouri, and the Allied operation to drop supplies and gold coins, provided a psychological boost to the demoralised and impoverished villagers of  Mount Mourgana, and seemed to suggest that liberation was approaching. With light at the end of  the tunnel, there was increased eagerness to join the resistance. Since defeat of  the German invaders now seemed likely, both EAM and EDES began to look ahead, aware of  the fact that they could soon be vying for power at the national level. As a result, those resistance fighters throughout the country who were not af filiated with the extremists in the movement – that is, the vast majority of  them – became caught up in a struggle between the two sides, as each tried to gain their allegiance. In Epirus, however, there was widespread disdain for EDES, which by now was being more generously supplied with sovereigns than their rivals. This contempt was not restricted to those on the Left; even the guerrillas who were indif ferent to broader ideological issues regarded EDES unfavourably. There were also suspicions of clandestine collaboration between Zervas and

14 The concern of  the Allies regarding the spread of communist ideology intensified when the resistance movement became dominated by KKE (the Greek Communist Party), which would eventually control EAM and thus become the rivals of  the right-wing EDES.

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the German occupiers, and of  the possibility that members of  EDES might have of fered the Germans information enabling them to track down and attack ELAS units (Abbott, 1994: 4–5; Meyer, 2008: 543). In late 1943, in Greece as a whole, communist-controlled EAM outnumbered EDES by four to one in terms of its number of combatants, with roughly 20,000 members of  ELAS, its military wing (Abbott, 1994: 5). Then, in October, ELAS began to launch attacks on EDES units right across the country. Soon afterwards, the ELAS leadership in the Mount Mourgana area, based in Lias, ordered the disarmament of nationalist members of  EDES in the local villages, and even imprisoned some of them. Many EDES sympathisers were forced to retreat to the relative safety of  Igoumenitsa and Corfu, while those left in the area became consumed with mistrust and resentment of  their left-wing neighbours. As a result, the community of  Tsamantas and its sister villages became more divided than ever before. This mirrored the situation in the rest of Greece, where society was split between two ideologically irreconcilable factions, referred to by those on the Right as ‘the national-minded (ethnikofrones; εθνικόφρονες) versus the traitors of  the nation’ and by the communists as ‘patriots versus collaborators-reactionaries’ (Marantzidis and Antoniou, 2004: 224). 7.1.4 The Easter of sorrow: German raids on villages in the Mourgana area With German troops in Greece under the overall command of  General Alexander Löhr, responsibility for the anti-guerrilla operation in Epirus and southern Albania had been assigned to Lieutenant-Colonel Josef  Salminger, head of  the XXII Mountain Corps until his assassination by the resistance, when he was replaced by General Hubert Lanz (Condit, 1967: 138). Salminger was answerable for one of  the most tragic incidents in the history of  Epirus: the massacre in August 1943 of  317 civilians in Kommeno, a village in the prefecture of  Arta.15 Early in the following month, after the

15

See Meyer (2008: 224–238) for a narrative reconstruction of war crimes carried out by the Germans in Epirus.

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signing of an armistice between Italy and the Allied Forces, the Italian army capitulated to the Germans, who now assumed total control of Thesprotia. The local resistance fighters began to attack the German occupiers – albeit in a disorganised manner – and to commit acts of sabotage against them. In reprisal, on 13 and 14 September the Germans burned down the town of  Sagiada and the village of  Plessivitsa (known today as Plession). Those Chams who had previously served under the Italians were by now auxiliaries in the German army, and their leaders collaborated with the Germans in these attacks. In the same month, these auxiliaries also participated in an act of atrocity comparable with the massacre in Kommeno: the execution of  49 prominent residents of  the town of  Paramythia, in western Thesprotia. In April of  the following year – on the day before Easter Sunday, when the villagers of  Mount Mourgana were preparing for the celebration of  Christ’s resurrection – a number of  German army units started heading towards the villages of  Mount Mourgana on both sides of  the border, well equipped with missiles and artillery. This coordinated manoeuvre was referred to – somewhat confusingly, given the month in which it began – as Operation Maigewitter (‘May thunderstorm’).16 Its objective was to eradicate the Greek resistance fighters in the mountains, along with their counterparts across the border, the Albanian partisans. One of  the German units began its advance from the town of  Filiates, accompanied by irregular soldiers from the Albanian town of  Konispol, as well as by some local Chams.17 Its aim was to kill the antartes who were hiding on the forested south-facing slopes of  Mount Mourgana close to Tsamantas. The sub16

17

This followed the so-called Säuberungsunternehmen of  October–November 1943, which had attempted, unsuccessfully, to eliminate the ELAS antartes from Epirus once and for all and thus open up the vital Metsovo road pass (Meyer, 2008: 524). During this operation the Germans executed many civilians and burned down whole villages in the region: for instance, in Lyngiades, a few kilometres east of  Ioannina, fifty civilians were shot and all of  the buildings razed to the ground (ibid. p. 488). Not all of  the Chams collaborated with the Axis occupation forces. As with many other non-Greek minorities, such as the Jews of  Thessaloniki and those inhabitants of  Macedonia who spoke one of  the various Slavic languages, some of  them were attracted to communism (Woodhouse, 2002: 12) and eventually joined the Greek resistance.

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sequent raid on the village was recalled with great emotion by Michalis Noussis, who witnessed the event as a child: There were rumours that the headquarters of  the Mount Mourgana antartes was over in Lias, which people had started calling ‘Big Moscow’ [referring to the fact that most of  the inhabitants, as well as the resistance fighters, were ardent communists – as were those in the smaller village of  Lidizda, which became known as ‘Little Moscow’]. So the Germans decided to clear them out. They started advancing from Filiates, Ioannina, and parts of  Albania, aiming to surround all the Mourgana villages. They arrived in Tsamantas, and a group of us escaped up to Varina [a plateau, some 300–400 meters above the village, on which many of its inhabitants owned plots of  land]. Up there, my family had a shepherd’s lodge. So there were about 30 or 40 of us, all gathered together in this tiny space. But some German soldiers were up there, too, and later on, when they noticed everyone inside the house, they approached and pointed their weapons at the building. I’d already run of f, with some other children, before they got up close, so I didn’t see what they looked like. Anyway, apparently they started shouting – in German, of course – ‘Come out!’ But no one dared to. They were only women and children… Like us, these soldiers hadn’t any food – after all, how could anyone have carried it up those terrible slopes? So now the Germans started communicating with the women inside the house – through one of  the Chams, who could speak German – and eventually they came inside and asked for bread. But of course we didn’t have any! In one corner, though, some women were preparing what we call lipano (λιπανό; bread made from maize f lour, mixed with some water and baked over a wood fire). This was what we used to eat at the time, because nothing else was available. So these women baked some for the soldiers. And then one of  the Germans, who could speak a few words of  Greek and had picked up a few of our local expressions, said: ‘Go back home! If you don’t, the Chams will do a pliatsiko [πλιάτσικο; steal your possessions]. So go on – back to your homes!’ That’s what he told us.

Although the Germans had come to the village in order to exterminate the local resistance fighters, some of  them showed a degree of compassion towards the civilian women and children, and this example, by a hungry soldier grateful for the sharing of  food, was no doubt inf luenced by the Germans’ contempt for the behaviour of some of  the Chams towards their Christian neighbours. His suspicions were well founded: many of  the hundreds of people living in Tsamantas at the time did indeed lose their possessions through looting carried out by the Chams. Regas tells us that

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the inhabitants of  Mount Mourgana, including those in Tsamantas, had by then constructed underground storage spaces – in the forest or in their fields – in which they had hidden their valuables, along with necessities such as foodstuf fs, clothes, bedding and cooking utensils, in fear of  German raids on their villages (1989: 186). Some of the Tsamantiots were now forced by Chams to reveal the location of  their hideouts, and their valuables and food supplies were taken. The interviewee continued his account: The next morning, we all went down to the village, and the German army was still there. I went to the square to see what they looked like, because I hadn’t yet seen a German soldier up close. There they were, all gathered at the school. I snatched a look and I saw two or three of  them. They were naked from the waist up – it was April, you see, and the weather was warm. I could see how strong they were, and now that my curiosity was satisfied I ran of f. For the next couple of days, we again stayed together, all of us women and children – this time in another family’s house. We were terrified. During the night, though, some friendly Chams came to the house and told us not to worry too much, because they reckoned the Germans would soon be leaving. But they also said the soldiers were going to burn down a few houses before they went. Early next morning, we saw that the Germans had set fire to the school, where all the pliatsiko was that some of  the Chams had stolen from our homes and our hideouts – including many of our animals, which I suppose they were planning to slaughter for food. The Chams didn’t have time to get anything out of  the school building. Of course, the Germans did it intentionally, because they didn’t like the Chams! We were horrified, seeing our school go up in f lames, and with all the poor animals inside as well. Then we found out that the Germans had also set alight the two empty houses belonging to the Vesdrevanis clan,18 up in Pera Machalas, and another one, whose owner was at his coppersmith shop at Ioannina; also a house in Pouranthis and another in Thana. But that was all: just five or six houses. Then they left us, and they never came back.

Another interviewee, who had been working in southern Greece and had only recently returned to Tsamantas, in order to escape the famine, described the actions of  the Germans and their collaborators:

18

One of  these belonged to the author’s maternal grandparents, who had been living in the Peloponnesian city of  Patras since 1938.

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When the Germans came, accompanied by the Chams, most people ran away. But even those who stayed behind survived, except for two men who were killed on suspicion of  being spies. In fact, they were mentally handicapped and they’d only gone down to the Church to see what the soldiers were doing.19 But the Germans did cause a lot of damage to properties – although it wasn’t them who took and killed the sheep and goats we depended on. It was the Turks who did that!

The bitterness of  his final comment ref lects the villagers’ deep sense of  betrayal by their Muslim neighbours, with whom they had previously enjoyed good commercial and social relations. Others confirmed the accuracy of  these two accounts of  the Easter raid on Tsamantas, and equally evocative descriptions were given of similar raids, over this same weekend, on neighbouring Lidizda, Vavouri and Lias. Lidizda, or ‘Little Moscow’, suf fered the most: its total destruction by the Germans and their Cham collaborators was one of  the most dramatic events of  the Second World War in Greece, and yet this tragedy is not common knowledge beyond the immediate area. ELAS was well organised in Lidizda, and most of its inhabitants had joined the ranks of its fighters. Elias Regas notes (1989: 190–191) that the Germans knew the names of  these antartes, which included not only men but also some young women. However, the guerrillas had been alerted to the danger they were in, by a comrade from the neighbouring community of  Povla, and they were hiding – either in caves, up in the mountains, or down in the forested ravines. The village was therefore deserted when the Germans arrived. A resident of  Tsamantas who lived in Lidizda as a child remembers the course of events: The Germans raided our village twice. There were Chams with them, who’d once been Christians like us but then became Muslims and fought with the Turks against the Greeks – and now they were against us again, siding with the Germans! The first time our village was raided was in winter of ’43 to ’44, sometime in February. Apparently, they stole some of our possessions, including animals, although I don’t

19

Regas mentions that one of  the casualties was Lefteris Kentros (1989: 195), and this has been confirmed by the man’s nephew. Lefteris was apparently thrown alive into the burning school.

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Chapter 7 remember this.20 The second time [three months later], the Chams told us that the Germans were coming and said we had to leave. The whole village gathered together, and we went up to the peak of  Sintili, one of  the mountains you can see from here [she was speaking in Tsamantas]. It was Easter, springtime, and there was snow up on the peak. The women melted it for water, which they used to cook some kourkouti [κουρκούτι; maize broth] to feed the children with. We stayed there for the night. Then the men began to go. Most of  them were antartes, and they were armed. They shouted that the Germans were coming up the mountain, and then, to avoid being captured, they left us. We were mostly women – some elderly – and children, and we were frightened. We walked until we came to the part of  the mountain that was Albanian territory. But then, from far away, the Germans and the Chams saw us and started chasing us. When they reached us, we stopped and raised our hands in surrender. They took us to the village of  Sminesi [in Albania]. I saw all these soldiers there, in uniforms. I’d never seen such a big army before. They were burning the buildings! We could see them throwing something inside each house, to set it on fire, while the locals stood and watched. We could also see back towards Lidizda, and the Chams were coming in our direction, herding all of our livestock into Albania. We could hear their bells all around us. Then someone approached us. He was a Cham, a Turk, and he asked my mother where she came from. She replied that she was from Asproklissi [the alternative name for Lidizda at this time], but was born in Tsamantas, the daughter of  Spyros Tsouris. The Cham knew her, because my grandfather, who had a grocery shop in Tsamantas, used to go to Filiates to buy provisions from him. Anyway, eventually this Cham decided to help us. He said to my mother: ‘Don’t worry. Sleep here tonight, and tomorrow you’ll be free to return to your village’. So the next day we started to head back. On the way, we met someone who said that half of  the villagers were hiding in a cave beyond Asproklissi. Well! We went, and to our surprise there were lots of people there: many friends and neighbours, mostly women and children again, but also Dimitrios Trichas, a friend of my father. We all went inside the cave to hide, and we stayed there for the night. In the morning, we headed for our village again, which wasn’t very far away. Suddenly, we noticed that the entire village was blanketed in thick smoke. It was on fire, and soon there was nothing left. When I say that, I mean absolutely nothing! We were devastated. Later on, my mother tried to get a meal together, although we didn’t have much with us. And then I spotted the five or six goats we owned, coming up to us. Where had they been hiding, with all this mayhem

20 Elias Regas confirms that the Germans and their Cham collaborators did indeed raid Lidizda in February 1944. They stayed in the village for a couple of days on this first occasion, without inf licting any damage, apart from slaughtering a few hens, lambs and goats for food (1989: 190–191).

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going on around them? We couldn’t believe our luck! My mother milked them and boiled some of it up. After we’d drunk it, we revived a little. But, you know, I often wonder how those little goats found their way back to us.’

Another interviewee told of  her mother’s traumatic encounter with a German soldier, who promised to spare her home if she would comply with his sexual demands. My mother was a beautiful woman, and the soldier was obviously very taken by her. Somehow she made it clear to him that she was married, with a child, and would never betray her husband. In fury, the soldier started pouring petrol in all four corners of  the house and set it alight. I wasn’t yet born, but my brother – still a baby – was inside the house, and my mum fainted in terror. But fortunately her mother appeared and rescued my brother from the fire.

The local historian Elias Regas, another native of  Lidizda, also witnessed the destruction of  the village and later recorded it in detail. He notes that, since most of  the inhabitants had either f led or been taken to Sminesi by the Germans, there were only two fatalities in Lidizda: an 18-year-old male who was too sick to leave his home, and a partially deaf  80-year-old woman who was shot when she failed to stop on the order of a German of ficer. The Germans eventually released most of  those who were detained in Sminesi, but there was widespread looting of property by the Chams, including the theft of approximately 2,000 sheep and goats, 250 cattle and 45 donkeys (1989: 199–203). A summary of  the devastation caused by the raid appears in Table 3. Table 3  Damage done by fire to the buildings of  Lidizda in the German raid of  April 1944 Houses destroyed

Shops destroyed

Houses partially damaged

Houses largely undamaged

Buildings not set on fire*

51

2

3

3

4

Source: Regas (1989). * Due to the fact that their location went undiscovered. One of  these buildings was the village school.

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The villages of  Lias and Vavouri were also caught up in the dramatic events of  Easter 1944. George Tzovaras, who lived in Vavouri as a boy, explained how one woman’s ingenuity helped his village avoid the fate of its neighbours. Katina Tatsi, originally from the city of  Kavala in Macedonia, had married a local man and come to Vavouri, and as a former teacher of  German literature it was she who spoke on behalf of  the village authorities on the arrival of a troop of approximately 900 German soldiers. ‘This is a dif ficult place to make a living’, she explained in f luent German, ‘and most of our men are away, working. No one here is in the resistance.’ A soldier was sent to inspect one of  the houses, chosen at random, and its occupants were found to be a woman breast-feeding her baby, surrounded by the rest of  her children. The locals then of fered the Germans some of  the red-dyed eggs traditionally given as presents at Easter, as well as some tobacco, and the soldiers left, heading for the neighbouring village of Lias, or ‘Big Moscow’. When they reached it, they began to set fire to the houses, and a total of  37 homes were destroyed. Just one person died – an elderly woman – as the inhabitants had already left the village to find refuge on the eastern slopes of  Mount Mourgana. The Germans were unable to continue onwards to the village of  Lista, however, since the ELAS guerrillas were beginning to shoot at them from the mountains, so they now withdrew to the safety of  Filiates, never to return to the villages of  Mount Mourgana. As they left, they torched the living quarters of  the Monastery of  St Athanasios, which belonged to the community of  Vavouri. But they spared the life of  the monastery’s only nun, by moving her and her belongings into the monastery’s church. Three local shepherds encountered by the Germans in the countryside were not so fortunate: asked about the existence of guerrillas operating in the immediate area, they replied that none were present, but were unlucky enough to do so just a moment before some resistance fighters started firing at the Germans, who executed the shepherds on the spot.21

21

The Germans claimed that during Operation Maigewitter they killed 339 resistance fighters and took 275 prisoners, of whom 200 were suspected of  being in the resistance (Condit, 1967: 143).

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George Tzovaras gave an evocative description of  the scene of death and destruction that day, in this beautiful mountainous landscape: It was late afternoon, very peaceful, very sunny. There was hardly any wind blowing, and you could see these columns of smoke rising vertically into the sky from the fires in Lias, Tsamantas, Lidizda, and the Monastery of  St Athanasios. It’s an image that has stayed with me all my life.

The annihilation of  Lidizda and the destruction of  houses and public buildings elsewhere by the German army (see Table 4) gave rise to intense feelings of anger and bitterness in the civilian population of the Mourgana villages, as did the indiscriminate looting of personal possessions by the Cham collaborators. But, unbeknown to the locals, the worst was still to come, as the infamous summer of  1944 drew closer. Table 4  Loss of  life in selected Mourgana villages, and their material destruction by the occupying forces (April 1944)

Village

Population (census of 1940)

Number of  fatalities

Buildings destroyed or damaged

Material loss

Lidizda

284

2

59

Extremely High

Tsamantas

1,147

2

6–7

High

Vavouri

548

0

1

Negligible

Lias

787

1

37

High

Sources: Regas (1989) and the author’s own interview material (2006–2010).

7.1.5 The summer of despair Operation Maigewitter was followed in June 1944 by Operation Gemsbock – in which the Germans employed three divisions against 9,000 guerrillas on the Greek–Albanian border – and then by Operations Steinadler in July and Kreuzotter in August. However, despite (or perhaps because of ) the fact

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that many Greeks lost their lives or were injured during these manoeuvres, guerrilla forces in the area steadily increased in size and military capability. Eventually, commitment to more pressing confrontations in other parts of  Europe obliged the Germans to scale down their campaign against the guerrillas (Condit, 1967: 143–144), and their withdrawal from Epirus in October heralded the end of  hostilities for its inhabitants. Even so, their traumas were far from over. In the wake of  the German retreat to Filiates in April 1944, a long summer of starvation and disease descended on the people of  the region. Basic necessities were largely unavailable, and the most vulnerable members of  the community suf fered terribly. Children were fed with gruel and wild greens, to stave of f  their hunger, and many individuals survived only by becoming beggars, going from village to village and asking for bread. The combined ef fects of  hunger and sickness began to compromise the moral integrity of some individuals. Interviews with Tsamantiots who lived through this period revealed that people were often hostile towards each other, and some of  the interviewees were ashamed to admit that they had stolen maize, vegetables or fruit from neighbours’ plots, or even the odd sheep or goat. One resident confessed that he and his brother, then in their early teens, became vagabonds: barefoot, and with their heads shaven against lice, they roamed the local communities, on the lookout for food. On one occasion they stole a family’s Sunday roast; they even found their way to Ioannina, on hearing rumours that the authorities were distributing children’s clothing left behind by the local Jews who had been deported to Germany. Debilitating (and sometimes deadly) diseases such as dysentery, malaria, typhoid fever and typhus – the latter caused by the lice that af fected most villagers – presented a major problem, especially when a new and unidentified fever-inducing illness led to an epidemic in the area. The doctor who once worked in Tsamantas had long since departed, and the only medical support came from Papa-Stolakis, the priest in Kamitsiani, who had served as a nurse in the Greek army. He managed to obtain a supply of aspirins, and camphor for injections, with which he tried to help the sick and the weak. In devastated Lidizda, living conditions made the ef fects of  the epidemic even worse, and Regas notes that at least fifteen children died there from the illness (1989: 207). Many of  the adults in the

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locality who managed to avoid sickness took advantage once again of  the lax border control and went to seek manual work in the rice and maize fields, down on the lowlands of  Butrint, in Albania. This committed them to long days of  hard work under the strong sun, without adequate food, for just a handful of maize in payment. At the end of  the working week, tired and malnourished – and in many cases suf fering now from malaria, which was rife in the marshy surroundings of the plains – they faced a walk of around ten hours to take the maize back to the village for their families. After a brief rest at home, they would return to work. Those villagers who were unable to work down on the plains had to make do with exchanging household goods in return for food. For many, this was the only way to keep themselves and their family alive. A resident of  Tsamantas described the situation: Because of  the occupation, there was no food available down in the Filiates area, where we usually bought it. So, to get enough maize or bread to keep us alive, we had to give whatever we had in our houses to the Albanians over the border: carpets, old gramophones, jewellery – anything in exchange for a loaf of  bread. Of course, the Albanians weren’t doing it out of  the goodness of  their hearts – they were only interested in what they could get from us – but even so, if it hadn’t been for them, none of us would have survived.22

Another resident, who participated in the bartering process as a young married woman, explained how the system worked: Hunger drove us to open up our dowry chests and get our woollen blankets out, load them onto our backs and take them across the border, to exchange them for bread. We walked to the villages of  Klissoura, Koumaki, Grava and Vourko. I also went to the town of  Argyrokastron – which I got to by going up Mount Mourgana and then heading down through Sotiras – as well as Kakavia, Limpochoro, and other places over that way [all of  these are in Albania]. I had sacks to sell, made from f lax and sewn by my father. We were scared that Albanian bandits would rob us, or even kill us, so we travelled as a group of  30 to 40 people. At other times, we bartered salt for maize. We got it from the saltpans at Sagiada. Each load was 25 okas [approximately

22

As we shall see in a later chapter, this favour was reciprocated when destitute Albanians entered the village as refugees in early 1991.

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Chapter 7 30 kilos]. I wonder now how we were able to carry such amounts of it. We also had some olive oil to barter with. We used to shout: ‘We’ve got good oil! Let us exchange it for maize, weight for weight!’

Bartering is normally practised only in the most primitive economies, but had been adopted in response to the disintegration of the local economy. It entailed high transaction costs for the local villagers, in terms of  the ef fort expended in seeking someone willing to engage in the process. But even in this time of desperation and uncertainty, market forces were apparently at work: the ratios of exchange for certain produce, such as olive oil, salt and maize, remained more or less stable throughout the crisis. The dreadful conditions that the Axis occupation created during the spring and summer of  1944 radicalised even the most apolitical of  the villagers of  Mount Mourgana. Membership of  KKE (the Communist Party) increased significantly, as did recruitment to ELAS. These new recruits – once again mostly young, and including women as well as men – were drafted into every branch of  the resistance, with many serving as guerrilla fighters. Leften Stavrianos asserts that, in Greece as a whole, some of  these recent recruits became ‘fanatical Communists, imbued with the ideology of  the class struggle’, believing that anyone not with them was against them, and as such were to be treated as enemies (1958: 794). As we shall see in a later section of  this chapter, this was certainly the case in the Mourgana area. At the same time, a strong surge of nationalism was emerging in parts of  Thesprotia, especially amongst the Greek inhabitants down on the plains of  the River Kalamas, where Napoleon Zervas, the leader of  EDES, was based. These people had suf fered greatly at the hands of  the Axis forces throughout the years of  the occupation; moreover, their Muslim Cham neighbours had not only been collaborating with the occupying forces but had also subjected the Greeks to random violence and looting. The Chams, however, were soon to become the victims of reprisal.

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7.1.6 The expulsion of  the Chams In July 1944, when the retreating German army was close to defeat, Zervas’s EDES forces launched a successful attack against the German–Cham garrison in the town of  Paramythia. Carried out with the acquiescence (or even, perhaps, the active encouragement) of  British of ficers from the Allied Military Mission, it was an act of retribution for the massacre, ten months earlier, of  forty-nine of its citizens by the Germans, assisted by a militia of  local Chams. The EDES unit overran the town and embarked upon acts of violence, looting properties and indiscriminately killing members of  the Muslim community (Petrov, 2005: 33; Meyer 2008: 620). Reprisals against the Chams now spread to neighbouring villages, as well as the town of  Parga, forcing many to find refuge over the border in Albania. George Margaritis, who provides a well-balanced account of  these events in his book of  2005, estimates that by December 1944 most of  the Muslim Chams in Thesprotia and other parts of  Epirus (somewhere between 22,000 and 25,000 people) had f led to the Albanian town of  Konispol (p. 71). In March of  the following year, a new wave of violence targeted those Chams who had remained in Thesprotia, and in the town of  Filiates many residents were massacred. Arthur Foss – whose book on Epirus includes a brief account of  the expulsion of  the Chams,23 based on his experiences as a member of  the Allied Military Mission – notes that ‘the spirit of vengeance was fierce’, Thesprotia having ‘suf fered more during those years than most parts of  Greece from war, famine and disease’ (1978: 173). There is disagreement over the total number of  Chams killed by the right-wing Nationalist Army. Some sources put the death toll as low as two to three hundred (Close, 1995: 161); others, such as George Margaritis, suggest the figure is closer to 1,300 (2005: 171), while Miranda Vickers, drawing from Albanian sources, suggests that a total of  2,771 Chams lost their lives (2002: 234), though this is probably an over-estimate. One inhabitant of  Tsamantas who knew the Muslim Chams relatively well was Nikos Stolakis, recently deceased, who worked as a shepherd and was f luent in Albanian. 23

See also Vakalopoulos (1992: 852–863).

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He and his father employed young Muslims from Filiates as their assistants during the inter-war years, and he remembered very clearly the ruthless enactment of retribution: There was a lot of animosity between the Chams and their Christian neighbours – personal feuds, things like that. So when the Italians and the Germans came, and the occupation started, they ‘lifted their heads’ [acted with arrogance] and became aggressive. But then we paid them back, later. I remember when the main mosque in Filiates was demolished, in 1948. It was a lovely building, with stairs up to a veranda, where the agas used to gather in winter to catch the sun. There were good people amongst the Chams, you know: some of  them were educated and peace-loving, and quite progressive. In Tsamantas, we managed to get along with most of  them. OK, we had to pay a third of our produce to them, during the Turkish rule, but they did relent a bit when times were hard and allow us to keep more of  the food. The trouble was, there were some tomaria [τομάρια; villains] amongst them, who were fanatical enemies of  the Greek state, and unfortunately the good Chams paid a heavy price for their actions against us. The ones from Paramythia in particular were very bad individuals. After the war, the Greeks, whenever they saw a Cham, would kill him straightaway – cut his throat, like a chicken’s, with their jackknives. I didn’t see it with my own eyes, but I heard about it.

Nikos pointed out that relations between the Muslim minority in Thesprotia and their Christian neighbours had been uneasy for some decades prior to the Second World War, as a result of numerous property disputes that had arisen since the end of  the Ottoman era. The attitude of  the Greek state towards the Muslims in the area had been dismissive – especially during the Metaxas regime of  the late inter-war years – and no doubt this increased the Chams’ sense of marginalisation, encouraging the emergence of extremists that precipitated the first Italian incursion into Greece in 1940. Nonetheless, those of  today’s residents of  Tsamantas who lived through the war still tend to be resentful of  the fact that the local Muslim Chams welcomed the Italians with open arms and participated in military raids on the area’s Christian communities; indeed, a spirit of vengeance persists, and some villagers were boastful of  their role in helping to demolish the great mosque at Filiates, where they were working as day labourers. However, it must be acknowledged that the expulsion of  the Chams from Thesprotia was an instance of ethnic cleansing, begging the question: Was it simply

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the result of  local people’s desire for revenge, or did the political elite in Athens organise it? As Stathis Kalyvas argued in the Greek daily newspaper To Vima,24 the undeniable local element of revenge may well have been underpinned by a desire in Athens to finally resolve the problem of  the Chams, with EDES required to do the dirty work. The final act of  this painful episode was carried out in the 1950s, when the Greek government confiscated all of  the property belonging to Muslim Chams and gave it to destitute locals and to war refugees. Still today, however, controversy continues over this chapter in the history of  Epirus.25 7.1.7 The aftermath of  liberation In the spring of  1944, a provisional coalition government was formed in Greece, in anticipation of  the defeat and subsequent withdrawal of  the Germans. Its leading members were communists, and their intention was to assume control of  the country after liberation (Close, 2002: 11; Nachmani, 1990: 490). However, as David Close points out, ‘the British and Soviet governments had moved towards tacit agreement on spheres of inf luence, whereby Stalin accepted that Greece, because of its maritime position, was beyond his reach’. As a consequence, in August the communists were forced by their Soviet patrons to acknowledge the government in exile, led by Georgios Papandreou, who was brought back to Athens by a British warship on the 18th of  October (2002: 12–13). In the same month, the whole of mainland Greece was liberated from German occupation. Then, in December, disturbing news came from Athens: EAM had withdrawn from participation in Papandreou’s government of national unity, increasing the tension between left and right. The hostile relations between the new government and EAM (together with its sister left-wing organisations of  ELAS and KKE) now escalated into a fierce military conf lict in the

24 Stathis Kalyvas, ‘Pioi itan i Tsamides’; (Who were the Chams?), To Vima, 4 December 2004. 25 See, for instance, Vickers (2002).

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capital that lasted nearly a month and became known as the Dekemvriana (Δεκεμβριανά; December events).26 The British had so much inf luence in Greece that they were in a position to demand that the communists demobilize EAM’s army. But their ultimatum was refused, and so they began to deploy tanks, artillery, airplanes and warships to bombard parts of  Athens and the port of  Piraeus, adding to the destruction of  the preceding war, and resulting in thousands of  fatalities. According to Stavrianos (1958: 828), around 11,000 people lost their lives and 250 million dollars’ worth of property was destroyed. Mazower notes that at least 15,000 suspected left-wing sympathisers were rounded up and interned by the British, about 8,000 of whom were eventually deported to camps in the Middle East. In response, the ELAS units acted ‘in a brutal fashion by executing hundreds of  “reactionary” families in Athens and burying them in mass graves’, a series of atrocities now referred to as the ‘Red Terror’ campaign (1993: 371). However, the communists were eventually obliged to surrender to the British, and in February 1945 they signed the Varkiza Peace Agreement, in which, inter alia, they consented to disband their army. This agreement has been described as a turning point in Greece’s post-war economic, social and political development, since the country avoided joining the Soviet communist bloc, unlike its neighbours to the north (Albania, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria), becoming instead a part of capitalist western Europe (Iatrides and Rizopoulos, 2000: 88; Close, 2002: 13–14). With EAM’s army decommissioned, people on the Left in Greece now expected Britain – a powerful nation, and one that they wrongly assumed was still immensely wealthy, despite the war – to provide aid in the form of  food, clothing and medicine, and even to assist in the restoration of  the country’s damaged infrastructure. However, as we shall see, their hopes were unfounded. While all of  this had been happening at the national level, Epirus had witnessed its own events in the lead-up to the outbreak of civil war. Stevens et al. (1982) note that the relationship between communist-led EAM, with 26 In ‘Europe’s Most Frightened Country’, an article in the Saturday Evening Post on 28 December 1945), Ernest Hauser – the American magazine’s Athens correspondent – referred to ‘a hungry nation divided against itself in a deadly Left-Right civil war which never stops’.

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its widespread support, and the somewhat smaller and weaker EDES had become one of  ‘uneasy peace’ within the region. Whilst EAM had gained control of most of  the Greek–Albanian border area, with Zervas’s EDES army confined to the regional capital, Ioannina, and the towns of  Preveza and Arta (Foss, 1978: 22). Ioannina now became the focus of  the power struggle between the two sides, as they tried to fill the vacuum left by their common enemy. EAM took up strategic positions around the city, and both sides tried to win over its inhabitants through their relentless propaganda machinery. Each claimed the right to be acknowledged as liberators of  the nation, but while EDES made much of its duty to guard against the international communist conspiracy – the perceived objective of which was to impose a Soviet-style dictatorship on Greece – their opponents in EAM portrayed them as having collaborated with the Germans during the occupation and of  being in receipt of aid from the British imperialists (Stevens et al., 1982). On 18 December 1944, while Athens was experiencing the horrors of  the Dekemvriana, Epirus experienced its first incidence of  fighting between the opposing divisions of  the Greek resistance, with EAM launching attacks on its rivals. EAM gained the upper hand, and Zervas’s men were forced to abandon their strongholds in the region and retreat, albeit temporarily, to the island of  Corfu (Stevens et al., 1982: 111). In the months that followed, however, right-wing extremists in Athens started forming a militia, equipped by the British and called the National Guard (subsequently replaced by a well-organised gendarmerie). With the acquiescence of a weak government, it began to put EAM’s followers on trial across the country, in an operation spearheaded by right-wing politicians, the police, and the National Army (as the Nationalist Army had been renamed). This episode is known as the ‘White Terror’, equating it with the ‘Red Terror’ atrocities of  the communists back in December.27 Data collected by British of ficials reveal that, by the end of  1945, approximately 80,000 left-wingers had been prosecuted and 49,000 jailed (Close, 2002: 20).

27

Various scholars provide further details of  this critical period of  Greek history. See, for instance, Voglis (2004: 141–157); Close (2002: 18–26); Mazower (1993: 373–374).

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In the villages of  Mount Mourgana, fear of prosecution initially drove some left-wingers to cross the border into Albania, while others opted for the anonymity of  Greece’s larger urban areas. However, as Regas points out (1989: 216–217), the situation locally for those on the Left was not so perilous as it was in the rest of  the country: although most of  the ethnikofrones (nationalists) in Thesprotia – based largely in the towns of  Filiates and Paramythia – were af filiated to Zervas’s EDES, they had of course shared an objective with the left-wing antartes during the occupation and were reluctant to prosecute their former brothers in arms. As a result, a tentative calm began to prevail. The local economy was improving, and some of  the tinkers started heading of f  to their usual places of work. The villagers of  Mount Mourgana could now travel down to Filiates for basic provisions, and for building materials to repair their damaged houses. Even the lives of  the inhabitants of ruined Lidizda improved, to a degree: some took the decision to move to Filiates, occupying empty houses recently abandoned when the Chams f led to Albania, while others made the most of their devastated village by making basic structural repairs to houses that had not been completely destroyed. Furthermore, the regional administration of  Epirus was starting to function once again. In 1946, the prefecture of  Ioannina was reorganised, and its province of  Thesprotia itself  became a prefecture, responsible for the administration of its communities, including those on Mount Mourgana. Its of fices were in the port of  Igoumenitsa, where the so-called Court of  First Instance soon began to operate, attempting to resolve the backlog of cases of injustice dating back to the occupation. After a five-year absence, soldiers from the Greek army returned to guard the border checkpoints – including the one in Tsamantas – and the local gendarmerie stations reopened right across Thesprotia. But then, in April 1946, a new government came to power. Led by Konstantinos Tsaldaris, it revived the practice of deporting those suspected of  left-wing activism to prison islands. David Close notes that these deportations followed summary trials by regional Security Commissions, who ‘usually accepted without much question the recommendations of  the police of ficers’.28 More than 28

The actions of  the government and the courts eventually gained the support of  the monarchy, which returned to Greece in September 1946, following a referendum initiated by Britain.

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2,000 communists were executed, and many more were sent to prison (2002: 26–27). In response to this climate of retribution, what remained of  EAM went underground, and on 28 October 1946 – the sixth anniversary of  Italy’s first attack on Greece – its fighters in ELAS restyled themselves as the Greek Democratic Army (GDA) and took refuge in the mountains of northern Greece (Nachmani, 1990: 490; Iatrides and Rizopoulos, 2000: 97). In the words of  the American Colonel D.E. Wright of  the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA),29 those in power had, with British assistance, ‘prepared the most fertile soil in the world for communism’. Early in 1947, under the strain of its own financial burdens, Britain reneged on its long-term commitment to provide aid for Greece. One and a half centuries of  British hegemony in Greece had come to an end. Its support was immediately replaced by aid from the United States, and in March the American President, Harry Truman, announced – in what has come to be known as the Truman Doctrine – that his country would protect Greece and neighbouring Turkey from totalitarian communism. From then until the end of  the Greek civil war in 1949, the Americans sent hundreds of army advisers, as well as military aid worth $354 million – including the latest weaponry, such as napalm bombs (Wittner, 1982). From 1948–1949 they also contributed $976 million towards the economic reconstruction of  the impoverished Greek nation (Close, 2002: 33). The national government was able to restore damaged roads, railways, bridges and ports, as well as schools and houses. In addition, American agencies, together with UNRRA and the Red Cross, were able to provide most of  the Greek population with food and medicine, some of which began to find its way to the destitute rural population of  Thesprotia. For the people of  Mount Mourgana this entailed walking down to Filiates to collect their monthly ration of  f lour, sugar, beans, oil and dried milk, plus a small quantity of seeds and fertiliser. Children started proudly showing of f  the American labels of  their warm coats, donated by the relief agencies. 29 In a letter to Dr Strode, 7 September 1947; Greece, Post WWII, Correspondence 1947–1948 Box-folder: 1: 4; Ms68–007: Daniel E. Wright Papers, 1903–1973, The Archive of  the University Libraries, Virginia Tech; (14.12.2009).

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Contact with fathers, sons and brothers in America was re-established, and a few young men who had an ‘American’ father were allowed to emigrate, on board the US navy troop carriers that were returning home after delivering military personnel. Despite the improvement in people’s lives, however, the political situation was worsening. In Tsamantas, the villagers were once again becoming divided by ideology. In the words of one of  today’s residents: The village was split between the supporters of  Zervas on the Right and those of  EAM on the Left, just like the dichasmos [διχασμός; national schism] in the rest of  the country. Zervas’s followers came to the village and started giving money to young men, to persuade them to enlist with EDES. But EAM had more support here, and I was with them, myself: you can see this of ficial certificate, hanging on this wall, here, in recognition of my service with the national resistance.

This polarisation – which was essentially as before, except that republicans were now communists, and the royalists were identified with EDES – was evident within many households, where individuals of opposing ideology would often refuse to speak to each other. However, the apparent division between left and right masked a more moderate reality. In the afore-mentioned letter sent by Colonel Wright to his colleague Dr Strode, the American estimated the political af filiation of  Greeks at the time to be as follows: ‘10% extreme right, 80% middle-of-the-road liberal, and 10% extreme left’. Furthermore, people were fickle in their allegiance – especially the young, who might have been communist one day and nationalist the next. The communist leadership had by now secretly formed a guerrilla army in the Mourgana area. They were assisted in their recruitment by some of  the resistance veterans and political refugees who had returned from self-exile in Albania. In order to avoid the army and the gendarmerie, these individuals had negotiated the treacherous mountainous paths – barefoot and dressed in rags – and were now hiding in their homes. Small guerrilla units were established on Mount Mourgana, relying on support networks set up by communist sympathisers, and by other villagers who were suf fering under

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the nationalist campaign of  terror. In an article in LIFE magazine,30 John Phillips reported that the guerrillas – most of whom had fought bravely against the Italian and German occupiers – felt cheated of  ‘their reward of  freedom’ and were now ‘determined to get it’. Mortars, heavy machineguns and ammunition supplies soon began to filter through the Albanian border. Greece was moving inexorably towards a civil war that would have catastrophic consequences, especially for the people of  Mount Mourgana, who were not only destined to be at the heart of  the conf lict, but were already deeply traumatised by the Second World War.

7.2 The civil war The Greek civil war raged with particular ferocity in Epirus, and the village of  Tsamantas had the misfortune to be its hearth, due to the village’s strategic location by the Greek–Albanian border and the fact that access to the precipitous slopes of  Mount Mourgana provided the ideal refuge for guerrillas. The war had a massive impact on the community: numerous inhabitants lost their lives, extensive damage was done to property, and many of  those on the losing side were displaced to countries behind the Iron Curtain. Its legacy continues to this day, with former allegiances still evident amongst the locality’s surviving residents. The rest of  this chapter aims to shed new light on the tragic events of  the war, by focusing on the people of  Tsamantas, many of whom were forced by circumstance to participate in mortal combat, and all of whom became, to some degree, a victim of  the war’s brutality and bloodshed. Objectivity is paramount: no attempt will be made to apportion blame to either side for the war’s terrible consequences; rather, the aim is to understand it, in all its complexity. In trying to capture the human dimension, we must once again draw on bottom-up accounts of events – including many that are little known beyond 30 ‘Greek Guerrillas: LIFE photographer gets behind lines of  leftist rebels hiding out in hills’, LIFE magazine, 6 January 1947.

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the locality – acquired through interviewing local people. Although this introduces a degree of subjectivity, the wide range of perspectives thereby achieved, in the context of  this era of complex political allegiances, helps to balance the information already available to us. Most accounts of  the civil war are in the form of published memoirs,31 or reconstructions by journalists and politicians, and these were often under-researched or are tainted by political bias (Kalyvas, 2001: 118). Through the inclusion of many dif ferent points of view, we can obtain a more realistic and comprehensive picture of people’s experiences. There is considerable controversy in the literature regarding the starting date of  the Greek civil war.32 Right-wingers argue that it began as early as 1943, during the Axis occupation, when in-fighting developed within the resistance movement, and the Communist Party tried to gain the upper hand in anticipation of  the German’s departure (Marantzidis and Antoniou, 2004: 224). However, a number of  historians33 have asserted that the civil war did not get underway until 30 March 1946, when the communists attacked the National Guard and the police station in the town of  Litochoro, on Mount Olympus in the region of  Macedonia. An even later date is favoured by most left-wingers – as well as everyone in Tsamantas – who take the view that the war began in 1947 and ended, in Epirus, late in 1949. But, whatever its duration, the civil war was a turning point in the lives of  the Greeks. Anna Collard, in her anthropological study of  the mountain villages of  Evritania in the region of  Central Greece, noted that the civil war completely fractured the traditional way of  life (1990: 244), and the same is true of  Tsamantas, where modern history is divided by the watershed of  ‘before the civil war’ (that is, up to 1947) and ‘after the war’ (from 1950 onwards). 31

32 33

These were written principally by war veterans, but also by military of ficers and policemen. See, for instance, Regas (1989); Votsikas (1983); Chatzis (2000). For a British perspective on the civil war, see Colonel Chris Woodhouse (2002). Woodhouse was the head of  the Allied Military Mission in Greece during the Axis occupation. A recent article (24 October 2009) in the newspaper Ta Nea, entitled ‘Emfilios thia ton… emfilio’ (‘A civil war about… the civil war’), suggests that disagreement over the onset of  the civil war is also rife amongst the Greek general public. See, for instance, Nachmani (1990: 494) and Iatrides and Rizopoulos (2000: 96).

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In September 1947 – six months after the Truman Doctrine had pledged to keep Greece from coming within the Soviet sphere of inf luence, and with the Americans now firmly in control of  the country, having replaced the insolvent British – the communist Democratic Army staged its initial attacks on the government-backed National Army in various parts of  Greece, including Epirus. The villagers of  Tsamantas watched apprehensively as the local gendarmerie, as well as the National Army soldiers who were manning the Greek–Albanian border checkpoints, headed for the safety of  Filiates, aware that a large group of communist antartes was on its way to take control of  Mount Mourgana. (It is important to note at this point a significant change in the use of  the term antartes. The Greek word means ‘resistance fighters’, and thus in the context of  the Second World War it refers to those of all political persuasions in their united opposition to the Axis occupation. In the ensuing civil war, however, it was used only in respect of  those fighting on the side of  the communists. They were often referred to by those on the Right as symmorites, a term which Elias Thermos notes (1968: 114) is synonymous ‘both in spirit and form to rapists, thieves, hoodlums, conspirators, criminals and traitors’!) As the soldiers and police left the Tsamantas locality, they urged the locals – especially the young, and those politically on the Right – to abandon the village and seek refuge in Filiates, since the antartes would probably kill them if they stayed. They were also told to take their valuables with them, as their homes were likely to be looted, or even burned down (Regas, 1989: 217). Eventually, as expected, a small unit of  the communist GDA reached the strategically important Mount Mourgana and the adjacent Kassidiaris mountain range, both of which could be easily supplied from Albania. With the help of  the local militia and communist sympathisers, as well as forced labour, they started to build fortifications – their aim being to switch from guerrillas tactics to positional warfare, since the mountainous terrain favoured stronghold defences. The construction work on Mount Mourgana has been eloquently described in a collection of  literary essays about the civil war by Dimitris Chatzis, a former member of  the Democratic Army: Before they could face the enemy, the small army had to tame the wild rocks of Mount Mourgana (…) with cables for telephones passing over deep ravines, and paths opened on the ridges of  the mountain. Without the use of any tools, defences were dug into

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The ever-growing tentacles of  the civil war soon began to extend towards the village of  Tsamantas. A local resident, who was a schoolboy at the time, described how they began to engulf  his community: I remember it all started in September 1947. Once a month we had to go to Filiates to collect our ration of  f lour, which the American government sent as aid. One time, we set of f early in the morning, but when we reached Povla someone stopped us and said: ‘The antartes came to Lias last night, and they’re heading for Tsamantas. You have to return to your homes.’ We went back, and in the afternoon the antartes did arrive, like they said. They called for all the villagers to gather, and they started making speeches. But only a few turned up, even though Tsamantas had nearly 1,800 people at the time.

The poor response ref lects the fact that most people in Tsamantas were initially reluctant to espouse communist ideals. They resisted the political indoctrination of  the antartes, who tried every form of persuasion to make the villagers join the movement – either as voluntary auxiliaries or as recruits to the guerrillas – or to induce them to contribute food, and assistance with the construction of  the fortifications up in the mountains. As a result of  this reluctance to comply with their demands, in October the antartes abandoned their adherence to voluntary enlistment and started a vigorous campaign of enforced recruitment of young local people to the Democratic Army. Margaret Poulos notes that women were enlisted, too, and confirms that it was the desperate shortage of  fighters that persuaded the antartes to compel them to join the combat units (2000: 424). In Tsamantas, the announcement of  the deployment of women was met with shock, as their participation in the fight against the Axis occupation had been relatively minor. The same interviewee described how the recruitment was carried out: Five or six days after they arrived in the village, the antartes announced that all the girls had to go to St Taxiarches church; not a single one of them should stay at home. So they gathered in the church with their mothers. First, the antartes gave speeches, and then they said: ‘This is epistratepsis [επιστράτευσης; conscription]. You girls

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have to go and fight.’ They’d never heard of such a thing! They all started to scream and cry, and in the pandemonium that followed, some managed to escape. But the antartes still managed to enlist about 40 or 50 girls.34 They took them to Lias and trained them. Four of  five of  them were killed during the war; the rest ended up in countries behind the Iron Curtain.

Another resident described how her mother, during this same ordeal at St Taxiarches, had persuaded her to pretend that she was having an epileptic fit, and had then grabbed her from the hands of  the antartes when she did so. She was one of  the few to avoid conscription. Once trained, the antartisses – as these partisan women soldiers were called – fought on the battlefields and handled heavy military equipment such as artillery. Many of  those from Tsamantas are remembered for their courage and fearlessness. One former resident of  the village, now living in Athens, paid tribute – despite her own af filiation to the nationalists – to a distant cousin, whom she never met but whose immense bravery as an antartissa she has always admired: ‘On the last day of  her life, she stopped a whole regiment of  the National Army from advancing, all on her own, and for quite some time. Even when a grenade shattered one of  her legs, she continued firing until she died from loss of  blood.’ The antartissa’s heroism may have been somewhat overstated, but the interviewee was clearly very proud of  her cousin, perhaps partly because the participation of women in combat was, for the first time, a demonstration of  their emancipation from the patriarchal family system. Some families in Tsamantas now began to take advantage of  the fact that a number of  the antartes had connections with the village and were willing to allow relatives or friends to escape to the safety of  Filiates or Igoumenitsa, which were in the hands of  the Nationalist Army. But everyone else had to choose, within a short space of  time, whether to stay in the village or risk trying to escape: a dilemma that led to tragic consequences for 34

Since the start of  forced enlistment of women began in Tsamantas, local and national associations had been campaigning hard for their return. For instance, the Association of  Greek Women Scientists published a plea in the Greek newspapers for the return of  36 ‘kidnapped’ young women from Tsamantas, naming each of  them (Empros, 22 January 1948, ‘Strong Protestation of  Greek Women Scientists’)

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some, as described by Toula Iatrou, whose mother-in-law was one of several who were obliged to make this decision in the absence of  their husband: We stayed on here for a few days after the antartes came. But we were scared and thought they were going to kill us. They started taking girls away. They kidnapped my sister and several others – Eleni Stolakis, for example, and the daughter of  ‘Kotsotsavou’ [the nickname for a local man], and so on. Fortunately, I was married at the time, and they wouldn’t take a married woman against her will. Then my mother-in-law said we ought to leave and go down to Kotsikas [an area near Filiates where the family took its herd of sheep and goats during the winter]. We escaped through Povla and made it down there. If we hadn’t, eventually I would have been taken inside the Iron Curtain, like so many other people. But we had a narrow escape; if we’d delayed by just a day, we might not have made it.

Anecdotal evidence suggests that around one half of  the village’s families managed to escape the clutches of  the antartes; the others were left to endure the horrors of  the ensuing conf lict. One of  the cruel consequences of  their decision to stay in the village was that the members of many of  these families were ultimately separated from one another in the aftermath of  the civil war, when they were taken (often involuntarily) as political refugees into Albania and thence throughout the Soviet bloc, while other family members remained in Greece. Eftichia Noussis recalled the tragic events that took away her sisters and eventually left them stranded behind the Iron Curtain: The older of  the two was taken by the antartes as soon as they started enlisting women in the village. When they announced a second round of recruitment, my mother said: ‘I’ll send my middle girl, so the oldest can come back home.’ But the antartes took the middle one without releasing my other sister. Being the smallest, I wasn’t recruited. In the end, one of my sisters was taken to Russia, and the other to Poland.35 They eventually returned to Greece, but only after a long time: one in 1956, the other much later.

35

Although Eftichia used the word ‘taken’, to imply that they were too young to make an informed decision, it is possible that by the time they left the country they had come to espouse the communist cause, as many did.

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Since the recent intervention of  the United States in Greek af fairs, and its support for the monarchists, the left-wing had been suf fused with intense anti-American sentiment. This extended to compatriots with close relatives living in the United States, and the antartes now began to embark on political cleansing by identifying these ‘enemies of  the proletariat’, or ‘American lackeys’, and forcing them to leave village, often with nothing more than they could carry on their backs. The trauma of displacement, and of witnessing the torture of  fellow villagers in the process of eviction, was conveyed in the accounts of  those who were present. Although a young boy at the time, Petros Pantazakos clearly remembers what happened to his family: Next to our house, as you can see, is the Boukalis family’s home [now abandoned], and this was where the antartes had their headquarters. Some of  them alleged that my father was an American capitalist because he had relatives living in the States, and they made it clear that if  he returned to Tsamantas from his journeyings as a tinker, he’d be captured. My father, Apostolos, did eventually come back to take us away, but he was careful about it: he left his mule – or his horse, whatever it was – hidden in the woods, so no one would see it outside the house and know that he was back home. But the antartes came to take him, all the same. I was just a little boy, but I remember it well. Over in the Boukalis’s yard the antartes had been giving someone else from Tsamantas a terrible beating. My father was very sensitive, and he was crying as he listened. I heard him saying to my mother: ‘If  I’m taken away and you hear a gunshot, it’ll be me. I’ll have killed myself.’ Well, at that time all the men carried a pistol, of course. ‘It’d be better to die’, he said. [At this point, Petros broke down in tears.] When the antartes arrived, and took him to their headquarters next door, some other villagers were present, and they explained that my father had been away a long time, working beyond the village, so no one had any knowledge of  his political af filiation. It was true: my father and my grandfather had spent most of  their adult lives away from Tsamantas. My grandad had a coppersmith’s shop in Ioannina, and Dad was in Konitsa for years, working as a tinker. While he was there, he became the godfather of a number of  local boys, and some of  these were now antartes – men of about 25 to 30 years of age. When these godsons heard about my father’s detention, they rushed to my mother and said: ‘If  the antartes touch him, we’ll burn down their command headquarters!’

Their response is consistent with Mark Mazower’s observation that respect for the Church and the sanctity of institutions such as the practice of conferring godparents outweighed the importance of  Marxist dogma in the value systems of most of  the antartes (Mazower, 1993: 314). Petros continued:

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Chapter 7 In the end, the antartes let him go, saying: ‘Take your family with you and we’ll accompany you as far as Povla. None of our comrades will touch you.’ One high-ranking antartis even asked whether we would like to take someone else with us, and my mum suggested taking her elderly mother. But in the end it was only me, my parents and my brother and sister who left. We came to some place just after Povla, and I said that I wanted to go back home, but my mother urged me on. We’d had to leave the house as it was; the only thing we had time to do was dig a hole in our garden, to hide some cooking pots in case we were ever able to come home. Anyway, the antartes went with us like they’d promised – all the way to Igoumenitsa, in fact. The Pronia [Πρόνοια; Social Security] gave us a hut to live in there, but it was very small for our needs. At least we’d escaped, though. But our family was totally ruined, financially speaking – especially after the antartes burned down my wealthy uncle’s house in Pera Machalas and he lost his 1,000 sheep and 300 cows. In 1951, we came back to Tsamantas, but everything was gone. We were helped by my aunt in America, who kept on sending us money and parcels of clothes and so on. That was how we managed to survive.

Petros Pantazakos’s story is just one example of many similar: between 1947 and 1948, dozens of  families had to abandon their homes in Tsamantas. Moreover, during this same period, vast numbers of children were forcefully separated from their parents and evacuated from the war zone – by communists and nationalists alike, regardless of  the political allegiance of  the child’s parents. Those responsible for the evacuations claimed to be acting on humanitarian grounds, although both sides were undoubtedly motivated to some degree by the desire to prevent the indoctrination of children by their opponents. As part of  this process, more than 25,000 evacuees – many of  them from Epirus, including Tsamantas and its sister villages – were taken to communist countries, sometimes with the help of  the Red Cross (Votsikas, 1983: 339; Nachmani, 1990: 515). This tragic episode in the country’s history has become known as the paidomazoma (παιδομάζωμα; abduction of children). In response – and at the behest of  Greece’s Queen Frederica – the Royal Welfare Institute was created in July 1947, establishing within a few months a total of  58 children’s homes in locations throughout the country, aimed at saving ‘our children in the northern provinces from being carried across the borders and from being educated as enemies of  the country’.36 36

Excerpt from the memoirs of Queen Frederica of Greece, ‘A Measure of Understanding’, quoted in Bærentzen (1987: 127).

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In February of  the following year, the Greek government submitted a formal complaint to the United Nations Special Committee on the Balkans. A call to halt the practice of abducting children to communist countries, and to repatriate those already taken, was proposed and adopted at a meeting of  the General Assembly on 26 and 27 November 1948, as Resolution 193 (III) C, despite opposition from the Soviet Union and its allies (Bærentzen, 1987: 142–143). The International Red Cross assumed responsibility for the repatriation. However, by the end of its remit in 1952 it had brought home only 538 children, since Yugoslavia was the only country that complied with the Resolution. Today, more than sixty years after what came to be known as the paidomazoma, with its echo of  the Janissaries, broke up so many families, it is still considered a taboo subject. In an article of  September 2009 in Kathimerini, the daily Athens newspaper,37 it was noted that 2,000 of  the older children who were taken to Communist countries were sent back to Greece to fight with the Democratic Army, and that of all the Soviet-bloc nations only Poland refused to do so. The article referred to recent work by Greek historians, some of whom argue that the abduction of children by the communists, as opposed to those taken by the nationalists, was a form of  leverage to persuade the parents to fight on their side. However, others were reported as taking the view that such a claim is simplistic and biased, and that in fact both sides used the evacuation of children for political gains. Further to this, Lars Bærentzen points out that the nationalist evacuations were initiated by the Greek government, as part of its military strategy, and that the children they separated from their parents far out-numbered those taken by the communists (1987: 152–153). By the end of  1947, circumstances had taken a turn for the worse with regard to the antartes, who found themselves virtually surrounded on Mount Mourgana. Sensing defeat, they suf fered a slump in morale, and discipline deteriorated. Tensions grew with the Mount Mourgana villagers, most of whom now regarded the communist fighters as a burden. The worsening situation culminated in the unleashing of a reign of  terror by the antartes that brought panic to the local communities, and dif fering

37

‘To paidomazoma kai to paidofilagma’ (‘Abduction of children and child protection’), Kathimerini, 22 September 2009.

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responses, with some of  the inhabitants becoming communist conspirators, and others choosing to act as spies for the National Army. During this period of  turbulence, the houses of  five or six nationalist families in Tsamantas were burned down, and those who had relatives in America were particularly vulnerable. The antartes were now permanently stationed in the village, and the atmosphere was highly charged. The ruthless determination of  the communists to keep control of  the situation was made apparent by the execution of  four women late in 1947. One of  these was 27-year-old mother of  three Eleonora Sdrinis-Matoussis, who was accused of  being an informer for the nationalists. Having feared for the safety of  her children, she had decided to move them to neighbouring Povla, where her mother lived, and had started to take them on foot, one by one.38 But the antartes captured her, and she was incarcerated in the Chapel of  the Prophet Elias, which stands in a commanding position above the Tsamantas neighbourhood of  Thana. She was tortured, and her screams could be heard all night long by everyone in the village. Having denied the charges against her, she was executed by firing squad, leaving her children motherless and traumatised. In Melbourne, in July 2009, the author had the opportunity to discuss this tragic event with Bill (Vassilis) Matoussis, one of  Eleonora’s children. He was only five years old when his mother was shot beside the Prophet Elias chapel, along with seven other women who had also been accused of spying for the nationalists. Their bodies were unearthed nine months later, when the antartes retreated in defeat. His mother’s was identified by her wedding ring. Bill has never discovered the identity of  the individuals who were responsible for this act of atrocity, but he assumes that they were antartes from outside the village. Although he is aware that an investigation took place after the civil war, and that their names will have been recorded in army archives, he has never felt able to pursue the matter. A few years back, however, he visited Tsamantas with the rest of  his family and built a shrine at the place of  Eleonora’s execution. A comparable tragedy took

38

Eleonora was the daughter of  Dimitrios Sdrinis (one of  the pioneering emigrants from Tsamantas to Melbourne) and Anastasia Tsingos, from Povla, whom Dimitrios married after the death of  his first wife.

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place in nearby Lias, where Eleni Gatzoyiannis was executed in similar circumstances, as related by her son, Nicholas Gage, the American author of  the best-selling book Eleni. The overall pattern of  brutal reprisals that played out in Tsamantas is generally consistent with Kalyvas’s recent theory of selective violence (2006: 195–197). He argues that acts of atrocity in civil wars are often caused by the conf lict of interests between political actors and those from whom they seek information, who are merely trying to avoid calamity – as was so poignantly the case for Eleonora Sdrinis-Matoussis, whose innocent movements to protect her children were misinterpreted by the local political actors, anxious to identify and punish suspicious behaviour. The antartes in Tsamantas used selective violence – in the form of  torture and execution – to achieve their dual objectives of maintaining control of  their territory and eliminating collaboration with, and defection to, the nationalists. In doing so, they were motivated not only by political ideology but also by spite or personal revenge. As we shall see in the next chapter, such behaviour soured the atmosphere in the village, bringing paranoia, recrimination and an aversion to authority. 7.2.1 The battle for Mount Mourgana Early in February 1948, Nationalist Army soldiers – with the logistical support of  the United States – crossed the River Kalamas near Filiates and drove the antartes out of  their strongholds in the surrounding mountains.39 Soon afterwards, the nationalists advanced on Mount Mourgana and reached the outskirts of  Tsamantas. The village now became the stage for some of  the bloodiest battles of  the Greek civil war. The memoirs of a Democratic Army veteran reveal that the opening of fensives, which occurred between 25 February and 8 March, were a disaster for the government forces, who had to retreat after suf fering heavy losses: 280 men killed

39

‘Widespread Fighting in Greece: Villages Looted by Rebels’, the London Times, 4 February 1948.

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and an even greater number wounded, and 200 prisoners taken, together with a substantial amount of military hardware (Votsikas, 1983: 199). The second series of of fensives, within the next few weeks, was also costly, with at least 700 of  the government forces either killed or injured, and the rest once again forced to retreat. But this time the communist antartes themselves suf fered considerable losses (pp. 203–204). A local woman, who at the time was a pupil in the primary school, described the ferocity of  the battles, and the intensive bombardment by artillery andaircraft: It was such an awful time. I remember that on one occasion we were hiding in the basement of our house and a missile exploded on the roof. We were absolutely terrified. More often, though, we hid beneath the small bridge [by the school]. Some of us had typhoid fever at the time, and it was thought that it would be better to spend the night in the open air, so that’s where we went. It was safer, anyway, than staying in our homes.

The missile that she refers to was probably of  American origin, since the United States had supplied the Greek air force with fast, long-range Harvards and Spitfires, equipped with heavy guns and bombs, and these were used throughout the country in the of fensive against the communist guerrillas (Nachmani, 1990: 509). Another interviewee told of  how two of  her siblings fought on opposing sides during these of fensives, the brother being a soldier with the Nationalist Army, based in Ioannina, and the sister a fighter for the antartes in Tsamantas. Such division within families was far from uncommon. In describing the most traumatic events to occur in the village during the civil war, a former member of  the National Guard, whose sister was a communist antartissa, referred to actions the like of which can only have generated bitterness and accusations within such families: The antartes captured a whole battalion of nearly 300 soldiers in Povla and brought them here, to Tsamantas. They stood them in a row and said to them: ‘If any of you want to stay and fight with us, step forward; those who want to go home, stay put.’ They were mostly just kids, and some of  them understandably said they would like to return to their family. During the night [11 March 1948], the antartes executed them, near the border guard-post. There were about 90 of  them. You could see the corpses scattered on the rocks, and after a bit they began to smell. Eventually, in the winter of ’48 to ’49, when the antartes had left in defeat and I was serving in the civil guard, we went up there and collected their bones.

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And another group of soldiers was executed – near the place where we used to make lime, for building construction – and their bodies were thrown into the lime pit. During the 1960s, some of us in the village helped the army to remove their skeletons. You could see from the skulls that they, too, were young men, or even kids, because no teeth were missing. Some of  them had been tied to each other with telephone cables.

The execution of members of  the Nationalist Army by the Tsamantas communists is viewed by many in Greece as being akin to the infamous massacre of  Polish soldiers by the Soviets at Katyn, and it still arouses strong anti-communist feelings throughout the country,40 as well as in Tsamantas itself. In the 1970s, the military junta in Athens erected a marble obelisk in Tsamantas, on a f lat-topped hill near the entrance to the village, to commemorate the loss of  these, and all other, nationalists on Mount Mourgana during the civil war. The names of  120 of ficers and other soldiers of  the 611 Τ.Π. (Τάγμα Πεζικού; infantry battalion), along with numerous nationalist civilians, are inscribed on tablets at its foot.41 Seen from the end of  the valley in which the village is situated, with the massive f lanks of its mountains framing the scene to left and right, and the cone-shaped bulk of  Mount Velouna in the distance, the obelisk demands attention, positioned as it is in the centre of  this sweeping panorama, with an arrowhead of settlement – the red-tiled roofs and white walls of the neighbourhood of  Thana – pointing directly towards it. It is, as intended, an eternal reminder to those on the Left of  their opponents’ victory. The final, and decisive, series of of fensives took place between 28 August and 16 September 1948. The government forces, directed by American and British of ficers, now outnumbered the antartes by twenty to one, and the latter were forced to retreat from their coveted position

40 See, for example, a letter to the editor of the national newspaper To Vima, 13 February 2009. 41 The casualties of  the civil war were substantial in Greece as a whole. The Greek government estimates that between June 1945 and March 1949 around 11,000 soldiers from the Nationalist Army were killed and an additional 8,000 went missing. In respect of  the guerrillas, the figures were much higher: 29,000 killed and 13,000 captured. A further 28,000 surrendered. In addition, about 4,000 civilians were killed (Nachmani, 1990: 514–515).

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at the top of  Mount Mourgana (known as ‘height 1806’). The order to withdraw was made by Captain Kamitsis, the nom de guerre of  Michalis Stolakis from the hamlet of  Kamitsiani just outside Tsamantas (Votsikas, 1983: 233). Most of  the antartes headed north-east, for Mount Vitsi, while others withdrew to Albania, some of them never to return. One interviewee, who witnessed the retreat as a girl, described how the defeated guerrillas tried to take the civilians of  Tsamantas with them: We suf fered so much at the hands of  the antartes during the summer of ’48. They took us – mostly women and children, plus a handful of men – into the mountains, where we were made to stay for a week. They’d put us there so that if anything went wrong it would be easy for them to take us across the border into Albania. One of our own villagers was in charge of  this operation. He had a stick and he beat us with it. [The interviewee became agitated at this point.] I don’t want to mention his name! He tried to entice us to follow him into Albania, but one of  the women, who’d already been in communist Albania but had come back, shouted at him: ‘Are you trying to tell me that we’ll be better of f in Albania? Get lost!’ This local antartis never returned to Tsamantas, for fear of reprisals by the villagers and the army. How would he have dared to? The women themselves would have lynched him! So anyway, he ran of f, and that’s how we avoided being taken into Albania. We started heading down towards the village after that, and then we heard some people shouting: ‘Come down! The army’s here!’ At first we didn’t believe them: we thought it was another lot of antartes calling us down, so they could capture us and take us inside the Iron Curtain. But we decided to carry on, and eventually we reached the village and saw the army coming along the river. We were saved.

Others were not so lucky, however. One young girl taken to Albania was trapped behind the Iron Curtain for more than thirty years. She married a man who was also a refugee, and they tried many times to return to Greece, but succeeded only in the 1980s. After retirement, they settled in Tsamantas. Now in their seventies, she and her husband rely on a small state pension. Another woman, Lopi Vesdrevanis, spoke of  her stepfather, Vassilios Malamis, who had been one of  the schoolteachers in Tsamantas. Showing a picture of  him, she explained his self-exile in Albania: ‘He was easily inf luenced, and was brainwashed by the communists. He was taken to Albania and that’s where he died.’

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As well as those who were forced to go to Albania, many communist sympathisers crossed the border voluntarily – in fear of  their lives, now that the nationalists were in control of  the country. Others headed for the safety and anonymity of  large urban centres in the south of  Greece. In their scramble to safety, numerous families were tragically separated. The fate of  the Kotsonis family was typical of many others: the two teenage brothers, Yannis (the eldest) and Thanassis (who would become the author’s godfather), found refuge in the city of  Patras, where one of  their aunts lived, but their parents, sisters and younger brother became political refugees, first in Albania and then in Poland, before settling in Hungary. The parents died there, without ever setting foot in Tsamantas again. However, all three of  the exiled siblings – Theodoros and Dimitra (with their respective families) and their invalid sister, Eftichia – returned to Greece and settled in Athens in the early 1980s. Other refugees from the civil war left Tsamantas in 1949 for Tashkent, where thousands of  Greeks were settled by the Soviet authorities. When the anti-communist military dictatorship in Greece ended, in 1974, the majority of  them went home, in order to escape the economic decline of  the Soviet Union – most of  them heading for Athens to join relatives. But very few of  those who originated from Tsamantas decided to return to the village. The civil war raged in Tsamantas for ten long months, and throughout this period the village was isolated from the rest of  the world by the communist stranglehold on Mount Mourgana. These communists were mostly young locals, aged between 16 and 20 years old, and they had never previously held arms, but their indoctrination had made them determined to fight to the death. Their stand came to an end in August 1948, but it would be a further twelve months before the antartes were totally defeated in Greece as a whole. Their fate was sealed when Enver Hoxha, the communist leader of  Albania, cut of f  the antartes’ supplies and announced that any Greek citizens entering Albania would be disarmed and detained. This announcement – made to appease the Greek government, which Hoxha suspected was planning an invasion – marked the end of  the civil war (Abbott, 1994: 37). The nationalists now sought revenge, and their desire to make their former opponents pay for their actions was all-consuming. A vast number of  leftist resistance fighters and their sympathisers were

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rounded up and either imprisoned or detained: at the end of  1949, the Greek government acknowledged having taken 50,000 political prisoners, but the figure could be higher (Close, 1995: 220). In Thesprotia, the military authorities and the police were apprehensive of a communist revival, because of its proximity to the border with Albania, and so they established a strict security zone that cordoned of f  the territory north of  the River Kalamas. They then began to prosecute left-wingers, and one of  them – a resident of  Tsamantas who had been a member of  ELAS – told the author of  his public humiliation and imprisonment: My detention was the work of roufiani [ρουφιάνοι; people who made false accusations for their own gain] here in Tsamantas. The authorities took five or six of us, with the intention of sending us to St Efstratios [a remote island in the north-east of  Greece used by the nationalists to hold political prisoners]. We were joined by others from Thesprotia. There were forty of us altogether, all young men, and we were put on the deck of a local steamer with some prisoners from Corfu who were serving life sentences and were being taken to Piraeus for some reason. We were all singing revolutionary songs, chained to the ship’s railings in full view of  the passengers and with the sun beating down on us. Then an old lady took pity on us, God bless her soul. She challenged the of ficer who was in charge of our transfer, saying: ‘Even if  they were dogs, you ought to treat them better. Shame on you!’ The guards relented and removed our chains. Eventually, we docked at Piraeus and were detained for 14 days at the transit prison near Passalimani. But a change of government had just taken place and they decided to act more humanely, returning us to Igoumenitsa. Even so, we still had to pass before a judicial committee – and, of  the forty of us, four did end up in exile on St Efstratios island. But even those of us who were spared suf fered terribly.

By the end of  the civil war, Tsamantas was a shadow of its former self. The majority of  the population had left – either of  their own volition or by force – and even when peace and security were restored, only a handful of  families decided to return. The late Nikos Stolakis explained why some made the decision to go back: The only ones who chose to come and live in Tsamantas again were those who felt nostalgic about the village. A few of us had herds of animals to look after, and so we had to stay here, but most of  the others went to live down on the plains.

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Another interviewee described the civil war as being the final straw for nearby Lidizda, or ‘Little Moscow’. As noted, some of its inhabitants had remained in the village to rebuild it, after its destruction by the Germans in the Second World War. But by the end of  the ensuing civil war, most of  them had gone to Albania, whence some of  them continued on to Hungary, and others (including the local historian Elias Regas) to the Soviet city of  Tashkent. In early 1950 the village was finally abandoned, when the few remaining families were encouraged by the Greek government to move to the coastal plains, near Sagiada and Igoumenitsa, from which the Chams had been expelled. In doing so, they joined many of  their former neighbours from Tsamantas. The upheaval and displacement of  two successive wars was drawing to an end, and life was slowly returning to normal.

7.3 Conclusion The conclusion of  the civil war in 1949 signalled the end of nine years of conf lict in Greece, during which the residents of  Tsamantas endured extreme suf fering. The censuses of  1940 and 1951 show that the village’s population was reduced by more than half during this period, with more than 650 Tsamantiots losing their lives, or being deported, or deciding to leave the village. The fate of some other local communities was even worse in this respect: Lidizda was abandoned, while the population of  Lias declined by 92 per cent (see Table 5). The legacy of  the violent years of  the 1940s was the beginning of  the decline that has continued to the present day.

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Table 5  The change in population of  five villages on Mount Mourgana during the 1940s Population (1940)

Population (1951)

Dif ference (% loss)

Lidizda

284

0

-284 (100%)

Tsamantas

1,147

491

-656 (57%)

Vavouri

548

173

-375 (68%)

Lias

787

65

-722 (92%)

Povla

381

293

-88 (23%)

Source: The Greek censuses of  September 1940 and April 1951.

During this discussion of  the history of  Tsamantas during the 1940s, extensive use has been made of oral accounts by local people, facilitating our understanding of events in the locality. These testimonies bear witness to the sheer brutality of  both the Axis occupation and the civil war, as well as the fanaticism of  those who fought in the latter conf lict. They also shed light on the choices that people made at this time, and powerfully convey the determination of  the local inhabitants to survive, against all odds. Trapped in a remote and poverty-stricken area, they were exposed to such dreadful events that they emerged deeply traumatised. This was especially true of  the children (all of  those interviewed were amongst them), who had to cope with bombardment and shelling, famine and disease, displacement, separation and bereavement. We have also seen that in the wartime climate of uncertainty and distrust, some of  the existing social networks of mutual support broke down, and self-interest prevailed. In Epirus, as in the rest of south-east Europe, the Second World War was a watershed, in that it undermined the old order and created a dif ferent atmosphere, which Stavrianos, the eminent historian of  the Balkan peninsula, calls the ‘new spirit’. The German occupation not only demolished the region’s social, political and economic institutions, but also created a resistance movement that awoke the ‘hitherto inert peasantry’. It was the peasants rather than the townspeople who had been physically and psychologically better equipped for guerrilla welfare, and this increased their sense of self-belief  (1958: 798–799). In addition, the patriarchal structure

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of  the family was radically reshaped during the wars, as women became the head of  their household when the husband left to fight – and then, in some cases, took up arms themselves. For a while, traditional conventions regarding the role of women were more or less abandoned, especially in respect of  the younger women of  Tsamantas who joined the communists, proponents of gender egalitarianism. Indeed, the young resistance fighters of  Tsamantas as a whole – whether women or men – became more receptive to new ideas, learned useful organisational skills, and started questioning the authority of  their patriarchal society. Of course, changes in gender roles during wartime are often reversed once the war draws to a close. However, although some societal traditions and values did reassert themselves in Tsamantas in the post-war era, the profound adjustments that were necessary in order to adapt to the circumstances of war left some permanent changes in their wake, and, as we shall see in Part II of  this volume, the motivations, aspirations and decisions of  the residents of  this new Tsamantas would seal its fate in the peaceful but poverty-stricken second half of  the twentieth century. Some important questions relating to the aftermath of  the wars of  the 1940s still need to be addressed. For example, in what respect did the consequences of war af fect the rate of migration and the appeal of urban living? How did the defeated antartes – whether having stayed in Greece or become political refugees behind the Iron Curtain – re-integrate into the life of  the village, and of  the new Greece, on their return? And how have ideological dif ferences af fected the way in which the events of  both wars have been commemorated in Tsamantas? These are some of  the issues to which we shall return in the following chapters.

Part II

The Post Civil War Era

Chapter 8

Tsamantas from 1950 to 1981: Causes and Ef fects of  Decline

As Epirus licked its wounds in the wake of  the civil war, the battered region – freed at last of  the world’s attention – resumed its status as a remote, peripheral territory in the western European political system. With its back firmly turned on its communist neighbours to the north, it was looking to a brighter future. But the truth was that Epirus was shackled to the past: its inaccessibility, coupled with high levels of illiteracy and poverty, continued to impede growth, and there was little evidence of economic or social development. For most of its inhabitants, in villages scattered across the largely mountainous terrain, life continued to be one of  ‘misery and squalor’.1 At the national level, however, the Greek economy had begun to recover, partly due to substantial aid provided by the United States: approximately $376 million, paid between 1948 and 1951 via the Marshall Plan. The government’s adoption of a policy of market and trade liberalisation also contributed to the recovery, since it encouraged foreign trade and began to attract much-needed investment, through tax incentives and concessions. As a consequence, the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) grew at around 6% per annum in a ten-year period from 1951, one of  the highest rates of growth amongst eleven national economies examined in a survey (Bowles, 1966: 1). However, the composition of  the GDP started to change significantly from the start of  this period, with the agricultural sector – which had been the second most important constituent of  the Greek economy, after the service sector – declining from 29% of  GDP in 1955 to just 15% in 1980,

1

The Times, 23 January 1961, ‘Peasant Poverty Below the Mountains of  Epirus’.

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and then to 12% in 1993 (Close, 2002: 47–48; Damianakos, 1997: 198). This shift of economic activity away from agricultural production adversely af fected those Greek regions, such as Epirus, that lacked the investment necessary for fostering both industrialisation and the diversification of  their economies. Further contributing to this problem of regional disparity was the centralised administrative system, which favoured the concentration of economic activity in Greater Athens – home to nearly a quarter of  the country’s eight million inhabitants – and Thessaloniki, the nation’s second city. Central Greece, the region that includes Athens, quickly became the country’s most advanced, with per capita income at 33% above the national average by 1958; at the other end of  the spectrum were the peripheral regions – Epirus being the poorest – with a per capita income at just 52% of  the average (Hof fman, 1967: 659–661). By the early 1960s, the gap between the richest and poorest regions had widened further, and Epirots were having to survive on around one fifth of  the income of  their compatriots in Athens. Handicapped as ever by remoteness, limited arable land and a lack of natural resources, and with regional indicators such as electricity consumption and availability of piped drinking water painting a picture of  backwardness and poverty, Epirus was the nation’s ‘most lagging region’ (Hof fman, 1967: 662), a damning epithet that still applies today. In respect of  Tsamantas, pivotal decisions made by its inhabitants will be shown to have significantly inf luenced the fate of  their village. To better comprehend these decisions, the political and economic processes that shaped the community during the post-war years, as well as changes to its social structure and cultural environment, will be discussed within the context of  key events at the local, regional and national levels. Once again, the oral accounts of many local people, as well as Tsamantiots living beyond the village, will complement the factual data.

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8.1 After the civil war in Tsamantas: poverty, disunity and transformation As life returned to a semblance of normality for those Tsamantiots still in the village at the end of  the civil war, the cultivation of  traditional crops, abandoned during the fighting, was resumed in some of  the small terraced fields, and once again subsistence farming became the main occupation. In the summertime – despite the heavier workload, due to the harvesting of produce – life was just about tolerable: the weather was kinder, and communal tasks such as threshing, and the shelling of  the corn, provided opportunities for mutual support and distraction. But at other times of  the year it was a punishing way of  life. Those unable to engage in it were far worse of f, however. One of  today’s residents recalled the desperation: Some of us were unemployed, because we hadn’t any land and couldn’t get other kinds of jobs. We survived like locusts, stripping bay leaves, oregano, and leaves for herbal tea, just to earn a few miserable coins.

From the 1950s to the early 1960s, living conditions in the village – as in other mountain communities in Epirus at the time – were so dreadful, even for those with employment, that the World Council of  Churches sent an international team to alleviate the crisis.2 The devastation caused by two successive wars had presented the inhabitants with various challenges. Many of  the damaged stone houses needed substantial repairs, such as re-roofing, using thin sheets of corrugated tin supplied – along with timbers and nails – by the government.3 Other homes had been completely destroyed, and

2 3

The Times, 23 January 1961, ‘Peasant Poverty Below the Mountains of  Epirus’. An article in the Empros newspaper of  9 November 1950 criticised Thesprotia’s Pronia (Πρόνοια; the prefectural social services) for allegedly paying the exorbitant sum of  400 million drachmas to muleteers for the transportation of  these materials to Povla and Tsamantas, when the money could have funded the building of a further 12 kilometres of road, connecting both villages to Filiates and thus precluding the need to pay for the services of muleteers. The inhabitants of  Povla and Tsamantas,

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the consequent shortage of  habitable dwellings meant that some families were now obliged to share their accommodation. Of  those that had f led Tsamantas during the civil war – heading for the coast, and the relative safety of  Igoumenitsa or Corfu – some had now returned, only to face the daunting task of rebuilding their lives from scratch. But those who had never left were scarcely faring better: possessions had been destroyed or looted by the invading forces and their Cham collaborators, or bartered by their owners for maize, and many families thus had no beds or other furniture, and lacked even the most basic cooking utensils. The 1961 census reveals that very few of  the 126 households – only 9% – even had a kitchen. For these families, the hearth became the place where meals were cooked; it was also a vital source of warmth, and in the bitter cold of winter, high up in the mountains, the whole family would huddle around it in the evening and sleep side by side in front of it. Despite the resumption of cultivation, food was in short supply: in winter months, in particular, the villagers relied on a meagre quantity of  beans, chickpeas and lentils, together with a few spikes of maize hung from the beams supporting the roof. The two small wall-cupboards typically situated on either side of  the Tsamantiot hearth might have had some walnuts or dried figs on their shelves. There was probably also cof fee (necessarily mixed with chicory) along with sugar, ready to of fer to any unexpected guest – for, even in times of severe hardship, traditions had to be upheld. The 1961 census also shows that the villagers had to make do with primitive sanitation: not a single household had an inside toilet or bathroom. Only six had running water, despite the abundance of natural springs in the village; instead, water had to be fetched by the women, from the nearest spring, and carried home on their back in traditional water-barrels. There was no electricity; paraf fin lamps were the only source of  light and comfort indoors, and the paths of  the village were only intermittently illuminated, by means of  the oil lamps that were lit each evening in the wayside shrines. A hand-operated telephone in the community’s of fice was the only way

noted the newspaper, showed their anger by ‘thrust[ing] an open palm’ towards Athens (a Greek gesture of profound indignation).

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of communicating with the outside world beyond the mountains, and a couple of cafés, which also served as grocery stores, were the sole places of entertainment; here, political events taking place in distant Athens were passionately debated, over cards or backgammon, in the absence of anything else to do. The nearest gendarmerie was in the village of  Lias, several kilometres away. There was no doctor’s surgery, and so, in the early years of  this arduous era, patients had to be carried all the way to the market town of  Filiates, about eight hours away (assuming that the snow or slippery mud of winter months, or the f looding of  the Kalpakiotikos and Pavla rivers, had not made the journey impossible); even when a dirt road was built in the mid-50s, from Filiates to some of  the Mourgana villages, it could still take four hours on foot to get from Tsamantas to the bus stop in one of  these communities. In addition, access to secondary education, and the opportunities it provided for a family’s self-improvement, necessarily involved sending one’s children to the school in Filiates, or further afield in Ioannina, and the consequent need to pay for their board and lodging during term time, on top of school fees, was a major financial burden – though one considered well worth the sacrifices involved. Destitution and lack of  basic amenities were not the only cause of daily misery. Worst of all, in some respects, was the fact that the happy co-existence of  the village’s inhabitants had been all but destroyed by the civil war. Interactions between them – and even between family members – were tainted by suspicion and mistrust, the fallout from the bitter struggle between communists and nationalists. As noted in Chapter 3, mutual trust had long been a key element of  the community’s ethos, sustaining social cohesion over the years; now, it was all but gone. Disputes were breaking out, and pre-existing ones becoming more apparent, due to the smaller number of  families now in the village. Many of  those Tsamantiots still alive today who witnessed these changes have spoken of  their strong sense, at the time, that life for them would never be the same. As one pointed out: ‘It seemed that the innocence and security of village life had been permanently shattered by the upheaval.’

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Life for the local children was particularly tough. Years of warfare had left many of  them malnourished, prone to disease, and with restricted growth;4 inadequately clothed, they went barefoot, or wore homemade woollen socks for shoes. With no money for toys, they had to make their own entertainment, fashioning playthings from available materials, sometimes with catastrophic consequences: on at least two occasions, accidents from playing with unexploded shells or grenades took the lives of  Tsamantiot children, or permanently disabled them. The children of communists had to endure the additional torment of  being shunned and bullied. A local woman described their suf fering during an interview for the communist daily Rizospastis in 1982.5 Our life in Tsamantas was one of misery. Fellow villagers avoided us, the head of  the community subjected us to humiliation, and the schoolteacher declared war on us. One day, my sister returned from school with her face covered in scratches (…) The other children wouldn’t play with me, as I was the daughter of a communist. They threw stones at me (…) Being so young, I didn’t understand why they did it. I thought they didn’t like me because I had bare feet and was sickly.

Another problematic fact of  life was the restrictions on travel within the locality. Because the land adjacent to the Albanian border was considered a militarily sensitive area, visitors to it were vetted by the Committee for Military Security,6 and in order to pass the army checkpoint at the bridge over the Kalamas, near Filiates, they were obliged to obtain a special permit from the police. Those who had been involved with the antartes (the communist rebels) during the civil war were refused entry. This process would continue until 1974: a source of  frustration and inconvenience, not least to former residents wishing to return to their native communities. Another of  the military authorities’ remits at the time was to pursue those agents that 4 5 6

A number of charities – UNICEF, the Save the Children Fund, USAid and others – addressed the crisis by providing meals for children while at school. 4 April 1982, ‘Τα παιδιά της Φρειδερίικης’ (The children of  [Queen] Frederica). The surveillance zone was introduced in 1936 by the military dictatorship of  General Metaxas. For an informative analysis of  the socio-economic implications of  these zones, see Lambrianidis (2001).

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the exiled leaders of  the Greek Communist Party were suspected of sending to the area from Albania. In turn, the Greeks appointed their own agents and spies, and encouraged anti-communist vigilante groups to operate in the locality, intimidating left-wing sympathisers. Of particular concern to Tsamantiots was the fate of  those villagers separated from their families by the civil war, and consigned to life behind the Iron Curtain, in Albania and other communist countries. A poignant plea for their return – signed by Spyros Zoulas from Tsamantas, and by other heads of  Epirot communities – was sent to the United Nations in October 1950,7 but nothing came of it. In June 1962, however, four families from Tsamantas were allowed to leave Albania and return to their native village, bringing with them all of  their cattle, goats, sheep and horses. According to the daily Makedonia, these 21 Tsamantiots were part of a group of  40 given permission to go back to Greece, all of  them ‘abducted’ by the antartes some fourteen years previously, during the civil war.8 The returning refugees painted a grim picture of  life in communist Albania, and were naturally overjoyed at being back in Epirus.9 8.1.1 Social change in Tsamantas and its consequences In Chapter 3, we noted the importance of  the family in the social structure of  Epirot communities. Along with the marriage of one’s of fspring, and – in respect of sons – the acquisition of a respected profession, a major preoccupation was the maintenance of reputation. Any sexual misdemeanour by a female member of  the family could compromise this reputation. 7 8 9

Empros, 5 October 1950, ‘Οι Ηπειρώται ξητούν την επιστροφή των απαχθέντων γερόντων-γυναικών’ (The people of  Epirus call for the return of  kidnapped women and elderly people). Makedonia, 13 June 1962, ‘Επανεπατρίσθησαν εξ Αλβανίας 40 απαχθέντες’ (Forty abductees repatriated from Albania). One of  those allowed to return to the village was Filippos Peschos, nephew of  the Abbot whose wiliness had reputedly kept the Tsamantas locality in Greece when the border with Albania was being delineated (see Chapter 6).

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However, attitudes began to change in the 1960s. At the time, social scientists were employing various models and concepts to explain the process of abandonment of old ways for new ones by peasant communities. In an article of  1974, Joel Migdal argues that social change in such communities was often a consequence of  the weakening of institutions – such as church, family and marriage – that had long suppressed the behaviour and desires of peasants. Change thus tended to occur when ‘the restraints against new modes of  behavior were no longer as formidable as they had been in the past’ (1974: 204). In Tsamantas, the weakening of  these institutions, along with the modernising inf luences of education and migration – and in particular the active participation of young people in the communist resistance of  the civil war – had paved the way for the emancipation of women. The former tradition of restricted contact between the sexes gave way to greater personal freedom, and arranged marriages fell out of  favour. Social gatherings of young men and women – albeit under the watchful eye of an older member of  the community – became the norm, and for the first time in the village’s history, music and laughter from parties could be heard during the evenings, especially in summertime. There was also greater opportunity for conducting clandestine relationships, though mostly of an innocent nature. The change in women’s lives was dramatic; some of  them, following graduation from a vocational course in Filiates or Ioannina, became seamstresses or factory workers, while others moved further afield, to Athens and other towns and cities; one local woman even achieved a degree of  fame, with a long career as a folk singer in the night-clubs of  the capital. Embracing rapid social change was not for everyone: many local women considered the latest fashions in dress, hair style and make-up to be an ugly consequence of modern life, provoking sexual attention. Defiantly, they continued to wear traditional attire, including the dark headscarves that covered their hair. But most young men and women in the village were of  the opinion that modern attitudes had improved their situation. Nevertheless, the frustration felt by many at the continuation of parental presence in many social situations contributed to disaf fection with village life, and this, together with the unrelenting limitation in job opportunities, and other factors to be explored later in this chapter, led to

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a general desire amongst the young to leave their families and move away, as many now chose to do. This exodus had a serious impact on Tsamantas: the census for 1971 reveals that the village now had just 202 inhabitants, less than half  the figure for ten years earlier; even this was an overestimate, as many Tsamantiots living elsewhere in Greece were in the habit of returning to the village for the census (because the funding granted to the community from government cof fers depended on the of ficial number of residents). Most significantly, the demographic make-up was out of  balance: the average age of  the residents was notably higher, and there were far more women than men, migration being more common amongst the men. 8.1.2 Local administration and national politics With the end of  the civil war, the political process at the local level was resumed, and local elections once again took place every four years, contested by members of political groups that were, in most cases, af filiated to the national parties. Initially, the choices made by the local electorate were subject to interference at the national level: when Alexandros Papagos came to power in November 1952, he arbitrarily dismissed most of  the leftwing councillors who had won seats in the local elections of  the previous year (the first since 1934). Subsequently, however, national governments showed more respect, and left-wing councillors and community presidents were allowed to carry out their duties. Across the country, every village community. whatever its size, elected a council of  five individuals, who would then decide which of  them should take on the role of proedhros (πρόεδρος; president). David Close notes that this individual ‘had to spend much time in soliciting funds from the government’; he would also issue certification to facilitate applications for bank loans and social welfare payments (2002: 93). The proedhros was responsible for representing his community’s interests to the local prefect.10

10

Taking matters to the prefect was not always productive. On May 3 1974, an article in the Makedonia newspaper (‘Η Θεσσαλονίκη και ο κόσμος’; Thessaloniki and the

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For Tsamantiots, situated as they were within the prefecture of  Thesprotia, this individual was based in Igoumenitsa, the prefectural capital. As the government’s appointed representative, the prefect had to supervise the local authorities (municipalities and communes) and in particular oversee their financial af fairs, ensuring that allocated funds were used wisely. As explained in Chapter 3, the local authorities in Epirus had lost much of  their power when the region was incorporated within the Greek state, in 1913, and most responsibilities and decision-making shifted to central government in distant Athens. This centralisation was still in place when the civil war ended, and was reducing public participation at the local level, which in turn diminished civic consciousness and collective responsibility (Close, 2002, 93). Nevertheless, local councillors still played an important role in each community, being responsible for the construction of new roads and the maintenance of existing ones, provision of drinking water and irrigation facilities, and the management of common pasture land. But corruption within the local council system was endemic, with favours being granted by councillors – and the proedhros in particular – to those who had voted for them, and to friends and relatives. This was very much the case in Tsamantas, where accusations of cronyism, self-interest, and theft of public money were rife. The prevailing atmosphere of mistrust and suspicion intensified in the village during the early 1960s, and its already fragile social cohesion deteriorated further. The proedhros, his fellow councillors, and others elected to their roles – such as the leader of  the church committee – were obvious targets for censure. But it was also directed at important figures of

World) reported that Tsamantiot shepherd Evangelos Kentros had submitted a request to have a pack of  local wolves exterminated, after eight of  his ewes had been killed and eaten. According to the article, the relevant ministry in Athens informed him that action would be taken at the start of  May, several days after the attack had been reported. Evangelos made a plea to the local newspaper, H Φωνή των Φιλιατών (Voice of  Filiates), requesting that the editor and the local prefect expedite the matter, but it fell on deaf ears. As the article pointed out, this was like ‘the relatives and friends of a sick person discussing what help to provide, and in the meantime the patient dying for lack of  treatment’.

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authority appointed by central government, who were regularly criticised for failing to fulfil their obligations, whether or not this was justified; these included schoolteachers and priests, the agrarian constable, the gendarme (based in the neighbouring village of  Lias), and the commanding of ficer of  the border checkpoint. The inhabitants of  Tsamantas were part of a larger local constituency that elected a member of parliament for a four-year term. But the national electoral system was also blighted by corruption, constantly favouring the incumbent government (a situation that persisted until the 1990s). Moreover, by issuing threats, of ficials in rural areas tried to prevent many of  the electorate from voting for the EDA, the United Democratic Left (Close, 2002: 91–92). The government was being perceived, by rural citizens in particular, as heavy-handed and inept. Adding fuel to the f lames in Thesprotia was the government’s approach to the issue of  local toponyms. Most of  the names of villages on Mount Mourgana were of  Slavic origin, but Athens was now insisting that they be Hellenised. The claim made by Nikolaos Nitsos that Tsamantas was connected to the Byzantine aristocracy persuaded decision-makers to leave the name of  the village unchanged, but other local communities were not so fortunate: the villages of  Povla and Glousta, for example, were obliged to adopt the unpopular Hellenised names of  Ambelonas and Kefalochori respectively. Suspicion of  the state (kratos; κράτος) increased to the point that it was now seen as a threatening and sinister entity that gave very little in return for what it took. Ordinary citizens throughout the country had a sense of  being excluded, and, as Campbell and Sherrard note (1969: 349), the state was accused of  being in opposition to the wider interests of  the ethnos (έθνος; nation) – that Hellenistic community to which every Greek feels a deep devotion. According to the academic Adamantia Pollis, a sense of despair was becoming apparent amongst the villagers of rural Greece. The country’s political and business elite was considered immoral, and was criticised for exploiting, to suit its needs, both the Greek value system – centred on group relatedness (filotimo; φιλότιμο) – and the Western value system, founded on the notion of individuality. The ‘lack of commitment to either ethical system [perpetuated] undemocratic attitudes internally, while creating the illusion of democracy internationally’ (1965: 42). Moreover,

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the state was turning a blind eye to the activities of a para-state (parakratos; παρακράτος) of right-wing extremists that was manipulating political decisions and employing thugs to stamp out any dissidents.11 By now, the sense of unease was so profound that the nation’s army of ficers were rapidly losing confidence in the political establishment, and they started making plans for a military coup.

8.2 The seven years of military dictatorship (1967–1974) On 21 April 1967, normal radio broadcasting in Greece was replaced by strident martial music, in the midst of which came an announcement informing the nation that the army had overthrown the caretaker conservative government of  Panayotis Kanellopoulos. The factors that drove the military to assume political power in Greece, the ‘cradle of democracy’, have been analysed by numerous political scientists, sociologists and historians.12 In far-of f  Tsamantas, the staging of a military coup in the capital could have been viewed as peripheral to the immediate problems of desperately poor subsistence farmers and shepherds struggling to make a living on the slopes of  Mount Mourgana. But for the middle-aged and elderly inhabitants, like their counterparts across the country, the coup rekindled memories of  brutality and suppression under the Metaxas dictatorship of some thirty years before. They were justified in feeling apprehensive: the repercussions of  this repressive new regime would be profound, and, as we shall see, would leave deep scars on the community of  Tsamantas. The unrelenting tyranny and excessive nationalism that characterised this period darkened the lives of its inhabitants. The military regime tried to impose its puritanical values by broadcasting catchy slogans on the subject of country, religion and family, or

11 12

In 1963, for example, Grigoris Lambrakis, the popular left-wing member of parliament representing Piraeus, was assassinated in Thessaloniki. See, for instance, Danopoulos (1983).

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posting them on roadside billboards (Close, 2002: 116). Citizens who supported them were praised as patriots (ethnikophrones; εθνικόφρονες), while those who criticised the regime were labelled as anti-Greeks (anthellines; ανθέλληνες) and duly punished. This latter group principally consisted of  former antartes, many of whom were communists, those so-called ‘traitors of  the nation’. A strong anti-communist mentality still prevailed within the army, whose of ficers were acutely aware of  the ‘Slavic peril from the north’, a familiar phrase referring to the perceived threat from two of  the three communist states bordering on Greece: Albania and Bulgaria, viewed as belligerent in their attitude towards their southern neighbour. NATO shared the dictatorship’s opposition to communism, and the fact that Greece was allowed to remain within its alliance gave the fascist regime an enormous boost. Most of  NATO’s members were willing to tolerate the new dictatorship (the USA had even been complicit in its coming to power), and this acquiescence was instrumental in the regime’s seven-year survival (Roberts, 1975: 30). Its initial objective was to arrest known communists and purge local administration of individuals considered dangerous and undesirable. Evangelos Kentros, head of  the community of  Tsamantas at the time, and a former left-wing resistance fighter in the civil war, explained how the Junta (as the military dictatorship was referred to in Greece) expelled him from the presidency: The fellow sent to inform me was a high-ranking police of ficer, stationed at the gendarmerie over in Lias – a good man, who often came to the café I ran in Tsamantas back then. When this of ficer received the order for my dismissal, he rode up on his motorbike and said, with his gaze averted: ‘Evangelos, I’m in a very dif ficult position. I have to tell you that you must resign. These are the orders of  the Generals.

Evangelos still feels anger about the decision, and profound bitterness towards those fellow villagers – supporters of  the newly established military regime – who behaved aggressively towards him during this period, even threatening his wife, on account of  his politics. The military regime also took steps to control the Church of  Greece, and one of its earliest actions in this respect was to force the resignation of  the incumbent archbishop and appoint a successor who would toe the

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regime’s line. However, the church was allowed to retain control over marriage and divorce, and to inf luence the national education curriculum. Moreover, the clergy – including village priests – became employees of  the state and were guaranteed salaries. In Tsamantas, the church was still the focal point in the villagers’ lives, and its priest remained a figure of authority. But, although he retained much of  his status and power, he was not immune from criticism: at one time he faced scandalous accusations of embezzlement, after a number of ecclesiastical artefacts and icons disappeared from several churches in the village. His involvement was never proven, however. Some of  the regime’s policies did benefit the welfare of  Greece’s rural population. For instance, the government that preceded the military coup had wanted to extend social security to farmers and those with related occupations, such as shepherds, and this was eventually introduced by the regime. In addition, a system of guaranteed minimum prices was established for agricultural products, and farmer’s debts to the Agricultural Bank were cancelled (though the latter was not of great import to the subsistence farmers and shepherds of  Tsamantas). Other political developments, however, had an adverse ef fect upon the lives of  those in the rural community. Greece had applied to join the European Economic Community (EEC) in 1959, and two years later had signed the Association Agreement that constituted the first step towards integration into the Community. But, as George Yannopoulos observes, the Agreement was frozen when the EEC refused to engage with the new military dictatorship, putting on hold the integration of  the nation’s agricultural policies with those of  the EEC. In addition, the Junta reduced the power of agricultural co-operatives, favouring instead private concerns such as the company owned by GreekAmerican tycoon, Tom Papas, which secured exclusive purchasing rights for certain agricultural produce. The Greek countryside had been ‘turned into a middleman’s paradise’. Rural workers were powerless to protect their own interests, and in despair they focused once again on emigration as a means of improving their lives – this time, mostly to West Germany (Yannopoulos, 1972: 121–125). The stories of  these migrant ‘guest workers’ in German factories will be recounted in a later section of  this chapter. As noted, by 1971 the population of  Tsamantas had shrunk to just 202 individuals due to this latest wave of emigration, and most of  these were

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elderly. The vitality of  the community was draining away. Very few economically active households remained in the village, all of  them struggling to earn a livelihood from shepherding or subsistence farming. There were so few children that the two primary schools – one in Tsamantas and the other in the adjacent hamlet of  Kamitsiani – each had just a handful of pupils; a few years later, the schools were closed by the dictatorship, and the local children now had to travel to Lias for their lessons. Living conditions continued to be basic. The supply of piped water had been extended to include more households, but many still had to use the local springs, and though electricity was now widely available – apart from in the more remote dwellings, which would have to wait until the early 1980s to be connected to the national grid – it was prohibitively expensive. Television broadcasting had begun in Greece in 1966, but reception in the borderland communities of  Mount Mourgana was poor and intermittent, limiting access to a valuable source of entertainment. The villagers felt isolated and marginalised, not least because visitors from outside the locality still had to obtain a permit in order to enter the border area. Moreover, the Junta had refused to allow the grazing of  herds on those upper slopes of  Mount Mourgana that were adjacent to the border, and this had a major impact on the struggle to survive. Once again, proximity to Albania was complicating life in Tsamantas. The border had of ficially closed back in 1945, but for the next three years – while the civil war raged – the villagers of  Mount Mourgana had been allowed to cross whenever it suited the antartes, who were in control of  the area. However, in 1948 it was completely sealed, bringing to an abrupt end the social, cultural and commercial exchanges between the communities on either side. Kinship networks were severed and many families were separated; their only means of communication was through the letters they were sometimes allowed to send, via the International Red Cross in Switzerland – letters that were self-censored, in order to avoid recriminating individuals,13 An Orwellian atmosphere of paranoia and constant scrutiny

13

Letters that were not self-censored were either returned to the sender or censored by the Albanian authorities. In May 2012, communication with Ange Kenos, a member

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reigned, with intense border security and frequent instances of rhetorical aggression (mostly by Albania). With the West fearful of  the spread of communism, the situation was exploited by successive Greek governments, and then by the military dictatorship, in order to obtain financial and material assistance from NATO so that the road network in Epirus could be developed, to facilitate the deployment of  troops in the event of conf lict. In Tsamantas, Athanassios Goulas, head of  the community during the late 1960s, secured funding for the extension of  the road that stopped at the entrance to the village, taking it as far as the border post.14 This had a commanding view of a large section of  the border, and so the guards were able to ensure – at least in daylight hours – that the villagers of  Tsamantas kept well within Greek territory. But the higher reaches of  Mount Mourgana that bordered on Albania were not so easily monitored, and the villagers were told that if  they were suspected of  trespassing on them, they risked imprisonment. (In places further afield, however, it was relatively easy to cross, and goods were frequently smuggled into Albania and exchanged for gold sovereigns.) The accounts of some elderly Tsamantiots suggest that at least two men were detained and questioned by the military police for allegedly attempting to make contact with communist Albanians via these local slopes, although they were eventually released. The late Ninis Stolakis told the author that although the border at Tsamantas was closed to villagers, the dictatorship’s secret agents crossed it with impunity, to spy on Albania. Whilst stopping of f at the shepherds’ huts for milk and bread, these agents would try to obtain information on the whereabouts and activities of  the Albanian military. Ninis was himself a shepherd, and he recounted with anger and indignation an incident near the border one summer’s night, whilst he was grazing his f lock. Someone opened fire, killing one of  his goats. Ninis, who was fit and healthy, escaped by running up towards the peak of  Mount Mourgana. He immediately of  the Tsamantiot community in Melbourne, brought to light the story of a young boy who was separated from his mother and whose only contact with her thereafter was through such letters, until her death in 1983. 14 A small monument by the side of  this road still proudly commemorates its construction.

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reported the incident to the men at the guard post and was told to walk to Lias, to inform the gendarmerie there. But the police of ficer in Lias that night was, according to Ninis, a ‘cruel man’, and to make it awkward for the shepherd he ordered him to notify the army headquarters in Filiates. Why did I have to go’, he complained, ‘when he could have reported it himself, by using the phone? Anyway, I had to walk all through the night, and I was exhausted by the time I got to Filiates. And then the army interrogated me. I still feel very bitter about what happened. It’s something I’ll never forget.

Ninis was convinced that an attempt had been made on his life, and he considered this the work, not of  the Albanian border guards but of  Greek army men ordered by the regime to contrive an incident that could be blamed on Albania. He said: ‘The local military branded all of us poor shepherds as antidhrastiki [αντιδραστικοί; dissenters] or aristeri [αριστεροί; leftists]. We were worthless individuals, and killing one of us to further their cause was nothing to them.’ He may well have been right in this respect, but as a shepherd in a remote community, unaware of  the complex political situation, the motives of  the local military in shooting at him may not have been clear to him. Like their comrades across the region of  Epirus, they were vehemently opposed to the objectives of  their fellow right-wingers in the capital, who were intent upon good relations with their communist neighbours to the north. In fabricating an inf lammatory episode, they were hoping to alter the course of  the negotiations between the colonels in Athens and the Albanian regime. But they were unsuccessful: a trade agreement between the two countries was signed in 1971, and diplomatic relations were established. Despite this sign of progress, however, the Junta was making itself more unpopular than ever, and in November 1973 some students at the Athens Polytechnic organised a sit-in. Barricading themselves in, they began to broadcast from a radio station set up on campus, calling for support from members of  the public in order to strengthen their opposition to the dictatorship. But on November 17 the Junta sent in tanks to demolish the main gate of  the campus and break up the sit-in. Almost nine hundred citizens were arrested, and it has been claimed that as many as twenty-four were

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killed, although the exact figure has never been established.15 Ironically, the fascists’ demise, when it came, was brought about by an imprudent member of  their own regime. In 1974, Brigadier Dimitrios Ioannidis, a hardliner, foolishly attempted a military coup in Cyprus, with the aim of uniting the island with Greece. This led to an invasion by Turkey in July, and a de facto partitioning of  the country, with the Turks occupying the northern third of  the island: a disaster of  the highest order for the Greeks, and the catalyst that brought a swift return to democratic rule, ending one of  the darkest periods in the nation’s history.

8.3 New waves of migration Before turning to the third and last of  the political eras between 1950 and 1981, we shall consider in greater depth the story of migration from Tsamantas during the first two eras, and analyse the reasons for this latest phase in the gradual abandonment of  the village. As in the past, the physical limitations of  the local environment were partly to blame: the poor and shallow soil, for example, most of it on steep mountain slopes, severely constrained productivity. But now, new developments in mechanisation had led to the availability of  bread and other produce so cheap to purchase that it made no sense to expend considerable ef fort producing it locally. Furthermore, although the advent of improved seeds and fertilisers might have made the villagers more competitive, available income was invested in their children’s education, focused as they were on the benefits consequent on urban employment. But even if  they could have af forded these agricultural materials, the absence at the time of a road into Tsamantas was an obstacle to transportation, just as it was to the introduction of any of  the new farm machinery. 15

‘Recalling the Polytechnic 38 years on’, Athens News, 25 March 2012, , accessed 25 March 2012.

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It is apparent, however, that embedded attitudes were also a contributory factor in the stagnation of  the local economy. During the early 1960s, Jerome Pintos – a professor at the Pandeios Higher School of  Political Science in Athens – conducted research into economic production in Thesprotia, with the aim of alleviating the area’s rural poverty, and he observed that local farmers were falling behind through complacency and lack of enterprise. As a solution to their problems, he recommended the intensification of  local agriculture, along with necessary measures to halt erosion of  the soil; he also promoted the introduction of arboriculture – the cultivation and management of  trees, shrubs and vines – as well as better use of  hardy local breeds of  livestock.16 But the farmers stuck to their traditional methods. Furthermore, their entrenchment in the past was compounded by various complex issues relating to land ownership. Agricultural land in Tsamantas was scattered across the landscape in numerous smallholdings, and families typically owned parcels of  land in several dif ferent locations. The consolidation of  these smallholdings into larger, more economically viable concerns would have increased productivity, but they tended to be owned by several siblings from the same family, and there were frequent disagreements over how – or, indeed, whether – the land should be redistributed. A further complication was the fact that some land was owned by Tsamantiots who had migrated from the village, or by those who had f led during and after the wars of  the 1940s and were now untraceable. Selfinterest also played a part: it was not uncommon for the owner of a prime piece of  land to refuse to negotiate on the merging of smallholdings for the greater good of  the community. In consequence, Tsamantiot households failed to make the transition from familial to commercial production, and productivity remained comparatively low. In the absence of other viable options to improve their standard of  living, many Tsamantiots now took the decision to move elsewhere, as others had done in earlier decades. Over time, the cultivation of subsistence crops such as wheat and maize was discontinued, as the remaining villagers lost the motivation to engage in farming activities. Livestock rearing gradually became the sole pursuit 16

The Times, 23 April 1963, ‘Research Society’s Drive to End Greek Rural Poverty’.

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of economically active households, of necessity rather than choice, since the local economy now provided no credible occupational alternatives. The abandonment of most cultivation (with the exception of every household’s kitchen garden) did at least allow neglected fields to be turned over to the feeding of  the cattle, goats and sheep. But suitable grazing was still in short supply, limiting the number and size of  herds that could be supported by it, and as a result very few households were able to make a living from pastoralism. The late Nikos Stolakis, one of  the local shepherds, said: I reckon there were only 15 households still involved in animal husbandry: me and my brother, a few members of  the Kentros and Stratis [Efstratiou] families, the two Iatrou brothers, and a fellow called Pantazis from Perdikari, who was married to a woman here. Well, now… here we are in 2006, and only two families with large herds are left. None of our children wanted to get involved in shepherding, you see.

During the 1950s and early 1960s, migration from Tsamantas was driven partly by a government scheme encouraging householders in the warravaged community to relocate to the fertile plains of  the lower Kalamas, between the towns of  Igoumenitsa and Sagiada. In this area were many empty properties confiscated from the Muslim Chams who f led after the Second World War. The enactment of  Law 28000/1957 – introduced by Stratis Athanasakos, a member of parliament for Thesprotia – of fered purchasing rights to Greeks for these empty properties, in exchange for a small and purely symbolic sum of money. Similarly, agricultural land in this locality was taken over by the Greek state and made available to farmers and shepherds, on payment of a nominal fee (Mitsi, 2008: 48). The attraction of  this lowland area to residents of  the villages of  Mount Mourgana was boosted in the mid-1960s as a result of  favouritism shown by the government of  Constantine Karamanlis. Like those other districts in Epirus (and in Karamanlis’s home region of  Macedonia) that had returned a higher than average percentage of votes for his victorious conservative party, the electoral district of  Thesprotia was rewarded for its loyalty through substantial investment in infrastructure (Roberts and Legg, 1991: 52). Two major projects improved conditions in the area: a motorway linking the port of  Igoumenitsa with the regional capital of  Ioannina, and the damming of  the lower Kalamas. As reported in the London Times, the construction

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of  this dam cost £250,000 and converted approximately 12,000 acres of arid terrain into fertile farmland, to be used for planting citrus orchards and cultivating crops.17 Another important factor that inf luenced migration in Tsamantas during the post-Second World War era was the existence of  the various networks – discussed in depth in Chapter 5 – that linked individuals in the village with family members and friends living overseas. These networks provided a vital source of information that helped potential migrants to decide about their future, and often financial assistance, as well, to help them emigrate. One of  the author’s interviewees, Petros Pantazakos, explained how he and his brother were involved in the renewal of  the chain migration system that had evolved from these networks. He recalled that his aunt and uncle, who were living in America, came back to Tsamantas from Worcester in 1954, to see their family for the first time since the start of  the Second World War. Appalled by the poverty and dire living conditions in the village, they promised Petros’s parents that they would do whatever they could to bring him and his elder brother, Achilleas, over to America. The requisite paperwork was initiated, and eventually the invitation came for Achilleas to emigrate. He left Tsamantas on the 12th of  August 1955 and crossed the Atlantic to live in his aunt and uncle’s home in Worcester, while their eldest son was serving in the US army. Five years later, Petros was able to join Achilleas, who had by then moved from Worcester to New York City, where Petros is still resident. During a visit to Tsamantas, he described his experience of emigration: I left in 1960, when I was seventeen. I owe so much to my uncle and aunt, you know. They helped my brother and me a great deal, with all their support and advice. They’d urged us to go to America for work – ‘otherwise you’ll die, staying in the village’, they said. Anyway, my brother eventually sent me money for the ticket, and he suggested that I f ly, rather than go by boat. I remember there was one f light a week with Olympic Airways from Athens to London, and then a connecting f light to New York with BEA [British European Airways]. I’d always been very close to my brother; we shared everything. But by 1964 he was engaged to be married, and I hadn’t really liked America, so I left New York and went back to Greece, where I joined the army 17

The Times, 23 April 1963, ibid.

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Chapter 8 as a volunteer. You see, I’d been working in a New York factory, earning just seven or eight dollars a day. If  I’d been in Worcester, mind you, it would have been worse. I dreamed of returning to my village, buying a herd of  1,000 sheep and goats, and living once again in the clean air. But after my military service I changed my mind and decided to return to New York, to my brother and his wife. Initially, I worked for a short period in the restaurant he owned, but I left when we had a disagreement over something. Through my connections with other Greeks, I opened a couple of stores and made some money, and in ’73 I returned once more to Tsamantas, where I married Fotini, my little partridge, and brought her back to America with me.

In many ways, the experience of  Petros Pantazakos is typical of  the younger emigrants from Tsamantas who left for the United States during the postwar years. His willingness to take risks and his entrepreneurial spirit, some shrewd political connections made at the local level, and years of hard work – including a spell assisting in the construction of  the trans-Alaskan pipeline – paid of f  for him, and he became a successful businessman. Despite his professed lack of enthusiasm about America, he managed to assimilate18 relatively ef fortlessly into middle-class society. However, this was not the case for some of  his older compatriots, such as Theophanis Iatrou, who was in his late 50s when he arrived in Worcester (with the help and sponsorship of  his brother-in-law, Vassilis Milionis). Theophanis had first left his native village at the tender age of  ten, moving to the mountain community of  Kalavrita in the Peloponnese, where he became an apprentice tinker, and for most of  his working life he had plied his trade in and around the ancient city of  Corinth, further east. But then he decided to emigrate, and in December 1967 he arrived in New York on board the Italian ocean liner SS Cristoforo Colombo. His wife, Georgia, had left for Worcester the previous year. In an interview during the summer of  2006, when Theophanis was in his nineties, he explained that it took him 40 days to find a job as a finisher with L. Hardy Co Inc., a century-old knife manufacturing company in Worcester. But it took even longer – three months, at least – before he was able to understand and speak some English. Theophanis stayed with the 18

See Karpathakis (1999) for an illuminating discussion of  theoretical aspects of  the assimilation and political mobilisation of  the Greek immigrant community in New York City.

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same firm until he retired. He confessed that initially he was not impressed by Worcester, and it took him some time to adjust to the American way of  life. But he persisted, working steadily, and living with Georgia in an apartment above her brother’s accommodation.19 While some Tsamantiots were renewing the migration link with Worcester, Massachusetts, others were arranging to join those who had made new lives in Melbourne, Australia. However, the process was harder for some of  these than for others, due to the conditions of entry imposed by the Australian authorities. As noted in Chapter 5, knowing someone already settled in the country was of great benefit, since it provided the opportunity of  being sponsored for emigration; this meant that new immigrants could begin the search for work immediately upon arrival, as their sponsor had agreed to deal with their accommodation needs. By contrast, those without a sponsor were obliged to start their new life in the infamous Bonegilla migrant reception centre, where conditions were very basic. This centre was the first to be opened in Australia, and it was in a remote location, near the town of  Wodonga in north-east Victoria. Immigrants often remained there for long periods. Even when they entered Australian society, it was dif ficult to find accommodation and employment without relatives or friends to assist and advise them, and the period of social and cultural adjustment was longer and tougher. Eleni Kondoulis, a current resident of  Melbourne, was one of  those who had to endure the privations of  living in the migrant camp. She and her husband, Zisimos, left the village with their children in the mid-1950s (preceding one of  her siblings, Thanassis, who took his family in the opposite direction, invited to Worcester by his in-laws). Quoted in the informative and moving publication, ‘From Tsamanta to Melbourne: Stories from Melbourne’s Tsamantiot Community’ (2009), Eleni explains (p. 96) their reason for leaving the village:

19

Still lucid, bright and inquisitive when interviewed in 2006 – two years before his death at the age of  98 – his memory of people and events from the past was unfailing, and he was curious to know how friends and acquaintances left behind in Greece had fared.

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Chapter 8 There wasn’t much hope of a future in Tsamanta[s], particularly having [three] daughters, because we needed lots of money for their dowry (…) Our family was one of  the first to come to Australia without having relatives there. And because we had no one to sponsor us we were taken to Bonegilla after arriving in Melbourne.

This example of rational decision-making, rooted in concerns about economic survival, typifies the majority of migrants from Tsamantas during the twentieth century, and accords with the findings of interdisciplinary studies of migration, which suggest that economic factors underpin most decisions to migrate.20 Another family to emigrate to Melbourne, after an unsuccessful attempt to re-establish themselves in Tsamantas, was the Gogorosis family: Michael and Christina, and their four children. George Gogorosis, the cousin of  Michael’s father, had been the first member of  the extended family to go to Australia, making the voyage in the summer of  1927 and living in Melbourne without his wife, Paraskevi, for almost thirty years, until she was at last able to join him. He eventually became a fruiterer, running a shop in the suburb of  Windsor with his business partner. George’s residence in Australia provided the connection necessary to facilitate the emigration of other members of  the family, and thus, when Michael and Christina returned to Tsamantas after four years as civil-war refugees in Filiates and Igoumenitsa, and then struggled in vain to rebuild their lives, they took the decision to leave the village for good, and travelled to Melbourne in 1953. Their four children – Angela, Glykeria, Peter and Victoria – poignantly describe the day of  their departure, in this same book of memoirs (pp. 72–73): We all remember the cold drizzly overcast November day when we left the village. The lament in our grandmother’s voice as she stood in the rain and called out, ‘my children, I will never see you again’, will haunt us forever.

Another Tsamantiot family intent upon emigration faced a problem because of its size. In 1951, Theodoros and Marina Dimitriou – like the Gogorosis family – had returned with their children to Tsamantas from Corfu, to 20 See, for instance, Haug (2008: 599).

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which they had escaped from the traumas of  the civil war. But they too struggled to survive back in the village and made the ‘ultimate sacrifice’ in the hope of improving the prospects of  their six children (ibid., pp. 65–66). Theodoros contacted his friend Spyros Kenos, already settled in Melbourne, and in 1954 Spyros managed to obtain permission for Theodoros, alone, to come to Australia. Reluctant to break up the family, he decided not to go. Eventually, another opportunity arose, through the help of an organisation that assisted the emigration of  families to Australia. However, the organisation would only consider families of up to six members. Undeterred, Theodoros wrote to Zisimos Kondoulis, who had been the best man at his wedding, asking him to help resolve the matter, and a sponsorship was subsequently arranged. In 1956, Theodoros and his family boarded the SS Kyrenia, and after thirty-two days at sea they arrived at Port Melbourne – just prior to the start of  the Olympic Games – to be greeted by their friend Zisimos. The migrants from Tsamantas who settled in Melbourne in the 1950s faced a major challenge in finding job opportunities, as the city was experiencing high levels of unemployment. In their favour, however, was the fact that the dozen or so fellow villagers already in Melbourne, having emigrated before the war, were able to welcome most of  the new arrivals and provide accommodation for them, until they could find work and thus af ford to rent their own homes. But housing conditions were far from ideal: Phillip Dimitriadis observes that ‘it was not uncommon for twenty people to be living in a three-bedroom house. Lining up to use the bathroom would have been an experience, but (…) a commitment to sacrificing personal needs for the good of  the community was paramount in this environment’ (ibid., p. 8). Published by the Brotherhood of  St Nicholas in Melbourne, the book of memoirs reveals – through the oral accounts of individuals within the Tsamantiot community – just how overwhelmed so many of  them were by the complexities of  living in a foreign city, having been catapulted from a ‘life [spent with] donkeys to [one] of cars, trains, trams and buses’ (p. 73). They had to cope with their feelings of alienation, and the problems of cultural adjustment, and discrimination against them was common. On arrival in Melbourne, the Gogorosis family stayed with their relative, George

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Gogorosis, all of  them sleeping in one room in his home, for a period of nine months. The four Gogorosis siblings tell their story (p. 73): A particularly painful aspect of our experience was the often aggressive style of some primary school teachers, who would shout in anger at our inability to respond in English. Another was the put downs of  fellow students, who at every opportunity would remind us of our ‘wog’ origins.21 In the first year the family talked frequently of returning to Greece. However, the reality of  the cost associated with a return to Greece meant such thoughts were no more than nostalgic fantasies.

Life wasn’t without its pleasures, however. In the mid-to-late 1960s, the Brotherhood of  St Nicholas – mirroring the activities of  the St George’s Society in Worcester, back in the early twentieth century – began to organise dinner dances, and picnics at Reservoir Lake (and later at other locations). Social events such as these provided opportunities for young men and women to intermingle. A number of  these younger immigrants from Tsamantas eventually married a member of  their own community; others found partners from non-Tsamantiot Greek families, or even from other ethnic groups. Over time, their relationship with their ancient homeland tended to weaken. By contrast, the first-generation emigrants to Melbourne maintained strong links with Tsamantas, and some of  them made return visits to the village. (On arrival, however, they were saddened by its state of dereliction and abandonment, as we shall see in the following chapter.) Migration from Tsamantas continued unabated through the years of  the military dictatorship, when it was often associated with a desire to escape the Junta’s constant monitoring of people’s political af filiations. Along with frustration over restrictions on movement near the sensitive border area, and the relentless poverty of village life, this abuse of civil rights persuaded most of  the village’s remaining inhabitants to seek a better life beyond Mount Mourgana. Some chose the anonymity of  large Greek urban

21

The afore-mentioned Melburnian Ange Kenos pointed out in his communication with the author (May 2012) that racism in Australia at that time was ‘all too common’, and that the integration of  Greek migrants into Australian society was only realised ‘largely due to the ef forts of a left-wing national government’, as well as the educational achievements of many of  the migrants’ children.

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centres, becoming shopkeepers, middlemen or petty speculators, or finding poorly paid jobs – many of  them seasonal – in the service industries, such as tourism; those with political connections sometimes even managed to find a position in the massive and ever-expanding bureaucracy, in Igoumenitsa, Ioannina or Athens. For others, though, the perceived rewards of emigration overseas continued to beckon. According to an article in the Worcester Telegraph in 197322 (quoting from State Immigration Statistics), more immigrants were coming to the city from Greece at the time than from any other country. It estimated that there were between 3,500 and 4,000 Greeks living in the city, the vast majority of  them (80%) from Tsamantas or other parts of  Epirus.23 Some of  the emigrants to America intended to return to Tsamantas on meeting their objective of saving enough money to live more comfortably back home. In 1971, Michalis Noussis, whose three grown-up children were studying at university in Greece, left the village to live and work in Worcester. His father, Constantinos Noussis, was one of  the pioneering migrants referred to in Chapter 5. He left for America in the early 1900s, during the Ottoman administration, and settled in Portland, Oregon, where he worked in various jobs, the first of which was laying tracks for the railways. Eventually, he opened his own business in the city.24 Anthony Simollardes, ‘Greek Life in Worcester’, Worcester Telegraph, 8 July 1973. The strengthening of  the city’s Tsamantiot community, which started with the new wave of emigration in the 1950s, provided a solid base from which to address the needs of  those left behind in Epirus, and in 1964 the St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society – along with the Brotherhood of  St Nicholas, established in Melbourne in 1958 – sent second-hand clothing and money to the impoverished villagers back home. Ange Kenos, from Melbourne, told the author (May 2012): ‘As children in the 1950s and 1960s, we kept every pencil – no matter how small – every rubber and every exercise book, to send to Tsamantas, even though we ourselves were poor. We were told that the children back in the village would be able to write in the spaces between the lines we’d written over here, in our Australian schools.’ 24 Unable to return home throughout the years of  World War II and the ensuing civil war – as was the case for all Greeks living overseas – it was not until 1954 that he journeyed back to Tsamantas: the year of Michalis’s marriage to Eftichia. Constantinos stayed in the village for a year and then returned to America, but he retired in 1961 and came home to Tsamantas, where he died a few years later. 22 23

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In 1971, Michalis made the decision to follow in his father’s footsteps and seek work in America, investing in his family’s future in Greece by earning a higher wage than was possible in Tsamantas. Separation from his wife and children, together with a deep attachment to his native village, made the prospect of  living overseas for a long period unattractive, and so he planned to return to Tsamantas as often as he could. But leaving the States for more than a year would have denied him the right to live and work there, and so he became trapped in a cycle of travelling back and forth across the Atlantic. Eventually, Michalis was joined by his wife, Eftichia, but her experience of  living in America was one of anxiety and disillusionment, made more painful by the fact that her three children were in Greece. She recounted how employment opportunities were limited to poorly paid jobs in Worcester’s factories. The hope of earning suf ficient money to enable the two of  them to return permanently to Tsamantas, and provide a secure future for their children, was proving dif ficult to realise, since their joint income was eaten away by the high cost of  living in Worcester. Sharing overcrowded housing with other Greeks, and spending next to nothing on themselves, the stresses and strains of everyday life exacted a heavy toll. Here is how Eftichia described her life in the city during the 1980s: I couldn’t speak any English, but I did find jobs – lots of  them. I worked in a restaurant once, but mostly factories: in one, producing plastic bottles; in another, electric irons; in a third, making pies. But the longest job I had was in a men’s tie-making firm. In that one, at least there were a few other Greek women working with me. I hated not having our kids with us. It was a miserable life. I was very depressed and I used to cry every day. We had a Greek landlady and she used to say to me: ‘Are you crying again Eftichia?’ Like everyone else in our community, we went to church every Sunday, at St Spyridon’s. It was packed! There was a charismatic young priest, and it was nice being surrounded by our fellow villagers. But the St George’s Society was on its last legs by then. It existed only on paper. The only thing that gave me real pleasure was going shopping and wandering around – nothing else! It’s a wealthy country, the States, and if you wanted to work, you could. But it wasn’t like home. If we’d had our children with us, though, perhaps things would have been dif ferent.

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This sense of isolation might well have caused resentment towards the other Tsamantiots living in Worcester, who were now less concerned than in the past with caring for recent arrivals from the village. The community spirit that had characterised life in Tsamantas was largely absent, and the moribund St George’s Society was no longer a source of assistance to new Tsamantiot immigrants. So when Michalis went to Detroit for three months, in search of more gainful employment, he planned to ask the Greeks there for donations to help get the St George’s Society back on its feet.25 Detroit had the next largest number of  Tsamantiot immigrants in the States, after Worcester, but theirs was a relatively small and unorganised community, and Michalis’s pleas for donations fell on deaf ears: only one person made a contribution – of just five dollars – and this was handed back, since it would have been ‘shameful’ to return with such a measly sum. Michalis was upset that his compatriots in Detroit were apparently unwilling to fulfil their moral duty to come to the aid of  fellow migrants, but the truth is that they were not in a position to do so: in the early 1980s, and in the wake of  two successive oil and energy crises, severe recession had begun to af fect many regions of  the United States. Steel manufacturing in Worcester and the automobile industry in Detroit both experienced a downturn. Worcester, in particular, was going through a major phase of deindustrialisation (Derickson and Ross, 2008). Michalis and Eftichia were amongst the last emigrants from Tsamantas to head for the United States or for Australia, in search of a solution to their poverty. By then, many of  their fellow villagers had already found work much nearer to home, in the factories, building sites, pubs and restaurants of  West Germany.

25

While in Detroit, he stayed with Spyros Stolakis. Like Michalis and Eftichia, Spyros was finding life in America something of a challenge; after just one year he returned to Tsamantas, where he still lives.

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8.3.1 Emigration to West Germany Back in the early 1960s, a new migration route had opened up: this time to the Federal Republic of  Germany (the western part of modern-day Germany, prior to unification). West Germany was much more easily reached than any of  the previous destinations for Tsamantiot emigrants, and Greece was just one of several southern European countries that began to supply manual labour – via intergovernmental recruitment agreements – to key sectors of  the Republic’s growing industrial economy. The underlying assumption was that these labourers were Gastarbeiter (guest workers) who were expected to migrate in and out of  the country to meet the demands of its labour market. It was envisaged that the immigrants from southern Europe would work for a few years, accumulate savings, and eventually return to their native country. With the primary causes of emigration once again being high unemployment and inadequate incomes, Greek emigration to West Germany is viewed as a classic case of  labour migration, driven by imbalances in the international wage and labour market (Christou and King, 2010: 639). According to Emilianos Gikas, a long-term Tsamantiot resident of  Stuttgart with whom the author communicated via e-mail, the earliest migrants from Tsamantas to the Federal Republic were all drawn from the young and healthy male population of  the village. They left at the personal invitation of  the large industrial centres, such as Munich, Stuttgart, Wuppertal, and the Ruhr region. The first of  them, in 1959, was Vassilios Efstratiou, and he was soon followed by his brother Andreas, who joined Vassilios as an employee of  Mercedes-Benz in Stuttgart. Andreas, in turn, invited two of  his close friends – Spyros Stolakis (previously mentioned, in a footnote, as a later migrant to Detroit) and Nikos Kondoulis – along with another Tsamantiot, Vassilios Noussis. These three immigrants eventually found jobs on building sites in the town of  Bruchsal, near Karlsruhe. The work was unskilled, but nonetheless the men were paid far more than they could have earned at home. According to Emilianos, all of  these early migrants started out with the intent of  being typical guest workers, planning to earn enough to live more comfortably back in Tsamantas than hitherto. But in fact only Andreas and Spyros returned to the village, the former investing

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the profits of a few years’ labour abroad into animal husbandry, his occupation prior to leaving the village, and Spyros finding employment as a builder. Increasing numbers of  Tsamantiots now began to leave for West Germany, to seek their fortune. Some of  the men took their wives with them, to increase their income-earning potential and hence reduce the amount of  time they would need to stay away from home; those with children generally had to leave them in the village, in the care of  their grandparents. Once again, the system of chain migration facilitated the process, with migrants heading for places where kith and kin had already settled. Most found jobs in factories, building sites, or the hospitality industry. One of  them was Athina Vesdrevanis, an unmarried relation of  the author’s, who had worked as a weaver in her house in Tsamantas for many years. (A photograph of  her sitting in quiet concentration at her loom, dressed in the traditional clothes of  the time, is on show in the villages’ folklore museum.) Having made the decision to seek employment in West Germany, Athina found herself a job in a toy factory, where she worked for some time. However, her employability was severely restricted when she suf fered a traumatic industrial accident, severing the fingers of one hand in the machine that she operated, which led to her returning to Greece, permanently disabled. Ironically, in her old age Athina used some of  the money that she saved from her employment in the German factory to rebuild her ancestral home in Tsamantas, which had been burned down by German soldiers in April 1944. Like all but two of  the pioneering migrants, some of  those who followed them chose to remain in the Federal Republic, where living conditions were better than in Epirus. Brothers Michalis and Theophanis Exarchos, for example, ran a successful restaurant in Heidelberg, and both of  them married German women. But the benefits of steady employment and higher wages came at a price: Emilianos Gikas made clear in his e-mail communications that his fellow migrants, who were largely ‘naïve, inexperienced and unskilled’, soon found out that saving money involved working long hours that left them with little or no time for leisure and socialising. Furthermore, because the Tsamantiot migrants were scattered around West Germany, rather than being concentrated in one urban area – like those in Worcester, Melbourne and Athens – there was no opportunity to establish

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their own association. Social gatherings were limited to occasional celebrations, such as weddings or christenings. Thus, choosing to remain in the Federal Republic generally meant sacrificing one’s personal life – and sometimes family life – to the insistent need to save money, until such time as one could either return to Greece or move up the German income ladder, working fewer hours. Not surprisingly, many of  the Tsamantiot migrants went home after a few years of employment, although most of them settled in large Greek towns and cities, rather than their home village.26 The wave of migration from Greece to West Germany was relatively short-lived, lasting only fifteen years or so. In the mid-1970s, the economic situation in the Federal Republic deteriorated, and not only did immigrants already in the country find it increasingly hard to find new jobs, but far fewer invitations were issued to prospective immigrants. In 1988 – seven years after Greece’s accession to the EEC, and with the transition period that had restricted the emigration of  Greeks to member countries now over – migration to Germany and elsewhere in the Community again became a possibility. But in the meantime the employment situation in Greece had improved dramatically, and very few Greeks decided to emigrate during this era. In Tsamantas, in any case, the pool of potential migrants had virtually dried up, since almost everyone young enough to emigrate had already done so.

26

Although the majority of  Greek migrants to Western Europe during the early 1970s originated from rural areas, less than 40 per cent of  those who returned to Greece went back to their village of origin (Lianos, 1975, cf. King et al., 1985: 220). A study conducted between 1985 and 1986 found that, by then, an even greater proportion of returning rural migrants settled in urban centres, with only about a quarter choosing to return to the countryside (McLean-Petras and Kousis, 1988: 588). Of  the Tsamantiots who repatriated from West Germany, almost all chose to relocate to Igoumenitsa or other towns on or near the coast of  Thesprotia.

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8.4 The early years of  true democracy (1974–1981) The collapse of authoritarianism in Greece in July 1974 heralded the start of  the country’s modern era of parliamentary democracy. In November, a general election brought a new government to power: the right-wing New Democracy party, under the leadership of  former prime minister Constantine Karamanlis, who had spent the previous eleven years in Paris after his defeat in the 1963 election. When the Junta collapsed, Karamanlis had been urged to return to Athens, as the man most qualified to lead the country out if its predicament. A charismatic and visionary politician, he now moderated his style of  leadership, moving away from the oligarchic nature of  his former terms of of fice – when he was strongly anti-communist, and supported by the Americans, the monarchy and the army – and showing more ‘f lexibility and tolerance’, not least towards his country’s communist neighbours (Woodhouse, 1991: 311). Karamanlis steered the nation’s transformation to a multi-party democracy and introduced various social reforms. As C.M. Woodhouse has noted, Karamanlis’s overriding objective was now to industrialise Greece and Europeanise its people, ‘if necessary by force’ (1991: 315). To that end, he embarked upon a modernisation programme, in the process antagonising many individuals: trade unionists, who wanted to protect the interests of  their members; the hierarchy of  the Church, who feared the consequences of change; and businessmen, reluctant to lose their state subsidy and to be taxed more heavily. Less contentiously, by making dhimotiki (demotic Greek) the nation’s only of ficial language, he also brought about the long-overdue demise of  katharevousa, the complex and old-fashioned version of  Greek known only to the educated elite (Close, 2002: 147–148). But political scientists such as Lyberaki and Tsakalotos argue that, despite Karamanlis’s desire to modernise, the implementation of most of  his policies was hampered by the weakness of  the post-dictatorship public administration, which had few organisational resources, little professionalism or public service mentality, and limited power to resist the favouritism and subservience expected of it by his governments (2002: 100).

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By now, as a number of commentators have pointed out,27 the old forms of authority in Greece were in decline. The increasingly open and cosmopolitan nature of  Greek society favoured social change, and this, along with the demographic consequences of migration, brought more women into the workplace, undermining the traditional patriarchy. The church, too, lost some of its inf luence, discredited by its association with the military regime. Attitudes were changing: for instance, patriotism – identified with military and religious values – was coming to be seen as old-fashioned. In an increasingly integrated Europe, the likelihood of military conf lict between its nations had become negligible, and this had great appeal to a nation that had suf fered so much, and for so long, as a consequence of warfare. Karamanlis was keen to expedite Greece’s accession to the European Economic Community (EEC), viewing it as an important factor in consolidating democracy, achieving political stability and modernising the Greek economy. Negotiations with the Community having resumed after the fall of  the fascist regime, he applied for full membership in July 1975. The application was successful, and on the first of January 1981 Greece was admitted as a member of  the Community.28 But the country was now in economic decline. The rate of growth, which had been 6.7% of  GDP per capita in the 1960s, dropped to about 3.5% in the late 1970s (Lazaridis, 2003: 3). In the meantime, both foreign and domestic investment had begun to fall29 (Close, 2002: 170), and economic growth slowed dramatically; by 1979, it had come to a virtual standstill. Moreover, public debt and public-sector deficits increased, fuelling a trade deficit and high inf lation (Alogoskoufis, 1995: 150). All of  these factors – along with the failure to keep abreast of modern technological advances, 27 28

See, for instance, Kassimeris (2005). Karamanlis went on to become the President of  the Republic in 1980, and again in 1990, and was without doubt the ‘most inf luential and revered political leader’ of  Greece in the second half of  the twentieth century (Close, 2002: 101). 29 This would continue until the early 1990s, with the developing economies of  Asia and elsewhere benefitting from foreign investment to the detriment of  Greece, as well as other south-east European countries. In Greece, the loss of investment was accompanied by stagnation in wages and a reduction in consumption, mainly due to low productivity and backward technology (Close, 2002: 170).

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and the lack of an entrepreneurial spirit at the grass-root level – eventually resulted in economic stagnation. Somewhat belatedly, the government attempted to promote growth in the worst-performing regions, through a programme of industrialisation. As noted earlier, Epirus – and in particular its prefecture of Thesprotia – had the unenviable distinction of  being the poorest part of  Greece, and so the opening in 1978 of a yarn factory in the market town of  Filiates, employing around 400 workers, was a major boost for the local economy. The brainchild of  Meto Lagia – a businessman of  Cham origin30 who had secured a substantial loan from the Hellenic Industrial Development Bank (ETBA) and been granted a plot of  100 stremmata (10 hectares) by the Municipality of  Filiates – the establishment of  the factory was part of a national revival of  traditional light industry, such as the manufacture of  textiles and garments. Its construction required relatively little capital, and benefited from the availability of cheap labour in the locality. However, in the early 1990s, despite ef forts to continue its operation, the factory closed down as a consequence of  textile manufacture moving from Greece to developing countries such as Turkey and Egypt, where labour costs were lower. The impressive factory building – located at the top of a hill at the entrance to the town, but now standing empty – acts as a constant reminder of  the failure of industrialisation policies in this part of  Thesprotia. Despite the town’s importance as the location of  the only hospital in Thesprotia, Filiates continues to decline, and nearly all of  the prefecture’s economic activity is now located in its capital, the port of  Igoumenitsa, which is witnessing unprecedented growth. Since Filiates is the nearest major centre of economic activity to Tsamantas, its decline has only increased the marginalisation and peripherality of  the village and its neighbouring communities. 30 The fact that Lagia’s family was expelled from Filiates after the Second World war, along with all the other Chams, was largely to blame for the controversy that beset the project. See, for instance, Mitsi (2008: 79–105) on the attempt made by Stratis Athanasakos, the local MP, to scuttle the whole operation, because of  his suspicion that Lagia was seeking revenge for his family’s expulsion by securing a foothold in the town, to pave the way for Chams to reclaim their confiscated properties (as discussed in Chapter 7).

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8.5 Conclusion The impact on the community of  Tsamantas of  the many significant economic, political and social transformations in Greek society that occurred between 1950 and 1981, was profound and irreversible. In the aftermath of  the traumatic civil war, the people of  Tsamantas had had to make decisions about their lives and livelihood: stay put and stay poor, or be proactive and migrate, for the betterment of oneself and one’s family. As events unfolded – both nationally, regionally and locally – the majority chose the latter option, either as individuals or as family units, and thus the village’s history of migration as a response to unemployment and poverty continued. But, compared with the first wave of migration from the village, which was more sporadic in nature, this second wave was a steady outf low of people turning their backs on their native community and heading elsewhere. The phenomenon was underpinned by changes in the modern world. The mass importation of consumer goods – financed by foreign credit and aid, and marketed through newspapers, magazines and the radio – had increased the villagers’ awareness of western capitalist culture, reinforced by the visits made to Tsamantas by former residents, displaying all the trappings of a higher standard of  living, and talking of  their lives in the urban environment. In common with the rural population nationwide, Tsamantiots began to aspire to the ‘prestige values of  the world beyond the village’, and acted accordingly: by educating a son, in the hope that he would find employment in a town or city; by seeking urbanite husbands for their daughters, instead of  local men trapped in the poverty of rural labour; or merely by indulging in fashionable household goods for themselves (Campbell and Sherrard, 1969: 336). But most of all, they dreamed of immersing themselves in this culture by migrating from the village, and the arrival of  the road network to the outskirts of  Tsamantas provided the means for what can only be described as a ‘great escape’: either to destinations overseas or to urban environments in Greece itself. Ironically, Tsamantas was becoming a more attractive place to live, being increasingly accessible and modernised, but it was too late to stop the exodus. Evangelos Kentros commented:

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‘The new infrastructure was vital for those few of us who stayed, of course, but we would have been so much better of f if we’d been able to keep more people here.’ Between them, emigration and urbanisation had a major impact on the village’s trajectory, gradually emptying it and leaving behind a population that was mostly economically inactive. Once the head village of  the area, and second only in this part of  Thesprotia to the town of  Filiates, it was now but a shadow of its former self. Moreover, developments in the production of consumer goods were destroying the culture of diverse trades that had traditionally occupied a niche in the village’s economy. The cottage craft industry – homespun weaving, dressmaking, embroidery, and blanket and carpet making – was gradually losing out to mass-produced textiles of modern styles and colours, and the centuries-old practice of using plants and other natural materials for dyeing disappeared. Likewise, the skills of woodcarving – common amongst the men of  the village, and most evident in the beautiful and intricate dowry chests made for their daughters – began to fall into disuse, as inexpensive ready-made furniture became more widely available. Barrels and water bottles, once fashioned from the wood of  local plane trees, along with earthenware jars and copper utensils, were all replaced by objects made of plastic and aluminium. The art of drystone walling was largely forgotten, as terraced fields fell out of use. Communal washing facilities were hidden by the growth of vegetation, and wooden hand looms fell silent and were left to rot, as were the village’s water-mills, abandoned to the destructive forces of  the mountain streams. Creative use of  the natural environment was rapidly fading. It was the same story in many other parts of rural Greece, as the emigration and urbanisation of  the 1950s and 1960s skewed the demography of villages, leaving them inhabited principally by the elderly. This seriously hampered the development of  the Greek economy, which had been growing in strength. By 1966, the Governor of  the Bank of  Greece was suf ficiently concerned to raise the alarm, observing that northern Greece, and Epirus in particular, had been especially disadvantaged by mass emigration. In just the first three years of  the 1960s, a total of  5,326 individuals migrated from Thesprotia to West Germany alone, in search of work: a little over

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one tenth of its population of around 51,000.31 National statistics show that, during the period 1955 to 1973, Germany absorbed 603,300 Greek migrants, Australia 170,700, the United States 124,000 and Canada 80,200 (Kasimis and Kasimi, 2004).32 The costs and benefits of emigration were hotly debated amongst Greek policymakers, politicians and academics, but one positive outcome was undeniable: those emigrants who chose to return to Greece brought back significant skills acquired in their adoptive countries, which enabled them to start up businesses of  their own, thus boosting the economy (Lianos, 1997: 72). In the peripheral region of  Epirus, however, the phenomenon of mass emigration failed to bring any substantial economic benefits, and the low level of development persisted, especially in comparison with the country’s core regions, such as Central Greece. In Tsamantas, the few benefits attributable to emigration – the easing of social tensions among the unemployed (or underemployed) youth, due to reduced competition for work, and alleviation of poverty through remittances from migrants to their families back home – were far outweighed by the ef fect of severe depopulation on the social life, culture and status of  the village. Those few who remained – some to continue working the land, but the majority simply reluctant to leave their home, or constrained from doing so by old age or infirmity – had to adapt to a growing sense of abandonment by their former neighbours, and to life in what was now very much a rural backwater, with an uncertain future.

31 32

The Times, 23 April 1963, ‘Research Society’s Drive to End Greek Rural Poverty’. ‘Greece: A History of  Migration’, Migration Policy Institute, , accessed 21 Nov 2011.

Chapter 9

Pax Europaea: Life within the European Union

1981 was a milestone in the history of  Greece. On the 1 January, after a twenty-year wait as an associate member of  the EEC, it was granted full membership of  the Community and began to benefit at last from the advantages that this bestowed. One of  the most significant was that integration within the Community heralded the start of  the country’s Europeanisation,1 through the adoption of a model of governance ref lecting the values, norms and principles of  the EU system and its other member states. But of paramount importance for most ordinary Greeks was the fact that membership was perceived as both a means of safeguarding the recently restored democratic institutions, and a potential solution to the nation’s mounting economic problems. Benefits were expected at the individual level, too: farmers, for example, were anticipating improvements to their standard of  living through generous subsidies, and the attainment of unrestricted access to the Common Market for the sale of  their agricultural produce. Membership brought challenges as well as opportunities, and one of  the drawbacks for Greece – as for Spain, Portugal, Ireland and southern Italy – was its geographical location at the periphery of  Europe, away from the centre of economic activity. Much of  this activity takes place within an arch-shaped zone stretching from the southern half of  the United Kingdom,

1

A fashionable term in current political discourse, ‘Europeanisation’ has many definitions (Papadoulis, 2005). Although widely viewed as a positive process, it does attract criticism: for example, Othon Anastasakis asserts that, in respect of southeast European countries in particular, it is ‘as an increasingly demanding, externally driven, and coercive process of domestic and regional change brought about by the EU’ (2005: 77).

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through the Netherlands, Belgium, northern France and the western half of  Germany, and on to the north of  Italy: a corridor commonly referred to as the ‘banana’ (Tondi, 2001: 150). To benefit from the dense transport infrastructure in and around this zone, and to be close to their main markets, most manufacturing and services firms choose to locate within the central regions of  Europe.2 Companies in Greece, situated far from this economic hub, often struggle to survive, partly due to the burden of  high transportation costs. At the regional level, this drawback can be even more profound, and some of  Europe’s most peripheral regions have been seriously disadvantaged in terms of  their economic development. Acutely aware of  this problem, the European Commission has focused on appropriate policies to correct spatial asymmetries and has gone some way towards improving the well-being of its poorer regions. To this end, significant funding has been made available for the reduction of economic disparity within the Union.3 The greatest victim of disparity is Epirus, where inaccessibility and the lack of adequate infrastructure endowment have conspired to make it the most marginalised region not only of  Greece but also of  the EU as a whole (Ikonomou, 2011: 65–66). Of course, even peripheral areas can prosper, given the implementation of suitable policies at the national or EU level – especially in respect of research and development, investment in education, and the promotion of innovation (Bilbao-Osorio and Rodriguez-Pose, 2004: 452–453). But such policies are not the only factor inf luencing economic growth in these regions; the latest wave of globalisation4 – often 2 3

4

See, for instance, Savary (1993: 150–179) and Tondi (2001: 148–150). This amounts to approximately one third of  the EU’s total annual budget, and is mostly divided between the three major regional funds: the European Regional Development Fund (ERDF), the European Social Fund (ESF), and the Cohesion Fund. Within the current seven-year programme (2007–2013), regional funding stands at 347 billion euros – 35.7% of  the total EU budget for this period – or just over 49 billion euros per year. (, accessed on 16/2/2012). In previous chapters, the first two waves of globalisation were brief ly discussed in terms of  how they af fected the community of  Tsamantas and the wider region of  Epirus. According to Dollar (2001: 2), the third and latest wave began in the late 1970s, when

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referred to as ‘neoliberal’ globalisation – is also having a significant impact, by favouring open markets, unrestricted trade, free movement of capital and increased competition between firms, all of which has led some companies to move to low-wage developing countries, to the detriment of peripheral European regions in particular. In one of  the best-regarded essays on neoliberal globalisation, Ben Rosamond notes that the ‘de-territorialization of political economies’ – nation states losing control of  their own economic and political af fairs – is the result of power moving to global multilateral institutions like the World Trade Organisation, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank (2003: 66). This is pertinent to the crisis in Greece at the time of writing (August 2013), since the nation’s failing economy is dependent upon loans from the IMF and the European Union. In line with Rosamond, many other contemporary scholars accept that world markets are now more powerful than governments. Some of these – perhaps prematurely – share the views of  Ha-Joon Chang, who regards the nation-state ‘at best as an anachronism and at worst as an obstacle to human progress’ (2004: 1). Susan Strange, a vociferous opponent of neoliberal globalisation, contends that ‘where states were once the master of markets, now it is the markets which, on many critical issues, are the masters over the government of states’ (1996: 4). Although this seems to be the case in all but the wealthiest nations, politicians throughout the world have been continuing with ‘business as normal’, as though they hold the reins in controlling the process of globalisation. This has certainly been the situation in Greece, but, as the financial crisis that began in 2008 has so clearly demonstrated, it is largely the world markets that are in control of  Greek economic policy, even if supranational institutions – such as the so-called ‘troika’: the EU, the European Central Bank and the IMF – were responsible for creating those policies. As an over-indebted country within an inf lexible currency

large developing economies, such as China and Mexico, opened up for the first time to foreign trade and investment. (India, another large economy, would follow suit much later, in the early 1990s.) This third wave of globalisation is still in play, and has been a major factor in shaping economic development in southeast Europe.

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union (the eurozone), Greece now faces its most dif ficult period since the Axis occupation of  the Second World War and the ensuing civil war. Its debt stands at a massive €350 billion.5 The Greek public has become deeply disillusioned with the European Union and angered by the inf lexibility shown by Germany, Greece’s main paymaster, in its insistence upon reduction of  the public debt at the cost of  lower wages, high unemployment and drastic cutbacks. Voters in the general election of  6 May 2012 expressed their frustration at these austerity measures by rejecting PASOK and New Democracy – the country’s two main political parties, whose long record of corruption, nepotism and incompetence is seen as having been partly responsible for the crisis – in favour of parties that oppose these measures. Now, with a coalition government after the second round of election of 17 June 2012, Greece’s future within the eurozone– and perhaps within the European Union itself – is still in some doubt. A year after, The Economist reports that the fractious coalition, headed by Antonis Samaras, is still ‘wobbling along’.6 Under the watchful eyes of  the European Union and the IMF, who oversee the country’s bail-out, the coalition government succeed in reaching the budget target and is pushing through tentative reforms in the bloated public sector. But how has membership of  the EU inf luenced life at the local level in Tsamantas, since accession in 1981? The present chapter will address this issue, assessing the implications for the village’s economy. It will also discuss the ways in which the inhabitants have responded to another hugely significant event in Greece’s late-twentieth-century history: the partial opening of  the Greek–Albanian border, and the consequent inf lux of refugees. The chapter will conclude with an account of  the present situation in the village, including its failure to exploit potential sources of revenue, to

5

6

In 2011, a bailout loan of €110 billion was handed to Greece by the EU and the IMF. In March of  the following year a second loan was granted, this time worth €130 billion, and around the same time the largest sovereign debt restructuring in the country’s history allowed Greece to wipe some €100 billion from its debt of around €350 billion, temporarily averting default. However, it remains to be seen whether Greece can stay within the eurozone. The Economist, Greece’s government wobbling along, 22 June 2013.

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increase its chances of survival. But first, in order to contextualise events in Tsamantas and its wider region, an overview of national politics from the 1980s onwards must be provided, and consideration given to how the dual processes of  European integration and globalisation have inf luenced policy choices in Greece to the present day, in particular with reference to Epirus. Our starting point is the socialist government in power at the start of  this era, and the ef forts it made to improve the lives of millions of  Greeks, especially those in rural areas.

9.1 Greek politics from 1981 to the present day On 21 October 1981, nearly ten months after Greece became a full member of  the EEC, a general election brought to power Andreas Papandreou, the charismatic leader of  PASOK (the Panhellenic Socialist Movement). Papandreou was no moderator; in fact, his extremist politics had the ef fect of polarising the nation (Kalyvas, 1997: 84). His party styled itself as the defender of  the disadvantaged masses against privileged oligarchies. Supported largely by the middle and lower-middle classes, it adopted a strong anti-western and anti-capitalist stance. Papandreou’s own opposition to capitalism is legendary, as are his vitriolic attacks on the United States, which he referred to as the ‘metropolis of capitalism’ (Dimitras, 1985: 143–144). He was also deeply suspicious of globalisation, which he saw as a platform for American imperialism (Kirtsoglou and Theodossopoulos, 2010: 95). At the other end of  the spectrum were the politics of  the rightwing New Democracy Party, which represented the wealthy, and the socially conservative, and was supported by the business elites. Papandreou was initially fiercely opposed to membership of  the EEC. The paradox of a nation electing an anti-European leader when accession had just begun to benefit its citizens can be explained by the fact that not only was it considered unlikely that Greece would ever rescind its membership, but also that the majority of  the electorate – and in particular the urban lower middle class and small-scale farmers in the countryside – was

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desperate for change, after nearly thirty years of almost total domination by the right. In the run-up to the election, PASOK had made an alarmist prediction that accession to the Community would ruin Greek farmers, but in reality membership brought a significant improvement in their incomes. However, this was due to the depreciation of  the drachma against the ECU (the euro’s predecessor),7 rather than the result of increased output. In fact, output stagnated between 1981 and 1989, and Greek agricultural products gradually became less competitive within the Common Market, seriously af fecting the balance of  trade. Louloudis and Maraveyas point out that the EEC’s pro-agricultural policies were more beneficial to large-scale farmers in Greece – for example, those on the plains of  Thessaly that were intensively cultivating cotton and tobacco – than to small-scale subsistence farmers and stock-breeders in the country’s mountainous areas (1997: 271–272). As a populist politician, Papandreou was acutely aware of  these inequities, as well as those that existed between the classes in Greek society, and he was determined to address them. Having promised radical social change during his electioneering, he and his PASOK government now began to implement the policies that would ef fect this change. Rural areas in particular benefited from greater investment, and the wages and rights of low-paid workers were significantly improved. But one of  the most important advances was the introduction of a basic pension for farmers aged 65 or over. To qualify for this non-contributory pension, an individual must have worked in agriculture (or a related occupation, such as shepherding) for at least 25 years. Eventually – and in line with Article 119 of  the Treaty of  Rome, which specified equal pay for equal work irrespective of gender – the pension was extended to women farmers, with the same qualifying criteria. For the first time, some women in rural Greece achieved a degree of economic independence. The pension also gave them greater security; before its introduction, women’s greater life expectancy compared with men would have resulted in many losing their income, on the death of  their spouse, and having to rely on their children for support. 7

Depreciation of  the drachma meant that subsidies, converted from ECUs into drachmas by the time they reached the farmers, had greater purchasing power.

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In Tsamantas, a large proportion of  the inhabitants were elderly and had always lived of f  the land – including the women, who worked in the fields throughout their adult life, regardless of any childcare or other responsibilities – and thus numerous individuals qualified for this new source of income, which substantially improved their standard of  living. A local man interviewed in 2006, who was in receipt of  the basic farmers’ pension, reported that he and his wife managed comfortably on their combined income: I’ve had my basic farmer’s pension since I turned 65. I get 253 euros, fourteen times a year, and my wife gets 370. She’s given more because of  the contributions she made to the Farmer’s Pension Fund. What we get is enough for us. We have a few animals, and our little kitchen garden, where we grow our beans, onions, tomatoes and so on. We don’t want for anything.

Some residents managed to make savings, which typically they spent on making adaptations to their homes – modernising bathrooms, or installing double glazing, for example, to make their lives more comfortable in old age. Prime Minister Papandreou introduced a number of other progressive policies, driven partly by a desire to conform with prevailing social attitudes within the EEC. Discrimination on account of gender was made illegal, and the landmark Family Law of  1983 extended women’s rights by giving them legal equality within the family. This Law also introduced the right to a civil marriage and to divorce by consent, and made divorce easier on grounds of cruelty. To the further consternation of  the Church, adultery was decriminalised, and children born outside of wedlock were granted equal status with their peers. Moreover, the right of  husbands to claim a dowry – the practice of which had, in any case, started to decline with the modernisation of  Greek society – was abolished. These measures went some way to redressing the inequity and subordination that women had endured, and empowered them at home and in the workplace. They could now control their own lives, and inf luence social change within their community. In Tsamantas, for example, there are now women members of  the local council, and some have declared an interest in becoming head of  the community; others are in charge of cultural associations.

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Apart from these social changes, Papandreou’s greatest achievement was the rigorous continuation of  the policy of  ‘national reconciliation’, initiated by his predecessor and political adversary, Constantine Karamanlis. With the old divide between left and right from the years of  the civil war still very much in evidence, this policy aimed to bring the two sides together. To this end, Karamanlis began the long-overdue process of repatriating those political refugees from the war who were living in exile in the Soviet bloc. Papandreou continued this lengthy process, providing the returning refugees with immunity from prosecution for war crimes, and introducing a law prohibiting any form of discrimination against them. For the community of  Tsamantas, the return of its refugees was a joyful event, and though very few of  them decided to remain in the village – most preferring to settle in Athens or some other large urban centre, where job opportunities were more favourable – those that did so partially of fset the continuing decline in population. Further welcome news, for those on the left within the Tsamantiot community, was the government’s decision to abolish the unpopular gendarmerie, which had always been associated with the right wing. In addition, a law was passed in 1982 that gave of ficial recognition to all left-wing resistance fighters during the Axis occupation; previously, only those on the right had been acknowledged. As David Close observes, this was an act of  ‘great psychological significance’ (2002: 142). Furthermore, pension rights were now extended to these individuals. Despite these successes, however, Papandreou’s failings in terms of  his economic policies were profound, in particular with regard to the massive debt that resulted from the reckless spending in the 1980s8 and dismal growth. Partly responsible for this expenditure was the fact that he had of fered employment in the public sector to many of  the children of returning refugees from the Soviet bloc, and in committing to these new salaries had placed a burden on the public purse that has contributed to the economic crisis of  the present day (in response to which the European Commission has demanded the shedding of a vast number of 8

The Greek national debt rocketed from around 30% of  GDP in 1980 to 114% in 1994. Likewise, external debt rose from 1,585 million dollars in 1974 to a massive 22 billion dollars in 1992 (Korres et al., 2011: 5–6).

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jobs in the public sector). Papandreou’s ‘socialist populism’ had ‘frightened of f many Greek entrepreneurs, so that billions of dollars that might have been invested in Greece went abroad’.9 Towards the end of  Papandreou’s controversial terms of of fice, he was plagued by scandals that were the focus of much attention in the media (Dobratz and Whitfield, 1992). Later, Papandreou with a damaged reputation in the general election of  June 1989 suf fered a defeat at the hands of  the New Democracy Party. Its leader, Konstantinos Mitsotakis, cut government spending and restrained wage increases, in response to the country’s economic problems. But these austerity measures were unpopular with the electorate, and in the general election of  October 1993 PASOK was returned to power with a landslide victory. Andreas Papandreou was thus once again prime minister, though now at the age of  74, and in failing health. He resigned in January 1996, as a result of protracted illness, and died six months later, to be succeeded by Kostas Simitis. A former academic, Simitis was conscious of  the need to restructure the economy, reduce the state sector, minimise bureaucratic inef ficiencies and reform the pension system. He modernised the PASOK party, and his policies won him the confidence of  businessmen and the respect of  the other political parties (Close, 2002: 245–246). In 1988, during his first term of of fice, Greece’s application for admission to the nascent eurozone faltered, when it failed to meet the convergence criteria for entering the third and final stage of  European Economic and Monetary Union. Simitis persevered, however, and on the first of  January 2001 – twenty years to the day after its accession to the European Union – Greece became the twelfth member state to adopt the euro. Over the next few years, however, PASOK’s popularity began to wane amongst the lower and middle classes, due to its failure to reduce public debt, inf lation and unemployment. Simitis eventually resigned as leader, in order to revitalise the party’s chances, but his successor, George Papandreou – son of  Andreas – was unable to prevent a victory in March 2004 for the New Democracy Party. As in the early 1980s, when the electorate expressed its desire for change after almost thirty years of right-wing dominance, PASOK was perceived as having been in power 9

‘Obituary: Andreas Papandreou’, The Economist, 29 June 1996.

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too long, and having abandoned the principles of equality on which it was founded. The new head of government, Kostas Karamanlis – nephew of  Constantine Karamanlis, the former prime minister – delighted his supporters in Thesprotia by appointing a local member of  the new parliament, Antonis Bezas, as Deputy Minister of  Economy and Finance. Karamanlis inherited not only the problems that Simitis had failed to resolve, despite his modernising policies, but also the massive debt that had accumulated in the build-up to the Athens Olympics, and from the construction of a new metro system in the capital. He continued the prof ligacy of  the previous administration, pouring funds into pensions and into inef ficient public services – such as education, health and policing – that were failing to deliver. As a result, by the time the global economic slowdown began in 2008, Greece was one of  the most indebted countries in the European Union. Compounded by a high rate of unemployment, especially amongst young people, this led to a series of demonstrations of public anger. The worst civil disturbances to hit Greece in decades, these events were a further blow to the already badly dented popularity of  the ruling conservatives,10 and as a direct consequence the parliamentary elections of  October 2009 brought George Papandreou to the of fice of prime minister, after yet another PASOK victory. However, the continuing rise in unemployment, a dramatic increase in the budget deficit, and a public outcry over uncontrolled immigration from the Middle East, Asia and Africa, led to Papandreou’s resignation two years later, making way for a national unity government charged with tackling the government’s debt crisis. But then, on 12 February 2012, rioting returned to the streets of  Athens, as gangs of self-styled anarchists and hooded youths torched shops and historic buildings in the centre of  the city.11 The Greek public, which up to then had viewed the EU as a benign entity and a force for good in a troubled world, was changing its perception of  the institution: 10 The Guardian, 10 December 2008, ‘“Murderers”: protesters’ fury boils over as boy shot by police buried’. 11 Kathimerini, ‘Fires in central Athens as rioters clash with police’, 12 February 2012 (, accessed 14/2/2012).

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for the first time, the prevailing image of  the Union was as a brutal oppressor, disrespectful of  the people’s Greek identity, and disinterested in the livelihood of ordinary folk.12

9.2 The ef fect of  EU membership on Tsamantas and its region For some time after accession to the EEC, economic development in Epirus was sluggish compared to other peripheral regions in Europe (see Table 6). With the lowest GDP in the Community,13 its integration into the wider European economy was destined to be a long, slow process. Through the final two decades of  the twentieth century, it continued to have higher unemployment rates than any other Greek region, and to derive more than 80% of its income from the primary sector of  the economy14 (Apergis and Rezitis, 2003: 1148). Such economic backwardness was further aggravated by the fact that unfettered nationalism in Greece had brought about a high degree of centralisation, preventing the devolution of powers to the regions, a process that was already happening in other parts of  Europe. As a result, very little decision-making took place at the regional level, and those areas adjacent to security-sensitive borders were particularly dependent on Athens 12

13

14

A telephone poll of just over one thousand people aged 18 or above, conducted between 1 January and 3 February 2012 for the Greek national newspaper Kathimerini and the Sky television station in Athens, revealed that 54% had a negative opinion of  the EU; only 41% felt positively towards it, while 5% had no opinion (, accessed 17/2/2012). In 1997, eight eastern European countries, along with Cyprus and Malta, were invited to join the EU. Their accession in 2004, followed by Bulgaria and Romania three years later, brought many more underdeveloped regions, into the Union. As a result, those regions in Greece, like Epirus, that had been amongst the worst performers in Europe are now no longer in this invidious position. This sector makes direct use of natural resources, and includes agriculture.

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for the management of their af fairs. Moreover, the fact that Epirus was (and still is) a knowledge-deficient region15 – that is, one with weak technological capabilities and knowledge-sharing institutions – impeded its advancement and made it incapable of participating fully in the global economy. The emergence of  knowledge-intensive industry depends on collaborative innovation and the sharing of knowledge – confirmed by the author’s study of  firms in areas such as the South West of  England, and Lower Saxony in Germany (Konstadakopulos, 2004 and 2001; Konstadakopulos et al., 2001) – but the forces of globalisation and European integration which have facilitated this emergence elsewhere have not yet done so in Epirus. Table 6  GDP per capita in purchasing power standards (PPS) of  the ten lowest-ranked European regions (1998) Regions (Member States)

GDP

1. Epirus (Greece)

42

2. Réunion (French overseas territories)

50

3. Extremadura (Spain)

50

4. Guadeloupe (French overseas territories)

52

5. Azores (Portugal)

52

6. French Guiana (French overseas territories)

53

7. Western Greece (Greece)

53

8. Peloponnese (Greece)

53

9. Eastern Macedonia–Thrace (Greece)

55

10. Thessaly (Greece)

57

EU average

100

Total Objective 1 (1989–99)*

70

Source: Eurostat. * Only regions with Objective 1 status throughout this period are included. (Objective 1 status is defined as those areas with a gross domestic product (GDP) of  less than 75% of  the EU average.)

15

One exception is the School of  Medicine at the University of  Ioannina, an important research institution with an international reputation.

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But how has membership of  the European Union af fected life in the region’s mountain communities? Undoubtedly, some of  the changes have been positive: substantial funding from the Community has improved the local infrastructure – for instance, through the construction of new roads – while at the personal level many households have benefitted from agricultural subsidies, paid through the price support mechanism of  the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP); in Tsamantas, those few individuals involved in animal husbandry have had their incomes greatly increased by these subsidies. (Other factors, too, have improved the local economy, such as the employment opportunities provided by some urban-dwelling Tsamantiots having second homes built within the village.) Thus, although the EEC must seem a distant and somewhat obscure institution to the inhabitants of  this small community, high up in the mountains of northwest Greece, the benefits it has bestowed are clear for all to see. During an interview conducted in 2006, a local resident said: I see the EU as a positive force. I haven’t benefited personally, but the families in Tsamantas making a living from shepherding certainly have. What they get from subsidies is pretty good. Without that money, I doubt there’d be any people living here by now.

But agricultural subsidies have been a double-edged sword. They have increased the shepherds’ dependence on the European Union, and have not been backed up by incentives to improve productivity, modernise methods16 and engage in ef fective marketing at both the local and regional level, where there is high demand for the area’s organic produce. Although these subsidies are now being phased out, significantly reducing the shepherds’ income, the community as a whole could benefit from this decision, since the money that was allocated for subsidies is being diverted to rural development projects. In the interests of environmental protection, however, these projects must leave no mark upon the landscape, and when the author discussed this new source of  funding with local residents, it was apparent

16

The milking of ewes and goats, for example, is still done by hand. Herds of around 200 animals are milked twice a day.

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that their limited awareness of environmental issues is preventing them from making appropriate bids for funding. For example, many expressed a preference for the construction of  further new roads to bring the more remotely located households within reach of a car, and to give shepherds easier access to their grazing land, but since this would impact upon the environment, funding is unlikely to be granted. A period of adjustment is necessary, in which the villagers must develop their awareness of  the need to protect their natural environment, and accordingly make more informed decisions about how they would wish to spend EU funding. Their problems are compounded by the fact that, like their counterparts in other marginalised communities in Epirus, they are constrained by a centralised system that obliges them to rely mostly on clientelistic connections17 in order to obtain the money required for local development, so that the success of any application is dependent upon the whims of of ficials in the ministries in Athens. Nonetheless, the region as a whole has undoubtedly benefitted from Greece’s EU membership, a theme to which we shall return in the concluding section.

9.3 The opening of  the Greek–Albanian border Another matter of immense significance in Greece’s late-twentieth-century history was the partial opening of  the border with Albania. Throughout that country’s communist era, the Greek-speaking minority in the south suf fered not only the usual privations of  living in a totalitarian communist state, but also endured discrimination, abject poverty, violation of  their human rights, and enforced relocation (Vickers, 2010). Their relatives and friends just a few kilometres away in Epirus were aware of  their hardship,

17

See, for instance, Green (2008) for an anthropological study of  the clientelistic practices of political elites in Epirus, in the context of applying for and receiving funding from the EU.

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and the fact that some of  the impoverished villages could be seen from the road connecting Tsamantas with Povla – so close, and yet so far – made their anguish more acute. But in the early 1970s, relations between Greece and Albania began to warm a little, with political rhetoric promoting mutual cooperation, and when, in 1978, scheduled f lights from Athens to Tirana were introduced by the Greek national carrier, Olympic Airlines, local people dared to hope that the end of their separation from loved ones might be in sight. Their cautious expectations grew six years later, when Prime Minister Andreas Papandreou sought to appease the Albanians further by proclaiming in a speech made in Epirus that the Greek irredentists’ dream of extending the border to include ‘Northern Epirus’ would never become a reality; he also proposed that the border should open up. Towards the end of  1990, Albania at last embarked upon the road to democracy, when opposition to the communist regime surfaced in the form of student and worker demonstrations calling for change. Relations with its neighbour to the south soon began to deteriorate, however, due to allegations by the Greek media of widespread mistreatment of  Albanians of  Greek origin. Their future still looked bleak. But then, during the last week of  1990 and the first of  1991, events took a dramatic turn, with the sudden collapse of  the communist regime in Tirana, and the lifting of  the stringent border-security system that had been imposed in 1945 by Enver Hoxha. This resulted in the mass exodus of  thousands of people into Epirus, most of  them ethnically Greek. Despite the harsh winter weather, and their lack of adequate food and clothing, they followed ancient routes and succeeded in crossing the border at Tsamantas. Suddenly, and for the second time in its history, this small, isolated village became the focus of worldwide attention. On the 2nd of  January, the New York Times18 claimed that a police spokesman in Filiates had reported that more than 3,500 people had crossed the border at Tsamantas overnight (although the number could have been higher, as some refugees may have bypassed the army checkpoint). Another Greek of ficial, this time from the military, was quoted anonymously as saying that the refugees had picked this particular 18 The New York Times, ‘Thousands of  Albanians Flee to Greece’, 2 January 1991.

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point of entry for two reasons: the proximity of a ‘small goat path’ leading over the mountain to Tsamantas, and the fact that the Albanian guards at this section of  the border were being more lenient than their colleagues elsewhere. The inf lux continued, and a few days later an article by Kerin Hope in the Financial Times19 referred evocatively to the barking of  the guard dogs in the darkness as the duty of ficer at the border post greeted Albanians who had ‘tramped across a snow-covered mountainside looking for a better life in Greece’. Initially, the village was almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of refugees, and yet basic accommodation and food was found for them. Ninis Stolakis described the situation: There were masses of  them20 – maybe a hundred thousand people passed through here. Anyway, at least half  that. It seemed like everyone in Albania had left the country and come over here. Some of  them were [Greek-speaking] Northern Epirots, and others were [ethnic] Albanians. I don’t speak much Albanian, just a few basic words, but my brother Nikos does – very well, in fact, as he used to go as a kid to the local villages where Albanian was spoken: Sparta, Kotsikas and Smerto [all within Greece, on the plains of  the lower Kalamas]. And because he knew their language, he helped the of ficials communicate with them.21

Evangelos Kentros gave a more detailed account of  that first day on which the village welcomed refugees: It was New Year’s Day. I’d been at my daughter’s in Igoumenitsa for the festivities, but I came back to Tsamantas around lunch time. I saw there were many Albanians here, and straightaway I went to the guard post at the border. A young army of ficer

19 The Financial Times, ‘Greece’s Bright Lights and Small Towns a Lure to Albanians’, 11 January 1991. 20 During 1991–1993, approximately 300,000 – one in ten of  Albania’s population – left the country. The vast majority went either south to Greece, crossing the mountainous border terrain on foot, or west across the southern Adriatic Sea to Italy (King et al., 2011: 271). 21 The late shepherd, whose phenomenal memory has already been noted, also had an aptitude for languages; in his early nineties, he acted as interpreter for the author in Tsamantas in 2006, during an interview with an Albanian worker.

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was in charge and I said to him: ‘Do you know how many have come through?’ The soldiers were writing down the names of  the refugees and so he was able to tell me that around 900 individuals had crossed over by that time. Then a lieutenant arrived in a helicopter [the guard post has its own helipad] and said: ‘There’s a long black line of people, like ants against the snow, reaching all the way down to Lesinitsa.’ By the end of  the day, more than twelve hundred people had arrived in Tsamantas. The army jeeps were going back and forth, taking them to Filiates and Igoumenitsa. Some of  the refugees were scared of not getting a lift, so they scrambled on board. I took a girl who was in a bad condition back to my house, along with her brother. They had a shower and I gave them clothes to wear. When the girl had changed, she was unrecognisable. Really pretty! Five or six more refugees came to me and my wife. We put them on this f loor, here, to sleep; they were all so tired, they slept straightaway. With Michalis [Noussis, who at the time was the head of  the community], we took some food down to the old school building, where other refugees had found temporary shelter. They all rushed towards us. We had enough with us for everyone – bread, cheese, halva, and so on. They were so grateful for it.

Overnight, the separation of  family members and friends that had lasted for more than forty years was over, and many emotional reunions took place. Suddenly the border – formerly a ‘potent symbol of isolationist and nationalist ideologies’ – was ‘merely a random line guarded by Greek border patrols’. People and their livestock and possessions crossed over, moving ‘from one village to the next, from one national territory to the other, creating literally a transnational space where only a translocal one existed before’ (Mantzos and Peglidou, 2010, paragraph 11). On the 15th of  January, in what the New York Times called an ‘impressive display of public diplomacy’,22 the incumbent Greek prime minister, Konstantinos Mitsotakis, crossed the border himself, to visit the villages of  the Greek minority.23 It was the first time a Western leader had been allowed to enter the country since 1944, when it had embraced communism, and the newspaper described it as an example of  ‘unusual tolerance’

22 The New York Times, 15 January 1991, ‘Athens Chief  Is Cheered by Greeks in Albania’. 23 Mitsotakis also made the first and only visit of a Greek prime minister to Tsamantas, when he visited its border checkpoint on 22 July that year in order to assess how well the army guards were coping with the inf lux of immigrants.

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by the Albanian authorities. The visit was made in order to allay the fears of  those people of  Greek origin who were still in southern Albania that the border might close again. In an atmosphere of scepticism and high emotion, Mitsotakis pledged that he would try to protect their right ‘freely to travel across the border’,24 and his assurance was publicly supported by the regime’s representatives. The promise was kept, and eventually the inf lux of destitute Albanian refugees into the bordering Greek regions of  Epirus and Macedonia spread to the rest of  the country, establishing a trend that has permanently changed Greek–Albanian relations (Vickers and Pettifer, 1999: 40–41). According to Nicola Mai and Stephanie Schwandner-Sievers, Albanian emigration during the 1990s was a ‘multidimensional phenomenon’ that was ‘shaped by the political, socio-cultural and economic changes and conditions’ prevailing not just in Albania but also in the main destination countries, in particular Greece and Italy (2003: 939). Migration was ‘the only way out’ from a country facing political and economic chaos (p. 941). From the Greek point of view, however, the sheer number of  Albanians migrating to their culturally homogeneous country of just over 10 million people was viewed by many as a threat to both national cohesion and public order.25 Initially, the government tried to stem the f low of immigrants with no proof of  Greek descent, through its ‘Iron Broom’ policy of  1991–1992, 24 Soon after this promise was made, the government introduced Law 1975/1991, which assigned to any Albanian who could provide evidence of  Greek descent the legal status of an individual with Greek nationality, though without Greek citizenship. (In practice, however, the authorities found it dif ficult to certify the authenticity of documents supposedly proving descent.) In addition, because of  the persecution that the Greek Albanians had endured under the communist regime, they were considered political refugees, and as a result the Ministry of  the Interior and Public Order granted them temporary residence permits. Compared with other foreign immigrants, they were also given preferential treatment in terms of accessing public services (Triandafyllidou and Veikou, 2002: 199). 25 The violent behaviour of  fans at a football match between the two national teams was the starting point for a soul-searching article in the Greek newspaper To Vima, examining the negative perception of  Albanian immigrants in Greece (‘Why do we hate them, and why do they hate us?’, 10 October 2004).

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which sent many of these ‘economic refugees’ (as they were labelled) back to Albania. But international disapproval of  this policy, coupled with the fact that ethnic Albanians were finding ways of entering the country illegally, led to the government changing its approach to the problem. It agreed to grant residence permits to those able to provide the necessary identification papers, thus enabling their integration into the formal economy and the Greek way of  life (Lyons and Stathopoulos, 2001: 58). It is now estimated that between five and six hundred thousand Albanians reside in Greece, or one in twenty of  the total population (King et al., 2011: 284). In general, Albanians have adapted well to life in Greece, and have become established members of  their communities. In Tsamantas, however, they have not fully assimilated into their host community, and even their children – though born in Tsamantas and educated in the nearby village of  Agii Pantes and the secondary school in Filiates – identify as Albanian rather than Greek. This may be explained by the fact that proximity to Albania permits regular interaction with relatives and friends across the border, an option not available to those who have moved deeper into Greece. 9.3.1 The borderland: still a place of ambiguous identity Since the creation of  the border with Albania, eighty years before the dramatic events of  1991, the community of  Tsamantas had been shaped by its presence; now, the bewildered inhabitants – delighted though they were with the turn of events – were in some respects finding it hard to imagine how life would be without its inf luence. Understanding the profound changes within the village after the border’s opening can be facilitated by drawing upon research on borderland communities, and in particular the most recent literature on social and spatial elements of  the Greek–Albanian border in Epirus. Borders generate unique physical, political, social and economic circumstances in their localities, which often result in conf lict, contradiction and a shifting of identity. In the Greek–Albanian border area, four decades of division – in which the two separated sets of communities lived in radically dif ferent circumstances, against a background of constant

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Cold War rhetoric – created a psychological barrier between the people on either side of  the border, and when relatives and friends were reunited they seemed at once familiar and disturbingly ‘foreign’ to each other. The anthropologist Sarah Green points out that it is common in the borderland communities of  Epirus for people to consider their neighbours across the frontier as distinctly dif ferent from themselves, and observes that the existence of  the border plays a crucial part in this perception (Green, 2005b: 447). In Notes from the Balkans (2005a), she examines the issue of personal identity in the Pogoni area, using material drawn from interviews with some of its inhabitants. In the context of  the area’s marginality, she scrutinises the multi-layered and shifting nature of  local identities, and considers how ambiguity drives social exchanges. Her discussion of  the concept of  ‘otherness’, which typifies the perception of  Albanians by the Pogoni people, has a parallel in Tsamantas, where the sense of dif ference takes the form of  feeling superior to neighbours in southern Albania. Soon after the opening of  the border, some Tsamantiots – curious to know about their neighbours, and how they lived – walked the forgotten footpaths to the village of  Lesinitsa, but, having satisfied their curiosity, they have since been unwilling to cross the border again, being of  the opinion that ‘there is nothing much to do or see over there’. It is also apparent that attitudes towards Albanian migrants in the village can at times be tainted with xenophobia. ‘That Albanian girl’, shouted one of  the local women, stressing the girl’s ethnicity, ‘she has the evil eye, you know’. The girl in question had admired the woman’s garden f lowers and thus, allegedly, caused them to wilt: in Greek folklore, verbal (or even unspoken) admiration of someone else’s material world implies envy, and brings a curse upon the object of regard. Accusing someone of  having the evil eye has traditionally been a way of excluding them from society. Its use in Tsamantas today, though practised by a minority, has been acutely felt by the few Albanian families of  Greek origin who have settled in the village. One woman told the author that ‘we were Greeks while in Albania; now we’re Albanians, here in Greece’. Generally, however, the local immigrants – including those who are ethnically Albanian – are accepted by Tsamantiots, and considered honest, straightforward and reliable. Even their transgressions can be rationalised. A local councillor told the author:

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We don’t have any significant problems here. The villagers from over the border are just like us. We had a few incidences of  theft when the border opened, but that was understandable, as there’s such a huge dif ference in standards of  living.26

The response to the recent death of a much-respected Albanian father of  three is further evidence that immigrants have established themselves in Tsamantiot society. The news was met with such sadness that the entire village turned out for his funeral, filling two coaches provided by the municipality to take them across the border to his home town of  Konispol. Testimonies from Albanians living elsewhere in Epirus, collected by Vassilis Nitsiakos as a part of a research project on immigrant integration, include many positive comments regarding the host country. For example, an Albanian woman of  Greek origin, paying a peppercorn rent for a house made available by the local community, told Nitsiakos that she and her family felt they belonged in the village. ‘They respect us here’, she said (2003: 236). Another study of  Albanian migrants to Epirus and nearby Corfu suggests that they have assimilated easily into Greek society and have integrated into the local labour markets, often earning a decent income. The benefits gained from their advancement in this respect appear to outweigh ‘negative aspects such as discrimination, bureaucracy and the precariousness of employment’ (Gialis, 2011: 321–322). 9.3.2 The current situation in the border area Two decades on, and with specific regard to Epirus, what has been the overall ef fect of  the inf lux of  Albanians, and what are its wider implications? On the one hand, it has reinforced the region’s status as a poor and backward part of  Greece: the fact that many of  the immigrants work in poorly paid

26 The Albanian side of  the border is characterised by low per capita GDP, dependency on the primary sector, high unemployment, lack of infrastructure, unreliable energy supplies, and the absence of significant urban centres. By contrast, the Greek side is comparatively prosperous, as it has been able to develop, to some degree, the secondary and tertiary sectors of  the economy.

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jobs has led to a change in labour hierarchies that has undermined integration with the rest of  the country. The number of immigrants has also put a strain on the region’s infrastructure, and local taxes have increased, to raise the money to pay for necessary improvements in terms of  transport provision, education, housing and policing (including border patrols). In addition, anxiety over diminishing job opportunities,27 together with anger at levels of crime and prostitution since the late 1990s,28 has raised the spectre of racism. But has Epirus gained some benefits, too, through drawing on its neighbouring source of cheap labour? Empirical evidence suggests that Albanian and other migrant labour is ‘of immense significance’ to the economic and social development of rural areas of  Greece (Kasimis et al., 2003: 182). This has certainly been the case in Epirus, where incoming Albanian workers, some of whom have valuable skills, have been willing to take on jobs that others are reluctant to accept. The same is true of  Tsamantas, where several young Albanian men work seasonally as shepherds. Their wages are approximately €350 – €400 per month, and their employers provide them with basic accommodation, food and clothing. Furthermore, Albanian immigrants in Tsamantas have helped to repair the village’s traditional houses and stone walls, and pave its roads and squares, thus conserving the rural landscape; they have also looked after kitchen gardens and animals, worked at the museum, and served at the village’s café, providing an incentive for native Tsamantiots (whether permanent or temporary residents of  the village) to develop their homes in the locality or build new ones.29 Unlike the shepherds, some of  these incomers are resident in the village throughout the year, helping to stabilise its population, and at one stage there were four Albanian families in Tsamantas, 27

28 29

There is evidence, however, that jobless Albanian workers – mostly in the construction industry, which is suf fering in the current financial crisis – have now begun to return to Albania (The Economist, 14 January 2012, ‘Albanians in Greece: Heading home again’). According to Rossetos Fakiolas (1999: 220–221), the significant increase in criminality throughout Greece has largely been attributed to Albanian immigrants. A similar situation is apparent in the town of  Konitsa, in north-eastern Epirus, and its surrounding villages (Kasimis et al, 2003: 179–180; Mantzos and Peglidou, 2010).

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all of  them with children, bringing youth and vitality to this shrinking community for the first time in many years. But economic prospects for Albanian families have since become more limited, and two have found it necessary to relocate in the last few years – one to Filiates, and the other as far as the capital. In recognition of  the dif ficulties that Albanians face in the region, the local authorities in Epirus have demonstrated some willingness to bend the rules. For instance, they have tolerated the illegal employment of  the seasonal shepherds in Tsamantas, who work without the required documentation. Goodwill has also been extended to villages across the border: when the community of  Karroki – the closest Albanian village to Povla – asked a former mayor of  Filiates for assistance with the repair of  the local access road, he sent the municipal bulldozer without the prior agreement of either the Greek or the Albanian authorities. In general, however, mutual trust and cooperation at the local level is still low, despite the fact that the Greek-speaking communities on either side of  the border share ethnicity, as well as a language and a religion. At the regional level, too, cross-border co-operation between Epirus and southern Albania remains limited, due in part to lasting grievances on both sides. Nationalist Albanians are resentful of  the fact that the Chams expelled from Thesprotia at the end of  Second World War have still not been compensated by the Greek authorities for property confiscated in the towns of  Paramythia, Filiates and elsewhere. The Greeks, for their part, are angered by continuing tensions between the Albanian government and the Greek minority in the south of  the country,30 over a number of issues: for example, the purging of ethnic Greeks from certain professions, such as law and the military; the prosecution of members of  Omonia (the Democratic Union of  the Greek Minority in Albania), for opposing the government; and the occupation, by landless Muslim peasants from the north, of  land near the border that belongs to

30

For a neutral discussion of  the Greek minority in Albania in the light of recent developments, see Pettifer (2001) and Veremis et al (1995). For a more partial debate on the issue of  ‘Northern Epirus’, see Georgiou (1994), Krapsitis (1988) and Nouskas (1988).

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the ethnic Greeks (Holland, 2000: 515–516). These issues have been played up by the press and political parties in both countries, with widespread use of xenophobic stereotypes (Pettifer, 2001: 14–15). Economic development within the Greek-speaking communities on the north-western slopes of  Mount Mourgana has been hampered by their physical isolation; until recently, for instance, the lack of adequate roads meant that the villagers of  Karroki, Grazhdan and Zminec could not easily access Sarandë, the nearest market town in southern Albania. However, the locality’s remoteness has recently been eased by the opening of a new, informal crossing-point at Povla, which has given Greek Albanians better access to Thesprotia, so that they can now buy consumer goods in Igoumenitsa, visit the hospital in Filiates, or collect pensions from the Greek post of fice. This crossing-point is unique with regard to the Greek–Albanian border as a whole, having a specific purpose in improving the lives of  the Greek minority in southern Albania. Its existence, at one of  the European Union’s external borders, remanins a concern in terms of  the risk of uncontrolled or illegal migration, and a potential security threat in respect of  terrorism, drug traf ficking and smuggling. Despite this, however, the Greek government allows the so-called ‘omogeneis’ (ομογενείς; co-ethnics) living in the Greek–Albanian villages to bypass the stringent immigration regulations. In the other direction, the Povla border control is closed to all non-Albanians, whether of  Greek or any other nationality; instead, the of ficial crossing at Mavromati must be used, some 50 kilometres away. This situation is comparable with other external borders of  the EU where the neighbouring state was formerly communist. Although these borders have become more porous, they are still a powerful reminder of division between poverty and relative af f luence.

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9.4 Life in Tsamantas today In 1913, towards the end of  the Ottoman era, Tsamantas reached its peak in terms of population, with a total of  1,428 residents. Since then, warfare and famine, and most of all migration, have dramatically reduced the size of  the community. The census for 2011 revealed that a total of just 103 individuals are now registered as living in the village (see Figure 9). As noted in the previous chapter, however, the count is always distorted by the fact that Tsamantiots who live elsewhere in Greece make a habit of returning to the village for every census, to secure more funding from government cof fers. Enquiries made by the author in April 2012 suggest that in fact only around forty individuals live in Tsamantas throughout the year. The village landscape is littered with evidence of  the exodus from rural life, with abandoned and crumbling houses – some reduced to a few ruined walls covered in rampant ivy – standing amongst those that have survived intact.

Figure 9  Population of  Tsamantas 1895–2011 Sources: 1895 population figure was obtained from the Ottoman census cited by Kokolakis (2004); the 1913–2011 figures taken from Greek censuses

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Although there are a number of new homes and redevelopments amongst the decay, these belong to urban-dwelling Tsamantiots, and are used as holiday retreats, inhabited for just a few weeks per year. Tsamantas does feel more alive during the summer months, when their owners are present – especially in August, when many of  the urban-dwelling Tsamantiots come for their summer vacation, and to participate in the festivities for the Dormition of the Virgin – but for the rest of the year it is a small community of mostly elderly residents, scattered throughout a largely silent landscape. When members of  the overseas Tsamantas diaspora come to the village after a long absence, they are often surprised by the state of dereliction and abandonment. Fotios Bitzas, who visited after thirty-two years in Australia, has described his sense of estrangement:31 My family home was mere rubble, like many other homes in the village. The trees I used to climb as a youngster, particularly the kakavies [κακαβιές; Mediterranean hackberry trees], no longer existed. And the low level of water in the river saddened me. There was no evidence of  the f lourmills along the riverside…

An interviewee in Tsamantas told of  the visit of an elderly aunt who emigrated to America when young. Plagued by feelings of nostalgia, and having procrastinated for many years, she eventually made the journey back to the village of  her childhood. But the path leading down to her ancestral home – looked after on her behalf, and occupied in the summer, by a nephew living in Athens – was overgrown and erosion-damaged, and being elderly and overweight she felt unable to negotiate it. Casting a sorrowful gaze from the road above, she went home to Florida, sorely disappointed. Another former resident observed how sad it was ‘to walk along the village paths and meet hardly anyone along the way’. The decline of Tsamantas has not diminished the strong sense of attachment to it within the diasporic community. The St Dimitrios Brotherhood of  Tsamantas in Athens, established in 1946, is still very much an active association, and even prints its own newsletter, a few times per year. The 31

‘From Tsamanta to Melbourne: Stories from Melbourne’s Tsamantiot Community’ (2009), The Brotherhood of  Saint Nicholas Tsamanta, Melbourne, p. 58.

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associations in the United States and Australia are also thriving, and events such as the celebration in 2008 of  ‘100 Years in America’ by the St George’s Hellenic Society in Worcester, Massachusetts, and the launching of  the book of memoirs ‘From Tsamanta to Melbourne’ by the Brotherhood of  St Nicholas in 2009, have enabled overseas Tsamantiots and their families to actively engage in the continuing history of  the village. Some individuals have made donations or bequests to help it survive, and have promoted its causes at every opportunity. In fact, it could be said that Tsamantas is being kept alive more by its diaspora than by those who live there, for whom age, frailty and modest means often preclude a more inf luential involvement in af fairs. But perhaps the most powerful evidence of  the emotional attachment that is still felt by the village’s far-f lung sons and daughters comes from the fact that, following the death of a Tsamantiot within the diasporic community, whenever possible the body is brought to the village for burial. There have also been examples of relatives arranging for the exhumation of  the bones of a loved one, to take them to their final resting place – after a ceremonial blessing by the local priest – in the ossuary at the Church of  the Dormition of  the Virgin. In Tsamantas itself, funerals are becoming distressingly common, as the population ages further. Each departure strikes another blow to the survival of  the community. Severely underpopulated villages abound in Thesprotia, but few have suf fered the same loss of status: having once been an active hub of  local enterprise, and the lead village of a sisterhood of sixteen communities, managing shared resources and taking the lead in local economic development, Tsamantas is now more of a backwater than some of its smaller neighbours. It is inward-looking and intransigent, and superstitions inf luence the lives of its residents: people still attribute instances of  bad luck – the death of an animal, or a poor crop of grapes from their vine – to the malicious workings of  the ‘evil eye’, as proven by the ubiquitous wreaths of empty snail shells that hang from pergolas, put there to ward it of f. When seen – as sometimes they are – close to a satellite dish or a new car, the irony is inescapable. Living conditions are also stuck in the past, for many. Water is still brought to houses through rubber piping from a mountain spring hundreds of metres away, and construction projects or repair works sometimes damage the piping, cutting of f supplies. The

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interiors of many homes are comparatively primitive, and poverty is still a widespread problem. Levels of disability and dependence due to frailty are such that social workers visit the village on a weekly basis, to check on the welfare of  their clients. The only source of consumer goods – the village café – is inadequate to meet people’s needs beyond the supply of  bread and a few other basic provisions. The fact that public transport is very limited has a significant impact on the many villagers without cars. Just a couple of  buses per week link the village with the town of  Filiates, where Tsamantiots go to buy provisions. The bus also provides an opportunity to visit the hospital, or a GP or dental surgery; in cases of medical emergency, however, villagers without their own transport are obliged to hire a taxi from Filiates, at an exorbitant rate, or call on the goodwill of a neighbour with a car. Buses to the regional capital of  Ioannina have been a victim of  the cutbacks, and now run just once a fortnight, severely restricting access to the kind of goods and services unavailable in Filiates. The community is barely active economically. Although the traditional pursuit of animal husbandry survives, it provides a livelihood for just a handful of individuals. Their priority is economic survival, and whether or not they achieve this depends upon a number of  factors, such as rents paid for grazing rights, access to EU funding, and the availability of additional labour, from within the family or from immigrant Albanians. The mountainous terrain creates problems for the shepherds: landslides and rockfalls are frequent occurrences, especially after heavy rain, and if  these block access to grazing land, they have to wait for a bulldozer to be brought from Filiates to clear the road. The terrain also constrains the shepherds’ options regarding the type of animals that can be raised in such conditions, limiting them to stock that is comparatively unproductive in terms of dairy and meat yield. Furthermore, transaction costs are high, due to the distance between the village and the dairies and slaughterhouses to which milk and live animals are transported. Because of  these various challenges, large areas of grazing are being abandoned, and the consequent return to forest cover is increasing the risk of  fires. The land previously used for agricultural production has also been abandoned, with the exception of small kitchen gardens. Nonetheless, land ownership rights in the village remain

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sacrosanct.32 Many former residents complain, if  they hear that animals have been allowed to stray onto their land for grazing, or that someone has chopped down one of  their trees without permission. In 2006, one resident interviewed by the author was aware of at least nine disputes between Tsamantiots, some of which have been ongoing for decades. There are some resources within the village that could provide a basis for other types of economic activity: for example, its supply of pure spring water could be exploited, and the processing of dairy and meat produce could be managed locally, instead of sending it elsewhere. But disagreements between the villagers about the costs and benefits of such endeavours have prevented exploratory discussions from evolving into genuine plans for development. This conf lict of interests is also partly responsible for the failure to carve out a niche in the tourist trade, a lost opportunity exacerbated by the state of  the local infrastructure, which hardly meets the needs of  the twenty-first century tourist: the somewhat basic road network, with poor-quality road surfaces and unprotected hairpin bends above precipitous slopes, presents too much of a challenge to many motorists, and those prepared to negotiate it would find little in the way of accommodation or catering. Tsamantas has neither hotel nor taverna. What it does have, however, is a landscape of outstanding natural beauty, a complex history – including involvement in some of  the most dramatic events in modern Greek history – and most importantly a fascinating local culture. But the story of  how it has let this latter resource go to waste is typical of  the negativity and lack of direct action that blights the community today. As noted in Chapter 2, during the early 1980s some former residents of  Tsamantas, aware of  the decline and abandonment of  their village, undertook the task of preserving its rich cultural heritage, establishing a small museum in the now-unused school building. The project was regarded as an act of duty on the part of  those involved, and the driving force behind it was the folklorist and writer Kostas Zoulas. Working

32

Despite the absence of a cadastral (a register of  the extent, value and ownership of  land), today’s residents are fully aware of which abandoned plot of  land, or property, belongs to whom, and whether its owners are deceased, or living elsewhere.

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without the benefit of any formal training, and assisted by Melpomeni Exarchou, Yiannis Goulas and many others, he started to collect objects that would tell the story of  life in his village, and represent the beauty and richness of  the local culture: traditional folk costumes, in all their colour and variety; the silk vestments of  the local priests; religious regalia used for centuries by the local people, and so on. He also assembled a notable collection of  the tools of people’s trades, and the furniture and utensils that were used within their homes. Many of  these items had been left behind by victims of  the civil war, and objects attesting to the waging of  this war – as well as the Axis occupation – comprise another significant element of  the collection, as do those that tell the story of emigration from the village. As time went on, many more artefacts were donated, enriching the collection. The project was an example of  ‘salvage ethnography’, where an ef fort is made to record a culture before it disappears for ever. The salvaged items gained a new status as objectified memories, symbolising a bygone era, and in acknowledging the passing of a traditional way of  life, and the need to look to other means of survival, the creation of the small museum signalled a period of  transition in the developmental trajectory of  the village. But the intention of attracting numerous tourists to view its cultural heritage has never been realised. The museum was far from unique: around the time of its creation, many communities in Epirus and other parts of  Greece were establishing their own local museums and cultural centres, equally eager to preserve a disappearing way of  life.33 Competition can of course be a springboard for initiative and enterprise, but regrettably the Tsamantiots were unable to find ways of attracting suf ficient numbers of visitors to revitalise the local economy and halt the village’s decline. Today, the museum – despite the ef forts of many local people, including its founders – is in a state of disintegration, starved of financial resources, and lacking an ef fective management structure and basic conservation expertise. Cultural heritage tourism demands careful collaboration between

33

According to Dora Konsola (1990), quoted in Caftanzoglou and Kovani (1997: 242), a Ministry of  Culture survey revealed that the number of cultural centres in Greece increased from 200 in 1979 to 1,486 by 1990.

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the local community, municipal authorities34 and academics, and in the case of  the Tsamantas Folklore Museum this seems unlikely to be achieved within the foreseeable future. In the second decade of  the twenty-first century, the challenge of protecting the cultural heritage of  Tsamantas is overshadowed by the severe financial crisis in Greece and its ef fect upon the village. Extensive cutbacks and other austerity measures introduced to avert the danger of national bankruptcy are intensifying the hardships faced by the few remaining residents, increasing the possibility that some of  the older ones in particular will be forced to seek refuge in an urban environment, most likely in the home of a son or daughter. The future of  the Tsamantas is very far from being secure, and in this final section we shall consider its limited options for survival.

9.5 Some ref lections and concluding comments From this historical journey through a century of economic, political and social life of  the community of  Tsamantas, it has perhaps become apparent that much has changed in the tumultuous period from 1900 to the present. The economic development trajectory of region of  Epirus and its constituent communities is traceable to the process of  the integration of  the late Ottoman Empire into the Western European system of nation-states, a process that took place during the first wave of globalisation. Despite the 34 Two important administrative reforms have taken place in Greece within the last two decades. The first – the so-called ‘Kapodistrias reform’ that took ef fect in 1999 (see also Chapter 1, fn 3) – resulted in the merging of many municipalities and communes, thereby significantly reducing the number of  local councils. In 2011, this was followed by another nationwide reform – the ‘Kallicrates reform’ – which, in Thesprotia, reduced eight municipalities and two communes to just three large municipalities. The community of  Tsamantas is now part of  the Municipality of  Filiates, which since 2011 has included the former municipality of  Sagiada.

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imposition of  heavy taxes and a strict set of rules that restrained personal freedom on the Christian inhabitants by the Ottoman provincial authorities and landholding aristocracy of  Epirus, it seems reasonable to conclude that the relatively tranquil coexistence of  two major religious groups, the Muslims and the Christians allowed the community of  Tsamantas to grow and prosper. Some of  the economic and social issues due overpopulation started to be resolved within the Ottoman framework through the practice of itinerant labour and covert emigration to America. But for the people of  Epirus, the empire they served and paid their taxes was undermined by the ideology of nationalism that lead to the partition of the region between Greece and nascent nation-state of  Albania. The power of nationalism and the emergence of  the nation-state as the predominant form of political organisation had a profound impact on the economic and social landscape of  the village communities in Epirus, including that of  Tsamantas. The Greek state transformed the nature of economic transactions and personal relationships in the village into formal or informal institutions that served best its bureaucratic and clientelistic system. Frictions and tensions between the villagers and political authorities, due to the perceived neglect of rural interests and the imposition of  taxes, which were far heavier than the ones imposed by the Ottoman rulers, obliged many of its inhabitants to seek a better life in the cities or abroad. Throughout this study, the tension between the centralising state power and a self-governed village community is apparent. So what does the future hold for Tsamantas, especially in view of  the current economic crisis that is crippling Greece? In many ways the elderly residents are well equipped to deal with the constraints that are forcing change in the lives of so many Greeks. Memories of  the hardship endured during the occupation and the civil war are still vivid, and their talent for survival in challenging times could be a guiding light for others. Good practice is being handed down to children and grandchildren, who are having to learn to modify behaviour and expectations. Their mentors have been used to living frugally, and know how to make ef ficient use of  limited resources, planning ahead and insuring against disaster, as they have had to so often in the past: summer crops of courgettes are grated and stored in the freezer, and figs and surplus tomatoes are dried under the sun, to bring

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variety and nutrition to meals during the winter months; an abundance of seasonal fruits and vegetables is shared with neighbours, and homemade pies are given to the most elderly; pasta is produced with local eggs and goat’s milk, instead of  being shop-bought; and sacks of  home-grown potatoes are dispatched to a son or a daughter in Athens, to help them out. Since the Ottoman era, the inhabitants of  Tsamantas have played an important role in shaping their own community, both through conscious strategies and through unconscious reactions to changing economic and political conditions. Local specialisation and emigration are two far-reaching forms of self-assertion and determination. The example of  Tsamantas shows that communities that are homogeneous and share customs and cultural values even when they do well are stif led by stronger forces. In the economic crisis that is crippling Greece at the time of writing, some Tsamantiots living in Greek towns and cities are considering moving back to the village, to try to earn a living from their land. Two families already have done so. Aspirations are changing, and two of  the sons of shepherds are now in higher education, in order to develop the family business. Attitudes towards their ‘poor’ neighbours on the other side of  the border are also changing. The purchasing power of  Albanian visitors is seen as an important factor for sustaining the economy of  the area. Cross-border communication and understanding is improving, and a series of cultural exchanges is taking place. Folk musicians and singers from the ethnically mixed villages and towns of southern Albania perform regularly in festivities on the Greek side of  the border. Folk polyphony – an ancient form of singing – has already forged a link between Tsamantas (and its sister villages of  Lias, Vavouri and Povla) with others, both in Epirus and southern Albania.35 Cross-border exchanges of culture could be the starting point for closer co-operation between the local communities.36 It could also advance 35 36

This is according to Apeiros, a cultural organisation that promotes folk polyphony and organises performances (); accessed 19.05.2012. A Programme for Cultural Co-operation has been ratified by Greece and Albania, as have many others in the area of  health and military co-operation. European Commission, ‘Albania: Stabilisation and Association Report’, COM(2004), 203final, p. 14.

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the economic development of  the wider region, especially if  Albania joins the European Union.37 Should it do so, ethno-territorial aspirations would presumably start to wane in the context of  the larger union. For the time being, however, the creation of  larger spatial entities, perhaps in the form of  Euroregions,38 could be instrumental in the economic development of  Epirus and southern Albania. The European Union and the Council of  Europe have been instrumental in fostering cross-border co-operation, as well as indirectly promoting ‘European identity’. Cultural exchanges and partnerships are a frequent field of co-operation within the Euroregions supporting the emergence of a cross-border feeling of share identity among people (Perrin, 2010: 124). Worth considering here is the idea of the ‘region state’ in a borderless world, as proposed by Kenichi Ohmae (1996).39 The concept of  the ‘nation-state’, with its nationalistic perception of  ‘our land’, restricted immigration, and xenophobic attitudes, will hopefully no longer be relevant in the integrated Balkans of  the future. It should be abandoned and replaced by the broader and more liberal notion of  the ‘region state’. If  the natural economic region of  Epirus and southern Albania is allowed to emerge without the constraints of national borders (as it will if  Albania joins the EU), the locational disadvantages that have bedevilled 37

38

39

It is impossible to predict when Albania might join the EU. In the Thessaloniki summit of  June 2003, the European Union confirmed the status of  Albania and the other Western Balkan countries as potential candidates, and the accession of  Albania is seen as a priority by the European Commission, in order to stabilise the Balkans. Albania submitted an application for joining the EU on April 2009. Euroregions (of which there are over 90) are forms of structured co-operation established between local and regional authorities across borders, with the aim of jointly adopting common goals and pursuing them in a co-ordinated and sustained way. For example, the setting up of a Euroregion in the area of  the Ohrid and Prespa lakes, including parts of  Greece, Albania and the Former Yugoslav Republic of  Macedonia, is an imaginative type of  border co-operation. For Ohmae, nation-states are no longer meaningful units for thinking about economic activity. As a result of  the process of globalisation the world has become borderless, meaning that the trade, investment, individuals, and information move relatively freely across borders, thereby weakening government controls. For a critique of  Ohmae’s propositions in the context of  the European Union, see for example, Keating and Hooghe (2006).

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the area up to now will diminish. Fortunately, trans-national economic planning, which takes advantage of natural arterial linkages of a region, is starting to emerge. For instance, the realisation of  large infrastructure projects (such as the construction of  the Egnatia highway) within the framework of  the European Union’s Interreg programme will connect Albanian territory with the European road network, and transport nodes such as the upgraded port of  Igoumenitsa. Improved infrastructure such as this could invigorate the economic development or the border area.40 Only then is it likely that the two major malaises that have been pulling the Balkans apart – ethno-territorial nationalism and economic decline – will be defeated. As we have seen, the fortunes of  the community of  Tsamantas have been inf luenced not only by its topography and socio-economic structure but also by the new political geography of  the last century and the historical events that have taken place in Greece, as well as in neighbouring Albania and other parts of  the world. The dramatic decline in the village’s population suggests that interaction with the outside world is vital for its continued existence. In this respect, the transnational community of  Tsamantiots with multiple identities and multi-layered citizenship is tremendously important, in being the major actors linking the locality to the world economy. For the most part of  the twentieth century, households in the remote community of  Tsamantas depended on friends and relatives for their livelihood and in many instances for their survival, thus suggesting that kinship has been a fundamental structure of  the village society, without which one simply cannot comprehend the past. Of course, the future of  the village is still uncertain. But Tsamantas is a remarkable and resilient place, and its vibrant culture, customs and social relations, as well as the strength that lies in its diaspora communities, might just secure its survival in the new millennium.

40 The construction of  the Egnatia highway and the new port of  Igoumenitsa, as well the completion of  the Rio-Antirio bridge and the undersea tunnel connecting Action and Preveza, are important parts of  the Trans-European Networks linking the eastern and western Mediterranean.

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Index

Abbott, Grace  129 Abercrombie, N. and Hill, S.  95 Abrahams, Roger  48 Achouria (Agii Pantes), village of  57 Acroceurania Mountains  18 Adriatic Sea  170, 174, 308 Aegean islands  109, 174, 179 Aeolic-Doric dialect  59 Aetopigado (eagle’s spring)  92 Agas  3, 27, 35, 53, 91–92, 106–107 Agios Andreas, village of  180 Agricultural Bank  117, 268 agriculture see cultivation; pastoralism Albania  1, 5, 6, 15, 18–19, 22–27, 47, 50, 76, 86, 092, 104, 108, 116, 120, 122, 168–177, 179, 181, 185–195, 198– 202, 207, 215, 218, 223, 225, 228, 230, 232, 235, 238, 246–249, 261, 267, 269–271, 306–312, 314–316, 324–327; Southern  23, 109, 170, 184–185, 188, 213, 326 Albanians  7, 76, 119, 132, 169–170, 172, 179, 190, 193, 199, 202, 223, 270, 307–308, 310–316, 320 Allied Forces  116, 211, 214 Ambeli, village of  29 Ambelonas see Povla Americans  131, 185, 231, 235, 287; Greek  129, 158 animal husbandry  121, 274, 285, 305, 320 Antartes  5, 28–210, 214–215, 217–218, 230, 235–247, 251, 260, 267, 269 Antikamenos, hill of  201 Aphrodite 64 Aravantinos, Panagiotis  36, 43–44

Aristotle 68 Aristotle, University of  Thessaloniki  43 Arta  1, 170, 213, 229 Asia  135, 288, 302 Asia Minor  34, 37, 48–49, 66, 109, 117–118, 168, 173 Asproklissi see Lidizda Assumption of  the Virgin Mary, The  157 Assyrians, immigrants  132 Athanasakos, Stratis  274, 289 Athanasios St, Monastery of  220–221 Athens  8, 9, 15, 41, 31, 39, 41, 43–44, 50, 58, 70, 118, 143, 173, 179, 187, 201, 205–206, 227–229, 237, 241, 245, 247, 256, 258, 262, 264, 275, 281, 285, 287, 300, 302–304, 306–307, 309, 318, 325; news  272; Polytechnic 271; Olympics 302; British School of  183; government in  94–95, 202–203, 227, 264–265, 271; Pandeios Higher School of  Political Science of  273; political class/elite in  95, 210, 227; University of  58; urban areas of  Athens-Piraeus  118 Athinagoras, Bishop of  Paramythia  194 Atintanes, Epirot tribe of  22–24, 26 Atintania 23 Atlantic economy  102–103 Atlantis newspaper  116, 153 attachment to place  24–30 Aurora, Hotel  154 Australia, emigration to  6, 11, 28, 128, 131, 158–165, 203, 277–280, 283, 292, 318–319

348 Index Austria  104–108; the role of  AustriaHungary in the delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian border 169–174 Axis occupation  5, 197, 200–225, 234– 236, 250, 296 Bærentzen, Lars  240–241 Balkan Peninsula  1–2, 103, 106, 125, 184, 250 Balkan Wars  117, 128, 169; First Balkan War  1, 169, 173 Balkans  2, 58, 77, 79, 91, 125, 169, 173– 174, 192, 200, 241, 312, 326–327 Baptism  45, 52, 155 Bektashism 190 Belgium 294 Bezas, Antonis  302 Bilinsky, Constantine  173 Blackstone Canal  133 Bolshevik rule  110 Bonegilla migrant reception centre 277–278 Boston, Massachusetts  131, 161 Boulogne, port of  143, 147 Bretagne, SS La 144 Brisbane 158; Courier 161 Britain (Great)  26, 32, 169, 170, 171–175, 179, 184–185, 198, 207, 228, 230–231 British Empire  173 British Royal Navy  204, 206 Brouzas, C.G.  47 Bruchsal, town  284 Buchberger, Carl  173–178 Bulgaria  1, 202, 228, 267, 303 Butrint, settlement of  22, 175, 207, 223 Byzantium  42, 50, 193 Çamëria (or Chameria)  188, 199, 202

Campbell, John  74–75, 95; and Sherrard, P.  265, 290 Canada  6, 132, 292 Cassavetes, J.  176–177, 192 Castle, S. and Miller, M.J.  127 Castoldi, Captain  173, 176–178 Catholic Christians  172 chain migration  10, 130–131, 140–145, 160–163, 166, 275, 285 Chams  5, 58, 91, 175, 181, 192–194, 199, 201–203, 207–208, 214–219, 224–227, 230, 249, 274, 289, 315; the expulsion of  the  225–227; the term Cham (Tsamis)  193–194 Chang, Ha-Joon  295 Chaones, Epirot tribe of  23–24 Chasiotis, Dimitrios  43 Chatzis, Dimitris  235 Chicago  129–130, 138, 145, 151 Chimara, area  175 Choldin, Harvey  130 Christianity, Orthodox  79, 97  172; and economic growth  79 Christovasilis, Christos  37–38, 50, 55 Chrysostomos, Archbishop  37 Ciano, Galeazzo  199 Çiftlik  3, 27 Città de Genoa SS  163 civil war  5, 11, 21, 82, 102, 126, 195, 197, 209, 228–229, 233–249, 250, 255, 262–264, 267, 269, 278–279, 281, 290, 296, 300, 322, 324; aftermath of  257–264; and Truman Doctrine 231 Clientelism 95 Close, David  227, 230, 263, 300 Cold War rhetoric  312 Collard, Anna  197, 234 Colombo Cristoforo SS  276 Commissaire Ramel SS 161

Index Committee for Military Security  260 Common Agricultural Policy (CAP)  305 Common Market  293, 298 Constantinople (Istanbul)  27, 32–37, 59, 86, 88–89, 104, 109, 138, 159, 182, 140 Constantinou, S. and Diamantides, N.  129, 145 coppersmiths 111 Corfu, island of  17, 42, 76, 91, 104–105, 212, 147, 155, 167, 186, 199, 213, 229, 258, 278, 313; Channel  170, 175; incident/crisis of 1923 186–187 Corinth, city of  111, 123, 276 Council of  Europe  326 Cox, Kevin  130 Crete 60 cultivation, abandonment of  273–274; of  local produce/traditional crops  19, 22, 257, 273; in terraces  19–20; resumption of  258; see also pastoralism Cyprus  60, 272, 303 Dafnis, G.  117 Dakaris, Soterios  22 Dawkins, R.M.  66–67 Delfinaki, town of  175, 179 Delvinë (Delvinio) town of  105 Démis family  91–92 Demotic language  89 Denmark 132 Detroit 283–284 Dhimotiki (demotic) language  59, 287; see also demotic language Dhodhekara (group of  twelve elders)  93–94, 98–99 Dibri, village of  180 Dimitriadis, Phillip  279

349 Dino, Xhemil Bey  202 Drin, River  23 Dodona  24, 48 Dormition of  the Virgin, Church of  the  28, 106, 319; festivities of  the  54, 121, 191, 194, 318–319 Doughty-Wylie, Lieutenant-Colonel  173, 175, 177–178 Du Boulay, Juliet  29, 75, 209 Dupleix, steamer  160 dysentery 222 EAM, the National Liberation Front  208–210, 212–213, 227– 229, 231–232 Easter  54–55, 121, 155, 202, 213–214, 217–218, 220 EDA, United Democratic Left  265 EDES, the National Democratic Greek Army  209, 212–213, 224–225, 227, 229, 230, 232 Egnatia Highway  17, 23, 327 Egypt 289–290 ELAS, the National Popular Liberation Army  208, 210, 213–214, 217, 220, 224, 227–228, 231, 248 Elias, Prophet, chapel  106, 242 Elli, warship  199 Ellis Island Immigration Station in New York  136, 148; archives of  86, 131, 140–142, 146, 160 emancipation of  the village  210; women  83, 262, 237 Enlightenment  33, 40 Epirus  1–7, 9, 11, 15–16, 20, 25–27, 35, 37, 41, 45, 50, 53, 57, 59, 64, 77, 82, 86–90, 93–94, 102–103, 107, 116– 120, 122, 124, 127, 130, 146–147, 149–150, 155, 169–173, 175, 177, 179–181, 184, 188–189, 192–194,

350 Index 197–199, 202, 206, 208–210, 212–214, 225, 227–229, 233–235, 240, 250, 255–256, 261, 264, 270, 274, 281, 285, 289, 297, 303–304, 306–307, 311–315, 322, 324–326; ancient  22–23, 32–35, 38, 43; Chams of see Chams; Despotate of  48; economy of  102–104, 106, 108–109, 111, 115, 256, 294, 303–304, 325; emigration from  127, 146–147, 291–292; folklorists of  26, 60, 62, 70; history of  36, 197, 213, 227; intellectuals of  32, 38, 41, 43, 106; liberation of  75, 116; mountain communities of  16, 77, 95, 97, 99, 125–126, 131, 255–257, 306; Northern Epirus  50, 175, 179, 184, 201, 307, 315; Ottoman  77, 86, 107, 110, 127, 143, 150; people of  68, 198, 261, 324; region of  1, 5, 15, 43, 62, 95, 102–103, 110, 117–118, 127, 143, 169–170, 271, 292, 294, 310, 323, 326; songs from  44, 55, 61 Eriksen, T.H.  172 Eros 64 Ethnikos Kirix (National Herald) newspaper 199 Euboia, Island of  29, 209 Europe  8, 11, 16, 35, 40–42, 52, 102–103, 115, 126, 132, 135, 146, 169, 172, 179–180, 184, 208, 222, 288, 293– 294, 303, 323; Council of  326; Mediterranean  127; Ottoman  146, 150; south-east  2–3, 7, 25, 52, 110, 132, 158, 162, 171, 173, 197, 250, 295; southern  20, 284; western  103, 110, 133, 228, 286 European Central Bank  295 European Economic Community (EEC)  6, 268, 288, 293, 297, 299, 303, 305

European Economic and Monetary Union 301 European Union (EU)  1, 2, 6, 11, 20, 293, 291–296, 301–302, 303–306, 316, 326–327 Europeanisation, the process of  293 Euroregions 326 evil eye  78, 312, 319 Fallmerayer, Jacob Philipp  41, 43, 47 Fauriel, Claude  40, 44, 62, 65 Federal Republic of  Germany see Germany Filiates, town of  15, 90–92, 105, 110, 123, 181, 194, 203, 207, 210, 214–215, 218, 220, 223, 225–226, 230–231, 235–238, 243, 257, 259–260, 262, 271, 278, 289, 291, 307, 309, 311, 315–316, 320; kaza of  26; landowners (agas) of  27, 35, 95, 106; municipality  289, 323; province of  32, 107, 119; voice of  264 Financial Times  308 Finns, immigrants  132, 150 First World War  35, 76, 116–118, 153, 184, 198, 203 Fischer, Bernd Jürgen  199, 202 Florida 318 folklore, Greek, and its inf luence on Nitsos 39–44 Folklore Museum of  Tsamantas  7–8, 70, 88–89, 107, 123, 136, 151, 154, 156, 285, 314, 321–323 Forbes, Hamish  27 Foss, Arthur  17, 91, 105, 209, 225 France  26, 32, 170–173, 184–185, 187, 198, 294 Fremantle, port of  158 Frederica, Queen  240, 260 French Canadians  130–132 Gallagher, Tom  174

Index Garnett, Lucy  66 Gastarbeiter (guest workers)  284 Gemsbock, Operation  221 George, St  54, 182–183, 191; monastery of  16, 19, 21, 36, 38, 46, 54, 94, 106, 120, 182 George’s St Syrian Orthodox Church, Worcester, Massachusetts  155 George’s St Society in Worcester, Massachusetts (St George’s Hellenic Benefit Society of  Tsamantas in Worcester, Massachusetts) (George’s St Society)  45, 88, 136–137, 153, 155–156, 160, 180–183, 319 Georgia, SS  144, 147 Germans  5, 132, 202, 204–205, 211, 213–222, 225–227, 229, 249; in the villages of  Mount Mourgana 214–222 Germany  41, 204, 222, 284, 294, 296, 304; emigration to  6, 11, 154, 268, 283–286, 291–292; the role of  Germany in the delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian border  169–173, 202 Giulia, SS. 147 Giuliani M.V.  24 Gjirokastër (Argyrocastro), town of  105, 110, 175 Gladstone, William  91 globalisation, the concept of  2, 8, 101, 295, 304, 326; economic  73, 102, 108, 297; waves of  102–103, 294–295, 323 Glousta, village see Kefalochori GMH (Holden) Motors  164–165 Goethe  33, 40–41, 46, 68 Gold Exchange Standards  117 Goudim-Levkovitch, Colonel  173, 178 Grammos, Mount  175, 179

351 Grasdiani (Grazhdan), village of  121, 180, 195 Gray Marion  2 Great Depression  118 Great Powers  32, 169, 170–172, 174–175 Greco-Turkish War of 1919–1922  117– 118, 184 Greece  1, 6, 9, 16–17, 19, 27–28, 32, 34, 37, 39–40, 42–45, 47–48, 53, 56–58, 62, 66, 73, 82, 86, 88–89, 94–95, 99, 107, 113, 116–120, 122, 124, 127–129, 142, 145, 147, 150, 157, 163–164, 167, 172, 177–179, 182– 185  187–195, 197–208, 210–211, 213, 216–217, 224–225, 227–231, 233–235, 238, 240–241, 245–249, 251, 256, 261, 263, 265–269, 272, 275, 277, 280–282, 284, 291–298, 301–308, 310–314, 317, 322–327; ancient/classical  42, 48, 50–51, 58, 87; Bank of  117, 291; crisis in  295, 323; folklore of  40, 42; Central  18, 110, 234, 292; Church of  267; North-western  3, 69, 305; occupation of  212, 226; rural communities of  74, 78; Western  17, 304 Greek Democratic Army (GDA)  231, 235–236, 241, 243 Greek civil war (1946–1949) see civil war Greek–Albanian border  3, 6, 23, 93, 101, 118, 128, 198–200, 221, 229, 233, 296, 316; ambiguity of  192, 311–313; closure of  5, 190, 194; defence of  the  200, 235; demarcation/delimitation of  10, 96, 169–188; neighbouring villages on either side of  the  16, 189; reopening of  the  11, 306–311 Greek–Turkish border  17 Green, Sarah  101, 306, 312

352 Index Grey, Sir Edward  174–175, 177–179 Grika, bridge of  94 Grimm, Brothers  41, 66 Guy, Nicola  172, 174–177, 188 Gythion, port of  147 Hahn, Georg von  66 Hammond, Nicholas  22–23, 180 Hart, Laurie  174 Haxthausen, Werner von  40 Held, David  101 Hellenic Industrial Development Bank (ETBA) 289 Hellenisation of  local toponyms  265 Herder 41 Herzfeld, Michael  39–42, 68 Himara, area of  185 Hitler 201 Holy Synod of  the Ecumenical Patriarchate of  Constantinople  34, 92 honour  98, 210; family’s  76 Hoxha Enver  92, 247, 307 Hungary  108, 247, 249 Igoumenitsa; town of  17, 24, 90, 94, 105, 114, 121, 213, 237, 240, 248–249, 258, 264, 274, 278, 281, 286, 308–309, 316; port of  230, 274, 289, 327; Sanjak (administrative area) of  90 Inalham, G. and Finch, E.  25 International Monetary Fund (IMF)  295 Interreg Programme  327 Ioachim III, Ecumenical Patriarch  33 Ioannina, town/city /regional capital of  15, 17, 24, 26–27, 32, 38, 49, 59, 65, 68, 85, 90, 94, 103, 105, 107, 110–111, 138, 173, 186, 188, 203, 214–216, 222, 229, 239, 244, 259, 262, 274, 281, 320; Prefecture of  86, 230; University of  304

Ioannidis, Brigadier Dimitrios Ionian Sea  15, 18; islands  60, 91; islanders 78 Ipirotika Chronika  60, 68–70 Ireland  132, 293 Irish immigrants  132–133 Iron Broom policy of 1991–1992  310 Iron Curtain  5, 195, 233, 237–238, 246, 251, 261 Islam  78–79, 172, 190; conversion to  26, 190, 194 d’Istria, Dora  40 Italians  132, 158, 162, 164, 185–186, 190, 198, 200–204, 207–208, 214, 226 Italo-Turkish war  174 Italy  17, 104, 169–170, 172–175, 178–179, 185–187, 198, 202, 204, 214, 231, 293–294, 308, 310; the role of  Italy in the delimitation of  the Greek–Albanian border  169–189 Janina see Ioannina Jews  103, 132, 214, 222 John, St, the Baptist  56; John, St, Theologos 191 Kakavia, border checkpoint of  186, 190, 223 Kalamata, port of  147 Kalamas, River  18, 22–23, 50, 74, 79, 108–109, 114, 175, 194, 199, 201, 207, 224, 243, 248, 260, 274, 308, basin  175, 179, 181; delta  26, 181; plain  26, 124 Kalarrytes, community of  111 Kalavrita, town of  276 Kalpakiotikos; River  15, 259 Kalyvas, Stathis  227 Kanellopoulos, Panayotis  266 Katakolon, port of  147 Katharevousa language  31, 58, 89

353

Index Kamitsiani, hamlet of  16, 21, 36, 38, 46, 48, 89, 94, 106, 114, 120, 182, 222, 246, 269 Kampouroglou, Dimitrios  50 Kapodistrias administrative reforms  17, 323 Karamanlis, Constantine  274, 287–288, 300, 302 Karamanlis, Kostas  302 Karlsruhe region  284 Karpat, Kemal  146 Karroki, village of  180, 315–316 Kassidiaris mountain range  235 Katyn 245 Kefalochori (formerly known as Glousta)  24, 35, 49, 265 King, Captain  173 Kingsbury, Alex  197 kinship  10, 28, 73, 75, 97–98, 130, 166, 327; bonds of  78; networks of  97, 130–131, 166, 269 kith and kin, importance of  129, 130, 285; see also kinship networks KKE (the Communist Party)  212, 224, 227 Klidhonas, custom of  56 Kommeno, village of  213–214 Konispol, town of  108, 194, 214, 225, 313 Konitsa  179, 239, 314 Konya, province of  173 Korçë (Koritsa), city/town of  110, 176, 179, 187, 188 Korpi, spring of  121 Kosovitsa, village of  180 Koziakas, gorge  18–19, 22, 26, 202 Krania, site of  22 Krayer, Monsieur  173 Kreuzotter, Operation  221 Kriedte, P., Medick, H., and Schubohm, J. 110 Kurtulus, steamer  205

Kurvelesh, area of  23 Kyrenia SS 279 Kyriakidis, Stilpon  43, 60, 70 Kyriakidou-Nestoros, Alki  40, 43, 48 Labia, Vitorio  173 Lagia, Meto  289 Laimiko, site of  22–23; acropolis at  23, 28 Lallemand, Lieutenant-Colonel  173, 178 Lambrakis, Grigoris  266 Lambridis, Ioannis  43 Lanz, General Hubert  213 Latin America  135 Laura, SS 143 Lausanne Convention  192 Lawson, Cuthbert John  57, 66 Le Havre, port of  138, 142, 144, 147 League of  Nations  185, 186–187 Legrand, Emile  40 Lesinitsa (Leshnicë), village of  15, 92–93, 201, 309, 312 Leskovitsa, village of  181 Lewicka, M.  29 Lias village of  15, 76, 182, 201, 211, 213, 215, 217, 220, 236–237, 243, 259, 265, 267, 269, 271, 325; destruction of  221; population of  249–250 Lidizda, village of  22, 24, 28, 77, 94, 182, 187, 191, 194, 198, 199, 208, 215, 217, 230, 249–250; destruction of 217–222 Linates (Linati), village of  50, 190, 192 Lithosourgia (stoning)  57 Lithuanians, immigrants  132, 150 Liturgy, Sunday  57, 81, 93; morning  54 London  20, 169, 178, 186, 275; London Conference of  Ambassadors  170–174, 181; Times  148, 187–200, 243, 274 Louloudis, L., and Maraveyas, N.  298

354 Index Loutzaki, Irene  61 Lowell, Massachusetts  130, 134, 165 Lower Saxony  304 Luke St  53 Lyberaki, A., and Tsakalotos, E.  287 Macedonia  15, 17, 34, 109, 117, 188, 214, 220, 234, 274, 304, 310; Western Macedonia  188; Former Yugoslav Republic of  326 Mai, Nicola and Schwandner-Sievers, Stephanie 310 Maigewitter, Operation  214, 220–221 malaria  124, 222–223 Maltese, immigrants  158 Maltsani, village of  24, 180 Marantzidis, N. and Antoniou, G.  209 Margariti, town of  90, 209 Margaritis, George  225 Mark, Apostle  54 Markat[i] (Markates), village of  22, 190, 192 Markel, H. and Stern, A.M.  132, 149 Marshall Plan  255 Massachusetts, state of  131 massacre of  611 infantry battalion  245 Mavromati, border crossing of  316 Mazower, Mark  205, 210, 228 Mears, Eliot  122 Mediterranean, Europe  127; hinterland  20; sea  127, 198, 211; eastern  103, 158, 174, 327; western  327; hackberry trees  318 Megali idhea (grand idea), the irredentist notion of  117, 184 Melbourne, Victoria, emigrating to  9–10, 158–165, 177–242, 270–280, 285, 318–319; South Melbourne Market  162 Mercedes-Benz 284

Metaxas, Ioannis  118, 198, 200, 226, 260, 266 Methana 27 Metochia (church estates)  119 Metsovo, town of  105, 214 micro-economy  3–4, 10, 99, 103, 122 Middle Ages  18, 41, 110 Midwest 133 Migdal, Joel  262 Military dictatorship  6, 247, 260, 255–272, 280 Miller, William  47 Mitsi F.I.  289 Mitsotakis, Konstantinos  301, 309–310 Modernisation, the process of  2, 73–74, 102, 119, 287, 299 Molossis, Epirot tribe of  23–24 Monarchy, Greek  230, 287 Monastiraki, area of  31 Montenegro  170, 172 Morrison, Lynn  123 Moskos, Charles  122, 129, 153 Mount Mourgana  5, 17–20, 23–26, 86, 109, 166, 195, 223, 247; battle of  243–246; climate of  19–20; communities of/ the sixteen villages of  5, 25, 27, 91, 106–107, 110, 114, 127, 171, 173, 180–184, 186, 189–195, 198, 201, 207–208, 212, 220, 224, 230–231, 233, 250, 265–266, 269–270, 274, 280, 316; deforestation of  46; geomorphology of  18; grazing lands of  19–20, 190; f lora and fauna of  19–20; resistance movement on 208–216 Mouzelis, Nicos  74 Munich 284 Museum of  Tsamantas see Folklore Museum of  Tsamantas

355

Index Muslim Chams see Chams Muslim landlords  32, 119; see also agas Mussolini  186, 201 Nathaniel, Metropolitan  34–35 National Archives of  Australia  158, 160, 164 National Bank of  Greece  124, 167 National Schism  153, 232 Nationalism, the emergence of  11, 88, 168, 188, 189–195, 224, 266, 303, 324, 327; romantic  33, 41 Nationalist Army  225, 229, 243–245; see also National Army  229, 235, 237, 242 NATO  267, 270 Nazis  28, 103 Netherlands 294 Neustria, SS 144 New Democracy party  287, 296–297, 301 New England  130, 134, 146, 161 New York  50, 77, 86, 116, 131, 136, 138– 140, 142–144, 146–148, 153, 159, 160–161, 166, 199, 275–276, 307 Nicaea, Byzantine Royal Court of  48 Nicholas, St  54, 106, 191 Nikopolis; diocese of  34 Nitsiakos, Vassilis  313 Nitsos, Nikolaos (1865–1940), account of  folkloric traditions  39–45, 51, 73, 81; background  32–39; explanations of  the linguistic richness of  Tsamantas  45, 58–60, 70, 115; monograph  8, 10, 27, 31–33, 36, 38, 41, 43, 44–47, 50, 58, 60–62, 70–71, 117, 193, 199; selection of  the songs and dances  60–66; selection of stories and proverbs 45 66–69 Nitsos, Stavros and/or Marina  32, 27

Nivitsa, village of  108 Northern Epirus see Epirus Norway 132 Nouskas, K.  173, 176, 196 Ohmae, Kenichi  326 Olympic Airlines  327, 307; Olympic Games  41, 279 Omonia (the Democratic Union of  the Greek Minority in Albania)  315 Orestai, Epirot tribe  24  173 O’Rourke, Eileen  20 O’Rourke, K.H. and Williamson  102 Orthodox Church  34, 78, 74, 84, 86, 92, 121, 155, 162, 193; the inf luence of  the 78–80 Ottoman Empire  1–2, 33, 41, 73, 86, 103, 106, 109, 127, 143, 146, 173, 151, 180, 186, 189, 323 Ottomans  1, 7, 21, 26–27, 35–36, 41, 69, 79, 87, 91, 93, 99, 117–119, 169– 170, 174, 180–181, 190, 194, 208 Oxen  53, 57, 120–121 Oxfam 206 Paidomazoma (abduction of children) 240–241 Palairet, Michael  203, 204, 206 Paniyiri[a] (communal events/festivities)  54, 191, 194 Panteleimon, St, village of  190 Papacostas, N.K. and Thomas, N.W.  57 Papandreou, Andreas  297–301, 307; George (senior)  227; George (junior) 301–302 Paparrigopoulos, Konstantinos  48, 193 Papas, Tom  268 Paramythia, town of  90, 92, 105, 209, 214, 225–226, 230, 315; Diocese/Bishopric of  Paramythia  106, 191, 194

356 Index Parauaioi, Epirot tribe  24 Parga, town of  121, 225 Paris Peace Conference  184–185 PASOK (the Panhellenic Socialist Movement)  296–298, 301–302 Pasha 64; Ali 190 Passow, Arnold  40 pastoralism  7–8, 26, 274; see also animal husbandry Patras  9, 84–85, 113–114, 118, 143–144, 216, 247; departing/arriving in the port of  144–145, 147, 160 Patriarch 33–34 Patriarchate of  Constantinople  33, 86, 92–93, 182 Patris, SS 145–146 Pavla, River  18, 22, 26, 94, 183, 188, 191, 259; valley of  191 Pax Europaea  293–317 Pax Ottomanica  7, 103–108, 125 Pennsylvania, SS  143, 147 Pepeli, village  180 Pera Machalas, neighbourhood of  20, 106, 113, 216, 240 Perdikari, village of  181, 274 Permanent Court of  International Justice 186 Peschos, Abbot  36, 182–183, 187; Philippos  183, 261 Phanar, district of  33; Phanar Greek Orthodox College  33 Phoenicae, ancient city of  22–23 Pepelasis, A.A.  73, 107 Pigadoulis, spring  37 Pindus  1, 17–18, 74, 127, 175, 177 Pintos, Jerome  273 Piraeus, port of  143, 147–148, 205, 228, 248, 266; Piraeus-New York line 143 Peloponnese  15, 41, 62, 84, 112–114, 150, 276, 304 Plagia 24

Platanakis, stream  18 Plessivitsa (Plession)  214 Pogoni, region  102, 109, 114, 189, 191, 312 Poles, immigrants  132, 150 political refugees  232, 238, 247, 251, 310; repatriating 300 Politis, N.G.  40, 42–43, 45, 62 Polybius, ancient Greek historian  23 Polyphony 325 Portugal  122, 293, 304 Poulos, Margaret  236 Pouranthis; neighbourhood of  21, 201, 216 Povla (Ambelonas) village of  15, 18, 29, 34, 49, 94, 182, 200–201, 203, 217, 236, 238, 240, 242, 244, 250, 257, 265, 307, 315–316, 325; crossingpoint at  316 Preveza  15, 34–35, 86, 175, 199, 299, 327 Protestants 52 proto-industrialisation  110, 115 proto-industry  4, 110 Prousa (Bursa), city of  34–35, 37 Provence, SS La 138 Puchner, W.  55 push-pull factor in migration  129 Quinsigamond, Lake  154, 160 Rankin, Katharine  101 rational decision-making  278; rational economic behaviour  96; rational problem-solvers 4 Red Cross  173, 195, 206, 231, 240–241, 269 Regas, Elias  182, 192, 199, 202, 206, 208, 215, 217–219, 222, 230, 249 Region state, idea of  11, 326 Reservoir Lake  280 Rio-Antirio bridge  327 Ripessis, area of  19, 183, 187–188, 191, 194; Monastery of  the Virgin of  191

357

Index Robinson, William  101 Romania  1, 198, 303 Romans  23, 29, 41 Rosenzweig, Roy  132–135, 155 Rouf liakas waterfall  18 Rousseau  33, 46 Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst  173 Ruhr region  284 Russia  32, 108, 169–174, 238 Russians 132 Sabean, David  2 Sagiada  147, 214, 223, 249, 274, 323 Sakellariou, M.B.  23, 26 Salminger, Lieutenant-Colonel Josef  213 Saloutos, Theodore  128–129 Saltellis, Themistocles  33 Samaras, Antonis  296 Sappho 64 Sarakatsani, shepherds/communities  75, 77 Sarandë, town of  22, 86, 105, 188, 316 Säuberungsunternehmen, Operation  214 Save the Children Fund  260 Savoie, SS La 138 Scandinavian immigrants  132 Schmidt, Bernhard  66 Second World War  4–5, 9, 11, 21–22, 70, 73, 86, 92, 102, 114, 116, 122, 126, 154, 163–164, 167, 194–195, 198–204, 217, 233, 235, 249–250, 274–275, 289, 296, 315; aftermath of  82, 205, 251; destruction of  217, 219–224; and the expulsion of  Chams  225–226 Seiko family  91–92 Serbians  106, 169 Serres, diocese of  34 Seymour, Susanna  140, 152, 157 Shkumbi, River  23, 179 Silversmiths 111 Simitis, Kostas  301–302

Simollardes, Anthony  138, 140, 150, 154, 281 Sixteen villages, Claim of  the  32, 35, 107, 119, 181 Skopas, Nikos  31, 37, 199; brothers  113, family 77 Sminesi (Zminec), village of  122, 180– 181, 218–219 Smyrna (Izmir)  37 Soviet bloc  338, 241, 300; government  227; sphere of inf luence 235; Union 241 Sotiras, village of  (Ai) (Sotirë)  22, 180, 190–191, 223 Soulis, Christos  43, 59 South West of  England  304 Southwick, Albert  131, 134, 149 Spanish inf luenza  35, 116 Spyridon St  155–158, 282 Stark, O. and Levhari, D.  128 Stavrianos, Leften  86, 180, 205, 209, 224, 228, 250 Stavrou, N.A.  91 Steinadler, Operation  221 Stickney, Edith  170, 172, 185 Stoianovich, Traian  79–80 Stougara, Mount/range  17, 188 Strange, Susan  295 Stuttgart 284 Suez Canal  175 Sultan  91, 194 Sweden  132, 205 Switzerland 269 Sydney 158 Syrians immigrants  132, 155, 158 Syrrako, community of  111 Takai, Yukari  130, 166 Tamis, Anastasios  164 Tavera, hill of  201 Taylor, C.C. and Townsend, A.R.  28 Tellini, General Enrico  185–186, 199

358 Index Tepeleni, town  185, 201 Thana, neighbourhood of  20, 106, 216, 242, 245 Thermos, Elias  235 Theocritus 62 Theologos, village of  180, 191 Thesproti, Epitot tribe of  23–24 Thesprotia, Prefecture of  15, 17, 22–23, 65, 70, 86, 90, 94, 188, 192–194, 199, 202–203, 206, 208, 214, 225–226, 230, 248, 264–265, 273–274, 289, 291, 302, 315–316, 319, 323; coast of  286; economic production in  273; editor of  193; Greek  192; mountain communities of  208, 231; province of  230, western 214 Thessaloniki, city of  118, 188, 214, 256, 265–266, 326; Thessaloniki, University of  60; see also Aristotle, University of  Thessaloniki Thessaly  15, 17, 298, 304 Thierry, Lieutenant-Colonel von  173, 182–183, 187 Thrace  17, 89, 109, 117, 304 Thucydides, ancient Greek historian  23 Thyamis, River  23, 50, 194; see also Kalamas Time magazine  204–205 Tinkers  4, 10, 62, 84, 108–116, 118, 122, 125, 147, 202, 230 Tinos, port of  199 Tipps, Dean  73 Tirana 307 toponyms  3, 18, 31, 46–47, 50, 180, 265 Touraine, SS La 142 Trans-European Networks  327 Treaty of  Sèvres  35 Triple Alliance  169, 172, 174–175 Triple Entente  169, 171, 174 Tsamourgia, toponym of  49–50, 53, 86, 193, 199; district of  34, 188

Tsamantas, brotherhood of  29; St George  281; see also St George’s; St Dimitrios  31, 318; St Nicholas  159, 279, 280, 318–319; the built environment  16, 20–21, 28, 25–26, 67, 78, 85, 89, 106, 114, 123, 190, 259, 305; gender roles and marriage  10, 51, 77, 80–84, 145, 163, 189, 195, 261–262, 268, 281, 299; geography  15–17; economic development of  11, 30, 74–75, 79, 99, 316, 319, 323, 326–327; education  33, 44, 51, 57, 62, 74, 82, 97–98, 112, 122, 126, 129, 131, 135, 157, 171, 210, 259, 262, 268, 272, 294, 302, 314, 325; the education system  84–90; name of  3, 48–49, 193; as a place of refuge  25–27, 48–49, 76–77, 190, 195, 220, 223, 233, 246, 261, 296, 296, 300, 307–311, 323; politics in  90–95, 263; School of  21, 29, 70, 84–85, 87–90, 97–98, 106–107, 124, 136–137, 153, 216– 217, 219, 244, 266, 309, 321; the burning down of  the  26–27; see also education in Tsamantas; religion  10, 44, 48, 78, 172, 182, 185, 266, 315; See also the Orthodox Church; self-administered local governance  90–99, 263–265, see also Dhodhekara; social and cultural environment in  30, 32, 45, 73–78, 82, 96, 98–99, 101–102, 107, 128, 130, 134, 149, 153–154, 158, 166, 172, 189, 190, 194, 210, 217, 228, 240, 250, 255–257, 280, 286–287, 292, 311–312, 314, 323–324, 327; social change in  261–263, 288, 290, 298–300; traditional values  10, 73–78 Tsamantouros, family of  3, 48–49, 193

359

Index Tsarcovitsa, village of  180 Turkey  37, 179, 192–193, 205, 272, 289 Turkish Army  128, 173 Turks  26–27, 34, 37, 88, 117, 173, 184, 193, 205, 217, 272; liberation from the 150 Typhoid fever  116, 124, 149, 122, 124 Typhus 222 Ukrainians, immigrants  132 UNICEF 260 United Nations Special Committee on the Balkans  241 United States of  America  10, 39, 185, 283, 297; role in civil war  235, 239; economic and military aid  205, 231, 244, 255; inf luence after the civil war  243, 244, 287; migration to  6, 28, 86, 88–89, 98, 103, 122, 124, 127–133, 136, 138, 142–143, 147–148, 150, 153, 163–165, 157, 159, 163; relations with Junta  267–268 USA see United States of  America USAid 260 Varina, plateau  18, 215 Vavouri, village of  15, 182, 211–212, 217, 220–221, 250, 325 Veltiamiene SS 161 Veneranda, St (Paraskevi)  191 Venizelos, Eleftherios  118, 167, 178–179 Verinis, James  41 Victoria, State of  158, 162, 277 Ville d’Amiens SS 161 Ville de Strasbourg, steamer  158 Vjoses, River  185 Vlachs, inhabitants  76, 77, 177 Volos, city of  118 Voltaire 33 Voyusa, valley  175

Walcot, Peter  75 war see First World War; civil war; Second World War Washburn, Charles  132, 134 West Germany see Germany Winnifrith, Tom  183, 185 Wodonga, town of  277 Woodhouse, Chris  117, 214, 287 Worcester, Massachusetts, the industrial city of  131–136; emigration to  6, 9, 10, 39, 45, 88–89, 130–131, 136–149, 159–168, 275–276, 319; life in  149–158, 275–283, 285 Worcester Polytechnic Institute  134 Worcester Telegraph  281 World Bank  295 World Council of  Churches  5, 257 World Trade Organisation  295 Wulfhorst, J.D., Rimbey, N., and Darden, T. 29 Wuppertal 284 Xanthos, river  18; see also river Pavlas Xera, stream  18 Xoxha, Daut  199 Yanari, village of  181, 190, 192 Yanina see Ioannina Yotopoulos, Panagiotis  1, 16, 120 Yugoslavia  185, 202, 228, 241 Yugoslavs, immigrants  158 Zagoria, region  43, 107 Zambelios, Spyridon  42, 44, 47, 52 Zante, port of  147 Zervas, Napoleon  209, 212, 224, 232 Zeus 33 Zog, King  198 Zossimea, school  90 Zoulas, Kostas  11, 56, 70, 115, 181–182, 321

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies Edited by Andrew Louth, Professor Emeritus of Patristic and Byzantine Studies, University of Durham. David Ricks, Professor of Modern Greek and Comparative Literature, King’s College London.

This series encompasses the religion, culture, history, and literary production of the Greek-speaking world and its neighbours from the fourth century AD to the present. It aims to provide a forum for original scholarly work in any of these fields, covering cultures as diverse as Late Antiquity, the Byzantine empire, the Venetian empire, the Christian communities under Ottoman rule, and the modern nation states of Greece and Cyprus. Submissions in English are welcomed in the form of monographs, annotated editions, or collections of papers.

Volume 1 Anthony Hirst, God and the Poetic Ego: The Appropriation of Biblical and Liturgical Language in the Poetry of Palamas, Sikelianos and Elytis. 425 pages. 2004. ISBN 3-03910-327-X Volume 2 Hieromonk Patapios and Archbishop Chrysostomos, Manna from Athos: The Issue of Frequent Communion on the Holy Mountain in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries. 187 pages. 2006. ISBN 3-03910-722-4

Volume 3 Liana Giannakopoulou, The Power of Pygmalion: Ancient Greek Sculpture in Modern Greek Poetry, 1860-1960. 340 pages. 2007. ISBN 978-3-03910-752-0 Volume 4 Irene Loulakaki-Moore, Seferis and Elytis as Translators. 392 pages. 2010. ISBN 978-3-03911-918-9 Volume 5 Maria Mandamadiotou, The Greek Orthodox Community of Mytilene: Between the Ottoman Empire and the Greek State, 1876–1912. 270 pages. 2013. ISBN 978-3-0343-0910-3 Volume 6 Eugenia Russell, St Demetrius of Thessalonica: Cult and Devotion in the Middle Ages. 213 pages. 2010. ISBN 978-3-0343-0181-7 Volume 7 Ivan Sokolov, The Church of Constantinople in the Nineteenth Century: An Essay in Historical Research. 1041 pages. 2013. ISBN 978-3-0343-0202-9 Volume 8-9 Forthcoming Volume 10 Maximilian Lau, Caterina Franchi and Morgan Di Rodi (eds), Landscapes of Power: Selected Papers from the XV Oxford University Byzantine Society International Graduate Conference. 323 pages. 2014. ISBN 978-3-0343-1751-1 Volume 11 Dimitrios Konstadakopulos, From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea: The growth and decline of a Greek village’s micro-economy. 375 pages. 2014. ISBN 978-3-0343-1749-8