Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  Sunset at Giza. (Author’s Collection)

  Finally we watched the sun go down on the Pyramids. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this plateau, it always seems like the first time. The Pyramids will always remain a mystery as long as we question the impossibility of their majesty and the wonder of how they were built with the tools of their time. “Mystery” comes from the Greek word “mien,” to close the mouth. When looking at the enigmatic face of the Sphinx as an example, they certainly did.

  As darkness came upon us, we wrapped up what was left of the food and made our way back. It was interesting to ride among other camels, donkeys, horses, humans and cars. All fitting the modern environment, all interweaving with each other in an ancient atmosphere that has existed for thousands of years. By exploring these cultures, by riding the path of those who have come before, we become part of that inheritance. I liked that; somehow it expanded my purpose here and reason for my existence in this world. As a small boy, I was fascinated by things I perceived as alien. I always had to touch them, and that way knew they were real. It was a full day and now it was time to go back to the hotel, as tomorrow would begin my journey following the footsteps of the Holy Family along the Nile.

  Looking back now at what transpired in Egypt in November of 2010, its revolution, Mubarak’s downfall and his house arrest in Sharm el-Sheikh were necessary to bring Egypt into a modern democratic world. The military have taken over and people of the revolution have been imprisoned and tortured. A prosecution spokesman was quoted as saying that the scope of the investigations taking place would include Mubarak and his sons, the crackdown on protesters that killed hundreds of people as well as the corruption allegations into the president’s wealth.

  I have great memories in Egypt and they will remain with me forever. But who knows where the revolution will end up? In the hands of its people or another leader pretending to be “for the people”? In January of 2012 the first democratic elections took place and the results brought the Muslim Brotherhood into power. Now they celebrate the anniversary of the revolution in Tahrir Square, where it all started. Now we are awaiting the solution for its people’s freedom, Arab-style.

  The Elgin Marbles

  I always imagined that when I saw the Acropolis in Athens for the first time I would run up to the top, to that towering crown of Greece, and visually feast upon the masterpiece at my feet. I had felt like this twice in my life, once in front of the Pyramids in Egypt and now at the Acropolis. It was built on top of this sacred rock during the Golden Age of Pericles between 495–429 BC.

  Landing in Greece, home of my ancestors, I grabbed a cab and rushed into Athens. The taxi driver hailed, “There is the Parthenon!” in Greek, and I gazed in its direction but didn’t really look it at. This was not how I first wanted to experience it. Not from a distance surrounded by unattractive architecture but whole, in its great splendor, in its full expression, a place where mythical gods resided above the common crowd.

  I arrived at my hotel and asked the taxi driver to wait. I registered, dropped off my bags and dashed to the site of my childhood dream.

  Crossing the Giza plateau. (Author’s Collection)

  As I exited the taxi, the driver directed me to the ascent.

  I thanked him and proceeded to pace myself up the steep pathway. Below me now was the Theatre of Dionysius with its weathered architecture surrounded by the ancient Agora. What a sight. Worn with such decadence, its life force still exuding its beauty. They did it well in those days, and here I was 2,500 years later and my actor self wanted to race down onto that stage and live in the present by reciting something of the past in Greek. What a great notion.

  I raced down to the theatre and climbed onto the stage, oblivious to the tourists in front of me. Wow, I thought, here I am standing with this magnificent ancient backdrop and its auditorium where Euripides’ and Homer’s tales were performed. And suddenly what came to mind was something Giorgio de Chirico, the Greek-born Italian artist, once said. And so in Greek I spoke his words:

  “To become truly immortal, a work of art must escape all human limits; logic and common sense will only interfere. But once these barriers are broken, it will enter the realms of childhood visions and dreams.”

  The sudden sound of applause from the tourists awakened me out of my reverie. Slightly embarrassed but still a ham, I had no choice but to take a bow. We all had a good laugh, and I continued back up the glorious rock of my childhood dream. Two steps at a time, never looking up, reaching the top I continued through the archway until I could go no further. I looked up and there it was, the Parthenon. It was bigger and greater than I had ever imagined, those amazing columns riddled with wounds of its past history.

  When I truly took it all in, I began to sob, which surprised me because rarely in my life have I been that raw and emotional in public. But this time I was realizing a fantasy just as I had at the Pyramids at Giza. Like the past before me I was facing the icon of Greece. My, how it must have looked in its day! But since its inception, the occupation by the Venetians, the Ottomans and the British resulted in these unbelievable scars. That’s what wars do: annihilate the face of the conquered.

  The 350 years of Ottoman occupation took its toll. They used it as a military fort and fortified it with ammunition. The ceiling and its many statues were destroyed, blown apart or broken down or in most cases looted. Some of its statuary and other artwork considered pagan, particularly idols of gods created in man’s image and the display of genitalia, were chopped off and discarded. During the Venetian occupation General Morosini looted some of the larger sculptures. His tackle snapped, and life-size statues of Poseidon and the Horses of Athens Chariot fell over the rock of the Acropolis, plunging forty feet below. The Greek War of Independence (1821–1833) finally ended the Ottoman rule of Athens, but alas, all of this contributed to its scarring.

  As Lord Byron, the great poet, wrote in his “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”:

  Dull is the eye that will not weep too soon,

  Thy wall defaced, thy moldering shrines removed

  By British hands, it had best be behooved

  To guard those relics ne’er to be restored.

  Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,

  And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

  And snatch’d thy shrinking Gods to Northern climes

  Abhorred!

  In 1801, one of the worst offenders, and where controversy still continues today, was the work of a Scotsman named Lord Elgin. He removed many metopes and slabs by hacking off the main structure, sawing and slicing them into sections and causing irreparable damage to the Parthenon. In those ten years it took to bring them down more damage was done than in the rest of its 2,500-year existence. One shipload of marbles on board the British rig Mentor was caught in a storm and sank near Kythera Island. It took them two years to bring them back up to the surface. They were eventually bought by the British government and put on display in the British Museum. Even Napoleon put in a bid, and why not? The French and the English were two of the greatest looters of the 19th century. No wonder their museums are full.

  I walked around the rock, looking out over Athens where mythical gods perched, taking in all of what was. In those days I had the opportunity to walk through the Parthenon and its hollowed heart. I ran around, my arms outstretched, taking in what great history had lived through this city’s center until I got reprimanded by a guard screaming, “Behave yourself.”

  Meanwhile, I just wanted to dance. How could I explain to him what I was experiencing? My experience was unforgettable and my euphoria came by embracing all I was taught by my parents and my teachers. It was exhilarating. But then its gaping wounds were disturbing.

  I then decided to take a quick trip to London to view Elgin’s stolen pieces displayed in a country that had no classical age of its own.

  As I entered the British Museum I was shocked to witness so many looted artifacts from other cultures, magnificently
executed. In my mind they didn’t belong there. Finally I found myself in front of what I had come to see, so beautifully displayed by the museum, the enormous sculptured pieces of the Parthenon, looking alive as if they were moving but frozen in time. But that was to the artist’s credit. I imagined what they must have looked like in their original habitat, all from one structure. You can’t help but be moved.

  I remember the emotional reaction of Melina Mercouri, the Greek actress who became the cultural minister of Greece in the 1980s. She turned it into a great performance, standing there in front of the British press, demanding that Greece’s majestic icons be returned to her homeland. With that, the tears fell. It was a moving performance filled with Greek tragedy, but her point was made to deaf ears. I had met her in my early years in New York. She was unique and intimidating.

  As I stood there, an American tourist made a comment to me about how beautiful the pieces were and by remaining in London they were preserved and protected from the pollution in Athens.

  I said to him, “Really? Then you don’t know the history of these pieces. These artifacts in London suffered from 19th-century pollution, which persisted until the mid-20th century and were irrevocably damaged by the cleaning methods they used in the 1930s. They were chemically scrubbed which caused the eating away of the original patina.”

  The American responded with a statement, “Mistakes were made at the time.”

  “No, it’s because it’s the largest draw in the museum. Don’t talk to me about the pollution in Athens. What if someone stole the Statue of Liberty in New York and you had to visit it in some foreign museum? Would that be upsetting to you? After all, it is your icon.” He thought I was overreacting. And so the controversy continues.

  So when you go to Greece, Italy, Egypt and China, they exhibit only their history. They didn’t have to borrow or steal anyone else’s identity.

  I read that the Parthenon appears to have been built as a “celebration for the creation of mankind,” and fittingly its sculptures and metopes tell its story. Therefore, without them it’s not complete. Getting them back to their original historical and cultural environment would allow for fuller understanding and interpretation about what these ancient scholars and artists passed down through wisdom and knowledge and architecture. It’s important that people can continue to be reminded of their heritage, how they lived and the standards they held.

  The Chinese said: “The spirit of the artist lives through it forever and without it, a culture dies.”

  The Great Elgin Marbles, British Museum. (Author’s Collection)

  The Sacrifice, Parthenon. (Author’s Collection)

  One of the arguments that the British presented was that Greece didn’t have a museum large enough to house the Parthenon Marbles. When they did, the British Parliament would re-address their argument. So when the Games were held in Athens for the first time since their inception, their dream was to have the Marbles leave England by train and paraded through European cities, making their final destination in Greece at the Olympic games in 2004.

  But, disappointed that the dream didn’t take place, Greece decided to build its own museum below the Acropolis. And what a museum it is. Its glass floors reveal parts of ancient Athens below it and what has remained of the magnificent Acropolis artifacts. In June of 2009, the museum opened with dignitaries from all over the world. The British have not budged on their promises, and so Greece is left with empty hands. While they wait and the museum space remains empty, a black ribbon sits above the entrance in mourning of its stolen artifacts.

  Kastellorizo

  Kastellorizo and its harbor with Turkey in the background. (Author’s Collection)

  From London I went back to Greece, to the island of Kastellorizo where my ancestors settled in the early 16th century. They migrated from Constantinople (now Istanbul) onto this little rock of an island, a couple of miles from the Turkish coastline.

  The name of this island means “the castle with the red plant,” which grows wildly over its landscape. The castle belonged to the 14th-century Venetians who inhabited the island. This lovely ruin blends into the rocky terrain overlooking its wonderful harbor where a Greek flag flows freely above the neo-classical houses. At its height, the women of the island would parade along the harbor wearing their best dowry complete with a lace umbrella and “you may look, but don’t touch” attitude.

  When I was a boy I asked my mother, “Why does Father’s mother Kostandina have such a huge nose?”

  “It’s because she came from a family of wealthy merchants, and feeling important, she always kept her nose in the air. And as we say in Australia—‘a real stuck-up.’”

  As I saw it, that nose kept growing, showing off her self-imposed importance. We never liked each other. When the opportunity arose, she would pinch me hard when no one was looking. I somehow seemed offensive to her. Of course, she died an unhappy woman and I was not surprised, her hands were always empty. Not even a rose.

  To get to the island I caught a boat in Rhodes, and the experience of the high waves splashing over the deck made the crossing quite rough. We finally entered the harbor of Kastellorizo a bit dazed. Others like me whose ancestors were from this part of Greece began to cry. All the memories of their childhood, the many myths their families had shared with them, had now surfaced and were spilling over, creating what looked more like a Greek tragedy.

  I was always told that “When you see the island for the first time, it will be an emotional experience.” For me it wasn’t. It was a struggle remembering all those traditions enforced upon us, our ancestors coming to Australia and then proceeding to rigidly hand them down in a world different to theirs. And there we clashed; I was rebellious to outmoded concepts. To always behave and be reminded constantly to never ruin the family name. After all, there were sisters that had to be married off eventually, and we couldn’t afford to hurt their chances in the arranged-marriage saga. It all seemed so silly now. I rarely saw a happy outcome.

  The island looked more like a fairy tale among its ruins with beautifully restored colored houses, all neatly presented on the waterfront as if they were on good behavior. Fishing boats of all colors docked while the fishermen mended their nets. Within its illustrious harbor there were shadows weaving through the battered landscape and not too much light.

  As I watched, I reflected upon my youth. I had very little freedom. My father had strict and contradictory rules, and if those rules weren’t followed, then his wrath and abuse were revealed. I balked at anything that made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. Perhaps that’s why open spaces have made me feel so free and alive. My travels in these spaces were part of an education that enhanced my being and most importantly my spirit. It’s taken me a lifetime to overcome my father’s Victorian attitude. My mother always came to my rescue because my father’s frustrations of not fulfilling his destiny and not being able to reach me weighed heavily on my youth.

  When we landed I went straight to the spot where my mother and father’s families lived, facing the harbor. It was an empty space now after so many wars, fires and earthquakes destroyed a lot of its classic architecture and beautiful landscape. Pity, I would have loved to have sat in that environment where they had been brought up, and maybe that’s what I was searching for, something that perhaps would help me understand better who they were and why my father was such a tyrant. Something must have seeded it. Maybe it was because my grandmother never showed any affection to any of us, especially my father, just distance and authority. Those unemotional responses caused a lot of damage.

  Soon I found myself facing the school my parents attended in their youth. The magnificent neo-classical architecture hinted at what the island must have really looked like before most of it was destroyed by fires set by the British. Right next to it was the church of St. Kostandinou and Eleni. As I entered the church and lit a candle, the hundreds of icons embraced me, all exuding some kind of revelation, and somehow felt intimidating.

  I
was able to venture beneath the church where people hid in secret chambers from the enemy. It was claustrophobic so I didn’t stay long. I climbed back up into the church and sat in a pew. I took in the smell of the burnt candles and envisioned how they all sat there on a Sunday morning praying to get rid of their guilt, covered up with all those good manners that help carry them through the sermon. An old woman appeared. She was the keeper of the church and lived to keep it pristine. She was one of those people who thought she would definitely go to heaven, having donated her life to the church. She was buoyed by the sounds of those daily chants. A smile came to my face realizing how pure and uncomplicated her needs were.

  I prayed for my parents who had passed in 1995. I wish I hadn’t waited this long to come here. To be able to call them today and say, “I’m finally here.” Or visit with them to witness memories through their eyes. But the cards didn’t play it that way, so now I was seeing it through their stories, their voices and how isolated they were on this small island, the farthest from the mainland of Greece. But I do recall my mother telling me that this little spot of earth and its inhabitants were part of the Trojan War in the 14th century BC. She loved that it had such an old rich history.

  I climbed the steep slope to the top of the island where I could see the Turkish mainland very clearly some two miles away. The old enemy looked very powerful from a distance. I remembered how the Ottomans spread the worst kind of dominance through a very brutal and sadistic culture. I thought of the Armenian genocide and the control Turkey had over Greece for 350 years. I kept thinking, “Where was God?” Their screams were never heard.