It’s freeing to write — not for the likes, but for the healing. I’m telling stories untold by my bloodline. This is the medicine I’ve needed, the balm we’ve all needed. That’s not to say I never seek validation in likes, comments, subscribers… but they simply aren’t my driving forces anymore. Even if no one reads what I write or even loathes it or picks it apart because my Greek isn’t immaculate — the fact that I wrote it and didn’t hoard it on my hard drive… That is where the magick resides… (faulty AI text detectors like Pangram be damned!)

Είναι απελευθερωτικό να γράφεις — όχι για τα «like», αλλά για τη θεραπεία. Διηγούμαι ιστορίες που έμειναν ανείπωτες στη γενιά μου. Αυτό είναι το φάρμακο που χρειαζόμουν, το βάλσαμο που χρειαζόμασταν όλοι. Δεν λέω ότι δεν αναζητώ ποτέ την επιβεβαίωση μέσα από τα «like», τα σχόλια ή τους συνδρομητές... απλώς δεν αποτελούν πια την κινητήριο δύναμή μου. Ακόμα κι αν κανείς δεν διαβάσει όσα γράφω, ή ακόμα κι αν κάποιος τα απεχθάνεται ή τα κατακρίνει επειδή τα ελληνικά μου δεν είναι άψογα — ότι τα έγραψα και δεν τα άφησα κλειδωμένα στο «hard drive» μου... εκεί ακριβώς ζει η μαγεία... (Στον διάολο οι ελαττωματικές ανιχνευτές τεχνητής νοημοσύνης, όπως το Pangram!)

Θα γράφω ποιήματα
ακόμα κι αν
κανείς τα διαβάσει,
η τρεις ψυχές,
η πενήντα!

Θα γράφω ποιήματα
ακόμα κι αν
κανένας τα αρέσει,
η μία ψυχή,
η εκατό!

Χαράζω την ύπαρξη μου σε αρχαίο μάρμαρο
απ’ το βάθος της καρδιάς μου
και θα το ήθελε η καρδούλα μου
τόσο πολύ να αγγίξει άλλες.

Αλλά ότι κι αν γίνει, η πρόγονοι μου
μου δώσανε την ευθύνη
να γράφω οχί μόνο για τον εαυτό μου
μέχρι την τελευταία μου πνοή
σε αυτή την ζωή
αλλά και για εκείνους που φοβόντουσαν
να πλέκουν ιστορίες
που δεν μπορούσαν καν
να πούν στον εαυτό τους.

Τους λέω
《Σας αγαπώ σαν τα μάτια μου τα δυό》
με ετούτο το στυλό,
μελάνι το βάλσαμό μας.

Και σε αντάλλαγμα,
μου έχουν στείλει τις Μούσες.

𖦹𖦹𖦹

I will write poems
even if
no one reads them,
or three souls,
or fifty!

I will write poems
even if
nobody likes them,
or one soul,
or one hundred!
I carve my being into ancient marble
from the depths of my heart,
and this little heart
would want very much
to touch other ones.

But whatever happens, my ancestors
have given me the responsibility
to not only write for myself
until my final breath in this life
but also for those who were too afraid
to weave memoirs that
they couldn’t even say
to themselves.

I tell them
“I love you like my two eyes”
with this pen,
ink our healing balm.

And in return,
they’ve sent me the Muses.

Subscribe now

---

This publication and my other ones (Mousopólon𓏢Oikía, Athená𓅓Akadēmía, & Minoan𓄀Mystic) are all reader-supported. Whether you subscribe, read, comment, share, buy me a tsái/τσάι, or support me in other ways like ordering one of my services, σας ευχαριστώ πολύ (thank you very much)! 💙

Αυτή η δημοσίευση, καθώς και οι υπόλοιπες (Mousopólon𓏢Oikía, Athená𓅓Akadēmía, & Minoan𓄀Mystic) , υποστηρίζονται από τους αναγνώστες. Είτε κάνετε εγγραφή, διαβάζετε, σχολιάζετε, κοινοποιείτε, μου κερνάτε ένα τσάι είτε με στηρίζετε με άλλους τρόπους (όπως παραγγέλνοντας κάποια από τις υπηρεσίες μου), σας ευχαριστώ θερμά! 💙

---

The earthy scent of hamomíli, rígani, díktamo, dyósmo/χαμομήλι, ρίγανη, δίκταμο, δυόσμο (chamomile, oregano, dittany, spearmint)... They all stir memories of the horió/χωριό (village). And when I wasn’t at yiayiá’s/γιαγιά’s (grandma’s), she’d send me semblances of spíti/σπίτι (home) in a big puffy yellow envelope, the only gifts she could afford, the gifts that mattered most. Once every other year around my birthday, I’d open my mailbox to the smell of Origanum onites (Cretan oregano) with notes of sokofréta/σοκοφρέτα1, crushed from miles and miles of travel. Just a small bundle. 《Δεν παίρνουμε παραπάνω απ’ ότι πρέπει.》 “We don’t take more than we should.” She’s the one who taught me that I don’t need to pick a flower in order to enjoy it. That taking it would bar others from marveling at its beauty. And if we must take, it’s a respectful taking akin to a sacred exchange. A few sprigs of oregano or chamomile, not an entire hillside’s worth, and never picked from the root. A respect for their medicine by leaving behind enough of it to go around and giving it enough time to replenish itself. But there are some who have never learned this or never cared to...

“All They Do Is Take, Take, Take!”
(a poem based on a true story)

They came from the Far West,
the second so-called spíti
of our 100,000+ artifacts2.

Sunglasses took up half of their faces,
exposed skin more red-purple than pale,
hungry hands waving hearty hellos at us
as they passed by yiayiá’s house
on the sole dirt path to the mountains
to take what wasn’t theirs:
heaps and heaps of herbs
till the area was picked clean —
no tea left for yiayiá or for me.

We both stayed watch like sea hawks
for a good hour,
tzitzíkia/τζιτζίκια (cicadas) filling the silence.

《Να τους πάλι!》
“Na tous páli!”
“Here they are again!”
Yiayiá immediately put on her good pandófles3,
readjusted her mandíli4
and hastened towards them
as they returned from their so-called sojourn.

“No! No! No!” she yelled.
《Ετούτα δεν είναι για σένα!》
“These aren’t for you!”
as she snatched a cascading bouquet
out of the one woman’s hands,
her mouth hanging agape
with not so much as an apology
let alone agápē5.

The others kept going,
bags brimming with mountain medicine,
and glanced at me in shame
as they shuffled past the front gate.
Yiayiáka looked to me from afar,
“no” being the only English word she knew.
But I was a seven-year-old kid shy as can be,
but here went nothing:

“You...” Hardly a psithurism.
“can’t pick the plants here.” Akin to a warcry.
The dogs Rok and Azor joined in
like Artemis’ sacred hounds.

The group scampered away
like the cat burglars they were,
dropping some of their spoils on the ground.

It was all screeching tires & incessant barks from there.

《Panáthema tous! Πανάθεμα τους! Damn them!》
yiayiá exclaimed as she picked up what was left,
and bunch by droopy bunch,
hung them on the clothesline to dry
on her veranda in the káfsona/καύσωνα (heatwave) sun.

She told me how the chamomile, oregano,
spearmint, μαλοτήρα/malotíra (mountain tea)
wasn’t as abundant as it used to be
because the ξένοι/kséni6 do what they do best:
παίρνουν, παίρνουν, παίρνουν!
pérnoun, pérnoun, pérnoun!
take, take, take!
KΛΈΒΟΥΝ7.

So we had to keep our eyes tetrakósia/τετρακόσια8
every time they would come and go on
the only road to Άγιος Ονούφριος/Ágios Onoúfrios9.

Whether artifacts or herbs,
don’t take what isn’t yours.
And if you do,
the ghost of my γιαγιά/yiayiá
& the wrath of Γαία/Gaía
won’t spare you…

The Destructive Art of Unethical Foraging

Unethical foraging was a problem back when I was seven (literally 30 years ago), and it sadly is still a problem now – a growing one at that, especially in Crete. Foraging for wild greens and herbs is a very important cultural tradition of the Cretans and Greeks in general that spans millennia. I was grateful to be exposed to that at such a young age. However, there’s an ethical way to do it and the unethical way. A combination of commercial exploitation and careless harvesting has severely threatened some of Crete’s endemic plant populations!

Needless to say, “culinary tourism” (which is what I witnessed each summer I was there) has really made a mess of things. Uneducated tourists, whether it’s their intention or not, end up damaging the local ecosystem by uprooting and overpicking plants, many of which are slow-growing and thus, slow to replenish.

Dittany of Crete (díktamo/δίκταμο) is particularly vulnerable. It’s found exclusively on Cretan cliffs and has been pushed to near-extinction. Gathering it from the wild, even in small amounts, is strictly prohibited (same with mountain tea). I’m talking jail time and hefty fines!

If you are not in Crete or Greece, you can find most of these herbs at Greek and Balkan grocery stores, as well as online. Just make sure they’re sourced from ethical Greek brands. I highly recommend My Cretan Goods.

Subscribe now

---

This publication and my other ones (Mousopólon𓏢Oikía, Athená𓅓Akadēmía, & Minoan𓄀Mystic) are all reader-supported. Whether you subscribe, read, comment, share, buy me a tsái/τσάι, or support me in other ways like ordering one of my services, σας ευχαριστώ πολύ (thank you very much)! 💙

---

Sources & Footnotes

• Endemic plants of Crete in electronic trade and wildlife tourism: Current patterns and implications for conservation by Despoina Vokou, et. al. (Journal of Biological Research - Thessaloniki)

• Overpicking Threatens Greek Herbs via eKathimerini.com

I can’t picture my Cretan pappoú/παππού Nikólaos without his saríki/σαρίκι, or any Cretan pappoú without theirs, for that matter. In any family photo I have, they are all wearing them!

As a Greek person of Cretan and Pontian descent in the diaspora, I’ve been continually seeking semblances of the patrída/πατρίδα (homeland) in places that aren’t. Whether it’s placing semedákia/σεμεδάκια (traditional embroidered cloths) on nearly every surface in my home, drinking chamomile/χαμομήλι tea with Cretan honey, or writing a mantináda/μαντινάδα, I hold my culture close to my heart even if, especially because I’m an entire ocean away.

These past few months, I’ve looked all over the place for a saríki to wear. Then, I remembered my mamá maxing out my babá’s credit card many a time on a Greek online shop that operated out of the states to help connect the diaspora community with their heritage. I had shirts with Greek flags, towels, mugs, aprons, you name it 🇬🇷! So, decades later, I wanted to try my luck and lo behold, it’s still active with that same nostalgic layout! To my excitement, saríkia are available in both black and in white! I also threw in a máti/μάτι bracelet and Crete pendant because I couldn’t help myself. For anyone interested in shopping for Greek items of all kinds, go here (Greek Shops is on Etsy, too). Their customer service has been amazing since their humble beginnings back in 1998. I’m still waiting on my white one, but there are pictures of me wearing my black saríki throughout this article.

About The Saríki & Its Predecessors

A saríki is more than a headscarf; it’s symbol of resilience, a trait us Cretans have been long known for. Enduring occupation upon occupation and war upon war (all set to the backdrop of rugged terrain, poverty, and harsh heat) will do that to a person. The word itself comes from the Turkish word sarık (not to be confused with sari, a traditional Indian garment), meaning "turban”, and traces back to the ancient Turkic root verb sarmak (“to wrap”). And despite their connotation of steadfast resolve, the material they’re made of is quite delicate: a pure vegetable silk called brisími/μπρισίμι. That being said, handwashing is the only option! Also avoid drying them in the sun because the fabric is susceptible to sun-bleaching and heat damage.

However, up until the early 1900s, Cretans donned a pleated red or black cylindrical hat often with a long tassel called a fési/φέσι. While the fez itself originated from the Mediterranean and the Ottoman Empire (theirs was longer and conical), the fési is also closely associated with Greek national attire (referred to as the Amalia costume).

Since the late 1400s, Cretans have worn a large shawl called a pésta/πέστα (“skin” or “hide”) as a headdress, but in ancient Crete, it was wrapped around the neck, serving as a stole.

All the way back in Minoan times, men often had long hair and held it in place with decorative headbands, flat-topped caps, or turbans made of twisted fabric, reflecting more of an early Mediterranean and West Asian textile style.

A Symbol of Great Sorrow
but Also of Enduring Strength

This brings us to the silk black saríki that is worn to this day during traditional dances like the pentozáli/πεντοζάλη and everyday life (usually by the older generation). It can be worn either wrapped around the head or draped upon the shoulders (a how-to is included farther down). The holes symbolize the bullet holes sustained by brave Cretan fighters during uprisings against both Ottoman and Venetian occupations. The fishnet-like weave is also a nod to the sea-faring nature of the island. The fringes represent tears (eternal grief), pointing to the many grueling years of Ottoman occupation and the tragic loss of hundreds of Cretans during the uprising in Arkadi monastery back in 1866. It also has been said to serve as a remembrance of when Constantinople fell. Apparently, Crete was the first place to learn of this event, since the men left standing were Cretans.

So, the black saríki is a symbol of mourning (pénthos/πένθος) but also of pride and survival despite seemingly insurmountable odds. In general, it’s a color worn in remembrance of lost loved ones. My yiayiá/γιαγιά wore black since losing her husband 30 years ago and continued to do so until her dying breath. The white saríki, on the other hand, is a symbol of joy and is usually worn at celebratory events such as weddings and baptisms. In addition to the above, they represent leventiá/λεβεντιά (bravery).

Furthermore, there two distinct styles of saríki. The simple headband version is worn as casual headwear during manual labor or around the house. This type has been worn for millennia by the Cretans, which was mentioned by Xenophon and other ancient historians. The more well-known saríki features the krósia/κρόσια (tear-like fringes) and is saved more so for special occasions to avoid wear and tear.

Not Just for Men

While the saríki is a predominantly gendered article of traditional clothing (for men), women aren’t prohibited from wearing it but could still get some looks of disapproval depending on how and where it’s worn (a fashion accessory vs. a meaningful display of pride, and even then it’s a gray area…). It was basically a nonexistent occurrence up until the early 20th century. For reference, none of the photos I have show the women and otherwise of the family in saríkia, not even draped over the shoulders. Instead, women’s Cretan folk costumes feature ornate head coverings of their own, including a silk veil with gold trim or a mandíli/μαντήλι (traditional scarf). When I looked up photos of women and genderqueer folks in saríkia, hoping to find some representation, I saw zero of the latter and only came across a few non-Greek women wearing them entirely out of context (more on that in a little bit). Alíki (pictured above) is an exception, but not entirely, because she only had a saríki on in the movie poster because of its relevance to the film where she disguised herself as Cretan man to crash the engagement party of the man she loved.

Being a nonbinary Cretan person, it can feel discouraging trying to reconnect with a culture that holds such deeply-rooted patriarchal gender roles. In fact, Crete (especially the rural mountain villages my maternal lineage is from) is known as the most patriarchal island in Greece. To be fair, the bigger city centers like Chaniá and Réthymno are shifting in a less conservative direction.

At the same time, it actually feels very gender-affirming to wear something from my culture that is traditionally for men and thus “not traditionally for me”. It certainly felt for me when I first put my saríki on and glanced at the mirror… It felt like my pappoú was looking back at me with that intense stare of his—to the point where I had to look away because it made me so emotional.

“Can I Wear a Saríki Even if
I’m Not Cretan or Greek in General?”

There is no strict rule about whether non-Greeks can wear saríkia or not (in fact, they are sold at tourist shops in various colors), but if they are worn by non-Cretans, they MUST be worn respectfully and be purchased from a Greek-owned shop. They are not a fashion statement, casual fashion accessory, or cute prop and shouldn’t be treated as such! And just like any traditional cultural object, make sure to never put a saríki on the floor or use it for anything inappropriate. Otherwise, Cretan locals, while protective over their traditions, tend to feel proud when visitors show genuine enthusiasm for their culture. Cultural appreciation, ναι/yes. Cultural appropriation, όχι/no!

In addition to Greek Shops, I highly recommend NÍMA Yarn Creations, a Greek heirloom crocheter that is based out of Toronto, Canada. I also recommend My Cretan Goods, a Crete-based retailer who ships internationally.

Not Just for Dancing, Lyra-Playing, or Panigýria/Πανηγύρια

The saríki really is stitched into everyday life: at the kafeneío/καφενείο (cafe) playing távli/τάβλι (backgammon) or back home while tending to the sheep and goats... That has shifted more in recent years, but it’s still a primary symbol of Cretan identity.

But I was also thinking of a less conventional yet still respectful use. As a Hellenic & Minoan Μύστης/Mýstēs (Mystic), I prefer to veil when doing ritualwork. Instead of the random bandanas I used to wear, I’m opting for a saríki. That may not be their initially intended use, but there’s something so powerful about practicing remnants of the old ways while wearing the clothing of my more recent ancestors. When not wearing it, I keep it by my altar.

How to Wear a Saríki

The Classic Headscarf (Amariótiko/Αμαριώτικο1)

• Lie the saríki flat and fold it into a triangle. Mine is triangular, so I skip this step.

• Roll it into a long band about five centimeters thick. You can twist it in the air like in the video above. I noticed it was hard keeping it from getting undone with the latter method, though.

• Position it on the upper part of your forehead and take the ends to the back of your head, criss-cross, then bring them back near the front.

• At this point, you can tie/tuck the strands in front (easier option) or tuck the strands underneath by the temples for a cascading effect. You can skip this step and simply keep it tied in the back depending on the length and your dexterity.

• Adjust it as needed so the fringes hang down by your ears and forehead.

The Shoulder Drape (Shawl Style)

• Fold the saríki into a triangle if needed and drape it loosely around your neck and shoulders.

• Let the ends cross over the chest or let it drape over your arms. This is a common and casual but still respectful way to display the scarf without head coverage (pictured below).

A Mantináda by Me:
Saríki of Crete/Σαρίκι της Κρήτης

Subscribe now

---

This publication and my other ones (Mousopólon𓏢Oikía, Athená𓅓Akadēmía, & Minoan Mystic) are all reader-supported. Whether you subscribe, read, comment, share, buy me a τσάι, or support me in other ways like ordering one of my services, σας ευχαριστώ πολύ (thank you very much)! 💙

---

Sources & Footnotes

• Cultivating Roots: A Tensional-Hybrid Investigation of Embodied Resources through Traditional Cretan Folkloric and Contemporary Dance Practices by Nikolaos Markakis

• Meet Crete Magazine: Saríki, the Cretan Headscarf by Brigitte Kohlmann

• Moustakia, Sarikia, and Stivania: Proud Customs of Crete by Katia Luz

• Souvenirs: Their Role In Tourism Industry, Cultural Heritage And

  Their Utilization In Experiential Teaching by M. Manola & A. Balermpas

There’s nothing like connecting with your heritage by writing and speaking in the language of your ancestors — even it it’s imperfect, even if you get unfairly judged by Greeks born, raised, and based in Greece. Greek is technically my first language, but I basically learned English more or less in tandem. I used to be better at speaking and writing in Greek than in English, and now the tides have turned as I’ve gotten older (go figure!). No longer being in Greek school, going on almost yearly trips to Greece, or being in contact with my family (long story) will definitely lead to my fluency taking a hit. Sure, I may not have any in-person friends I can practice my Greek with (yet!), but I’ve connected with a whole lot of Greeks on here and other online platforms. We can help each other stay fluent, become fluent, or learn the basics. :)

I would love to make this a completely bilingual publication (along with my other ones), but there just aren’t enough hours in the day or spoons in my drawer (disabled folk lingo for having minimal energy). But at the very least, I’ll pepper in some Greek words and phrases here and there AND I want to try to translate most of my ποιήματα/poems. Mantinades are easy (ish) because I write those in Greek first and they’re so short…

My mother tongue catches a little
every time I speak
like Aplocera cretica1 to Arachne’s web.
Tongue twisters & pauses & ‘emms’
when the words of my ancestors
used to réei2 like unhindered river.
My rolling r’s never to forgo the roof of this mouth.
It’s rrr-ei with some vibrato, not rei!
My accent still intact… Thank gods!
My fingers that can type 85 WPM
me ta mátia mou kleistá3 in English
tangle like grapevines sometimes when typing in Greek,
but they pick up the pace on my phone.
But that’s armed with autocomplete/correct, so that’s cheating —
though it’s really been helping with my spelling.
You can call it my new Kyría Poúlou4…

Fragments of the Cretan dialect
sit at the back of my tongue.
But more often than not,
de katéo práma5.
Romeyka6? Kseháse to7!

But I can’t forget it all entirely
even if I wanted to direly
from time to time8.
It’s a part of me like
marrow to bone,
aura to soul —
whether my soles
are planted on Cretan or Pontian soil
like the Eliá Vouvón9 or not.

My maternal tongue can be velvety or rough.
But I am Greek. I am Greek enough.
Η μητρική μου γλώσσα είν’ τραχιά και βελούδινη.
Αλλά έχω ελληνική ψυχή. Είμαι αρκετή.10

P.S. It’s my birthday month, so I’ve decided to make my commissions just $11 USD all month long! Order a devotional poem here or a poetic pronoia (an intuitive message in poetry form) here. All my other services can be found here.

Poetry. That’s the binding thread that connects me to my ancestry and Hellenic heritage in general the most. Homer wrote poetry, Sappho wrote poetry, Nikos Kazantzakis wrote it, my parents & their parents & theirs wrote/recited it, and now I, too, write it.

The initial inspiration behind the following poem in particular arose while I was pondering if Pontian Greeks had something similar to mantinades/μαντινάδες (Cretan folk poetry/songs). I was much closer to my maternal Cretan side and thus more exposed to that culture than the Pontian one. Though I’ve had my share of felia/φελία (Pontian-style “French toast”) and, to my dismay, tahn/ταν (a traditional yogurt beverage that my grandpa/παππού made me drink as a kid to maintain a healthy gut).

During my deep dive, I was thrilled to find out about Parakathi/Παρακαθ’, a traditional musical gathering where participants converse to each other via poetic songs called epitrapezia/επιτραπέζια (tabletop melodies). These are often improvised and sometimes memorized couplets backed by the Pontian lyra and recited in iambic or trochaic meter. Ioannis Tsekouras, a Greek ethnomusicologist, states that the gatherings first emerged among refugees as a way to emotionally process memories of genocide and forced displacement. Much like Cretan mantinades (which tend to be lyra-backed as well), these couplets also express intense emotions, though both can be used for more lighthearted purposes like courtship. (To be continued after the poem.)

I was granted the (in)sight
of a golden eagle’s1
by my paternal lineage
and the resilience
of a kri-kri goat’s2
by my maternal one
to survive all they handed me
that they couldn’t handle themselves.

The waters of the Black Sea & Mediterranean
comprise over half of my body composition.
The ancient tongues of the Pontic Alps,
Lefka Ori, Psiloritis, and Mount Dikti
are woven into the peplos3 of my psyche.

Whenever my internal compass spins and spins
and dizzies my sense of direction,
I imagine the sacred birds of Athena4
perched upon each shoulder:
Athene cretensis5
hooting mantinades6 into one ear
and Glaucidium passerinum7
hooting epitrapezia8 into the other.

Whenever I feel breathless amongst life’s riptides,
my soul remembers the Pontic shads
who have run up rivers for hundreds of years
and the striped dolphins9,
the sacred animals of Poseidon,
who deem ceaseless sea a playground.

The silence of past oppressors may continue
and my DNA may twist in nautical knots
from the harm caused spanning generations,
but I don’t let it confine me in its chokehold
and stitch shut my mouth
with its blood-red hands
because the duet of a Cretan & Pontian lyra
echoes in the chambers of this Hellenic heart.

I walk in my ancestor’s footsteps
in the rhythms of serra/σέρρα10 & sousta/σούστα11
with great discernment and conviction.

I heal our ancestral wounds
by doing what they couldn’t
and saying what they wouldn’t.

And sometimes I fall short but…

through both blessing & curse,
I am their tzivaeri/τζιβαέρι12,
I am their haroto/χαρώτο13.
Through the best times & the worst,
my ancestry is my North Asteri/Αστέρι14.

Just because I didn’t know some of these things (i.e. epitrapezia) before doesn’t mean they haven’t always been encoded in my soul. I’m starting to remember, and while aspects of that remembrance are triggering, I still find them empowering. Two things can be true at once. In fact, they often are.

This ancestral reclamation hasn’t been
all glimmers and sunshine;
it’s been triggers and gloom, too.

That being said, I may had been estranged from my parents for years leading up to one of their deaths (a necessary heartache and a long, dark story that I probably will never share in great detail), but I actually feel closer to them and my ancestors in general now than ever before. That’s not to say I still don’t feel at odds at times with everything that has transpired…

Father’s Day is already hard for those who have lost their fathers, but it’s double the grief for me because he passed on the day of all days. Maybe even triple because I never got to say goodbye, and quite frankly, I couldn’t at the time. I was bedridden halfway across the country trying to heal from C-PTSD (and its physical repercussions) these people caused. I would have loved to exchange some epitrapezia with my father while he was alive to perhaps sew back together what seemed beyond repair, but as sensitive as he was, he didn’t want to get into feelings and even begin to unpack trauma of his own that he passed on to me. Feelings weren’t something either parent wished to delve into, and that isn’t uncommon amongst Greek families in the least. Can’t exactly say I blame them, but I do hold them accountable, even if they never did. I have compassion for them, even if they never truly did towards themselves or towards me.

To this day, I don’t even know where my father’s grave is or where my mother lives (or if she’s even still alive for that matter). So I do my grieving, processing, and healing through what [some of] my ancestors did best: poetry/ποίηση. I hold less and less pain in my body as a result, but some pain will always remain…

Whether you’re a father, father figure,
or a son/daughter/child reparenting themselves…

Happy Father’s Day!
Χρόνια Πολλά (για την Ημέρα του Πατέρα)!

P.S. Please refrain from “well-meaning” commentary about my situation (aka “but they’re your parents” rhetoric). Unless you’re my chosen family or literally me, you don’t know the full breadth of my lived experience as an abuse survivor, so speaking on it as if you know best for me does far more harm than good. Thank you.

P.P.S. This was a scheduled post, so I won’t be around to reply to any comments until I return from my break in July. I hope everyone is doing well. Πολύ αγάπη σε όλους σας! Much love to you all! 💙

Sources

• The Asia Minor and Pontos Hellenic Research Center

• The Dance in Ancient Greece by Lillian B. Lawler

• The Parakath by Konstantinos Pataridis via Trapezounta.com

This piece is inspired by my own lived experiences and those of my ancestors, but also the voices of fellow Greeks who have really been empowering me lately (and making me feel SO seen). 💙

A shoutout to Kassandra Flamouri, Maria Stenos, Irene Maropakis, Ániksi, Dommi D., and Elektra Thea. Your voices matter. Keep writing! (Φτου φτου να μη σας ματιάξω!) 🧿

Whether you’re diaspora, have never left the homeland, or have never been, this ποίημα (poem) is for you.

🇬🇷HELLENES AND STILL HERE🇬🇷

We are not footnotes1,
we are not costumes,
we are not extinct.

The blood of our ancestors flows
within us as we carry our customs
like Atlas held the Heavens, interlinked
to the thousands of years’ worth of history
that shaped us, and they still dare to erase us?

Since mid-20th century: “white”,
but not an anglo white, nor nord.
Not always white but dago, greaseball, wog.

This world has got it all wrong!

We are not myths.
We are not afterthoughts.
We are not artifacts.

We cradle the lineage of earthworkers, oracles, metalsmiths.
After displacements and genocides still denied, we carry on
even if we aren’t cast in roles that distort our stories to the point of artifice
and instead are cast away
as if an entire nation
is merely a seaside vacation and film destination
and not a living, breathing, embodied thing being
that deserves a say
and so much more.

So, I, a diaspora Cretopontian Greek roar
a Bouboulina-level2 warcry
and ask fellow Hellenes from far and wide
to continue to speak
even though their table with stolen marble legs3
hasn’t allotted us any seats.

Since when have we needed permission?

My Cretan mother and her mother and hers
didn’t endure the island’s rugged terrain
and occupations and vendettas and wars –
My Pontian father and his father and his
didn’t survive population exchanges
and death marches and mistreatment from their own
for me to stay silent during all the appropriation and decimation.

Here, I’ve pulled out a klismos chair4 for you.
(Κάτσε μαζί μου. Sit with me. Kátse mazí mou.)
You know what to do.

Greek Translation

(An imperfect one at that, but I love writing in my mother tongue and refuse to lose further fluency, which is a real struggle as a diaspora Greek who isn’t part of the Greek Orthodox church and whose grandparents and parents are no longer alive.)

Είμαστε Έλληνες, Και Είμαστε Ακόμα Εδώ

Δεν είμαστε υποσημειώσεις,
δεν είμαστε κοστούμια,
δεν είμαστε εξαφανισμένοι.

Το αίμα των προγόνων μας κυλάει
στις φλέβες μας καθώς κρατάμε τα έθιμα μας
όπως ο Άτλας περιέβαλλε την ουράνια σφαίρα, συνδεμένοι
σε χιλιάδες χρόνια ηστορίας
που μας διαμόρφωσε, και ακόμα τολμούν να μας σβήσουν;

Από τα μέσα του 20ού αιώνα: «λευκοί»,
αλλά όχι αγγλο-λευκοί, ούτε σκανδιναβικοί.
Όχι πάντα λευκοί αλλά dago, greaseball, wog.

Αυτός ο κόσμος έχει πολύ άδικο!

Δεν είμαστε μύθοι.
Δεν είμαστε υστερόγραφα.
Δεν είμαστε αντικείμενα.

Περιλαμβάνουμε την καταγωγή
των εργατών της γης,
των μαντείων, των μεταλλουργών.
Μετά από εκτοπίσεις και γενοκτονίες
που εξακολουθούν να αρνούνται, συνεχίζουμε
ακόμα κι αν δεν μας προσφέρουν ρόλους
που μόνο διαστρεβλώνουν τις ιστορίες μας
σε σημείο που να γίνονται αγνώριστοι
και αντ’ αυτού, μας αγνοούν
σαν μια ολόκληρη χώρα
να είναι απλώς ένας παραθαλάσσιος προορισμός
διακοπών και κινηματογράφου
και όχι ένα ζωντανό, αναπνεύον, ενσαρκωμένο ον
που αξίζει να έχει γνώμη
και πολλά άλλα.

Έτσι, εγώ, ένα Κρητοπόντιο Ελληνόπουλο της διασποράς,
βρυχώμαι μια πολεμική κραυγή σαν την Μπουμπουλίνα
και ζητώ από τους συμπατριώτες Έλληνες
να συνεχίσουν να μιλάνε
ακόμα κι αν το τραπέζι τους
με τα κλεμμένα μαρμάρινα πόδια
δεν μας έχει δώσει θέσεις.

Από πότε χρειαζόμαστε άδεια;

Η Κρητικιά μητέρα μου και η μητέρα της και η δική της
δεν άντεξαν το τραχύ έδαφος του νησιού
και τις κατοχές και τις βεντέτες
και τους πολέμους –
Ο Πόντιος πατέρας μου και ο πατέρας του και ο δικός του
δεν επέζησαν από ανταλλαγές πληθυσμών
και πορείες θανάτου και κακομεταχείριση
από τους Έλληνες της ηπειρωτικής χώρας
για να σιωπήσω τον εαυτό μου κατά τη διάρκεια
όλης αυτής της πολιτιστικής ιδιοποίησης και εκμηδένισης.

Να, έχω μια κλισμός καρέκλα για σένα.
Κάτσε μαζί μου.
Ξέρεις τι να κάνεις από εδώ και πέρα...

I cannot stop listening to this song since I heard it from one of Maria Stenos’ Instagram posts about diaspora grief. It’s awakened something in me…

Anyway, enjoy! More articles to come here and here, and here, and here (yes, I write A LOT; no, I won’t stop). Να είστε όλοι καλά! May you all be well! 𖦹

Yesterday (May 19th), in the midst of many active genocides (Palestine, Sudan, and more), was Pontian Greek Genocide Commemoration Day. Much like other complicit governments (the US, Israel, etc.) in aforementioned genocides, the Turkish government continues to deny that the mass killings (350,000+) of Pontian Greeks during 1914-1923 constitute a genocide. But especially as a Κρητοπόντιο άτομο (Pontian-Cretan Greek) whose paternal grandparents and great-grandparents lived these atrocities first-hand, there is no denying the truth.

If you would like to show your support for the Pontians of past and present, please consider donating to The Asia Minor and Pontos Hellenic Research Center, which helps preserve Pontian culture and history. If you’re unable to contribute in that way, you can share the link with others. Σας ευχαριστώ! Thank you!

The Pontians and Palestinians...
Are they really that different?
Genocide and displacement
misnamed as “realities of war” at best;
at worst, “a warranted step”.
No acknowledgment from the perpetrators
let alone reparations,
always pointing fingers in the wrong direction.
Just continual gaslighting and devastation
by traitors of humanity.

A century after the Pontian Greek genocide,
another one is televised 1,000 kilometers south
of Pontos before our very eyes.
The former still denied as such.
The latter ongoing for over 75 years,
but somehow
not genocide,
not ethnic cleansing?
Then, what?

Hundreds of thousands dead
by the hands of governments
that dehumanize the most human of us all.

History.
History repeats.
History repeats itself.

Hell is here
above ground
as the core of Gaia weeps
for scorched souls,
bloody seas,
and obliterated olive trees.

Whether 1914 or 2026,
the same lessons are yet to be learned
as this entire world grieves and burns.

But we, as a people, never forget.

Ο πόνος του Πόντου, της Γάζας,
αιώνιο τραύμα στην καρδιά μας.
O pónos tou Póntou, tis Yázas,
aiónio trávma stin kardiá mas.
The pain of Pontos, of Gaza,
an eternal wound in our hearts.

Αστερομάτα (Asteromáta: Starry-Eyed Girl) by Κλαυδία Παπαδοπούλου (Klavdia Papadopoulou) is a Greek song about the refugee experience and "the special bond between refugees and their homeland, which they never forget, wherever they are." This 23-year-old Pontian Greek singer represented Greece in Eurovision 2025 and got sixth place. Being in the top 10 is a great honor, and I know she did her ancestor's proud 🇬🇷❤️. Sadly, Eurovision is complicit in genocide because it still allows Israel to compete, so I have since boycotted it. But this song of hers is definitely a form of resistance!

My Search History:
My Laundry List of Worries:

“is being born here truly enough to be considered
an American citizen even if parents are from Greece”

“at what temp should I start dripping my faucets”

“what to do if ICE is at your door”

“can tropical bonsai die if air is too dry”

“climate change risk map 2026”

“how to unclog old kitchen pipes”

“will Gaza ever be truly free”

Oscillating between micro
and macrocosms
like it’s a full-time job
and rest is some illusive joke.
No human should ever have to cradle
the world upon their weary bones
like a Titan god.

Is there
even room
for awe?

Alas, I will be Atlas
and I will marvel at robins
and I will tell my friends I love them,
each and every one.

I will make room
no matter how small.
I will be the space that holds
storms, sunshine, stardust,
glimmers, triggers, gloom
within its heaving walls.

And when I can’t even bear to take
a full breath without my heart quaking,
I’ll whisper all the dooms
to the trees and the loons,
and their leaves and plumes
will shake them all off
into the wailing wind.

I cannot hold all of the world’s woes and my own day in and night out, especially not on my own. Nor should you! I know it’s not healthy to be Atlaslike, but the perfectionist within me wants to be there for my loved ones and my community and the world at large and myself somehow at all times with my full presence and heart. I wish there was a way! It feels like a moral failing that I can’t contain it all 24/7 without faltering. I’m sorry if it does for you as well. But it shouldn’t be that way! We can care without wearing ourselves to the bone. We can care without dissociating or becoming apathetic. I’m still working on finding that balance, and that’s okay. There’s only so much we can do in such a fragmented, exploitative system. Writing this piece and writing in general is my form of rebellion. Whatever yours is, just know that it’s entirely needed, even if it isn’t perfect. <3

Comparison, judgement…
the silent killers of awe.

What if we could accept the self the way we accept the sea, a mountain, a tree? Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said it best:

“When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.

The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgment mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.”

So, like Ram Dass, I try to turn myself (and others) into trees these days, a mountain, a sea—anything I’ve gazed at in sheer awe and reverence. I may not be the tallest tree or the most upright, but I’m majestic in my own right—brown “leaves”, pale olive “bark”, and all.

The next time you stop to look at a striking scene or a vibrant leaf to simply appreciate it, really capture that feeling and try to embody it, so whenever you come across your reflection, the natural reaction is awe or at the very least “I am enough as I am.” It’s okay if you don’t fully internalize it at first, or if you believe it some days and not others. It certainly is a difficult feat amongst such stark societal standards.

Here’s a little Cretan μαντινάδα/mantináda I came up with to magnify the boundless beauty of Mother Nature that also resides within us because we are a part of her and never truly apart (even in a bustling city):

Here’s another tree-related quote that I am fond of. This one is by a Greek philosopher and writer named Nikos Kazantzakis:

“One day I had gone to a little village. An old grandfather of ninety was busy planting an almond tree. ‘What, grandfather!’ I exclaimed. ‘Planting an almond tree?’ And he, bent as he was, turned around and said: ‘My son, I carry on as if I should never die.’ I replied: ‘And I carry on as if I was going to die any minute.’”

It’s true… we can die any minute, and I don’t want to look back on my life realizing I’ve spent over half of it in comparison mode when I could be cultivating compassion. If we also were to truly carry on as if were were going to die any minute, I bet you we’d be a little bit kinder to ourselves…

I was born and raised in an area surrounded by fields for miles and miles… and miles. But my Μεσογειακή/Mediterranean soul craved mountainous landscapes since I saw them right across my grandma’s veranda during my first-ever summer in Greece. However, I was blessed to be by a lake so large that it tricked my brain into thinking it was a sea. Eventually, I moved… to another area of the US that’s beautiful in its own right but still relatively plains-y. Several moves later, and I thankfully ended up in location where I can see hills and even mountains in the distance. But it didn’t dawn on me how healing being amongst their presence would be until a recent day trip. My ancestors on both sides were mountain people after all…

One word that encapsulated my state of mind during the drive and the several stops we made to revel in the majestic views: awe. My pinball machine brain quietened. My spirit was abuzz and my heartbeat was steady. I could take deep breaths with ease. Suddenly, my crushing anxiety and full-body tension were vaporized out of existence. I joked that the contours of the mountain range matched my brainwaves. No doubt, we were synchronized! I wasn’t overly concerned about the past or future, just what was right in front of me. Though, I’ll admit, I started to long for living there instead of my dense suburb… So, not perfectly zen, but zen enough—especially with how anxious I’ve been these days thanks to the current state of this country, the world at large.

I can think of no better term for what I experienced than Mountain Medicine. My weekly therapy sessions, raw journaling sessions, self-care apps (I highly recommend Finch)… They all have been valuable tools along my healing journey that I’ll continue to implement, but Mother Nature (namely mountains, towering trees, and crystalline bodies of water) is what grounds me the most, melting away my worries until I can finally hear that gentle voice behind the harsh inner critic. But now I’ll let my poem (and this picture below) do the talking:

The zen between breaths,
between river waves,
between mountains…
I want to live there and carry it
wherever I go, here
and in the valleys below.

My brain waves synchronize
with the contours of their zenith.
My neural pathways,
winding roads cloaked in pines and oaks.

⛰️⛰️⛰️

Το Ζεν ανάμεσα ανάσες,
ανάμεσα κύματα του ποταμού,
ανάμεσα σε βουνά...
Θέλω να ζω εκεί και να το κρατώ
όπου και αν πάω, εδώ
και στις κοιλάδες από κάτω.

Τα εγκεφαλικά μου κύματα συγχρονίζονται
με τα περιγράμματα του ζενίθ τους.
Οι νευρωνικές μου οδοί,
ελικοειδείς δρόμοι καλυμμένοι
με πεύκα και βελανιδιές.

Me reciting the first stanza of my poem in Greek:

What aspects of nature heal your psyche the most? 🩵