Turning to a war-time poem by George Seferis that recalls ‘calm’, ‘beautiful’, ‘bleeding’ Crete, but a ‘strong, innocent island’

The old harbour of Chania … George Seferis fled Athens to Chania in 1941 and wrote ‘Days of June ’41’ as he fled from Crete into exile (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Patrick Comerford

In recent weeks, I have been a series of occasional blog postings and photographs of a dozen modern sculptures in the streets and parks of Thessaloniki, the second city of Greece. In a posting on Thursday ( October 06), I looked at a marble monument that honours Sokratis Karantinos (1906-1979), a prominent theatre director and critic who was the first artistic director of the National Theatre of Northern Greece (NTNG) in the 1960s.

The inscriptions on the sculpture include a dedication to Sokratis Karantinos and a poignant verse by the Nobel Prize winning poet George Seferis:

Θυμότανε κανείς γέροντες δασκάλους που μας άφησαν ορφανούς
One remembered old teachers who left us orphaned

This haunting quotation is from the closing stanza of ‘The Last Day’, a powerful poem written by Seferis in Athens in February 1939. The line expresses a profound sense of spiritual and cultural abandonment. For Seferis, the ‘old teachers’ (or elders/spiritual leaders) represent the guiding authority of tradition, wisdom, and moral stability. By leaving the younger generation ‘orphaned’ they left them without direction in a broken world.

The poem was written on the brink of World War II and during the oppressive Metaxas dictatorship and captures a pervasive sense of powerlessness, impending doom, and total annihilation. The line quoted on the sculpture highlights a deep disappointment with the previous generation, whose cowardice, political missteps, or silence left ordinary people completely vulnerable to the oncoming historical catastrophe.

George Seferis (1900-1971) was a poet, Nobel laureate and diplomat, and many of his poems became popular throughout the 1960s and 1970s when they were set to music by the composer Mikis Theodorakis and sung by artists like Maria Farantouri, turning his poems into songs of protest and resistance.

In recent days, I have also turned to his poem ‘Days of June ’41’, written by Seferis 85 years ago as he fled first to Crete in 1941 during World War II, and then went into exile in Alexandria and South Africa. This poem, later included in his collection Logbook II (Ημερολόγιο καταστρώματος Β), is datelined ‘Crete – Alexandria – South Africa, May-September ’41’.

The poem is set primarily in Alexandria but in it Seferis expresses his pain for Crete and the longing of an exile:

After the Germans had taken Crete

The new moon came out over Alexandria
with the old moon in her arms
while we were walking towards the Gate of the Sun
in the heart’s darkness – three friends.

However, unlike many other well-known poems by Seferis, ‘Days of June ’41’ was never set to music by Theodorakis and so never recorded by Maria Farantouri. But it is on the curriculum in second level schools and is well-known among many people in Crete because of its references to the island.

Giorgos Seferis is a major figure in Greek literature and in 1963 became the first Greek Nobel laureate for literature

George Seferis (Γιώργος Σεφέρης) was born Giorgos Seferiadis (Γεώργιος Σεφεριάδης) in Smyrna (now Izmir) in Asia Minor in 1900. He went to school in Smyrna and then to the Gymnasium in Athens. When his family moved to Paris in 1918, he studied law at the University of Paris and became interested in literature.

He returned to Athens in 1925 and joined the Foreign Ministry the following year. He had a long and successful diplomatic career, that began with postings in London (1931-1934), where he was introduced to Eliot and Pound, and Albania (1936-1938), where he first met his future wife Marika Zannou.

Seferis moved to Crete with the Free Greek Government during World War II, and then into exile in Egypt, South Africa and Italy. Meanwhile, in 1941 he married Maria (‘Maro’) Zannou, the mother of two young daughters from her previous marriage to Andreas Londos.

He returned to liberated Athens in 1944, and continued to work in the Foreign Ministry, with diplomatic postings in Ankara (1948-1950), London (1951-1953) and Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and Iraq (1953-1956). He was back in London again as the Greek Ambassador from 1957 to 1961, his last post before he retired to Athens.

In 1963, Seferis became the first Greek writer to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. He is one of the two Greek poets to have been honoured with the Nobel Prize for Literature – the other poet is Odysseas Elytis (1911-1996), who was born in Iraklion in Crete, and together Seferis and Elytis can be credited with the modernisation of Greek literature.He received several honorary doctorates from Cambridge (1960), Oxford (1964), the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (1964), and Princeton (1965).

After the colonels’ coup in 1967, Seferis went into voluntary seclusion and many of his poems were banned by the regime, including the musical versions written and arranged by Mikis Theodorakis.

His poem ‘Denial’ (Άρνηση), first published in 1931 in his collection Turning Point (Στροφή, Strophe), became an anthem of resistance to the colonels. He died on 20 September 1971, and was buried in the First Cemetery in Athens. ‘Denial’ (Άρνηση) was sung by the crowds lining the streets of Athens at his funeral. He had become a popular hero for his resistance to the regime. His widow Maria cut off her hair and flung it into his grave.

He has commemorative blue plaques on two of his homes in London – the Greek Ambassador’s residence at 51 Upper Brook Street, off Grosvenor Square, and 7 Sloane Avenue.

Seferis’s exclusive use of demotic, or common, Greek as his language of choice earned him a privileged place among his generation of Greek poets, while his wide travels provide the backdrop and colour for much of his writing.

As well as Strophe (1931), his early poems include E Sterna (The Cistern, 1932), and Mythistorema (1935). Later collections include Tetradio Gymnasmaton (Book of Exercises, 1940), Emerologio Katastromatos (Logbook I, 1940), Emerologio Katastromatos B (Logbook II, 1944), Kihle (Thrush, 1947), Emerologio Katastromatos Γ (Logbook III, 1955) and Tria Krypha Poiemata (Three Secret Poems, 1966).

Seferis first became acquainted with TS Eliot in London in Christmas 1931, when he found a copy of the poem ‘Marina’ in a bookshop on Oxford Street and was struck by its Mediterranean feeling. He published his translation of Eliot’s poetry in 1936 in The Waste Land and Other Poems, prefaced by his first essay in print, ‘Introduction to TS Eliot’, itself a major moment in modern Greek literature. Seferis also translated WB Yeats, DH Lawrence, Ezra Pound and WH Auden.

The name of Tsouderon Street in Rethymnon honours a former Greek prime minister who was born in the town (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Seferis arrived in Chania from Athens in April 1941 as German Nazi forces were sweeping through the Greek mainland. As the Nazi army advanced towards Athens in 1941, the Greek Prime Minister of the day, Alexandros Koryzis, died by suicide on 18 April. He was succeeded as Prime Minister on 21 April by Emmanuel Tsouderos (Εμμανουήλ Τσουδερός) (1882-1956), who was born in Rethymnon in Crete.

A day later, a newly-married Seferis arrived in Crete on 22 April 1941 as part of the team preparing the way for a Free Greek government that would go into exile. As the army command prepared to capitulate, a defiant and heroic Tsouderos fled from Athens to Crete with King George II on 29 April 1941. Back in his native Crete, Tsouderos reorganised the Greek forces to resist the Germans.

In Chania, Seferis stayed at the Hôtel Ellas (Hotel Hellas). He was the secretary to Tsouderos’s Minister of Press, Emmanouil Nikolaoudis, and supervised the publication of the very first edition of the Government Gazette printed outside mainland Greece.

Just days before arriving in Crete, Seferis married Maria ‘Maro’ Zannou in Athens on 10 April 1941. Their time at the Hotel Hellas in Chania was brief, but Sfereis documented their presence there in a brief, pencil-written note to his close friend, the author Lawrence Durrell, written on the back of a page torn out of the hotel’s guest book.

But Seferis spent only three weeks in Chania. Tsouderos fled again during the Battle of Crete and headed the Greek government in exile until 13 April 1944. Seferis and his wife Maria Zannou escaped Crete by ship to Alexandria on 16 May 1941, four days before the German airborne invasion of Crete and the beginning of the Battle of Crete.

Over 25 years later, Seferis returned to Crete again briefly in April 1967 to read his poems and to give a talk to the Lyceum of Greek Women, founded in in 1911 by Kalliroi Siganou Parren, who was born in Rethymnon. It was one of his last prominent public appearances in Greece before the colonels seized power on 21 April 1967 and forced him into an outspoken, self-imposed public silence and resistance.

Unlike other well-loved and well-known poems by Seferis, such as ‘Arnisi / Sto Perigiali’ or ‘Epiphany’, which were set to music by composers like Mikis Theodorakis, ‘Days of June ’41’ has no popular musical setting.

Seferis wrote ‘Days of June ’41’ while he was fleeing the Nazi invasion of Greece, moving first to Crete, then to Alexandria and moving on to South Africa with the Greek government-in-exile.

Despite spending less than a month on Crete, for Seferis it had become ‘the beautiful island’, ‘the calm island’, ‘the strong, innocent island’, and you can hear his pain as he thinks out loud of how Crete is bleeding, how the people are being killed, their ‘bodies like broken branches, / like roots uprooted’:

… the beautiful island is bleeding,
wounded; the calm island – the strong, innocent island.
And the bodies like broken branches,
like roots uprooted.

The poem reflects displacement, exile, the loss of youth and physical vitality (‘we believed in the omnipotence of the body’), the trauma of war in Crete (‘the beautiful island is bleeding, wounded’), and wandering through blacked-out war-time Alexandria with his close friends.

In the narrow streets of old Chania … ‘the beautiful island is bleeding, / wounded; the calm island – the strong, innocent island’ (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Μέρες του Ιουνίου ’41, Γιώργος Σεφέρης

Βγήκε το νέο φεγγάρι στην Αλεξάνδρεια
κρατώντας το παλιό στην αγκαλιά του
κι εμείς πηγαίνοντας κατά την Πόρτα του Ήλιου
μες στο σκοτάδι της καρδιάς — τρεις φίλοι.

Ποιός θέλει τώρα να λουστεί στα νερά του Πρωτέα;
Τη μεταμόρφωση τη γυρέψαμε στα νιάτα μας
με πόθους που έπαιζαν σαν τα μεγάλα ψάρια
σε πέλαγα που φύραναν ξαφνικά·
πιστεύαμε στην παντοδυναμία του κορμιού.
Και τώρα βγήκε το νέο φεγγάρι αγκαλιασμένο
με το παλιό· με τ’ όμορφο νησί ματώνοντας
λαβωμένο· το ήρεμο νησί, το δυνατό νησί, το αθώο.
Και τα κορμιά σαν τσακισμένα κλαδιά
και σαν ξεριζωμένες ρίζες.

Η δίψα μας
ένιππος φύλακας μαρμαρωμένος
στη σκοτεινή πόρτα του Ήλιου
δεν ξέρει να ζητήσει τίποτε: φυλάγεται
ξενιτεμένη εδώ τριγύρω
κοντά στον τάφο του Μεγάλου Αλεξάντρου.

Κρήτη – Αλεξάνδρεια – Νότιος Αφρική, Μάης ‒ Σεπτέμβρης 1941

Days of ’41’, George Seferis

After the Germans had taken Crete

The new moon came out over Alexandria
with the old moon in her arms
while we were walking towards the Gate of the Sun
in the heart’s darkness – three friends.

Who wants to bathe in the waters of Proteus now?
We looked for metamorphosis in our youth
with desires that played like big fish
in seas suddenly shrinking;
we believed in the body’s omnipotence.
And now the new moon has come out embracing
the old; and the beautiful island is bleeding,
wounded; the calm island – the strong, innocent island.
And the bodies like broken branches,
like roots uprooted.

Our thirst
a guard on horseback turned to marble
at the dark Gate of the Sun –
he doesn’t know how to ask or anything: he stands guard
exiled somewhere around here
near the tomb of Alexander the Great.

(Translation © Björn Thegeby, 2020)

George Seferis was in exile in Chania in 1941 and returned to visit Crete in 1967 (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

The sculptures of Thessaloniki: 10, ‘Marathon Runner of Peace’ by Vassilis Doropoulos, Ermou street

‘Marathon Runner of Peace’, the monument to Grigoris Lambrakis by Vassilis Doropoulos in Thessaloniki (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Patrick Comerford

I have been recalling in recent weeks how I have come across a collection of photographs of modern sculptures in the streets and parks of Thessaloniki and how I realised I had written little about these sculptures over the years.

Rather than leave these photographs and memories in forgotten files on my laptop or in the cloud, I started an occasional series of blog postings on some of those modern sculptures I have rediscovered in Thessaloniki. Over these few weeks, I am inviting you to join me in a minor odyssey of recovery and discovery as my mind wanders through Thessaloniki, looking at these sculptures again.

The sculptures I have looked at in recent weeks include the monumental statues of Aristotle, Alexander the Great and Eleftherios Venizelos, the Jewish Memorial by Konstantinos Lentaris in the campus of the Aristotele University of Thessaloniki, the bust of Admiral Nikolaos Votsis in front of the White Tower, the Monument for the Jewish Holocaust on the edge of Eleftherias Square, ‘The Woman of Pindos’ by Kostas Domboulas in Fanarioton Square, and ‘The Stumbling Stones’ or ‘Stolpersteine’ by Gunter Demnig.

The bronze sculpture of the ‘Marathon Runner of Peace’ or ‘Monument of Peace’ by the painter and sculptor Vassilis Doropoulos (1942-2025) commemorates the murdered peace activist Grigoris Lambrakis (1912-1963). The work stands at the junction of Ermou street, Eleftherios Venizelou street and Spandoni street.

Dr Grigoris Lambrakis (Γρηγόρης Λαμπράκης) was a pacifist, politician, physician, academic, Olympic athlete and marathon runner. At the Berlin Olympics in 1936, he sought out and posed for a photograph with Jesse Owens, the Black athlete whose victories infuriated Hitler and defied Nazi ideology.

Lambrakis took part in peace demonstrations in Greece and across Europe in the 1960s, including the Aldermaston marches organised by CND and the Committee of 100 in 1963. His murder in 1963 is one of the most infamous political assassinations in Greece.

The murder of Grigoris Lambrakis in 1963 is one of the most infamous political assassinations in Greece (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

The sculpture honouring Lambrakis in the heart of Thessaloniki is a symbol of the strife in Greece after the Civil War and in the run-up to the colonels’ coup in 1967. It shows a pleading and frightening figure reaching for a dove of peace. The sculpture incorporates elements of socialist realism, making a powerful visual statement about the importance of peace.

Grigoris Lambrakis had been at a demonstration in Thessaloniki calling for nuclear disarmament and was returning to the Aigli Hotel when he was attacked by Spyros Gotzamanis and Manolis Emmanouilidis on the evening of 22 May 1963. They were driving a three-wheeled vehicle, struck him fatally on the head with a club, while 180 police officers and the local police leaders were blocking off the area.

Reports later showed, the attackers and the key figures in plotting the murder were linked with the state and. But, despite the fact that the murder caused a political earthquake in Greece with reverberations across Europe, only nine out of the 31 original defendants were sentenced.

As Lambrakis lay dying in hospital in Thessaloniki, hundreds of students gathered in streets along with the poet Yiannis Ritsos and the composer Mikis Theodorakis, singing the poem Epitaphios, written by Ritsos following a political murder in Thessaloniki in 1936 and set to music by Theodorakis.

Lambrakis died on 27 May 1963. His funeral in Athens on 29 May 1963 from the Metropolitan Cathedral to the First Cemetery became a massive demonstration, as more than 500,000 people protested against the right-wing government and the royal court, which was seen to support the right-wing extremists, and the Epitaphios by Theodorakis and Ritsos was sung again throughout the streets.

The murder caused a political earthquake, the Prime minister Constantinos Karamanlis, resigned in 1963 and went into exile in Paris, and there were reverberations across Europe. But only nine of the 31 defendants were sentenced.

The events inspired Vassilis Vassilikos to write his political novel Z: Fictional Documentary of a Crime. The title stands for the first letter of the slogan «Ζει» (‘He Lives!’) became a popular graffito in cities and towns throughout Greece in the 1960s.

The Greek-French film director Costa-Gavras (Κώστας Γαβράς) made the film Z in 1969, starring Yves Montand as Lambrakis, Jean-Louis Trintignant as the investigator Christos Sartzetakis, was also jailed by the colonels, and Irene Papas as the widow of Lambrakis. It was nominated for five Oscars and won two.

The score included a piece first written by Mikis Theodorakis in 1962 for Ένας όμηρος (A Hostage), a Greek performance of The Hostage by Brendan Behan. The piece Το γελαστό παιδί (The Smiling Kid), with Greek lyrics by Vasilis Rotas, was transformed into a tribute to Lambrakis in the film Z.

Some years ago, my friends Paddy Sammon, a former Irish diplomat once based in Athens, and Damian Mac Con Uladh, an Irish journalist from Ballinasloe now based in Corinth, researched the Irish background to what has become a Greek classic of resistance to oppression. As Damian Mac Con Uladh has written, every Greek knows can sing some of the song, which they learned at school commemorations.

Maria Farantouri, who went into exile after the colonels seized power in 1967, sang the song at solidarity concerts across Europe. ‘It became a hymn not only for the Irish liberation movement, but also for every liberation movement in the world, and Greek democracy,’ she told an RTÉ documentary.

When the junta sent in tanks against protesting students at the Athens Polytechnic on 17 November 1973, killing at least 24 people over a number of days, Maria Farantouri added a couple of stanzas to the song, and changed the date from August to November, deliberately linking the song to that event.

After the fall of the military dictatorship in 1974, numerous places, including a football stadium in Kallithea and streets and squares in villages, towns and cities across Greece have been named in honour of Grigoris Lambrakis. The Athens Classic Marathon is run in his memory every November.

A street named in honour of Grigoris Lambrakis in Koutouloufari in the hills above Hersonissos, east of Iraklion in Crete (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

The Greek sculptor Vassilis Doropoulos (Βασίλης Δωρόπουλος), who created the ‘Marathon Runner of Peace’, the monument to Grigoris Lambrakis in Thessaloniki, was born in Mesopotamia in Kastoria on 13 August 1942.

He moved to Paris with his mother in 1965, and there he studied painting and sculpture at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux Arts. He took part in many solo and group exhibitions, received many awards, and produced medals and sculptures for the Paris Mint.

His best-known works include his ‘Monument to National Resistance’ in Korydallos (1986) and his ‘Memorial of National Reconciliation’ (1989), symbolising reconciliation after the Greek Civil War in 1946-1949, at Klafthmonos Square in Athens, which has since become known as National Reconciliation Square or Ethinikis Simfiliosis.

Vassilis Doropoulos died in Athens last year (21 September 2025), having lived for much of his professional life in France.

The Lambrakis sculpture was donated by Apostolos Fokas, proprietor of the Fokas department store on Ermou street. An additional board explains that Lambrakis was assassinated by para-state thugs and the sculpture is not only a tribute to Grigoris Lambrakis but a reminder of the necessity for peace and social justice.

Z is a 1969 political thriller film directed by Costa-Gavras, from a screenplay he co-wrote with Jorge Semprún, adapted from the 1967 novel by Vassilis Vassilikos. Audio in French with English and French subtitles (Click on CC for subtitles)

In this series:

1, Introduction (21 September 2026)

2, Aristotle by Giorgos Georgiadis, Aristotelous Square (22 September 2026)

3, Alexander the Great by Evangelos Moustakas, Alexander’s Garden (23 September 2026)

4, Eleftherios Venizelos by Giannis Pappas, Plateia Dikastirion (24 September 2026)

5, The Jewish Monument by Konstantinos Lentaris, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (25 September 2026)

6, Admiral Nikolaos Votsis by Georgios Dimitriadis, in front of the White Tower (1 October 2026)

7, The Monument of the Jewish Holocaust by Nandor Glid, Eleftherias Square (2 October 2026)

8, ‘The Woman of Pindos’ by Kostas Domboulas, Fanarioton Square (8 October 2026)

9, ‘The Stumbling Stones’ (‘Stolpersteine’) by Gunter Demnig (9 October 2026)

10, ‘Marathon Runner of Peace’, the monument to Grigoris Lambrakis by Vasilis Doropoulos, Ermou Street (14 October 2026)

Next: Monument of Sokratis Karantinos, 30 October Avenue (22 October 2026)

The sculptures of Thessaloniki: 8, ‘The Woman of Pindos’ by Kostas Domboulas in Fanarioton Square

‘The Woman of Pindos’ by Kostas Domboulas in Fanarioton Square (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Patrick Comerford

I have been recalling in recent week how I have come across a collection of photographs of modern sculptures in the streets and parks of Thessaloniki and how I realised I had written little about these sculptures over the years.

Rather than leave these photographs and memories in forgotten files on my laptop or in the cloud, I started an occasional series of blog postings on some of those modern sculptures I have rediscovered in Thessaloniki. Over these few weeks, I am inviting you to join me in a minor odyssey of recovery and discovery as my mind wanders through Thessaloniki, looking at these sculptures again.

The sculptures I have looked at in recent weeks include the monumental statues of Aristotle, Alexander the Great and Eleftherios Venizelos, the Jewish Memorial by Konstantinos Lentaris in the campus of the Aristotele University of Thessaloniki, the bust of Admiral Nikolaos Votsis in front of the White Tower, and the Monument for the Jewish Holocaust on the edge of Eleftherias Square.

The sculpture of ‘The Woman of Pindos (I Γυναίκα της Πίνδου) stands at Fanarioton Square, at the junction of Pavlou Mela, Mitropoleos and Stratigou Kallari streets, and just a few minutes’ walk from the White Tower and the waterfront in Thessaloniki.

The sculpture by Kostas Domboulas is dedicated to the women of Epirus in north-west Greece and recalls their bravery in the resistance during World War II. In the harsh autumn of 1940, when Italy invaded Greece through the Pindos mountains, the women of Zagori – many of them elderly or mothers – carried ammunition, food, and supplies up the frozen slopes to support the Greek soldiers.

The bronze sculpture on a marble base depicts a woman from Epirus in heavy military attire, carrying bullets and food on her back as he brings supplies to soldiers on the front. Her right foot is placed on a rock that symbolises a forceful movement that adds dynamism yet poignancy to the sculpture.

When Mussolini’s fascist army invaded Greece through the rugged Pindus mountain range, they expected a quick and easy victory. Instead, they faced fierce resistance not just from soldiers, but from the local village women who carried heavy supplies and hauled massive loads of ammunition, food, and weapons on their backs up steep, snow-covered mountain trails where even mules could not go.

These women of Pindos knitted warm clothing for soldiers facing freezing conditions and even laid down in freezing rivers to form human bridges for army engineers. On many occasions, women actively chased down and fought off invading Italian troops using makeshift weapons such as axes and large pieces of wood.

The inscription in capital letters reads:

Γυναίκες Ηπειρώτισσες,
ξαφνιάσματα της φύσης,
εχθρέ γιατί δε ρώτησες
ποιον πας να κατακτήσεις

Women of Epirus,
surprise of nature,
enemy, why didn’t you ask
who you were trying to conquer?’

This quotation is the chorus of the legendary 1973 song Γυναίκες Ηπειρώτισσες (Gynaikes Ipeirotisses, ‘Women of Epirus’), sung by the Greek singer Marinella (Μαρινέλλα) from Thessaloniki, who died earlier this year (28 March 2026) at the age of 87.

Marinella was born Kyriaki Papadopoulou in Thessaloniki on 19 May 1938, and began her journey first appearing on the radio show ‘Pediki Ora’ before going on stage in her teens. By 1957, she and Stelios Kazantzidis had become a celebrated duo, singing the songs of Mikis Theodorakis, Manos Hadjidakis, Vassilis Tsitsanis, Giorgos Mitsakis, Giorgos Zambetas, Apostolos Kaldaras, Theodoros Derveniotis, Stavros Xarchakos and Christos Leontis.

She became the first singer to represent Greece in the Eurovision contest in 1974, when she sang Κρασί, θάλασσα και τ’ αγόρι μου (‘A little wine, a little sea, and my boyfriend’). She went on to give her voice to generations through decades of music.

She sang at the 2004 Summer Olympic Games in Athens, representing the music and culture Greece. She remained devoted to her singing to her final years.

The sculpture of the Woman of Pindos was installed in 1990 when Konstantinos ‘Ntinos’ Kosmopoulos (1928-2011) was the Mayor of Thessaloniki. The project was sponsored financially by the Epirus Cultural Association.

This monument was created by sculptor Kostas Domboulas (born 1942). As an academic, he was a faculty member at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, where he taught in the architecture department for almost four decades, from 1972 to 2009.

His other works his ‘Monument to Fallen Resistance Students’ in the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, installed at the Faculty of Law in 1999. It is a modern, abstract metallic sculpture that rises directly from a bed of pebbles on the ground. It features marble plaques inscribed with the names of students executed during the National Liberation Struggle (1941-1944).

In this series:

1, Introduction (21 September 2026)

2, Aristotle by Giorgos Georgiadis, Aristotelous Square (22 September 2026)

3, Alexander the Great by Evangelos Moustakas, Alexander’s Garden (23 September 2026)

4, Eleftherios Venizelos by Giannis Pappas, Plateia Dikastirion (24 September 2026)

5, The Jewish Monument by Konstantinos Lentaris, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (25 September 2026)

6, Admiral Nikolaos Votsis by Georgios Dimitriadis, in front of the White Tower (1 October 2026)

7, The Monument of the Jewish Holocaust by Nandor Glid, Eleftherias Square (2 October 2026)

8, ‘The Woman of Pindos’ by Kostas Domboulas, Fanarioton Square (8 October 2026)

Next: The Stumbling Stones (‘Stolpersteine’) by Gunter Demnig


Γυναίκες Ηπειρώτισσες, Μαρινέλλα

The Greeks have a word for it: 68, Ρωμιοσύνη (Romiosini)

In the side streets of Platanias in Rethymnon … the meanings and understandings of ‘Romiosini’ are tied up with identity and soul (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Patrick Comerford

The English words ‘Greek’ and ‘Greece’ do not exist in the Greek language. Greeks call themselves Hellene (Έλληνας, Hellinas), know the country as Hellas or Helláda (Ελλάδα), and know the Greek language as Ελληνικά (Elliniká). Why, even a Greek coffee is ένας ελληνικός (enas hellenikós).

The term ‘Greek’ comes not from Greek but from the ancient Latin word Graecus, derived from a small tribe (Graikoi) that the Romans may have encountered first in Epirus. In Greek mythology, Graecus (Γραικός, Graikos) was the son of Pandora II and Zeus. His mother was the daughter of Deucalion and Pyrrha, and sister of Helen. The label stuck in Western languages, including English. But it was never adopted by Greeks or in Greece.

Instead, Greeks refer to Greek people as Έλληνας (Hellinas, masculine singular) or Ελληνίδα (Ellinida, feminine singular).

Another word, but one only used among Greeks for themselves and seldom used in conversation with people who do not speak Greek is Ρωμιός (Romios), from Rome, meaning Byzantium. It is not used that often, but it has the vibe of the core of Greek identity, and it is sometimes used to refer to traditions and the traditional understanding of what it is to be Greek, Greek-born, with in-born Greek values and understandings.

The word romiosini comes from the Byzantine idea that Greeks are descendants of the Roman empire, as in the Eastern Roman or Byzantine empire. It means more than just being Greek; it describes resilience, freedom, and survival through hard times and foreign rule. The words Ρωμιός (Romios) and Ρωμιοσύνη (Romiosini) are probably more appropriate to use when describing the emotions Greeks share and how they feel in the face of adversity or even foreign interference.

No two Greeks have the same definition of these terms. The meanings and understandings of Romiosini are tied up with identity and soul, it is both but it is neither. It is about Greek-ness, yet not about identity with the Greek State, which is less than 200 years old. It is Hellenic and it is Byzantine. If foreigners find it difficult to understand, then Greeks find it difficult to describe.

The word has its roots in being part of the Roman Empire. But not the Empire of Rome. It is eastern Rome or the Empire of Byzantium, it is the New Rome that is Constantinople, Κωνσταντινόπουλος (Konstantinopoulos), or simply ‘the City’.

The history of modern Greece, from the end of Ottoman rule to the 21st century fiscal crises, is one great unfolding drama and catastrophe, punctuated by coups, revolutions, invasions, civil wars, the tyranny of the colonels, and the tension of being both Western and Eastern, of being both Balkan and Anatolian.

Greeks of my generation learned to speak two languages, formal Καθαρεύουσας (Katharevoussa) and popular or domestic Δημοτική (Dhimotikí) – all at one and the same time … and at different times. At school and in churches, in songs and in placenames, Greeks learn how two words can mean the one thing: water is both ύδωρ (idor) and νερό (nero), bread is both άρτος (artos) and ψωμί (psomí).

Ireland is Ireland, England is England, but Greece is not defined by the cartographer’s limitations or lines drawn on the maps of Europe. Greece is Ἑλλάς (Hellas), but Romiosini is defined in hearts and in souls. Politics, parties and geographical boundaries can change, but Romiosini endures.

When Constantine founded Byzantium as the new capital of his empire, the word Hellene became associated with a pagan past, although Greek became the official language. From then on, the Roman and Greek cultures were virtually fused in the East.

After the fall of Constantinople in 1453, Greeks were defined by the Turkish terms Rumlar and Rum millet. In time, Greek identity was largely defined by Orthodoxy. A unique intertwining and blending of language and religion shaped that identity, that fused a Hellenistic identity that claimed Classical Athens and a Greek Orthodoxy focussed on Byzantium and Constantinople.

Greeks today remember that Byzantium flourished while Western Europe was living in poverty, ignorance and violence.

Byzantine and Greek flags flying at the Church of the Four Martyrs in Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

The 20th century poet Kostis Palamas defended the use of the words Roman instead of Hellene and Romanism instead of Hellenism, of the use of the terms Romios and Romiosini.

For Crete’s greatest writer, Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba exhibits all the characteristics of a character with all the marks of Romiosini.

Yiannis Ritsos (1909-1990), the poet of the Greek Left and of the resistance, saw the memory and emotion, the identity and the energy in these concepts that evade translation alive in Greek memory, and expressed it in his great long poem Romiosini.

For Ritsos, Greeks fall into one of two groups: the educated middle class, who want to forget the memory of the 400 years of Turkish oppression and identify with the ancient Greeks; and the peasant and working class, whose memory goes back through the Turkish occupation to Byzantium. Greeks in the first group think of themselves as Hellenes, those in the second group are Romoii, and Ritsos sees himself as a Romios, embracing the living language that expresses this.

Romiosini expresses and is the suffering and the experience German occupation, the Civil War, and the betrayal of the Resistance. But it goes back from the ballads the klephts sang in the War of Independence to the Byzantine poems and the Homeric songs.

In the 1960s, Mikis Theodorakis provided a choral setting that made this the classic anthem of Greek identity and of resistance to the colonels. It is one of his earliest works with nine songs drawing on the lyrics of Ritsos. In one of the earliest recordings, these songs and poems were interpreted by the legendary singer Grigoris Bithikotsis (Γρηγόρης Μπιθικώτσης).

This poem and this choral setting shatter the barriers of space and time and they recover the memories of past sufferings that shape identity from the debris of Greek history.

There are nine songs in all:

1, These trees (Αυτά τα δέντρα)
2, All are thirsty (Όλοι διψάνε)
3, When they shake the hand (Όταν σφίγγουν το χέρι)
4, So many years (Τόσα χρόνια)
5, They got enslaved (Μπήκαν στα σίδερα)
6, Tree after tree (Δέντρο το δέντρο)
7, Who would say it (Ποιος να το πει)
8, Soon the bells will ring (Θα σημάνουν οι καμπάνες)
9, They travelled to heaven (Τραβήξανε ψηλά)

When Greeks use the word Romiosini, it means more than being Greek, yet it is impossible to describe in English the emotional dimensions of this word. It conveys culture, resistance, place, tradition, dance, character, wilfulness, language, history, tradition, identity, dance and song.

It is the spirit stands up in the face of adversity, catastrophe, trauma and the tide and tempest of the world.

It is freedom and resistance, it is democracy and revolution, it is a way of being Greek but more than Greek.

And in recent days I have returned again to listening this interpretation by Mikis Theodorakis of the poem by Ritsos. The original references are to resistance to the Ottoman Turks. But this became one of the songs that symbolised the resistance to the colonels’ junta, and today it sings of resistance to everyone who would try to deny the Greekness of Greeks.

Γιάννη Ρίτσου, «Τη Ρωμιοσύνη μην την κλαις»

Τη ρωμιοσύνη μην την κλαις
εκεί που πάει να σκύψει
με το σουγιά στο κόκκαλο
με το λουρί στο σβέρκο

Νά τη πετιέται απο ξαρχής
κι αντριεύει και θεριεύει
και καμακώνει το θεριό
με το καμάκι του ήλιου

This is a poor effort to translate this deeply moving and emotional poem and song:

Don’t dare cry for Greece
There where she is forced to stoop,
Stabbed by a knife in her back
Bent by a yoke on her neck.

Yet see her rise from the blow,
Grow with strength and with fury,
And see her strike back at the beast
With the harpoon of the sun.



Words in this series:

1, Neologism, Νεολογισμός.

2, Welcoming the stranger, Φιλοξενία.

3, Bread, Ψωμί.

4, Wine, Οίνος and Κρασί.

5, Yogurt, Γιαούρτι.

6, Orthodoxy, Ορθοδοξία.

7, Sea, Θᾰ́λᾰσσᾰ.

8,Theology, Θεολογία.

9, Icon, Εἰκών.

10, Philosophy, Φιλοσοφία.

11, Chaos, Χάος.

12, Liturgy, Λειτουργία.

13, Greeks, Ἕλληνες or Ρωμαίοι.

14, Mañana, Αύριο.

15, Europe, Εὐρώπη.

16, Architecture, Αρχιτεκτονική.

17, The missing words.

18, Theatre, θέατρον, and Drama, Δρᾶμα.

19, Pharmacy, Φᾰρμᾰκείᾱ.

20, Rhapsody, Ραψῳδός.

21, Holocaust, Ολοκαύτωμα.

22, Hygiene, Υγιεινή.

23, Laconic, Λακωνικός.

24, Telephone, Τηλέφωνο.

25, Asthma, Ασθμα.

26, Synagogue, Συναγωγή.

27, Diaspora, Διασπορά.

28, School, Σχολείο.

29, Muse, Μούσα.

30, Monastery, Μοναστήρι.

31, Olympian, Ολύμπιος.

32, Hypocrite, Υποκριτής.

33, Genocide, Γενοκτονία.

34, Cinema, Κινημα.

35, autopsy and biopsy

36, Exodus, ἔξοδος

37, Bishop, ἐπίσκοπος

38, Socratic, Σωκρατικὸς

39, Odyssey, Ὀδύσσεια

40, Practice, πρᾶξις

41, Idiotic, Ιδιωτικός

42, Pentecost, Πεντηκοστή

43, Apostrophe, ἀποστροφή

44, catastrophe, καταστροφή

45, democracy, δημοκρατία

46, ‘Αρχή, beginning, Τέλος, end

47, ‘Αποκάλυψις, Apocalypse

48, ‘Απόκρυφα, Apocrypha

49, Ἠλεκτρον (Elektron), electric

50, Metamorphosis, Μεταμόρφωσις

51, Bimah, βῆμα

52, ἰχθύς (ichthýs) and ψάρι (psari), fish.

53, Τὰ Βιβλία (Ta Biblia), The Bible

54, Φῐλοξενῐ́ᾱ (Philoxenia), true hospitality

55, εκκλησία (ekklesia), the Church

56, ναός (naos) and ἱερός (ieros), a church

57, Χριστούγεννα (Christougenna), Christmas

58, ἐπιφάνεια (epipháneia), θεοφάνεια, (theopháneia), Epiphany and Theophany

59, Ζέφυρος (Zéphuros), the West Wind

60, Αύριο (Avrio), Tomorrow

61, καλημέρα (κaliméra), ‘Good Morning’, and καλαμάρι, κalamári, ‘squid’

62, Ελευθερία ή θάνατος, ‘Freedom or Death’

63, Ποδόσφαιρο, ‘Football’

64, καφές (coffee), Φραπές (frappé)

65, Odyssey (η Οδύσσεια) and Odysseus (Ὀδυσσεύς)

66, Cosmopolitan, Κοσμοπολίτης

67, Εἰρήνη (Eirene), Peace

68, Ρωμιοσύνη (Romiosini)

Series to be continued

In the streets of Panormos near Rethymnon … the meanings and understandings of ‘Romiosini’ are tied up with identity and soul (Photograph: Patrick Comerford

Daily prayer in Ordinary Time 2026: 90, Wednesday 5 August 2026

Iokasti, a restaurant in Koutouloufari in Crete … are there comparisons between Iocasta and her daughter in ‘The Phoenician Women’ and the Greek-speaking Syro-Phoenician or Canaanite woman in the Gospels? (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Patrick Comerford

We are continuing in Ordinary Time in the Church Calendar and the week began with the Ninth Sunday after Trinity (Trinity IX, 2 August 2026). The calendar of the Church of England in Common Worship today recalls Saint Oswald (642), King of Northumbria and Martyr, and tomorrow is the Feast of the Transfiguration (6 August).

Before today begins, I am taking some quiet time this morning to give thanks, for reflection, prayer and reading in these ways:

1, today’s Gospel reading;

2, a reflection on the Gospel reading;

3, a prayer from the USPG prayer diary;

4, the Collects and Post-Communion prayer of the day.

Mikis Theodorakis recorded ‘Symphony No 4, of the Choral Odes,’ in Athens in May 1987

Matthew 15: 21-28 (NRSVA):

21 Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. 22 Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.’ 23 But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.’ 24 He answered, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’ 25 But she came and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, help me.’ 26 He answered, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ 27 She said, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.’ 28 Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.


Mikis Theodorakis, Symphony No 4, Movement 2, Euripides, ‘Phoenician Women’ (Φοίνισσαι)

Today’s Reflections

Today’s Gospel reading at the Eucharist (Matthew 15: 21-28) is set in the district of Tyre and Sidon and tells of the Canaanite or Syro-Phoenician woman and her encounter with Christ.

In Saint Matthew’s account, she is a Canaanite woman (verse 22); in Saint Mark’s account (Mark 7: 27-31), she is a Greek-speaking or Syro-Phoenician woman (verse 26).

In the classical world, Phoenician women were pushy women. About 400 years earlier, the great Greek playwright Euripides wrote his tragic play The Phoenician Women (Φοίνισσαι, Phoenissae), rewriting a similar story used by Aeschylus in his play, Seven Against Thebes, and dealing with tragic events following the fall of Oedipus.

The title of the play by Euripides, The Phoenician Women, refers to the Greek chorus, which is composed of Phoenician women on their way to Delphi and who are trapped in Thebes by the war.

The two key women in the play by Euripides are Jocasta (Ἰοκάστη) and her daughter Antigone (Ἀντιγόνη), who have survived against all odds. They challenge the accepted concepts in Classical times of fate and free-will.

In the face of death, they refuse to accept what other people regarded as their destiny, they refused to be pushed aside, marginalised and dismissed as the men around then compete for power.

So, in the time of Christ, educated, Greek-speaking people, including those around Tyre and Sidon, would expect a Greek-speaking Phoenician woman and her daughter to be pushy in the face of what appears to be a cruel fate, even if this involves confronting successful or ambitious men: they are prepared to stand up to kings and rulers, prepared to challenge them, and prepared to risk rejection and exile.

Faced with her daughter’s needs, this pushy woman ignores the disciples: she is direct and aggressive in demanding healing and justice. And in demanding justice and healing for her daughter, she is, of course, demanding these for herself too.

The dialogue between this woman and Christ must have sounded crude and aggressive to those who had gathered around to hear what was going on.

This pushy woman forces herself into the house, addresses Jesus in Messianic terms, and demands not that he should heal her daughter, but that he should show mercy. On whom? On her tormented daughter? On the distressed mother? The NRSV translation is clear, where the RSV is not: in the original Greek, she asks for mercy for herself (verse 22).

At times, when I have reading and re-reading this Gospel reading, I have found myself listening yet again to the second movement, ‘The Phoenician Woman,’ in Symphony No 4 (Of the Choral Odes), written in 1986-1987 by the great modern Greek composer Mikis Theodorakis (1925-2021) for soprano, alto, narrator, mixed choir and symphonic orchestra without strings.

Symphony No 4 by Theodorakis contains just two movements based on texts by Aeschylus (Eumenides) and Euripides (The Phoenician Women). The remastered version of this CD was recorded live at Athens at the world premiere of the composition. The booklet includes the completely translated libretto, extensive liner notes and some personal remarks of the composer himself.

In this symphony, Theodorakis provides a setting of Eumenides by Aeschylus and The Phoenician Women by Euripides, brought together in a massive work that conveys classical Greek tragedy through the form of a modern choral symphony.

In his fourth symphony, Theodorakis weaves together three traditions: the symphonic tradition and the integration of vocals into symphonic works; the tradition of great tragic women figures, which he takes up in his operas Medea, Electra and Antigone; and the particularly Greek perception of history.

In his notes written for this symphony, Theodorakis suggests that, because the word symphony is derived from Greek, it is best left to a Greek to define it. He is not concerned with the conventional western sonata form, and this long, two-part work derives its tension and power from its ancient Greek texts, following its own logic rather than abstract rules.

Theodorakis is forceful and direct in his music. There is power in its dark scoring, austere counterpoint, massed unisons, and immense orchestral sonorities.

Admirers of Theodorakis take this work seriously and appreciate his commitment to Greek national culture. But others find it difficult to listen to with its sombre subject matter. Yet this is the very drama, focussed in the desperate plight of one woman and her daughter, that is played out in today’s Gospel reading.

Each time I read today’s Gospel story of this woman and her daughter, they remind me of Jocasta and her daughter Antigone (Ἀντιγόνη). One year, while searching for illustrations and resources for this I came across photographs I had taken of Iokasti, a delightful restaurant in Koutouloufari, east of Iraklion in Crete.

During the Covid Pandemic lockdown earlier that year, in Holy Week, the week before Greek Easter, the people at Iokasti posted on their Facebook page a video clip of ‘Oh my sweet Springtime’ (Ω γλυκύ μου έαρ). This is a song of lamentation sung on Good Friday and imagines the Virgin Mary narrating the Crucifixion and pouring out her pain and grief as the Mother of Christ.

This lament is sung with reverence, emotion and devotion throughout Greece, and it has been performed and recorded by many Greece’s best-loved singers.

The version posted by Iokasti in Koutououfari that year was a recording in Athens by the late Irene Papas (1929-2022) – who played the title roles in Antigone (1961) and Electra (1962) – of the musical arrangement of this hymn by the Greek composer Vangelis:

Αι γενεαί πάσαι, ύμνον τη Ταφή Σου, προσφέρουσι Χριστέ μου.
Καθελών του ξύλου, ο Αριμαθείας, εν τάφω Σε κηδεύει.
Μυροφόροι ήλθον, μύρα σοι, Χριστέ μου, κομίζουσαι προφρόνως.
Δεύρο πάσα κτίσις, ύμνους εξοδίους, προσοίωμεν τω Κτίστη.
Ούς έθρεψε το μάννα, εκίνησαν την πτέρναν, κατά του ευεργέτου.
Ιωσήφ κηδεύει, συν τω Νικοδήμω, νεκροπρεπώς τον Κτίστην.

Ω γλυκύ μου έαρ, γλυκύτατόν μου Τέκνον, πού έδυ σου το κάλλος;

Υιέ Θεού παντάναξ, Θεέ μου πλαστουργέ μου, πώς πάθος κατεδέξω;
Έρραναν τον τάφον αι Μυροφόροι μύρα, λίαν πρωί ελθούσαι.
Ω Τριάς Θεέ μου, Πατήρ Υιός και Πνεύμα, ελέησον τον κόσμον.

Ιδείν την του Υιού σου, Ανάστασιν, Παρθένε, αξίωσον σους δούλους.

All generations offer a hymn at your burial my Christ.
The Arimathean took you down from the cross and buried you in a tomb.
Women came with spices to give you perfume and prepare your burial.
Hither creation was made, let us sing hymns to praise our Creator.
Nourished from above with manna, lifted heels of contempt against their benefactor.
You are being buried by Joseph and Nicodemus, in the grave of the Creator.

Oh, my sweet spring, my sweetest child, where does your beauty fade?
Son of God Almighty, my God and Creator, how can I bear your passion?
Women with spices came very early in the morning to sprinkle the grave with perfume.
O my Holy Trinity, Father, Son and Spirit, have mercy on the world.

Allow us to serve you, O Virgin, to see you son’s resurrection, to be your worthy servants.

In weeping for her daughter, the Syro-Phoenician woman share in the weeping of the Virgin Mary for her son. And in Christ, we find compassion for all our sorrows and all our weeping.


‘Oh my sweet Springtime’ (Ω γλυκύ μου έαρ), a song of lamentation sung on Good Friday, arranged by Vangelis and recorded in Athens by the Irene Papas

Today’s Prayers (Wednesday 5 August 2026):

In Pray with the World Church, the prayer diary of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel), the theme this week (2-8 August 2026, pp 24-25), is ‘Faith Under Pressure in Nicaragua’. This theme was introduced on Sunday with a Reflection by the Most Revd Juan David Alvarado, Bishop of El Salvador and Primate of the Province of the Anglican Church in Central America.

The USPG prayer diary today (Wednesday 5 August 2026) invites us to pray:

God of truth, we pray for those who cannot speak openly about injustice in Nicaragua. Give them courage in silence, and raise up voices beyond their borders to bear witness and seek justice.

The Collect of the Day:

Lord God almighty,
who so kindled the faith of King Oswald with your Spirit
that he set up the sign of the cross in his kingdom
and turned his people to the light of Christ:
grant that we, being fired by the same Spirit,
may always bear our cross before the world
and be found faithful servants of the gospel;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.

The Post Communion Prayer:

Eternal God,
who gave us this holy meal
in which we have celebrated the glory of the cross
and the victory of your martyr Oswald:
by our communion with Christ
in his saving death and resurrection,
give us with all your saints the courage to conquer evil
and so to share the fruit of the tree of life;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Collect on the Eve of The Transfiguration:

Father in heaven,
whose Son Jesus Christ was wonderfully transfigured
before chosen witnesses upon the holy mountain,
and spoke of the exodus he would accomplish at Jerusalem:
give us strength so to hear his voice and bear our cross
that in the world to come we may see him as he is;
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.

Yesterday’s reflections

Continued tomorrow

A table for one at Iokasti, a restaurant in the mountain village of Koutouloufari in Crete recalls the play by Euripides (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible: Anglicised Edition copyright © 1989, 1995, National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. http://nrsvbibles.org

From Agamemnon to Armageddon, ‘Iphigenia’ by Euripides is a classical warning about the futility of war

A new interpretation by Stephen Sharkey of ‘Iphegnia’ by Euripides, adapted and directed by Serdar Biliş, opens tonight in the Arcola Theatre in London

Patrick Comerford

The Arcola Theatre in London is staging Iphigenia by Euripides in a new English version by Stephen Sharkey, adapted and directed by Serdar Biliş. It opens tonight (9 April) and continues until 2 May 2026.

Iphigenia is a story of sacrifice, parenthood and the human cost of war – then and now.

A young girl stands at the altar. A nation holds its breath. The winds have stopped. The Greek fleet is stranded. King Agamemnon is told by the gods that there is only one way for his army to reach Troy: he must sacrifice his daughter, Iphigenia.

It is a stark, contemporary reimagining of Euripides’ classic text and confronts the timeless question: what do we owe our country – and what do we owe our children? Blending the brutal beauty of ancient tragedy with voices of today, this new production replaces the traditional chorus with filmed testimonies from women across cultures, interwoven with live contemporary folk music that bridges East and West.

In this production, Mithra Malek plays Iphigenia, Indra Ové is Clytemnestra, Simon Kunz is Agamemnon and Kalia Lyraki is the Musician. The director and adaptor Serdar Biliş was born in Istanbul, and moved to London for a career in directing. He has an MA from Middlesex University, has been an associate director at Arcola Theatre and Liverpool Everyman, artistic director of Pürtelaş Theatre, and teaches at Kadir Has University in Istanbul and in Florence.

The translator Stephen Sharkey has updated and adapted a wide variety of classic and contemporary stories for the stage. His translation of Euripides’s Ion was produced by the Gate Theatre and directed by Erica Whyman.

The 1977 film ‘Iphigenia’ by the Greek director Michael Cacoyannis was the third in his Greek Tragedy trilogy

The name Iphigenia (Ἰφιγένεια) means ‘strong-born’, ‘born to strength’, or ‘she who causes the birth of strong offspring’. In Homer’s Iliad, Iphianassa (Ἰφιάνασσα) is the name of one of Agamemnon’s three daughters (Iliad ix.145, 287), a name that may be simply an older variant of the name Iphigenia.

For Euripides, Iphigenia is a daughter of King Agamemnon and Queen Clytemnestra, and so a princess of Mycenae. On his way to the Trojan War, Agamemnon offends the goddess Artemis by hunting and killing one of her sacred stags. She retaliates by preventing the allied troops from reaching Troy unless Agamemnon kills Iphigenia, his eldest daughter, at Aulis as a human sacrifice. In some versions, Iphigenia dies at Aulis, and in others, Artemis rescues her. In the version where she is saved, she goes to the Taurians and meets her brother Orestes.

Iphigenia in Aulis or Iphigenia at Aulis (Ἰφιγένεια ἐν Αὐλίδι) is the last of the surviving plays by Euripides. Written between 408 BCE, after Orestes, and 406 BCE, the year Euripides died, the play was first produced the following year in a trilogy with The Bacchae and Alcmaeon in Corinth by his son or nephew, Euripides the Younger, and won first place at the City Dionysia in Athens.


Mikis Theodorakis composed the score for Michael Cacoyannis’s film Iphigenia

Iphigenia in Aulis has had a significant influence on modern art. I became aware of that impact through the 1977 film Iphigenia (Ιφιγένεια) by the Greek director Michael Cacoyannis. It was the third in his Greek Tragedy trilogy, following Electra (1962) and The Trojan Women (1971), and Mikis Theodorakis composed the score. Cacoyannis adapted his film from his stage production of Iphigenia at Aulis.

Iphigenia tells the story of events immediately before the Trojan War. Helen, the wife of Menelaus, ran away to Troy with Paris, Priam’s son. Agamemnon, Menelaus’s brother and the King of Argos, gathered a large Greek expedition at Aulis to bring back Helen.

However, Artemis, the goddess of hunting, angered by an offence from Agamemnon’s father, King Atreus, caused storms to hinder the Greek fleet. This sets the stage for the film’s beginning.

The Greek armies have been waiting for far too long for the winds to rise and blow eastward, carrying their boats to Troy. They are tired, bored, hungry, and eager for battle. In an attempt to appease them, Agamemnon (Costa Kazakos) allows them to take sheep from a nearby temple dedicated to Artemis. In the chaos that ensues, Artemis’s sacred deer is accidentally killed. This angers Calchas (Dimitris Aronis), the high priest of Artemis’s temple, who delivers an oracle to Agamemnon in the presence of Menelaus (Kostas Karras) and Odysseus (Christos Tsagas).

Artemis was the daughter of Zeus and Leto, and twin sister of Apollo. She was the patron and protector of young children, especially young girls, and the goddess of marriage and childbirth. Her great temple at Ephesus was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, and she was also revered in Didyma, Delos and Delphi.

According to Calchas, the oracle demands that Agamemnon offer a sacrifice to atone for defiling holy ground and for killing the sacred stag. Once the sacrifice is made, Artemis will allow the winds to blow east so the armies can sail to Troy. The sacrifice demanded is Agamemnon's first-born daughter, Iphigenia (Tatiana Papamoschou). News of the deal spreads quickly among the army, although for some time they do not know the exact nature of the sacrifice.

After a heated argument between the two brothers, Agamemnon sends a message to his wife Clytemnestra (Irene Papas) in Argos. In the letter, Agamemnon asks his wife to send their daughter Iphigenia alone to Aulis, supposedly to marry Achilles (Panos Mihalopoulos), who is part of Agamemnon’s expeditionary force. Despite her husband’s instructions, Clytemnestra decides to accompany her daughter to Aulis.

From then on, the tension and the tragedy intensify. Agamemnon begins to doubt his plan. After admitting his deception to his old servant (Angelos Yannoulis), Agamemnon sends him with another letter to Clytemnestra, revealing the deal and urging her to cancel Iphigenia’s journey. However, Menelaus’s men intercept the servant on the road and bring him back to Aulis. In the confrontation that follows, Menelaus condemns his brother for sacrificing Greece’s honour for personal interests.

Agamemnon challenges this argument, persuading Menelaus that no war is worth the life of a child. Following their agreement, Agamemnon decides to deliver the letter to Clytemnestra personally, but it is too late. A messenger announces the imminent arrival of the wedding party, including Clytemnestra. Agamemnon is stunned by the news and resigns himself to fate: ‘From now on, fate rules. Not I.’

When Clytemnestra arrives at Aulis, she is filled with happiness about her daughter’s imminent marriage to Achilles. However, Iphigenia’s first meeting with her father is fraught with double entendre, which is devastating. As she speaks of the wedding she expects, he speaks of her impending sacrifice. Although they use the same words, their meanings could not be more tragically divergent.

When Agamemnon meets Clytemnestra, he tries in vain to persuade her to return to Argos without witnessing the ‘wedding’. Clytemnestra and Achilles soon discover the truth from Agamemnon’s old servant.

Achilles is overwhelmed with shame and anger when he learns of the deception that has ensnared him in this tragedy. Clytemnestra is furious and, in desperation, confronts her husband one last time.

However, Agamemnon is ensnared in his own trap and cannot retreat, as Odysseus has threatened to disclose the true nature of the sacrifice to the army if Agamemnon fails to comply with the oracle’s demand. Meanwhile, preparations for the sacrifice progress swiftly. ‘Let's not delay; the wind is picking up,’ declares Calchas.

Odysseus finally acts by revealing the chosen sacrificial victim to the army. Now there is no turning back. Iphigenia briefly manages to escape, but is soon captured by Odysseus’s soldiers. In a poignant scene reminiscent of the dying sacred stag at the beginning of the film, Iphigenia is seen lying exhausted and breathless on the forest floor, evoking a sense of impending tragedy. Her captors return her to the camp to face her fate.

Resigned to her destiny, she has a heart-rending final meeting with her father before ascending the hill to her fate. Meanwhile, Agamemnon, surrounded by his jubilant army, watches helplessly from below as Iphigenia reaches the summit and is swiftly seized by Calchas. At that moment, as the wind rises, Agamemnon rushes up the steps. At the top, his expression reflects the assumed sight of his daughter’s death.

With a strong wind now blowing, the men rush to the beach, and launch their ships to set sail for Troy and its promised riches.

The play as it exists in the manuscripts ends with a messenger reporting that Iphigenia has been replaced on the altar by a deer. However, most critics accept that this is not an authentic part of Euripides’s original text but the work of an interpolator. A fragment of the play may indicate that Artemis appeared to console Clytemnestra and assure her that her daughter had not been sacrificed after all. But if this is a surviving reference to Euripides’s original ending which has not survived.

Cacoyannis made a number of changes to Iphigenia at Aulis to adapt it for modern cinema, with some significant divergences from the original plot. He does away with the traditional Greek tragic chorus originally used to explain key scenes, replacing it in some cases with a chorus of Greek soldiers. He introduces as dramatis personae Odysseus and Calchas, who are not present but are mentioned in the original play, to further the plot and voice certain themes.

As in Euripides’s original play, Cacoyannis is deliberately ambiguous in his ending. Although Greek myth says Iphigenia was miraculously saved at the moment of her death, this is not depicted in either the play or the film. Her true fate is left in question, but Agamemnon’s expression leaves little doubt that his daughter has been killed.

In Euripides’s Iphigenia at Aulis, Iphigenia’s rescue is described second-hand by a messenger. In the film, there is no overt reference to this event: the audience sees clouds and mist, followed by a shot of Agamemnon’s shocked expression.

A stall in Ephesus sells souvenir statues of Artemis, alongside figurines of Greek philosophers and the Virgin Mary (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

The testimonies woven into Stephen Sharkey’s new interpretation of Iphigenia opening at the Arcola Theatre in London tonight are said to be raw, intimate and fiercely honest. They speak of motherhood, loss, duty and war, and they reframe this classical play by Euripides for a modern world and offer a powerful counterpoint to a story shaped by the decisions of men.

The role of gender in Iphigenia in Aulis becomes clear in the play. Classical Greek was a male-dominated culture, the majority of Greek warriors and heroes were male, and women had no political rights or rights over their own bodies – their role was to bear children and listen to their husbands or, if they are unmarried, their fathers.

As a woman, Iphigenia has no true choice in who she marries, as it is her father’s role to select and approve of a husband. Even when Achilles and Agamemnon reveal the truth, Iphigenia knows she has no choice and is forced to beg her father to change his mind.

Eventually, she concludes that her sacrifice would be worth the furthering of the war. She notes that it would be better that her life was lost than the lives of all the soldiers gathered there, as a woman's life bears a lot less value than the life of a man. She feels obliged to make the decision because of the subservient role she is expected to play to the men in her life. Euripides’s Iphigenia in Aulis highlights the importance of gender roles in both the decision Iphigenia makes and in how she is treated by her father, Agamemnon.

The play also deals with the themes of sacrifice and duty. Iphigenia is willing to make a great sacrifice to further the Trojan War, a war that she is not involved in directly herself.

Many major Greek artworks depict the Greek warrior or the art of warfare, including buildings, statues, coins, and vases. A major theme in war is sacrifice, and it was regarded as a great honour to die in battle as a hero.

Iphigenia recognises this when she chooses to make the sacrifice so that the Greek warriors could sail onwards to Troy. She bears a great sense of duty to her country, and she chooses to lay her life down not for her sake, but for the sake of the war and her country. She only asks that her name is written in history for her great sacrifice, although she does not get this. In some translations, Artemis sees Iphigenia’s sense of duty and her willingness to die an honourable death.

A bust of Euripides in the Achilleon Palace in Corfu (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Euripides wrote Iphigenia in Aulis between 408 BCE and 406. Although the Trojan Wars in the 13th or 12th century BCE, provides the setting, the more immediate context is the Peloponnesian Wars between Athens and Sparta fought in 431-421 BCE and 413-404 BCE, or the earlier Persian Wars that lastedfrom 499 until 449 BCE.

As wars and conflicts unfold and intensify in those regions in recent weeks, Euripides and his Iphigenia in Aulis become even more relevant today.

The German historian Heinz Richter (1939-2024) speculated that the debate over who is Greek and who is Turk, who is European and who is non-European, may have started as early as the Persian Wars, perhaps even from the Trojan War, and continued into modern times. The US Defence Secretary Pete Hegseth posted ‘Back to the Stone Age’ on X a week ago (2 April 2026), echoing Trump’s threat to bring Iran ‘back to the Stone Ages, where they belong.’ Iranian diplomats responded directly: ‘Stone Age? At a time when you were still in caves searching for fire, we were inscribing human rights on the Cyrus Cylinder. We endured the storm of Alexander and the Mongol invasions and remained; because Iran is not just a country, it is a civilisation.’

The Cyrus Cylinder, dating to 539 BCE, is one of the earliest declarations of human rights.

Other official Iranian responses added: ‘We will not be driven back to the Stone Age by your bombings. We are a nation with 7,000 years of civilisation.’

Trump, in his crude and illiterate failure to understand the very foundations of civilisation that have endured for so long, shows no appreciation of the place of Persian culture in shaping the classical world and our cultural identity today.

Once again, the demands of another Artemis (this time Artemis II) distract from the real lessons of the futility and tragedy of war, from the consequences of impetuous and capricious decision-making by rulers who would be kings and who are driven more by their own needs to project a sense of self-importance, of the way the decision to go to war impulsively sets off a chain of events that are soon beyond control, of the dangers of listening to voices that claim to be divinely inspired or sanctioned, of the ways war divide and destroy families, and of the deadly consequences of war for young people who have had no say in the decision-making processes yet are sacrificed on the altar not of a god but of a blustering and ill-advised king.

Trump has set in motion a future chain of events over which he has no control. Like Agamemnon, he may yet rue the future he has cursed us with and cry out: ‘From now on, fate rules. Not I.’

The Greeks have a word for it: 60, Αύριο (Avrio), Tomorrow

Looking forward to tomorrow … sunset at the Sunset Taverna, below the slopes of the Fortezza in Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Patrick Comerford

There is an old joke in Crete that tells of how a tourist, eager to learn a few phrases of Greek, asks whether there is a word in Greek that is equivalent to the Spanish mañana.

‘Yes’ says his Greek friend. But he stops, ponders a little, and then, after a few moments of deep thought, he draws a deep breath, and adds hesitantly: ‘Yes, but, but it doesn’t convey the same sense of urgency.’

It is no accident that the Greek word αύριο (avrio, tomorrow) lacks the sense of urgency conveyed in mañana.

Although the word avrio means ‘tomorrow’ or ‘not today’, it often carries a cultural connotation of a relaxed approach to time, meaning ‘when life allows’, not just the next calendar day. It is an integral part of an approach to life that values living in the present without giving in to the deadlines set by others.

The literal meaning of avrio is the day after today. It comes from the Classical Greek word αὔριον (aúrion), a derivative from ἀήρ, meaning a breeze or the morning air. The word is used, for example, by Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey, Sophocles (Oedipus Tyrannus, Ichneutae and Trachiniae), Euripides (Alcestis and Hippolytus) and Xenophon (Economics). It is found too throughout the New Testament, for example in two verses in the Gospel reading next Sunday (8 February 2026):

εἰ δὲ τὸν χόρτον τοῦ ἀγροῦ σήμερον ὄντα καὶ αὔριον εἰς κλίβανον βαλλόμενον ὁ θεὸς οὕτως ἀμφιέννυσιν, οὐ πολλῷ μᾶλλον ὑμᾶς, ὀλιγόπιστοι;

But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you – you of little faith? (Matthew 6: 30).

μὴ οὖν μεριμνήσητε εἰς τὴν αὔριον, ἡ γὰρ αὔριον μεριμνήσει ἑαυτῆς· ἀρκετὸν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ ἡ κακία αὐτῆς.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6: 34).

However, in its Greek cultural context today, the word is imbued with concepts of living without rigid deadlines, embracing a slower pace of life, and understanding that things happen when they are meant to.

In everyday conversation in Greek, the word is frequently used to say ‘not today’, ‘later’, or ‘not now’.

Many popular Greek songs have the word avrio in their title or as their theme, including songs by Stelios Kazantzidis, Ίσως αύριο (Isos Avrio, ‘Maybe Tomorrow’), a classic Zeibekiko song, and in traditional songs like those by Aspasia Stratigou, or in songs such as Σήμερα και Αύριο (Símero ke Avrio, ‘Today and Tomorrow’), a common theme, often with lyrics about love lasting forever.


Ίσως αύριο (Isos Avrio, Maybe Tomorrow) by Stelios Kazantzidis, a classic zeibekiko

Ίσως αύριο (Isos Avrio, Maybe Tomorrow) by Stelios Kazantzidis

Όλοι με ρωτούν πώς έχω καταντήσει
κι εγώ με απορία τους κοιτώ
κλάψε καρδιά μου σήμερα
τη μαύρη σου τη μοίρα
κλάψε για τον κατήφορο
που στη ζωή μου πήρα

Ίσως αύριο χτυπήσει πικραμένα
του θανάτου η καμπάνα και για μένα

Έχω απ’ τη ζωή παράπονο μεγάλο
δεν ένιωσε τον πόνο μου κανείς
μη με κατηγορήσετε
αφού κανείς δεν ξέρει
πριν πέσω τόσο χαμηλά
τι έχω υποφέρει

Ίσως αύριο χτυπήσει πικραμένα
του θανάτου η καμπάνα και για μένα

What will again happen tomorrow,
For years I’ve asked,
New troubles, new sorrows
Await me, the poor soul.

May tomorrow never dawn,
For new misfortunes
And pain it will bring me.

Everyone awaits tomorrow
With hope in their hearts,
But for me, no hope remains
In this world, no hope at all.

May tomorrow never dawn,
For new misfortunes
And pain it will bring me.

If only you knew, my dear mother, how much I suffer in life,
In this unjust and deceitful world
You’d never have brought a child into it.

May tomorrow never dawn, For new misfortunes the wicked will give me.

Waiting for tomorrow … sunset behind the Fortezza and the harbour in Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Αύριο πάλι (Avrio páli, ‘Tomorrow Again’) is a poem by the Greek poet, translator and lyricist Nikos Gatsos (1911-1992) that has been set to music and recorded by singers such as Maria Farantouri, as well as Grigoris Bithikotsis, Manolis Mitsias, Yannis Parios, Dimitra Galani and Dimitris Mitropanos.

Nikos Gatsos had a profound influence on the post-war generation of Greek poets. His blend of surrealism, symbolism and folk song was widely admired and made him one of the great 20th century Greek poets, alongside his friends the Nobel laureates Odysseas Elytis and George Seferis.

Nikos Gatsos (Νίκος Γκάτσος) was born on 8 December in 1911 in Asea in Arcadia in the Peloponnese, where he finished primary school. He attended secondary school (gymnasio) in Tripoli, and then moved to Athens, where he studied literature, philosophy and history at the University of Athens for two years.

By then, he was familiar with the poetry of Kostis Palamas and Dionysios Solomos, Greek folk songs, and trends in European poetry. In Athens, he became part of the literary circles of the day becoming a lifelong friends of Odysseus Elytis and published some of his poems in the magazines Nea Estia (1931-1932) and Rythmos (1933). He also published literary criticism in Μακεδονικές Ημέρες (Makedonikes Imeres), Ρυθμός (Rythmos), and Νέα Γράμματα (Nea Grammata). He met Odysseus Elytis in 1936, and became his literary ‘brother’ in poetry.

In 1943, Aetos published his long poem ‘Amorgos’, a major contribution to modern Greek poetry and praised combining surrealism and traditional Greek folk poetry motifs. He went on to publish three more poems: ‘Elegeio’ (1946) in Filologika Chronika, ‘The Knight and Death; (Ο ιππότης κι ο θάνατος) (1947), and ‘Song of Old Times’ (Τραγούδι του παλιού καιρού) (1963), dedicated to Seferis, in the magazine Tachydromos.

After World War II, he worked as a translator with the Greek-British Review and as a radio director with Ellinikí Radiofonía. He also began writing lyrics for Manos Hatzidakis, and collaborated with Mikis Theodorakis and other Greek composers. He translated various plays, and his magnum opus was his translation into Greek of the Spanish tragedy Blood Wedding by Federico Garcia Lorca.

He was close to the composer Manos Hadjidakis and the singer Nana Mouskouri, and his friends included Philip Sherrard, Peter Levi, Peter Jay and the Limerick-born poet Desmond O’Grady (1935-2014), who translated the poetry of CP Cavafy. He died in Athens on 12 May 1992 at the age of 80.

Αύριο πάλι: Νίκος Γκάτσος

Αύριο πάλι, αύριο πάλι θα 'ρθω να σε βρω
Κρίμα που δεν με πιστεύεις
Κρίμα που μ' αφήνεις μόνο μου να ζω

Αύριο πάλι, αύριο πάλι θα 'ρθω να σου πω
Κρίμα που δεν με πιστεύεις
Κρίμα που δεν ξέρεις πόσο σ' αγαπώ.

Αύριο πάλι, αύριο πάλι θα 'ρθω να σε βρω
Κρίμα που δεν με πιστεύεις
Κρίμα που μ' αφήνεις μόνο μου να ζω

Αύριο πάλι, αύριο πάλι θα 'ρθω να σου πω
Κρίμα που δεν με πιστεύεις
Κρίμα που δεν ξέρεις πόσο σ' αγαπώ

Tomorrow again (translated by Marina Boronina)

Tomorrow again, tomorrow again I will come to find you
It’s a pity that you don’t trust me
It’s a pity that you leave me alone to live

Tomorrow again, tomorrow again I will come to tell you
It’s a pity that you don’t trust me
It’s a pity that you don’t know how I love you.



Yesterday was χθες (chthés); the day before yesterday was προχθές (prochthés); today is σήμερα (simera); tomorrow is αύριο (avrio); the day after tomorrow is μεθαύριο (methávrio).

Yes, of course, αύριο can mean tomorrow. But waiting for tomorrow can sometimes feel like waiting for ever. Relax, sit back, and enjoy it … until tomorrow.

Αύριο.

Tomorrow’s woes … a sign in a taverna in Tsesmes, near Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)

Previous words in this series:

1, Neologism, Νεολογισμός.

2, Welcoming the stranger, Φιλοξενία.

3, Bread, Ψωμί.

4, Wine, Οίνος and Κρασί.

5, Yogurt, Γιαούρτι.

6, Orthodoxy, Ορθοδοξία.

7, Sea, Θᾰ́λᾰσσᾰ.

8,Theology, Θεολογία.

9, Icon, Εἰκών.

10, Philosophy, Φιλοσοφία.

11, Chaos, Χάος.

12, Liturgy, Λειτουργία.

13, Greeks, Ἕλληνες or Ρωμαίοι.

14, Mañana, Αύριο.

15, Europe, Εὐρώπη.

16, Architecture, Αρχιτεκτονική.

17, The missing words.

18, Theatre, θέατρον, and Drama, Δρᾶμα.

19, Pharmacy, Φᾰρμᾰκείᾱ.

20, Rhapsody, Ραψῳδός.

21, Holocaust, Ολοκαύτωμα.

22, Hygiene, Υγιεινή.

23, Laconic, Λακωνικός.

24, Telephone, Τηλέφωνο.

25, Asthma, Ασθμα.

26, Synagogue, Συναγωγή.

27, Diaspora, Διασπορά.

28, School, Σχολείο.

29, Muse, Μούσα.

30, Monastery, Μοναστήρι.

31, Olympian, Ολύμπιος.

32, Hypocrite, Υποκριτής.

33, Genocide, Γενοκτονία.

34, Cinema, Κινημα.

35, autopsy and biopsy

36, Exodus, ἔξοδος

37, Bishop, ἐπίσκοπος

38, Socratic, Σωκρατικὸς

39, Odyssey, Ὀδύσσεια

40, Practice, πρᾶξις

41, Idiotic, Ιδιωτικός

42, Pentecost, Πεντηκοστή

43, Apostrophe, ἀποστροφή

44, catastrophe, καταστροφή

45, democracy, δημοκρατία

46, ‘Αρχή, beginning, Τέλος, end

47, ‘Αποκάλυψις, Apocalypse

48, ‘Απόκρυφα, Apocrypha

49, Ἠλεκτρον (Elektron), electric

50, Metamorphosis, Μεταμόρφωσις

51, Bimah, βῆμα

52, ἰχθύς (ichthýs) and ψάρι (psari), fish.

53, Τὰ Βιβλία (Ta Biblia), The Bible

54, Φῐλοξενῐ́ᾱ (Philoxenia), true hospitality

55, εκκλησία (ekklesia), the Church

56, ναός (naos) and ἱερός (ieros), a church

57, Χριστούγεννα (Christougenna), Christmas

58, ἐπιφάνεια (epipháneia), θεοφάνεια, (theopháneia), Epiphany and Theophany

59, Ζέφυρος (Zéphuros), the West Wind

60, Αύριο (Avrio), Tomorrow.

61, καλημέρα (κaliméra), ‘Good Morning’, and καλαμάρι, κalamári, ‘squid’.

Series to be continued

Open tomorrow … a sign in a shop in Platanias, near Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)