I guess you could say
I’m a big believer in fate. At least I am today. You see, I injured my finger a while back
and, until it heals, typing is a bit of an awkward experience. Yet I wanted to write something about the
pivotal element of my new book coming out October 7th (Sons of
Sparta): The concept of vendetta in the
Greek family.
But that would require
a lot of typing. Then lo and behold I came across this article in Tuesday’s Ekathimerini (Greece’s NY Times equivalent) focused on traditional efforts by mountain villagers in
Crete to overcome the murderous aspects of vendetta still prevalent there
today. It’s an eye-opener on every level.
Although the concept
of vendetta may be more ingrained in popular culture from an Italian
perspective, it has deep roots in two closely linked parts of Greece, the
island of Crete and its nearest mainland neighbor, the southernmost part of the
Peloponnese known as the Mani (where my book takes place).
So, with a six-finger
typing salute, here is an extraordinary bit of reporting by Yiannis
Papadopoulos titled, “The Mediators of
Crete’s Warring Families.”
The elderly
highlander with the thick mustache knows he must be wary of what he says. And
so what if he never finished elementary school? In the streets of Livadia he
has the power to change people’s minds.
“We are mountain men here. We are generous and honorable, but we are also proud
and will not tolerate being insulted. This often results in situations that can
also lead to murder,” he says when I meet him at a coffee shop in the village.
Christos Chnaris is an 85-year-old livestock farmer who has also served as
president of the local agricultural cooperative. For the people of Livadia,
however, he has always stood out for his ability to keep a cool head and ever
since the 1960s they have been asking him to step in and solve differences
between them. In this village on the southeastern Aegean island of Crete, his
is the role of “mesitis,” or mediator, and for over half a century he has been
striving to reconcile warring parties before they resort to violence.
In every village in the region there are two or three men like Chnaris who act
as local peacemakers. A fist fight, the theft of an animal, trespassing, some misunderstanding,
even a scuffle between kids can set off a chain of confrontation that could
escalate to violence without the mediators’ intervention. Murder is the only
incident over which they cannot attempt a reconciliation.
In Livadia and nearby Anogeia, as in other villages on Crete, the compromise
achieved by a mediator is known as a “sasmos.” It is a process whose origins
have been lost in the mists of time but it survives to this day. It is a
complex institution that has become a part of the local conscience and often
operates in tandem with official authorities or can even influence a court
decision. Lawyers on Crete estimate that the mediators help avert dozens of
crimes every year.
Livadia is slightly to the left (west) of Anogia
Amari is slightly southwest of Livadia
Three years ago at Amari in Rethymno a man shot and injured another man in the
knee during an argument between their two families. By the time the case went
to court, the families had reached a reconciliation. The court imposed a
smaller sentence on the defendant, finding him guilty of assault rather than
attempted murder.
“For the 16 years that I have had my practice in Crete, the sasmos system has
operated with unflagging vigor, to the extent that courts will take it into
account when dealing with criminal cases,” says lawyer Nikos Kotzabasakis.
The mediators are also often called in by the authorities to play the role of
negotiator to bring fugitives to justice or to forge compromises in prison.
Kotzabasakis does not think their role interferes with his own. The mediators
do not assume the role of judge – it is not their job to parcel out blame. When
trying to bridge the problems dividing two sides, they make sure not to bruise
anyone’s ego or mar anyone’s public image.
“Keeping the peace is the most important thing. It means nothing to take on one
case, one time, that may end up in a family tragedy,” says Kotzabasakis.
“We believe the court is of secondary importance,” says Stefanos Hairetis, a
livestock farmer and president of the local agricultural cooperative at
Anogeia. “Courts can solve financial differences, but they don’t do baptisms,”
he said, suggesting that they don’t participate in the day-to-day life of the
local community. “There are cases all the time when both sides put themselves
in the wrong by the way they behave. You go to court when you’ve exhausted all
other means of recourse. Courts are used in the lowlands, not in the mountains
of Crete.”
“The people who specialize as mesites are just a handful,” says Chnaris. “If
you don’t know the right way to talk you could end up doing more harm than good.
A single misspoken word could shoot a case to hell.”
Like other mesites, Chnaris is self-taught. “We are educated by nature and by
the cases that come our way, and we know that every case matters a great deal
to someone,” he says.
In 1992, a professor of social anthropology at the University of Crete, Aris
Tsantiropoulos, spent a year at Livadia studying the way Chnaris works. After
gaining the locals’ trust he was allowed to sit down at the negotiating table
with them, observing the process from the inside.
He explains that the role of mediator is assumed by individuals who are widely
respected by the local community. They are, in the local dialect, “kozoi,”
people who are known to be just and whose opinion matters. They are normally
above the age of 30 and livestock farmers rather than crop growers, as they are
considered to be free and not constrained or prisoner to their land as the
latter. Teachers, doctors and priests can also become mesites.
Father Andreas Kokkinos has overseen several mediations in Livadia.
“The existence of the sasmos means that people’s word, their dignity, still
counts for something,” he says. “If we didn’t have that we wouldn’t have
equilibrium.”
An agreement between two sides is often sealed by a member of one family in a feud
becoming the godparent of a child in the other, creating a familial bond.
At the coffee shops in Anogeia, there is an oft-repeated story: Some 60 years
ago, or 70 according to others, two villagers got into a fight and one stabbed
the other. Both were difficult, stubborn men, according to all who tell the
story. The wife of the injured man asked his assailant to baptize one of their
children before her husband was released from hospital and able to seek
revenge. Such “synteknies,” family bonds, are often forged under the most
unexpected circumstances, preventing more serious conflicts.
Father Andreas has conducted baptisms even in the late hours of the night.
“Families are very big here, a lot of children, a lot of young people, and you
can't always tame them all to conduct a discussion,” says the 40-year-old. “You
sometimes need the sacred rites as well.”
The process adopted by mediators depends on the case brought before them. They
start getting a feel for the issue and talking about it with the two sides as
soon as a disagreement become common knowledge. They often use friends and
relatives as a means of approaching the people at the center of the argument.
The negotiations can run on for days, even months, during which one side may be
ordered not to walk down a particular street so as not to run into their
adversaries. Once the two sides agree to seek a compromise, a meeting is
arranged on neutral territory, often the mediator’s home.
As Aris Tsantiropoulos describes in his book about blood feuds in the mountains
of Crete, a meal that is attended by the two most influential members of each
warring side follows an agreement.
Chnaris, the oldest mediator in Livadia, believes that the institution of
sasmos dates back to World War II and the German occupation.
“We went through lawless periods. There were times when laws simply didn’t
function and we had to protect ourselves before it all turned into a jungle,”
he says.
Tsantiropoulos has found evidence suggesting the existence of the institution
during the Venetian conquest.
“The two families would sign an agreement in the presence of a notary to cease
all enmity,” the academic says. In fact, 33 such documents dating from 1612-39
have been found in the archives of a notary named Ioannis Krousos, who described
them as “instruments of love.” They consist of agreements written up by the
warring parties themselves or by the notary to settled disputes regarding
theft, rape, arguments and so on.
Centuries later, another form of reconciliation emerged on Crete. Before the
civil war that gripped the rest of Greece made its way to the island, entire
villages publicly vowed to cease all hostilities. Again, individuals of a
certain standing in the community would guarantee the truce and the minutes of
the agreement would be published in the local press.
One example of such an arrangement was found in the archives of “Eleftheri
Kriti” (Free Crete), a newspaper which acted as mouthpiece for the parties of
the National Liberation Front (EAM), on the front page from May 16, 1947. The
top story was a reconciliation agreement between the residents of Skaliano.
They had gathered five days earlier in the village and in the presence of a
priest and the teacher decided to be more loving and united in the future, and
for their reconciliation to be based on mutual respect of their respective
political beliefs.
Throughout the island’s history blood has been shed and vendettas have been
declared where compromises could not be reached. Even today there are families
that still wear black in public to signal grief, villages that have been
deserted by violence, and places where church fetes are no longer held. Death
in a blood feud is, according to Tsantiropoulos, “a wrinkled death,” in that
there is nothing heroic about it and its wounds run deep and long.
This is why mediators come under a great deal of stress until an agreement is
sealed. If they fail, they risk their own reputations as well and feel
responsible. At the age of 85, Chnaris is no longer prepared to take risks. He walks
tall through the streets of his village and always grabs tightly onto the arm
of anyone who shakes his hand. Until three years ago, he was an active
mediator.
“I didn’t miss a single agreement,” he says. “Now I am gradually retiring
because I need to protect myself. I can speak my mind and give some directions.
But if a deal falls through and someone is injured or killed, you bear part of
the blame.”
Despite the fact that he has more or less given up the work, Chnaris still
remembers all of the cases he mediated. But when I ask him to mention a couple,
he refuses to go into any depth. “They are asleep and I don’t want to wake
them,” he says.
In the larger
villages on the slopes of Rethymno’s Mount Psiloreitis, with populations of
around 2,000 residents, where the wind chisels the rock and scores lines on
faces, life moves to the beat of a very different drum.
Efforts are being made to curb the use of guns, yet at any festivity there will
be some man with a gun in his belt.
Most locals marry young and have many children. The majority are livestock
farmers and on the streets two in three cars are off-road vehicles, used to
climb the steep, remote roads to their flocks.
Rustling was and remains one of the main sources of conflict between the
locals. Enemies will steal each other’s animals when they feel threatened.
In Livadia, locals reached an agreement in the 1960s to abstain from animal
theft. But in 2011, 47 such cases were reported to the police and in 2012
another 26 in all of the Rethymno regional unit.
Ten days before I arrived at Livadia and Anogeia, another case of animal theft
had taken place. It wasn’t certain whether it would be reported to the
authorities, but the mediators were already on the case. They would find out
who took the animals and after approaching them get them to agree to return
most. The thief would probably get to keep a few of the animals – to save face
– and the owner would never learn who it was. The mediators would simply tell
the owner where he would be able to find his missing animals at some remote
location.
Around 20 years ago, Giorgos Manouras knew the family that had stolen his
animals.
“They stole sheep from us and we were angry. I reached a sasmos. With one thing
and another, if you don’t have a sasmos, people may die,” says the 43-year-old
livestock farmer.
“How you talk to each person and make them understand a situation makes a
difference.”
Amen to that thought. And for those of you who prefer the film version.
Jeff—Saturday
There
are said to be 800 ancient towers still standing in Mani, some with
roots back to the 13th Century. That might explain why many find
Maniots among the friendliest and most courteous people in Greece. It’s
probably a serendipitous, positive result of living in a society where
to offend likely led to something far worse than a nasty letter to your
boss.
There
are said to be 800 ancient towers still standing in Mani, some with
roots back to the 13th Century. That might explain why many find
Maniots among the friendliest and most courteous people in Greece. It’s
probably a serendipitous, positive result of living in a society where
to offend likely led to something far worse than a nasty letter to your
boss.
