The Hellas Herald – part of Greek Expedition

• How did the outside world perceive Greece in the 19th century, as the young nation began to take shape?
• What role did travel writers and artists play in shaping the image of this new Greece?
• What do the news columns tell us about 19th-century Greece, a time when it was viewed by many as an almost exotic destination?

In our new series, Hellas Herald, we are delving into travelogues, art, poetry, and contemporary newspaper archives, we are piecing together a mosaic of voices to approach the questions surrounding Greece in the 19th century.

We begin our search through this archival treasure trove with the story of the fearless artist Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann. A long-forgotten article in Göteborgs-Posten, a Swedish newspaper, from October 30, 1880, left us speechless before the adventures of this fascinating Polish-Danish artist.

Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann (1819–1881)

Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann was a Danish-Polish artist who painted with a burning creative fervor and lived driven by an appetite for adventure that could not be contained by the narrow female ideals of her time.

With immense energy, she took 19th-century Europe by storm. After giving birth to nine children between 1847 and 1861, she embarked on her great international travels. Today, we will follow her intense journeys through the starkly contrasting landscapes of the Orient and Southern Europe. She spent a great deal of time in Greece during the 19th century.

Reader’s tip: At the end of this article, we take a look at the 19th-century advertising market – hilariously entertaining! 👇

The path to European artistic life

As a young artist, Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann tried to adapt to a Danish cultural climate characterized by strong national romantic currents. She became known as one of the most typical representatives of the style in Danish art. Since the art academies of the time did not allow female students, she was mostly self-taught through extensive independent studies.

Later, she moved to Rome, where she quickly became part of the German artist colony. It was also there that she met the Danish sculptor Jens Adolf Jerichau, whom she married. Her husband’s own erotically charged statues gave her the courage to ignore the local narrow-mindedness and pursue her own sensual style of painting, despite the great social risks for a woman in the 19th century.

Although she kept Rome as her fixed base, she was constantly on the move. Her own books, Ungdomserindringer (1874) and Brogede Rejsebilleder (1881), provide vivid, albeit strongly romanticized, depictions of the colorful and international artistic life of that time.

From the world of fairy tales to royal courts

In these circles, H.C. Andersen also moved, who had traveled in Greece in the 19th century as well.

Elisabeth immortalized the storyteller in a painting where he reads to her own children. But her connection to Andersen and his works did not stop there. She also created a series of acclaimed paintings with mermaid motifs and gifted one of these works to him.

Her ability to capture life and character quickly made her sought after among the absolute elite of Europe. Before Elisabeth turned her gaze eastward, she had already won great recognition and secured prestigious commissions from royals across the entire continent.

Travel in Greece in the 19th century

She soon felt cramped by Danish cultural life. Her temperament and great ambitions required more space than the North could offer. She packed her brushes and headed east, towards environments completely different from the usual European artistic hubs. Ahead of her waited a colorful and perilous existence that stretched from the royal court in Athens and encounters with outlaws in the mountains of Attica to the closed doors of the sultan’s harem in Constantinople.

The Royal Court in Athens

In Athens, she quickly charmed the Greek royal couple, George I and Queen Olga. That the young king was a Danish prince by birth became Elisabeth’s perfect ticket to the palace.
Soon she was sitting in the royal salons, portraying the court in a city that was transforming into a new, modern metropolis. With her unfailing charm and courage, Elisabeth stepped straight into the corridors of power without hesitation. She not only managed to win the royal family’s trust, but also became a frequent chronicler of the rest of Athenian society, where the ancient heritage met the new, colorful elite of the 19th century.

The outlaws in the mountains of Attica

Traveling in Greece in the 19th century was not risk-free, and the mountains of Attica hid dangers that required a completely different kind of courage than the quiet salons of Athens. Her choice to paint out in the open was at this time very unusual in Greece, especially for a woman, because the countryside was constantly threatened by lawless bands of outlaws. These bands of outlaws were a genuine social plague that paralyzed the countryside, but they were also deeply intertwined with the local politics of the time.

For the still young nation, the bandits were merely criminals who threatened the security of the state. But among the people, they were often seen as heirs to the old freedom fighters of the revolution, the klephts and armatoles, who protected the local population against the exercise of state power. Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann refused to let herself be stopped by the dangers in this charged environment.

She bravely ventured into the mountains to immortalize “native Greek bandits and outlaws.” Although these specific paintings have been lost to the shadows of history, newspaper articles from the 1880s testify to a courage that lacked precedent in the European salons of the time.

In Göteborgs-Posten, her dramatic and contrast-filled time in 19th-century Greece is described as follows:

📜 She spent some time at the court of the King of Greece, occupied mostly with painting portraits, portraits of kings, queens, and princes, but also of native Greek bandits and outlaws.

The secrets of the Ottoman harems

Elisabeth did not stay long with the Greek royal couple. She sought to travel further east to Constantinople, where she achieved the rare feat of gaining access, as a Western woman, to the city’s otherwise completely closed Ottoman harems.

The journey then continued even further south, to Egypt, where, on the outskirts of Cairo, she found new motifs that continued to challenge the European audience’s view of the women of the Orient.

Her paintings from there differed radically from the exotic fantasies of contemporary male artists. Because she had actually spent time close to the women, she did not portray them as anonymous objects, but with a rare psychological depth, dignity, and a vibrant light that captivated the art world.

The echoes of the era in the printing presses

Her life and career continued to fascinate long after she had left the Mediterranean, which is clearly visible in the contemporary press. During the 1880s, her achievements were written about with great admiration in Swedish media. When Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann exhibited her works in Gothenburg in the autumn of 1880, it attracted great attention.

In Göteborgs-Posten, the exhibition was described as an event where the art was studied with “lively interest and great pleasure.” The writer reflected on her artistic development and the unique experiences she had gathered during her travels:

📜 Afterwards, she stayed in Constantinople and gained access to Mustapha Fazil Pasha’s harem, where she portrayed his beautiful daughter on behalf of the Princess of Wales. In the collection she has now exhibited, there are also portraits of several beautiful harem ladies, but with fictitious names—a delicacy toward the amiable ‘hanums’ (princesses), which was probably less dictated by their own desire than by the moral laws of Muhammad…

Through these words from 1880, the image of an artist emerges who not only mastered her choice of color and lighting but also navigated a complex world with an unusual sensitivity for cultural conventions.

A life in the service of art

Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann was a force of nature who proved that a woman with a paintbrush could be just as quick-witted, powerful, and unstoppable as her most celebrated male colleagues. At her passing, her life’s work and her rebellious spirit were celebrated. She is still considered by many to be a true pioneer.

Her contemporaries remembered her not only for her canvases, but for the vitality she radiated until the very end. In one of the obituaries, it was described how she, at a large banquet in Gothenburg’s finest reception hall, had captivated her audience:

📜 She captivated everyone with the fiery and captivating immediacy with which she took the floor in a gathering of five hundred people… it would have taken more to break her immense energy, which was based on the most sincere conviction that a true artistic talent resided within her.

It is a moving description of a woman who, until her very last breath, lived with “her usual liveliness,” her warm devotion to art, and her flashing brilliance.

The analog noise of the 1880s

Before we put a period to this first issue of Hellas Herald, we linger for a moment over the newspapers of that time, consisting of long vertical columns. The contrasts in the media climate of the 19th century are striking; when we study old newspapers, such as Sydsvenska Dagbladet Snällposten, we see how news reporting, cultural advertisements, and commercials for daily necessities jostled for space on the same surface.

It is a reminder that the newspaper reader of the past was met by an entirely different kind of “analog noise” than today’s digital feeds. Right next to notices about art auctions and cultural events were advertisements for everything from military associations to the home remedy “Parasiticida.”

Reading a page from that time is like stepping into a world where the sublime – such as the art of Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann – constantly had to share the stage with the more grounded, and for us sometimes purely absurd, concerns of everyday life.

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This seemingly inexplicable ability to endure extreme heat has long fascinated outsiders and raised questions about humanity’s hidden resources.

Today, the phenomenon has been demystified by modern science, and the firewalking itself is no longer considered a complete mystery. It has even gone so far that Western experience companies sell it as part of teambuilding activities and in courses in personal development.

Nowadays, anyone who wants can buy themselves an experience and walk barefoot on glowing coals. At the same time, it is of course not a risk-free activity. There are plenty of testimonies of people actually getting burned during this type of firewalking.

However, it is still deeply fascinating that this act can fundamentally be traced back to a living ritual that has been ongoing for thousands of years. Within the Anastenaria cult, the firewalking is not a modern gimmick, but a tradition carried through the centuries from generation to generation. In 2009, the ritual was also inscribed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.

Twenty-five years ago, in May 2001, the undersigned published a feature article in the newspaper Metrorama Athens about this ritual. The text depicted the ritual and the phenomenon of akaïa (ακαΐα), a concept perhaps best translated as incombustibility or thermal immunity.

The text aimed to present the ritual both as a living tradition and as a historical phenomenon. The headline was: “Δοκιμασία στην πυρά της πίστης” – which can perhaps best be translated as: “An ordeal on the fire of faith“. The original article (in Greek) from Metrorama 2001 is available as a PDF download at the bottom of the page.

An ordeal on the glowing bed of faith

The Anastenaria tradition, whose roots disappear far back into the mists of history, is brought back to life every year during the celebration of Saints Constantine and Helen.

Tuesday, May 22, 2001 – By Georgios A. Georgiou

On May 21, the feast day of Saints Constantine and Helen, Anastenaria is brought to life in several villages in Greek Macedonia and Thrace. It is a distinctive ritual tradition whose roots disappear far back into the mists of time.

Prominent folklore scholars agree, however, that Anastenaria has preserved elements of the ancient Dionysian cult. The rites include animal sacrifice, ecstatic dance, firewalking, akaïa (incombustibility), and rituals reminiscent of the ancient maenads’ ecstasy.

The firewalking Anastenarides appear as contemporary mystics in an ancient cult. When they are finally filled with the saints’ power after long ritual preparations, they step into the bed of glowing coals. Holding the icons in their hands, they run and dance ecstatically, driven by the increasingly fast and wild music.

Deep sighs, ritual cries, and incoherent words are heard from them as their bare feet step onto the glowing bed of coals to drive out evil, while they repeatedly chant their traditional prayers for prosperity and protection.

The origins of Anastenaria

Scholars believe that this unique folk cult originates from the ancient homelands of northeastern Thrace and Cappadocia, from where the population was later violently expelled, and that the tradition has been passed down in unaltered form to today’s northern Greek villages.

It is also known that dozens of people and religious sects have crossed paths and influenced each other in this broader geographical cultural area over the centuries. Furthermore, there is evidence that major orgiastic festivals called Psycharia and Sthenaria were celebrated during the Byzantine Middle Ages. Today’s custom may be linked to these.

Firewalking as a rite for healing, initiation, and faith is a global phenomenon that has been practiced for thousands of years by widely diverse cultures worldwide, from the Pacific Islands and Asia to parts of Southern Europe. This global pattern strengthens the theory that Anastenaria may fundamentally be a Proto-Indo-European heritage.

Firewalking as a commercial experience

In our time, however, the great tradition of the Anastenarides tends to be diluted, as it has increasingly been transformed into a tourist attraction and a noisy, commercial market. Many judge that the ritual has lost touch with its roots and risks dying out completely, or, at best, being reduced to cheap entertainment and magic tricks.

This is, of course, not the firewalkers’ own fault, but rather a reflection of the modern zeitgeist that seeks to turn everything sacred into a commodity. It is telling that for many years, Anastenaria was held behind closed doors – hidden and secret, far away from external influence and the eyes of outsiders.

However, this tradition was largely concealed due to the church’s hostile attitude. The official Orthodox Church has always opposed the firewalkers’ practices, branding them as pagan and accusing the practitioners of ridiculing the holy icons.

The initiated society

According to scholars, the firewalkers themselves are simple villagers who preserve their cult through oral traditions, which they have inherited directly from their ancestors. In the communities where they live, they always constitute a distinct group, an order or a brotherhood, which is said to resemble the ancient sacred societies of the Dionysian type.

Although the practitioners view themselves as deeply devout Christians, they rarely attend church. Instead, they practice their cult in special rooms in their own homes, known as konakia, or out in nature – usually in sacred groves and at places they themselves consider hallowed and call agiasmata. Their lives are characterized by strict discipline and simplicity, and they are regarded as deeply respected individuals in the villages.

In the konakia, they keep the cult’s sacred objects: the “ever-burning” oil lamp and the distinctive icons with their characteristic handles underneath, which make it possible to hold them firmly during the ecstatic dances. These icons are called “konstantinata,” “grandfathers,” or “gifts of grace.” They are adorned with small bells, ribbons, rings, coins, chains, and holy rosaries – objects that, according to the practitioners themselves, help to drive away evil.

The sacred musical instruments are also kept in the konakia: the lyre and the drum, whose monotonous rhythms and melodies help the participants fall into an ecstasy before the dance over the glowing coals begins.

A special axe and a knife are also considered sacred objects, as these are used in the ritual animal sacrifice that precedes the celebration. The animal to be sacrificed – the so-called bikadi – is usually a lamb or a ram, but in the past, it could also be a bull.

The animal is led to the sacrificial site with lit so-called “soul candles” attached to its horns and a wreath of flowers around its neck. After the sacrifice, which takes place in a strictly ritualistic manner, the animal is cooked and eaten by the initiates for luck and prosperity, as it is believed to embody a magical power that benefits the entire community.

Several scholars believe that the meat of the sacrificed animal was eaten raw in the past, just as during the ancient rituals of the maenads. This further supports the view that Anastenaria has its roots in the Dionysian cult. In addition to the bloody animal sacrifice, the preparations also include a water blessing, the breaking of bread, and a shared, heartfelt group devotion inside the konaki.

The initiates then begin their circle dance, which serves as a final preparation for the firewalking. They dance exhaustingly for many hours with the icons in their hands, aiming to induce the emotional state of ecstasy that will allow them to walk on the coals.

The sacred fire

The fire that will become the bed of coals is lit during the early evening hours and kept alive by specifically initiated individuals who have inherited this task from their ancestors. Once the flames have subsided and turned into a thick layer of deep red glowing coals, the practitioners are notified and soon arrive in a slow procession.

The visitor can then see how they surround their leader while a torchbearer goes first with a candle considered sacred in hand. The drums thunder and the lyres play wild, intoxicating melodies, accompanied by songs that, according to musicologists, are local variants of the medieval Akritic epic poems.

When the intensity of the atmosphere reaches its peak, characteristic cries begin to be heard from the firewalkers – a sign that the great moment is approaching. Suddenly, one of the ecstatic participants breaks away from the circle and steps barefoot directly onto the glowing coals, holding a sacred piece of cloth or an icon.

Seized by sacred ecstasy, the firewalker begins to dance with wild, almost orgiastic intensity, drawing the others out onto the glowing coals. Everyone experiences, as they say themselves, sights and visions: some see Saint Helen appear and wash their feet with cool water, while others see Saint Constantine pour water over the entire bed of coals and extinguish the fire.

At this stage, they are already stomping around in full ecstasy. They dance, say prayers, and get a wild look in their eyes, their bodies jerking as they raise the icons toward the sky and move across the fire in a ritual trance. At the same time, they exhibit the debated phenomenon known in Greek as akaïa (incombustibility) – the ability not to get burned.

Finally, they leave the fire filled with joy and relief – unharmed and, with very few exceptions, without burns. Drenched in sweat, pale, and exhausted, as if after a major physical ordeal, they now calm down and reverently kiss the icons before handing them over to the group leader.

Akaia – the phenomenon of incombustibility

Much has been written and said about firewalking, particularly about the phenomenon of akaïa (incombustibility). Relevant references can already be found in the writings of classical antiquity. Today, entire studies have been published presenting various viewpoints, often colored by the researchers’ own ideological convictions. The fact remains, however, that even today, science struggles to fully provide a comprehensive explanation for the phenomenon.

It is believed that the explanation for the incombustibility partly lies in the firewalkers’ fast footwork, meaning that they move rapidly over the coals from one foot to the other. Another explanation is that charcoal is a poor conductor of heat. This means that the skin does not have time to suffer burns, provided that the firewalking is performed with the correct speed and technique.

However, everyone agrees that a prolonged psychological preparation is necessary, if only to gather the courage to step onto the glowing coals in the first place, which, according to measurements, reach temperatures of several hundred degrees.

In recent years, “schools” for firewalking have actually been started in both the US and Western Europe, and seminars are organized around this ancient custom.

In their promotional brochures, modern instructors claim that these ancient techniques contain nothing supernatural or magical. Instead, they argue that the methods are accessible to anyone wishing to boost their self-confidence, courage, and mental strength – even though these courses and seminars often come at a noticeable financial cost to the participant.

When it comes to the phenomenon of incombustibility, however, the classic adage will always hold: those who don’t know any better shouldn’t play with fire.

It is worth reminding ourselves that firewalking is a global phenomenon found in widely differing cultures worldwide, from Siberia and Tibet to the Fiji Islands and among the indigenous peoples of North America.

Myth and tradition

Following the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey, the Greeks of Eastern Rumelia were forced to leave their homes and settle in northern Greece. With them, they carried not only their few belongings but also their sacred icons – the so-called “chares” and “pappoudes” – which in most cases depicted Saint Helen and Saint Constantine. Along with them, the Anastenaria tradition also crossed the border.

According to myth, the tradition originated during the persecutions of the Greeks in Eastern Rumelia, when Ottoman troops set fire to their churches. The story goes that the inhabitants gathered weeping outside the Church of Saint Constantine and Saint Helen, at which point they were granted divine power. The saints are said to have appeared to the villagers, giving the faithful the strength to walk straight through the fire to rescue the icons.

Today, folklorists agree that the Anastenaria tradition has its roots in the villages of Eastern Rumelia. The first official documentation of the custom was made in 1872 by Professor Anastasios Hourmouziadis. His speech at the Greek Orthodox Academy of Constantinople was titled: “On the Anastenaria and other peculiar and superstitious traditions“.

Metrorama Athens, Tuesday 22 May 2001, by Georgios A. Georgiou

A quarter of a century later

Twenty-five years have passed since this article was published in Metrorama Athens. In the meantime, the world has changed, but the Anastenaria still lives on in northern Greece – somewhere between faith, ecstasy, folklore, and living history.

Much about firewalking has, over time, been analyzed and partly explained by science. At the same time, a strange question mark remains surrounding the ritual for anyone who has truly witnessed it at close quarters. Many participants do not seem to just quickly pass over the coals, but instead remain on them for a long time, dancing in the middle of the fire for several minutes.

I still remember the feeling myself from the village of Langadas, when the drums thundered through the night, and people danced barefoot across the glowing bed of coals. Even today, it is difficult to entirely shake the impression of having witnessed something that, at least for a moment, seemed to defy both reason and the laws of nature.

📥 Download the original article from: Metrorama Athens (PDF)

📖 On our blog, you will find several related articles about Greek folklife and tradition.

Greek mythology is not, and has never been, a single cohesive narrative. It was shaped and reshaped over millennia by poets, sailors, priests, villagers, and wandering storytellers. While some figures became famous throughout the ancient world, others faded over time, surviving only in scattered references, regional folklore, or half-forgotten traditions from marshes, mountain ranges, and remote sanctuaries.

In this new series, we explore some of the lesser-known layers of Greek mythology – the strange, the overlooked, and the elusive, not through heavy academic analysis, but through stories, images, and motifs that still carry a peculiar allure thousands of years later.

In this first article, we meet, among others:

• Silenus – the old, constantly drunken companion of Dionysos, somewhat comical but with a wisdom that feels almost unsettling.
• Gitauros (Γίταυρος) – a shadowy being from Greek folklore, associated with misty marshes and bull-like cries in the night.
• The shield of Achilles – forged by Hephaestus himself, not just as a weapon but as an entire world in metal: oceans, cities, stars, harvests, war, and the cosmos itself.

And this is just the beginning. Behind these first figures, many more strange characters, symbols, and stories are waiting to emerge once again from the shadows of mythology.

Silenus – Dionysos’s enigmatic companion

Among the wild retinue of Dionysos moved Silenus, a figure long associated with ecstasy, wine, and a dark view of human existence. But who was Silenus? A constantly drunken old man wobbling along on a donkey, or one of Greek mythology’s misunderstood figures?

The wise straggler in the shadow of Dionysos

When imagining the procession of Dionysos, one often pictures ecstatic maenads and lithe satyrs dancing through the forest. But at the very back of the clamorous retinue, wobbling on the back of a tired donkey because his legs can no longer carry him, we find Silenus. He is one of Greek mythology’s most paradoxical figures: a constantly drunken, stout old man with a snub nose, whose exterior conceals a wisdom deeper than that of most gods.

Silenus was Dionysos’s teacher and foster father, and he belonged to an older generation of nature spirits, the satyrs. While the ordinary satyrs were young and wild, Silenus represented the mature, almost overripe, force of nature. In art, he is often depicted with a leather wine flask slung over his shoulder and a wreath of ivy around his bald head. He is a figure who lives on the margins; he is never the center of the party, but rather the strange shadow that lingers when the wine begins to run out.

There is, however, something enigmatic and mysterious beneath this comical and grotesque exterior. Silenus possesses the gift of prophecy – an ability he only shares if caught asleep or forced into it through trickery.

The most famous legend tells of how King Midas poisoned a spring with wine to lure Silenus into a trap. Once the drunken old man was captured, the king forced him to reveal his deepest insight. Silenus’s response became one of antiquity’s most famous and darkest truths:

“The very best thing for a human being is not to be born at all. The next best thing is to die as soon as possible.”

This is the core of Silenus. In Greek mythology, he represents not just happy, superficial intoxication, but the Dionysian insight into the fleeting nature and pain of life. His wisdom is not the cool logic found among the Olympian gods, but an earthy, instinctive understanding of the chaos of the universe. In ancient Greece, he was a reminder that truth is often found where we least expect it – in intoxication, in the shadows, and in the ones the world uses to laugh at.

Silenus remains one of mythology’s most fascinating figures: a divine fool straggling behind in history, bearing a truth that is just as heavy as he himself is drunk.

Gitauros – the mist-shrouded being of Thessaly

Far from the gleaming marble halls of Olympus, many older and stranger creatures continued to live on in Greek folklore. In the misty marshes and river landscapes of Thessaly, Gitauros (Γήταυρος) was said to roam, his bull-like cries echoing through the night. Who was this Gitauros, and where did he come from?

The mysterious sound of the nocturnal wetlands

Where the great epics fall silent, folklore takes over. Gitauros is not a figure found in classical dramas or on the finest vases; he belongs to oral storytelling, to the warnings whispered among villagers in ancient Thessaly. The name suggests a creature with traits of both human and bull, but unlike the Minotaur in his labyrinth, Gitauros is bound to water and mist.

He is often described as a shadowy being that frequents the deep marshes and the reedy banks of rivers. He is a creature that is rarely seen but often heard. The characteristic “lowing” echoing over the water during the darkest nights gave rise to stories of a lonely wanderer doomed to haunt the borderlands between land and sea. In folklore, he became a symbol of the unknown and dangerous lurking in nature’s hidden recesses – the places where humans are vulnerable and disoriented.

Few clear descriptions of Gitauros have been preserved. Instead, the figure appears fragmentarily in older encyclopedias, folk traditions, and regional stories, particularly linked to Thessaly – an area that even during antiquity was surrounded by rumors of magic, witchcraft, and strange rituals.

The strange thing about Gitauros is how this ancient, primal fear of nature’s own forces has managed to survive in the collective memory, proving to be more resilient than the classical temples of ancient Greece.

Hearing Gitauros was an omen that you had come too close to a dangerous place, or that the mist was about to swallow the path. His cry was not just a sound, but a reminder that we are not alone in the darkness, and that some beings prefer to remain precisely sounds and shadows.

Through Gitauros, we see another side of Greek mythology: the regional, down-to-earth horror that is less about gods and more about the actual environment people lived in. He is the voice of the marsh, a primal force that cannot be tamed or explained away by heroic tales, but instead continues to wander through the mist as long as there are nights quiet enough to carry his cry.

The shield of Achilles

When Hephaestus forged Achilles’s new shield, he did not just create a weapon for war. But what did the shield of Achilles actually look like? In the Iliad, it is described as an entire world in shimmering metal – filled with cities, oceans, starry skies, harvests, processions, armies, and the eternal rhythm of human life.

A microcosm in bronze and gold

In the eighteenth book of the Iliad, the roar of war pauses for a moment. Achilles has lost his armor, and his mother Thetis seeks out Hephaestus, the god of metallurgy, to ask for a new set. What emerges from the god’s forge is not merely a shield against arrows and swords, but one of the most magnificent motifs in literary history: a microcosmic mirror of the entire ancient world. Hephaestus was regarded as the master smith of the gods, but in the story of Achilles’s shield, he appears almost as something more: a creator of worlds.

The description of the shield occupies a surprisingly large part of the Iliad. In the middle of the narrative of Troy’s bloody war, Homer pauses the action to let the reader contemplate this strange object, where layer after layer of scenes emerge from the metal.

At the center of the shield, Hephaestus forged the earth, the sky, and the sea, along with the sun, the moon, and the constellations that guide sailors: the Pleiades, the Hyades, and Orion. Around this center, scenes from ancient life unfold in concentric circles.

We see two cities. In one, wedding celebrations are underway with torchlit processions and singing to flutes and lyres, while men gather in the marketplace to resolve a legal dispute. The other city is surrounded by two armies; here, ambushes by a river are depicted, along with battles with spears and figures personifying hatred and panic in the turmoil of war.

Then follow scenes from the countryside. Plowmen drive their oxen across fertile fields, harvesters work with their sickles, and youths carry baskets of dark grapes from a vineyard of gold. There are also images of grazing cattle being attacked by lions, as well as a large dancing floor where young men and women dance in a ring with their hands around each other’s wrists.

All of this is framed by the outermost edge, where the river Oceanus flows – the great waterway that the people of antiquity believed encircled the entire universe.

The shield of Achilles has fascinated everyone from archaeologists to poets through the centuries. Countless attempts have been made to reconstruct it, but its true nature remains literary. It is a reminder that mythology is not just about monsters and heroes, but also about the art of capturing the entire universe on a round surface of hammered metal.

At the fringes of Greek mythology

Behind the most famous gods and heroic tales of Olympus lies another mythological landscape – more fragmented, elusive, and often stranger than the stories that have remained in textbooks and pop culture. There we find figures like Silenus, whose laughter conceals one of antiquity’s darkest insights into life, mist-shrouded beings like Gitauros, and objects like the shield of Achilles, where the entire universe seems to be contained in metal and fire.

It is also here that Greek mythology perhaps feels most alive. Not as a closed system of finished narratives, but as fragments from different times and places – sometimes grand, sometimes unsettling, sometimes almost dreamlike.

In upcoming parts of the series, we will continue to move through these lesser-known layers of mythology. More strange beings, forgotten symbols, and overlooked stories still wait in the margins, far beyond the most well-trodden paths through ancient Greece.

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Sunlight on the deck, a soft breeze moving through the rigging. The ship is back at sea. Sails begin to fill, and the course is set. Across the captain’s table, the charts remain open, lines extending beyond the familiar into routes not yet taken. The Greek Expedition is underway – the journey has already begun.

And already, some routes are no longer distant. Some of them are within reach.

Secret Athens – discover it at your own pace

Are you among the lucky ones visiting Athens this spring? With our tour Secret Athens in your headphones, you’ll slip past elegant avenues and discover the quieter corners of the city that most visitors never notice.

▶️ A glimpse of the route:

🎧 Check out the entire tour here:
https://voicemap.me/secretathens
(In Virtual Play mode, you can also follow the tour from anywhere in the world)

Athens – walk the lesser-known city with us

If you prefer to step ashore with us, you’re welcome to join our guided walks through Athens this season. We explore the city in small groups, moving beyond the obvious and into places that rarely make it into guidebooks.

The tours are available in both Swedish and English.

See dates and secure your spot:
https://greekexpedition.com/en/guided-tour-in-athens-lesser-known/

New entries in the log

Along the way, new ports continue to appear in the journal of Greek Expedition:

Further routes taking shape

A new audio journey along one of Athens’ hidden rivers , by Greek Expedition on Voice Map, is nearing completion.

Beyond that, upcoming explorations will take us to Northern Greece, Meteora, and onward to Ioannina, with a closer look at its silver-craft tradition.

At the same time, we’ll explore the atmosphere of Greek Easter as it unfolds across the country.

In the days leading up to it, the rhythm of daily life begins to shift. Bakeries fill with the scent of tsoureki, preparations intensify, eggs get colored red, and shops – especially butcheries – see their busiest days of the year.

On the evening of Good Friday/Megáli Paraskevi, the Epitafios procession moves slowly through the streets, carried by candlelight and silence, as communities gather to the sound of familiar Orthodox hymns echoing softly and stirring memories that reach far back into childhood.

The next night, on Saturday, the Anastasi/Resurrection takes place. People gather outside churches holding unlit candles. At midnight, as the priest proclaims “Christós Anésti” (Christ is risen), the flame is passed from one to another, the bells ring out, the darkness suddenly gives way to light, and fireworks begin to burst across the night sky.

By Sunday, everything changes. Fires are lit early, food is prepared outdoors, and the air fills with smoke, music, and conversation, as families and friends gather around long tables. It is a celebration that is both deeply rooted and widely shared, felt across cities, villages, and islands alike.

The Greek Expedition will be be on the ground during the celebrations, reporting directly from where it all unfolds.

Back on deck – setting a new course

As the days grow longer, the work continues on deck – charting, adjusting, and setting our course for the journeys now unfolding. We look forward to sharing them with you along the way. Until then, thank you for sailing with the Expedition!

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The history of rebetiko is often told through its great male figures. But the genre was also shaped by women who lived and worked in the same world as their male counterparts.

From the café-amans of Smyrna and Constantinople to tavernas and recording studios in Athens, female artists were an integral part of the tradition that would later come to be known as rebetiko. They carried with them experiences of migration, hardship, resilience, and love. In doing so, they left a lasting mark on the music and helped carry it far beyond Greece.

This article highlights eight of these voices. Together, they offer another way into rebetiko – and tell a story that often remains in the shadow of the more familiar male names.

Marika Papagika (Μαρίκα Παπαγκίκα)

Marika Papagika was born in 1890 on the island of Kos and grew up in a world where Ottoman and Greek cultures met. Her family first emigrated to Alexandria and later to the United States, following a path taken by many Greeks in the early 20th century.

In New York, she became a pioneer when she began performing in one of the city’s first café-amans. Through her recordings, she carried the Smyrnaic singing style across the Atlantic and helped Greek-American communities maintain a connection to their cultural roots.

Papagika recorded hundreds of songs and is considered one of the earliest female voices in rebetiko to be preserved on record. Despite her importance, she never returned permanently to Greece and died in New York in 1943. Her recordings remain an important part of the early musical life of the Greek diaspora in America.

Rosa Eskenazi (Ρόζα Εσκενάζυ)

Rosa Eskenazi, born Sarah Skinazi in Constantinople around 1897, grew up in a Sephardic Jewish family and spent her early years between Constantinople and Thessaloniki. She began her career as a dancer and singer, quickly developing a stage style where Eastern melodies met Byzantine and Greek musical traditions.

When she arrived in Athens in the 1920s, she was discovered by the composer Panagiotis Tountas. During the 1920s and 30s, she recorded hundreds of songs and became the first true female star of rebetiko.

Rosa Eskenazi toured throughout the Eastern Mediterranean, and her voice remains closely associated with port cities like Piraeus and Thessaloniki. She continued performing well into the 1970s and is today regarded as one of the greatest women in rebetiko and one of the genre’s most iconic voices.

Rita Abatzi (Ρίτα Αμπατζή)

Rita Abatzi was born in Smyrna in 1914 and arrived in Athens as a refugee after the Asia Minor Catastrophe of 1922. She began singing in small tavernas in Faliro and quickly gained attention for her powerful, slightly raw voice.

During the 1930s, she became one of the most recorded female singers in Greece, appearing on hundreds of recordings. Abatzi performed both the Greek song tradition from Asia Minor and the emerging rebetiko of Piraeus’ port districts. She collaborated with several of the era’s leading composers, including Panagiotis Tountas and Vassilis Tsitsanis.

Today, her recordings offer a vivid glimpse into the experiences of the refugee generation in Greece during the interwar years.

Stella Haskil (Στέλλα Χασκίλ)

Stella Haskil was born in 1918 in Thessaloniki into a Sephardic Jewish family. She moved to Athens shortly before the German occupation during World War II. During the war years, she performed in small clubs in Omonia and lived under difficult conditions while many of her relatives were persecuted.

After the war, her career took off and she became one of the leading female voices in rebetiko. In just a few years, she recorded more than a hundred songs. She collaborated with some of the era’s most important composers, including Vassilis Tsitsanis, Apostolos Kaldaras, and Markos Vamvakaris.

Haskil’s career was tragically short. She died of cancer in 1954 at the age of just 36, but her recordings are today considered part of the classic rebetiko repertoire.

Marika Ninou (Μαρίκα Νίνου)

Evangelia “Marika” Atamian was born in 1922 on a ship carrying her Armenian family from Smyrna to Piraeus after the Asia Minor Catastrophe. She grew up in the refugee district of Kokkinia and began performing at an early age alongside her husband in an acrobatic stage act.

After the war, she turned to singing and adopted the stage name Marika Ninou. The guitarist Manolis Chiotis discovered her voice, and in 1948 she made her first recordings. When she joined Vassilis Tsitsanis’ orchestra in 1949 at the famous tavern “Tzimi tou Chondrou” in Piraeus, she quickly became one of rebetiko’s most beloved voices.

Her powerful and dramatic singing style made her a defining figure of postwar rebetiko. She died tragically young in 1957 at the age of just 35.

Ioanna Georgakopoulou (Ιωάννα Γεωργακοπούλου)

Ioanna Georgakopoulou was born in 1920 in Pyrgos on the Peloponnese but moved to Athens at an early age. She was discovered as a teenager while singing in the church choir at Agios Pavlos and began recording at just 18. Her elegant voice quickly made her sought after, and she collaborated with composers such as Vassilis Tsitsanis, Giorgos Mitsakis, and Manolis Hiotis.

Georgakopoulou also wrote her own songs, something that was uncommon for female artists in rebetiko. Her most well-known composition is Trelé Tsigane.

Eftychia Papagianopoulou – the woman behind many of the well-known songs

Not all the women who shaped rebetiko stood on stage. One of the most important was the lyricist Eftychia Papagianopoulou (1893–1972). She was born near Smyrna and came to Greece as a refugee after the upheavals around 1922.

Eftychia wrote the lyrics to many of the most beloved songs in Greek music and collaborated with composers such as Vassilis Tsitsanis, Apostolos Kaldaras, and Manos Hadjidakis. Among her best-known lyrics are Τα καβουράκια (Ta kavourákia), Δυο πόρτες έχει η ζωή (Dyo portes echi i zoi), and Είμαι αετός χωρίς φτερά (Ime aetos horis ftera).

Despite her immense influence, she long remained in the shadow of the artists who performed her songs. It was only after her death that her importance to Greek music began to be fully recognized.

Sotiria Bellou (Σωτηρία Μπέλλου)

Sotiria Bellou was born in 1921 near Chalkida and had a dramatic youth marked by conflict and political engagement. During the German occupation, she joined the resistance and was tortured by the Gestapo. After the war, she established herself as one of the most powerful voices in rebetiko and worked closely with Vassilis Tsitsanis. Bellou is especially associated with some of the genre’s most iconic songs, including the well-known Συννεφιασμένη Κυριακή (Synnefiasméni Kyriakí).

She also became a symbol of personal freedom and defiance within Greek musical culture. Bellou continued performing well into the 1980s and passed away in 1997.

Marió (Μαριώ)

Maria Konstantinidou, known as Marió, was born in 1945 in Thessaloniki and belongs to the generation that carried rebetiko into the present day. She began performing as a child alongside her father, who was a musician, and learned to play the accordion at an early age. As a young girl, she heard Rosa Eskenazi sing and decided to devote her life to rebetiko.

Since the 1960s, she has performed with both older masters and younger musicians and is regarded as one of the last classical female voices of rebetiko. Based in Athens, she remains closely connected to the tradition, often appearing on smaller stages where the music still lives on.

The women of rebetiko who shaped the genre

Most people who discover rebetiko first encounter its great male figures – Markos Vamvakaris, Vassilis Tsitsanis, Giorgos Batis, and others whose names have become almost synonymous with the genre.

But the women of rebetiko were an integral part of this world, even if their names have often remained in the shadow of their more well-known male counterparts. On stage, in the studio, and on record, they helped shape the music’s expression and gave voice to the experiences that define so many rebetiko songs.

They all sang about the same kinds of lives – love, loss, migration, everyday struggles, and survival.

When listening to their recordings, a richer picture of the genre emerges. Not just as the story of a few legendary male musicians, but as a musical tradition and way of life in which female artists also left a clear and lasting mark on both the stage and the repertoire.

Related articles

• https://greekexpedition.com/en/music/misirlou-takes-the-world/

It is a detail that gives the images an additional dimension of discomfort – they were taken by the perpetrator’s own documentarian, but have now, decades later, become evidence of the resistance they were intended to suppress.

For many Greeks, the photographs have become a powerful visual encounter with a history that has lived on, for generations, primarily through stories, ceremonies, and memorials.

Facts about the Kaisariani mass execution

The Nazis’ execution of 200 Greek resistance fighters at the shooting range in Kaisariani (Skopetírio Kaisarianís), just southeast of central Athens, took place on May 1, 1944, and has for decades been a central part of the country’s historical consciousness. The newly published photographs have once again brought this memory into focus and given it renewed life.

The background was an attack in late April 1944, when Greek resistance fighters killed the German General Franz Krech and his entourage near Molaoi in Laconia, not far from Sparta. As a reprisal, the German occupation authorities decided that 200 political prisoners would be executed. The men were taken from the internment camp in Haidari and transported at dawn to Kaisariani.

The executions were carried out in groups of twenty. The prisoners were lined up at the shooting range and shot by German firing squads. In postwar accounts, it has often been emphasized that many of those sentenced to death displayed calm and solidarity as they were led toward their fate. It is part of the collective narrative of the Kaisariani mass execution, a story of dignity under extreme violence.

It is precisely this dimension that the newly published photographs now provide with concrete visual confirmation. In the images, the men can be seen walking toward the site, lined up along the embankment, with postures that many Greeks perceive as composed and resolute rather than resigned. What previously lived through testimony and memorial words thus gains a different presence.

The Massacres in Athens

Among the archives of the Greek state is, among other things, the front page of the resistance newspaper Apeléfterotis from May 17, 1944. Under the headline “The Massacres in Athens,” the execution at the shooting range in Kaisariani is described as the most extensive that spring. The newspaper reported that the men were executed in groups of twenty over the course of a few hours.

Contemporary texts testify to how the execution was experienced by those in the vicinity. The church bells in Kaisariani are said to have rung throughout the entire course of events, and people at a distance followed what was happening with strong emotions. In postwar accounts, it has often been recounted how those sentenced to death stood upright until the very end and shouted slogans for freedom and national independence.

For many families, this is not an abstract historical episode but part of their own family history from the occupation period. In my own family as well, some young men were executed by the German occupation forces in August 1944 – a story that has lived on through oral accounts and that has previously been recounted here on the Expedition: Anonymous Heroes of the Greek Resistance

The weight of the event also extends far into international diplomacy. During his visit to Greece in June 1987, German Federal President Richard von Weizsäcker chose the memorial in Kaisariani to honor the victims of the occupation during the Second World War. It was a gesture that at the time was met with skepticism from conservative circles in both the Greek and German administrations. During his visit, Weizsäcker also mentioned the names of several other places in Greece where the German war machine carried out massacres: Kalavryta, Distomo, Kleisoura, Kommeno, Lyngiades, and Kandanos.

The Greek resistance during the Second World War was organized into several groups, of which EAM (National Liberation Front) was the largest and most influential resistance organization during the occupation. EAM included civilian activists, partisans, and organized resistance fighters who fought against the German and Italian occupation forces. More information about the Greek resistance movement can be found here >>

Monument vandalized

But the circulation of the photographs has not only been met with reverence. Shortly after the images began circulating in Greek feeds, it was reported that the memorial monument at the shooting range in Kaisariani had been subjected to vandalism. Unknown perpetrators defaced the marble plaque on which the names of the 200 executed men are engraved.

The incident provoked strong reactions and was immediately condemned by the Municipality of Kaisariani. In a statement, local representatives emphasized that historical memory cannot be erased through vandalism and assured that the damage would be promptly restored. This physical attack on the monument, at a time when the event has become more visually present than ever, serves as a reminder that the memory of the occupation and its victims remains a sensitive issue in Greek society.

Worth noting about the image material

Many have reacted to the fact that the published images primarily show the preparations before the execution and the transport to the site. According to experts who have examined the collection, however, an additional three to four photographs exist that depict the execution itself or the moments immediately afterward. That these were not shown in connection with the eBay auction is likely due to the platform’s strict rules against the publication of violent imagery, rather than their absence from the historical archive.

From eBay to National Memory

The chain of events behind the sudden spread of the images began only a few weeks ago, when a Belgian collector put the unique original photographs up for sale on the auction site eBay. The discovery was quickly noticed by the Greek Facebook group Greece at WWII Archives, which shared the images further, still bearing the seller Crainsmilitarias watermark and a clear reference to the auction.

The publication of the Kaisariani mass execution images immediately triggered what can best be described as a digital volcanic eruption; the images spread virally across Greek social media and were almost immediately picked up by established news outlets throughout the country.

The enormous attention prompted the Greek Ministry of Culture to act swiftly. Experts were sent to verify the authenticity of the images, and after rapid confirmation, the photographs were officially declared a national historical memory. To secure the documents for posterity, the Greek state has now initiated negotiations with the collector for a purchase to incorporate them into the national archives.

That these photographs from the Kaisariani mass execution have now become public reveals a clear contradiction. When the images are sold on a site like eBay, a historical trauma is transformed into a commodity, forcing us to consider who truly has the right to these men’s final moments.

But in the end, the circulation has had another effect. Despite the vandalism of the monument and despite the originals having ended up in private hands, the event the images depict – the Kaisariani mass execution – can no longer be silenced or hidden. Now that they exist both in state archives and in the public consciousness, the 200 men have gained a presence that was not there before. It becomes a reminder that certain events are so significant that they belong to shared memory rather than to a single owner.

Film recommendation

For those who wish to gain a deeper understanding of the events, the film The Last Note (2017), directed by Pantelis Voulgaris, is recommended. The film portrays these final days in the Haidari camp and the heavy march toward the shooting range, offering a moving depiction of the courage that the images have now given us visual confirmation of.

Related articles

Sources

• https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1_May_1944_Kaisariani_executions
• https://greekreporter.com/2026/02/15/rare-photos-nazi-mass-execution-greek-prisoners-kaisariani/
• https://www.ekathimerini.com/news/1261011/kaisariani-memorial-to-resistance-fighters-vandalized/
• https://www.ekathimerini.com/culture/1295710/kaisariani-wwii-execution-photo-archive-declared-protected-monument/
• About user rights (Greek)
• Filmen The Last Note

Over the years, many have tried. Some speak of honor. Others of care, responsibility, or dignity. Yet, each suggestion feels like a simplification. In this first installment of our series on Greek words that are difficult to translate, we begin with the very term most often mentioned first—not because it lacks equivalents, but because it contains more layers than a single translation can carry.

The Greek word filótimo cannot be pinned down by a definition. It is better understood as a stance. It is visible in how someone acts when no one is watching, in responsibility taken without being demanded, and in a dignity that is not advertised. And perhaps it is precisely in the attempt to describe it that its contours begin to emerge.

Filótimo – origins

This layered stance rests on a simple linguistic foundation. The Greek word filótimo is composed of two elements: philos and timi. Literally, it can be read as “love of honor” or “friend of honor.” In classical antiquity, however, the word carried a different connotation than it does today. It could refer to ambition, honor, and social prestige – sometimes even to a strong desire for recognition at the expense of others.

From the Hellenistic period onward, its meaning gradually began to shift. The word philotimon appears frequently in Hellenistic literature, yet its tone evolves. During the Christian era, it acquires a more inward and ethical dimension.

It becomes less associated with public honor and more with virtues such as humility, self-restraint, and selflessness. What once concerned status and visibility increasingly comes to express responsibility and moral disposition.

Within the Orthodox tradition, the Greek word filótimo takes on a particular resonance. The Greek monk Paisios of Mount Athos describes it as follows:

“The reverent distillation of goodness, the love shown by humble people, from which every trace of self has been filtered out. Their hearts are full of gratitude toward God and their fellow human beings, and out of spiritual sensitivity, they try to repay even the slightest good others do for them.”

Modern-day Filótimo

Over time, the word settled into its modern usage – not in the sense of becoming simpler, but of becoming more everyday. Today, filótimo is not an abstract idea but something that permeates contemporary Greek society, from family life to popular culture.

Many who grow up in Greece hear the word early in life. It appears in conversations, in admonitions, and in praise. A parent uses it when a child behaves selfishly. A teacher mentions it when someone shows responsibility. A neighbor invokes it as a reminder of how one ought to behave. Filótimo functions as a moral compass in everyday life – a word that contains both encouragement and correction.

Filótimo as a compass

How does one recognize filótimo in practice? Often in situations where nothing is expected.

An elderly man insists on paying for the coffee, even though he has less money than the person he is treating. Not to impress others, but because it feels right. A neighbor helps carry groceries upstairs without being asked – and disappears before the thanks grow too loud. Someone repays a small favor with something greater, not out of obligation but from an inner impulse.

The Greek word filótimo also reveals itself in taking responsibility. A person accepts blame for a mistake that was actually shared by several. Another stays late after work to complete something that ought to be done, even though no one would have noticed if it had been left unfinished.

When a Greek grandmother, who does not even know your name, sits you down and fills your plate as if you were family- that is filótimo in its purest form. It is then closely linked to another Greek word that is difficult to translate directly: filoxenía, φιλοξενία – hospitality.

It is rarely about grand gestures. Rather, it is about the feeling that one cannot refrain from doing what is right—even when there is no advantage to be gained.

Most often, filótimo is visible in small acts, but sometimes it appears in moments that make international headlines. During the most intense years of the refugee crisis, residents of the Aegean islands were seen diving into icy waters to help people in overcrowded boats reach shore. Fishermen, retirees, teachers, and students waited on the beaches, opened their homes, and shared what little they had.

Filótimo appears less as something that can be defined and more as a way of being. For many, it is not about defining filótimo but about living with it. Care without calculation. Responsibility without expectation of return. “I do not have much, but what I have, I share.”

A Greek word impossible to translate?

At the same time, some are critical of the claim that filótimo is “impossible to translate.” Linguists remind us that no words are truly untranslatable – they can always be explained, even if that requires more words, paraphrase, or context. To say that a word cannot be translated can, at worst, become a rhetorical gesture rather than a linguistic observation.

In the Greek debate, it has also been pointed out that the myth of the “untranslatable” can easily slide into something else—a belief that Greeks alone possess unique moral qualities absent in other people. That is a dangerous path. Filótimo describes a stance deeply rooted in Greek culture, but that does not mean similar ethical impulses are absent in other languages and societies.

Comparable discussions exist in many other languages. The German gemütlich—often translated as “cozy” – cannot be captured by a single word in Greek either, as it points to a particular social and emotional atmosphere. Another example is the Albanian word sedër -a blend of dignity, honor, and personal integrity. In several African languages, concepts such as ubuntu describe an ethical outlook grounded in community and mutual responsibility.

To cherish one’s language and its concepts is one thing. To turn them into proof of superiority is another.

Filótimo – a multifaceted yet living Greek word

Finally, it is worth remembering that there is no complete consensus even among Greeks about what filótimo truly means. Ask ten people, and you will likely receive ten different nuances. For some, it is primarily about honor and self-respect. For others, it is about care and responsibility toward others. Some emphasize its religious dimension, others its social or everyday character.

Perhaps it is precisely this multiplicity that keeps the word alive. Filótimo is not a fixed definition that can be looked up and closed. It is a concept shaped by context – and one that therefore continues to be renegotiated.

But it is only one of many Greek words that contain more than a direct and literal translation can capture. In upcoming parts of this series, we will explore more such words- meráki, kefi, palikari, filoxenia – terms that each carry their own layers of experience, history, and daily life.

Filótimo – what do you think?

How would you describe filótimo? Have you encountered it in everyday life during your travels in Greece?
Feel free to share your experience in the comments below 👇

Sources

Wikipedia
Neos Cosmos
https://www.akademie-solitude.de/en/filotimo/
https://greekreporter.com/2013/06/08/filotimo-the-hard-to-translate-greek-word
https://tvxs.gr/apopseis/arthra-gnomis/metafrazetai-filotimo-se-alles-glosses/

Related article

The Greek alphabet – learn how to decode the 24 letters

During the winter solstice, when the movement of the sun seems to halt, they creep out: the malicious, mischievous, ugly, and naughty creatures called Kallikantzaroi – Καλικάτζαροι. They might be likened to leprechauns, vengeful goblins, or pixies in other European folk beliefs.

Alongside fascinating tales of creatures like the Kallikantzaroi, Greek folklore is still today characterized by superstition and mystery. The book “Journeys Through Greek Superstition” explores everything from the dreaded evil eye to the art of interpreting coffee grounds – fascinating reading for the curious and perfect as a gift to the interested.

In Greece, Kallikantzaroi are depicted as gruesome and scary human-like creatures, often with strong animal traits. Many of them have tusks, tails, and goat claws for feet. They are hairy, ugly, dirty, and smelly, usually small in stature but sometimes as large as donkeys or horses.

Kallikantzaroi are also portrayed as extremely nimble, with winding bodies and tentacle-like limbs. They can creep into houses at night through chimneys, doors left ajar, small gaps in walls, or even keyholes.

Stirring up mischief in the households

Once indoors, they cause a lot of trouble. They smash furniture and break housewares, devour Christmas food, make a lot of noise, rattle and scream, scare people, cheat children out of sweets, urinate in pans, burp loudly, and drop farts on glasses and plates. In the dark, they assault women, steal people’s voices, and cause all sorts of mishaps and accidents.

The Kallikantzaroi have characteristic names that in the Greek language sound bizarre, but also comical, and peculiar. Those include Malaganas, Triklopodis, Mandrakoukos, Magaras, Malaperdas, Planitaros, Katahanas, Vatrakoukos, Kolovelonis, Paganos.

Humans try to protect themselves against the Kallikatzaroi during Greek Christmas, mainly by exploiting their weaknesses. Since they are extremely light-shy, one should not turn off the fire in the stove and other light sources during the Christmas season. Since they are averse to religious (Christian) symbols, one should make sure to draw a cross on doors, windows, and chimneys. It is also possible to use special charms to scare them. Incense and holy water also keep them away.

Kallikantzaroi and other beings are a classic example of rich Greek folklore. For those curious about how traditions and customs are still alive today, there is the book “A guide to Greek traditions and customs in America”, full of practical information that will be indispensable to anyone interested in the Greek heritage.

Please note: booking through affiliate links in our texts means absolutely no extra cost to you. However, it is a way to support the work of the expedition, so that we can continue to offer first-class content and exciting digital adventures. More about affiliate links in our privacy policy.

Dodekaimeron and Epiphany – the baptism of Jesus

The Kallikantzaroi remain above the Earth for the entire duration of Greek Christmas, Dodekaimeron/Δωδεκαήμερον, which in Greece lasts between Christmas Eve (December 24) and Epiphany (January 6).

Literally, Dodekaimeron means ‘the twelve days’ and is a significant period in traditional celebrations. The concept is also known in English as the Twelve Days of Christmas

On January 6, when in Greece people celebrate the baptism of Jesus – Epiphany (see below), the Kallikantzaroi disappear back into the underworld. They return to their main year-long activity of trying to cut down the World Tree or World Pillar. But on the day of Epiphany, the sun has already regained its movement in the sky and the World Tree has grown large again. The Kallikantzaroi therefore have an impossible mission that can never be completed; it is constantly repeated in circles, year after year.

To ensure that all Kallikantzaroi have returned to their dens, small fireworks or firecrackers are set off on roofs and chimneys in Greece on the evening of Epiphany.

The equivalent of the Greek Kallikantzaroi can also be found in other Balkan countries. In Bulgaria, they are referred to as Karakondjul (Караконджул), in Serbia as Karakondžula (Караконџула), and in Albania as Kukudhi or Karkanxholji.

Epiphany is a major holiday in Greece that celebrates Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan River and the appearance of the Holy Spirit. The Greek Orthodox Church sanctifies the waters of lakes, rivers, and seas. Priests then use basil twigs to sprinkle holy water on the faithful.

They also throw a wooden cross into the water, which young people jump in to catch. Whoever reaches first and picks up the cross, later carries it to each household and receives rich gifts. Believers also get holy water from the churches to use for various protective purposes throughout the year.

Epiphany and the Baptism of Jesus

As we also mention during our guided tours of secret Athens, Epiphany is also the only day of the year when Hadrian’s Reservoir in Kolonaki, Athens, is opened for the church to bless its waters.”

To immerse yourself in Greek folklore take a look at: “The Book of Greek and Roman Folktales, Legends and Myths”. A rich collection of myths, fables, and jokes from antiquity – everything from centaurs and satyrs to seers, women who suddenly change sex, and men who can’t laugh… The book offers a fascinating glimpse into the captivating, colorful storytelling and humorous fairy tale treasure of our ancestors.

Other Greek Christmas and New Year traditions

In this article, we have only scratched the surface of some of the countless Greek Christmas and New Year traditions. Folklorists have documented hundreds of different customs, songs, dances, and more that vary greatly depending on where you are in Greece.

There are major differences in customs between, for example, the Cyclades and Northern Thrace, the Peloponnese, Crete or Greek Macedonia. There may even be differences between coastal and inland areas within the same region. There may be distinctive food traditions, special ceremonies, songs and dances, or other customs that appear very different between islands and the mainland, or between mountainous areas and plains.

The Greek Christmas table

Greek Christmas is filled with culinary traditions that reflect the country’s rich history and its many local variations. The table overflows with a variety of appetizers and countless main courses featuring lamb, poultry, or game. Each region or area has its unique delicacies and customs, making the celebration especially diverse and rich. But no Christmas in Greece is complete without the beloved classic Christmas cookies: melomakarona (μελομακάρονα) and kourabiedes (κουραμπιέδες).

• Melomakarona are sweet cookies soaked in an aromatic syrup of honey, orange, brandy, and cinnamon, topped with chopped walnuts.
• Kourabiedes are buttery cookies covered in a layer of powdered sugar, reminiscent of winter snow.

These two types of cookies are indispensable during the Greek Christmas season and are beloved for their unique flavors. Although recipes vary between families and regions, they hold a prominent place in Greek Christmas celebrations. At the same time, they carry influences from the wider Eastern Mediterranean, where different peoples have shared flavors and traditions for centuries.

Superstition and proverbs are a central part of Greek culture. In the book “Yiayia Approved: Greek Sayings, Proverbs, Advice, Superstitions, & More”, author Angela Vardalos Saclamacis has collected over 200 classic sayings, advice, and supernatural beliefs – perfect for impressing relatives or just having fun while learning more about the traditions.

Kalanda – Greece’s traditional Christmas carols

“Κάλαντα/Kalanda are traditional songs typically sung by children during holidays such as Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Epiphany (January 6). The name kalanda is inherited from the medieval Greek καλένδαι/calende, which originates from the Latin calenda

Children go from house to house, politely asking, ‘Shall we sing?’ before performing the songs, often accompanied by a triangle-shaped percussion instrument or other simple instruments. Afterward, they receive a gift, usually in the form of sweets, fruit, or a small amount of money.

The lyrics and melodies vary significantly between different regions of Greece. These local variations reflect the unique culture and traditions of each area, making Κάλαντα a vibrant part of the country’s rich cultural heritage.

New Year traditions in Greece

We conclude with a few other common customs associated with the New Year, observed throughout the country:

• Right foot first. When you enter a house for the first time in the year, you should do so with your right foot. In this way, you bring good luck and fortune to the house and its occupants for the whole of the coming year
• The long-awaited cake Βασιλόπιτα/Vasilopitta, in which a coin is hidden before baking. Whoever gets the piece of cake with the coin inside will have good luck and fortune throughout the new year
• Crushing a pomegranate in front of the door. The more seeds scattered, the more luck the house will have in the new year. Since ancient times, the pomegranate has been a symbol of happiness and abundance

Have you tasted some particular dishes or witnessed any special habits and customs during the celebrations of Greek Christmas? We would greatly appreciate it if you would share your experiences in the comments section!

More about Kallikatzaroi in folklore and tradition

Kallikantzaroi: The Christmas Goblins of Greece on DAIMONOLOGIA: An article discussing the Kallikantzaroi and their place in Greek Christmas tradition.

Kallikantzaros on Mythical Encyclopedia: A summary of the Kallikantzaros and their significance in Greek mythology.

Greek Christmas Trolls: Kallikantzaroi on Helinika: An article exploring the Kallikantzaroi and their role in Greek folklore.

Related article: New Year’s Greetings for 2024

Images from Wikipedia under the Creative Commons Public Domain

The Antikythera mechanism is one of the most remarkable objects ever recovered from the sea. It was discovered in 1901 by sponge divers off the island of Antikythera, among the remains of an ancient cargo ship filled with bronze statues, glassware, and ceramics.

What first appeared to be a lump of corroded metal turned out to contain gears – something no one expected from antiquity. Before long, the find would transform our entire understanding of ancient Greek engineering.

A computer from antiquity

Decades of research have made it clear that the Antikythera mechanism was no ornament, but an astronomical calculating device – in practice, the world’s first analog computer, constructed around 50 BC. The term refers to a device that performs calculations mechanically through a system of gears rather than through digital numbers and code. The mechanism could display the movements of the sun and moon, predict eclipses, and even track the cycles of the Olympic Games.

That something so advanced was built more than two thousand years before our own machines is difficult to grasp. Its gearwork was designed to mirror the rhythm of the heavens with a precision that suggests both scientific and artistic mastery.

On the front were dials with pointers moving at different speeds. On the back were complex scales and inscriptions to help the user interpret celestial motion. It was as much a model of the cosmos as an instrument for measuring it, an object that combined technology, philosophy, and belief in the ordered nature of the universe.

Traces of the masters behind the work

Since the mechanism was brought to the surface, researchers have tried to determine who built it. Was it the work of Archimedes or his students? Was it manufactured on Rhodes, where the astronomers Hipparchus and Posidonius were active?

X-ray studies have identified some thirty gears and Greek inscriptions that function as a manual – something unique in the ancient world.

These inscriptions suggest that the makers were not only skilled craftsmen but also deeply versed in the most advanced astronomical theories of their time. Some scholars believe the mechanism was intended as a teaching tool, a portable model of the cosmos showing how the heavens moved.

Others argue that it was created for a wealthy patron, perhaps a king or a naval commander who wanted to plan voyages and religious festivals according to the stars. Whatever its purpose, it testifies to a collaboration between science, art, and philosophy, where scientific thought met practical skill

Bringing the Antikythera mechanism back to life

In recent decades, research teams have greatly deepened our understanding of the Antikythera mechanism, not only by studying its fragments but by building models of how it may have looked and functioned.

Numerous physical and digital reconstructions have been published. A major milestone came in 2021, when researchers at University College London presented a model that aligns with both the mathematical and mechanical evidence from the original.

These reconstructions show how the gears and preserved dials could have fit together. They illustrate the movements of the sun, the moon, and even the planets, in mechanisms that match the inscriptions on the device.

Some models include more than 30 gears – parts that were corroded or partially lost, but reconstructed through CT scanning and advanced image analysis.

Despite the progress, many questions remain unresolved, for example, exactly how every pointer, disk, and scale interacted, and whether the mechanism displayed the planetary motions in full, or if certain components are missing. The different reconstructions highlight both the similarities and the variations in how scholars interpret the surviving fragments and text. They serve as valuable guides, but also as reminders not to assume more than the evidence supports.

Have you walked past it without knowing?

Many visitors to the Archaeological Museum in Athens have probably walked by the Antikythera mechanism without stopping. In its glass case, the small, corroded bronze fragments may not seem particularly noteworthy – green, eroded, almost silent.

Around it, the museum galleries gleam with gold, marble, and mosaics, while this small object lies there as if nearly forgotten. Yet these pieces of metal are something entirely different: the remains of the world’s first computer, created more than two thousand years ago, at a time when we believed antiquity mastered only simple tools.

But if you linger a little, its significance begins to emerge. The tiny gears, the nearly erased Greek inscriptions – they speak of a time when thought, craftsmanship, and cosmology were inseparable. The next time you walk through the museum’s halls, let your eyes rest on this modest artifact. Think of the hands that shaped its gears, the eyes that traced the stars – and of everything this mechanism still hides from us.

A timeless enigma from the depths of the sea

Only one-third of the original mechanism survives. Yet for more than a century, researchers have tried to reconstruct its complete design through models and digital renderings. No one knows whether more examples once existed or whether it was a solitary masterpiece that sank with its ship. Even today, underwater excavations off Antikythera continue to reveal new fragments and clues, as if the sea were slowly trying to tell the rest of the story.

In its silence, however, the Antikythera mechanism reminds us of something enduring: humanity’s desire to understand the heavens and to build tools capable of reading the cosmos. Several scholars have even called it one of antiquity’s true wonders – a masterpiece of lost knowledge, as enigmatic as the greatest monuments on land.

The Antikythera mechanism – in brief

• Discovery: 1901 by sponge divers in an ancient shipwreck off Antikythera, dated to the 1st century BC
• Date: ca. 150–100 BC
• Materials: Bronze and wood (mechanism and casing)
• Components: At least 30 gears, pointers, dials, and Greek inscriptions
• Function: Mechanical calculation of the movements of the sun, moon, and planets; eclipse prediction; calendar cycles, including the Olympic Games
• Dimensions: Approx. 13 × 7 × 3.5 inches
• On display: National Archaeological Museum of Athens
• Significance: The oldest known analog computer – an outstanding example of Hellenistic science and engineering
• Research: Studied since 1902; modern X-ray and 3D scanning have revealed new details about its gear system

Källor

• Greek Wikipedia – Μηχανισμός των Αντικυθήρων
• UCL Antikythera Research Project
• Nature (2021): Decoding the ancient Greek astronomical calculator
• LIFO.gr – Η συναρπαστική ιστορία του ναυαγίου των Αντικυθήρων
• UCL Discovery – Research Paper PDF
• National Archeological Museum of Greece

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❄️ Frost on the railing, lanterns swaying in the cold November breeze – the Greek Expedition lies in dock for the winter. The crew is busy mending the hull and setting new sails for the journeys ahead.

Winter is softly settling around the shipyard. The timbers creak with each gust, and the scent of tar, hemp, and wet planks drifts through the stillness.

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Across the captain’s table, charts lie open with pencil lines tracing routes not yet taken. Every corner of the ship hums with quiet preparation – a season of repair, reflection, and renewal. It is a time when sails are folded and the mast stands bare, yet the promise of distant shores stirs beneath every bolt and beam. The Greek Expedition rests, yes – but it rests only to gather strength for what is to come.

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Autumn deepens around the harbor, and as the lamps dim for the night, the ship settles into its quiet rhythm. From the deck comes the faint creak of timber in the breeze. Outside, the frost thickens on the railing and the lanterns sway with the tide’s slow breathing.

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